hellu! This is my first fanfic on this account (I have previously written fnaf fanfics under the name of GhostChildLottie and Harry Potter fanfics under some name)! Sidenote, I'm still watching Supernatural, I'm still on the first season/nearing the second, so this will be a NO SPOILER fanfic, for newbies and just people wanting to read this fanfic (I have heard a little spoiler about why the demon killed Mary which will be hinted at throughout the fic). Enjoy xx

A glimpse is enough to set me off. One look and I will fly at her. I. Don't. Care. Samantha Lucy Tull has had her eyes on David Robinson (batting her eyelids and fluttering her eyelashes but looking away whenever he looked somewhere near her direction) and me, Evelynn Amanda Hardy (scowls and glares obviously) all day and it's pissing me off. I'm new to the school - I transferred for sixth form, which started three months ago - but I already know my place and everybody elses. Samantha Lucy Tull has no idea what she's getting herself into. Not with what I have by my side, and I don't mean the dagger tucked into my skirt. No one bothered me at my old school, not after they found out about my past, present, and future. In fact, they did whatever they could to get rid of me, though of course, I left of my own accord. No one can tell me what to do. Not even a whole government against me. They daren't. People seem to underestimate me at this school. They haven't heard anything. That'll be fine for a little while, if Samantha Tull can keep her mouth shut. I'm tiny and antisocial, so most people see me as the small, shy little girl who would make a perfect victim of bullying, but people are quick the learn the opposite about me. I'm feared.

After I drag my nail across my throat towards Samantha, she doesn't spare me a look, not even one, for the last two hours and thirty-two minutes of school left. The silver dagger stays by my side as I treck on my way home, wishing Dad had chosen a house nearer school. Walking two miles every day is unnecessary, due to the invention of the school bus, but fifty, sixty kids in their natural habitat. I'll pass. Dad gives me the "what-have-you-done-now?" sideways look as I slump into the red plastic chair at the dinner table and drop my black bag onto the floor beside me. Dad raises an eyebrow before checking on whatever is boiling on the hob. Men are, according to the media, not good cooks, but cooking is one of the few things Dad's good at. Being sarcastic and eating Doritos before I can even touch the packet fit on that list too. He glances at my bag, clearly showing that he wanted me to pick it up, but I pretend not to get the hint and start eying up the loaf of steaming garlic bread on the table, ignoring my bag completely. It was plain black when I bought it, but since then I've sharpied demonic symbols on it and pinned badges of skulls and band logos (Metallica and My Chemical Romance mainly) to make it a bit more...well, approachable is not the word. I like to think that I'm the opposite of approachable, my dark eyeliner outlines my black eyes and pale face, and my long black hair seems to creep people out when I let it hang over my eyes. I've never seen Bloody Mary but I'd like to think we'd share a resemblance.

"You're late," Dad says, almost glaring at me. Frankly, I'm not surprised that he's expecting the worst, but it's certainly annoying.

"And you're mentally retarded," I smirk, leaning in to take a slice of garlic bread, "I walked thirty minutes from school to this house in the rain, I'm not going to be here at three o'clock, am I?"

He's not having any of it.

"It's quarter past four, Evelynn, where have you been?"

I talk with a mouthful of bread, "Detention. Apparently, rugby tackling people during a rugby game isn't allowed."

Dad chuckles and mutters something about me being his kid before looking at me expectantly, "Get off the garlic bread you nutter and go get dressed, blue is not your color."

He's right. Blue blazers look terrible on me, so I sling it off while at the dinner table, taking my shirt off as I walk through the hall. It's only Dad in at the moment, so there's no one else to see my sheet-white skin and black bra, unless there are any ghosts lurking around the house. Which there probably is, I seem to attract the supernatural. My older sister, Willow, is at university, and my Mom died leaning over my crib when I was a baby, so for now, it's just Dad and me, and it will stay like that. His last girlfriend "died" when she said she might like kids, so there shouldn't be any disturbance for a while. This is good, just how it is. Dad doesn't talk about Mom much, but Willow knew Mom a little and would describe her to me. She was pale (not as pale as me but pale) and had long, dusty blonde hair the exact same shade as Willow's. Mom was kind, she'd spare all of her time to help someone, and she was bouncy and outgoing too. But most of all, she loved us, she'd swing Willow round and round and dance with little two-year-old me, she'd talk to us, read us bedtime stories, she loved us so much. Willow made me wish Mom was still here. I would've been so different. So different...

By the time I've reached my bedroom, I'm dragging all my clothes behind me, before I dump them into the washing bin and pull on a Metallica vest top and a pair of very ripped jeans. It's obvious to anyone who looks at me (though I try to stay away from human eyes) that I am "emo". The rock band obsession, pale skin, eyeliner and the color that I use for everything I own point to that. I've always been like this, even as a toddler I would wear black and dance around to Panic! at the Disco, so I hardly label myself as emo. I don't label myself as anything, other people can do that if they want but I have no interest in it. When Dad yells at me for the fifth time for me to "come and eat my godamn dinner" is when I lightly run down the stairs and give Dad the innocent look before sitting and eating my spaghetti silently, before Dad tries to get me to get me to talk about school and, *shiver*, rugby. The real reason that I had gotten detention was for flying at Samantha Tull during break and knocking her out - no biggie. I change the subject to Metallica about seven times during the conversation, as it's the only thing we can talk about without Dad having a "mood-swing". I once brought up Mom and he cried into his soup. Not pretty. The way we talk to each other, you wouldn't think we'd like each other at all - his old girlfriend seemed to think we loathed each other. But it's nowhere near true, Dad is possibly the only person I'm fond of because, well, he's my dad. We're sarcastic, we throw insults at each other. I think he once called it "banter".

Evening that night is normal. Plain, unoriginal, accustomed. In fact, the whole day is standard; waking up, getting dressed and going to school, getting a normal detention, getting home late to Dad's suspection, eating dinner together before watching whatever is on tv. Dad always seems to have some obsession with the news. I must be honest, hearing about medical mysteries and unexplained murders and missing people is interesting and all but the fact that the high school downtown is shutting down or that the grocery store three miles away is bankrupt is so boring, yet Dad seems submerged in it. Willow once said that Mom liked the news. He does things for Mom sometimes, like putting on Wham!, her favorite, despite how much he hates them, or when he screw his clothes into his drawer before putting them back in neatly, knowing Lissy would disaprove. Lissy - that was her name - loved hearing about other people and what was going on in the world, so the news was always on in front of her. Dad could be doing it for her. Or perhaps he's looking for something….