Rowyn Samuels, 9:27 p.m, Thursday, June 13th, 2019.

Sleeping pills aren't working anymore.

Abigail walked up from behind me and grabbed my shoulder. My head whipped around and she gestured toward a newspaper bin. Yknow, the yellow thing on the streets with newspapers in them. I didn't know why she did that at first, but it became apparent as I read the headline. They're sending the cops after me this time. Lovely.

Abigail and I had been running a business of killing demons and werewolves and the whole shebang. Apparently that's illegal. Good thing we didn't use our real names. "Let's get out of here," she said. I nodded after I got a newspaper out of the bin to add to my collection. It was dark out so nobody would see us leaving the motel. We grabbed our bags and headed to my mom's car. It was an old red car with two black stripes in the middle of the hood. Classy.

(Yes it's a British car just pretend it's not.) It was a little hard to drive, but I managed. See, my mom died of a cocaine overdose and my dad genuinely doesn't care what I do, so I'm a little fucked up, but I'm pretty ok. Just for context, my dad stopped caring after my uncle said he could take me in after my mom died. After that, I was passed around from aunt to grandparents to cousin to half-sibling. One of my cousins was a hunter, so he trained me because he knew they thought I was vulnerable. Not anymore.

Abigail was soon asleep after I started driving. I pulled to the side of the rode and put her in the back. I got back in the driver's seat quickly so nobody saw us and continued to drive.

All nighter time.