I glanced across the road as I continued walking through the dark and foggy mist of the night. I was on my way to do one of the most dreadful and devastating things of my life. I was going to find out who my mother was and it needed to be now. Not only had I waited too long to find her but now I was also in desperate need of her. I had waited sixteen years too many and now they were after me. They knew my family history was important and knew it was even more important I didn’t know. Knowing this frustrated me but did not discourage me.
I jogged up the steps to the old house the kids around the block called “haunted”. I wasn’t scared of ghosts if that’s what you are wondering. I found myself scared of hardly anything these days. Being taken from your parents, having everything you love and own burn to the ground, and being stuffed into a dark, cramped, filthy and un-loving orphanage will do that to a girl.
I smiled at the thought of being scared and actually having an emotion ever since the “tragedy”. You see, the other children at the orphanage have learned to stay away from me and have known to nick-name me “emo” since the whole non-emotion thing. They were all giddy and slap-happy just thinking about being adopted eventually they will but not me. I was the “freak” and occasionally by the younger ones, “witch”. This only amused me as of course if I was in their position I would probably do the same. I don’t blame them because, well, look at me. I have straight, black hair down to my mid-waist, normally tied up because of length. I have very pale skin so “vampire” isn’t a very rare insult either. My electric blue eyes scare people away sometimes too, so as you can see I’m not the most appealing site to eager couples looking to adopt.
But back to my mission. I was at the top of the porch of the abandon house and proud I had gotten this far. This was the house my parents and me lived in before the fire. Because of the fire most things were destroyed but there were a few things salvageable if you looked hard enough. I had only been here once since the fire, when I was eight and didn’t have enough time to look around. Now I was back and ready to begin. I would find out exactly who my mother was. Who those men are. But most importantly, who I was.
My name is Astrid. This is my story.
Calendar
me shall keep reading and bugging you about writing more 
