AN: So it's been almost a year since I wrote my longest Fanfic ever! Number 13: the door with the cat flap.

I've decided that this is going to be a re-work of that story, with the same storyline just bigger and better chapters and a new title.

I hope I've gained more skill than I had last year when it comes to writing so it's time to edit my story. Im going to be going through each chapter with a fine tooth comb, looking for any mistakes that I might have made and generally improving my work.

Now I know that everyone, including myself dislikes it when authors ask constantly for reviews ect. So im not going to do that, but what I will say is that we're all in the same boat here, and we all thrive off feedback.

So the way I see it is you scratch my back and I'll scratch yours!

Im planning on taking my time a lot more this time around since I have the entire story planed out and written down so there shouldn't be any need to rush this.

Although im going to keep the original up on here just because I want to. I have nothing much going on at the moment so I should be able to work on this quite often.

And I have one final request if anyone likes to beta, or knows anyone who does and they are available would you please let me know! Anyway… time to get on!


The fairy-tale life of Katherine Flynn.

Yea I wish.

People don't call me Katherine, it's too… poshthey call me Kate and this is my story of how I was saved, from myself.

Cheesy enough for you yet? Well, this is about as cheesy as it gets.

So here I am, with two of the most beautiful people I have ever seen in my life sitting and staring at me from across my tiny little kitchen table.

Quite frankly, I don't even think that beautiful is an accurate enough word to describe them.

They're beautiful in the natural kind of way – no fake tan or hair extensions, no heavy makeup and no ridiculous tattoos to try and make themselves look cool, and by the looks of it the man doesn't work out much at all.

I live in a flat in London.

And when I say flat don't get any bright ideas of luxury pent houses in London, no think council flat (something that is owned by the local council, not by me) in a story block of other council flats.

Yep you got it. Classy right- I mean I don't even pay my own rent or own my own flat.

And when I say they were staring at me well what I really mean is I was the one doing the staring.

I mean they just told me that they're vampires? HA yea that's what I thought too, what a pair of psychos.

And that's not the best part – oh no – they just asked me and Emily my best friend and also my flat mate (we'll get to more about her later) to come and live with them in Washington in the USA, yea I know.

To be fair, they might be fresh out of the Lunatic bin, but I wouldn't mind jetting off to America. I mean who wouldn't jump at the chance to get away from this hell-hole of a town and crappy life?

I should have said no, I should have kicked them out of my flat and slammed the door on their faces.

But I didn't, I said yes.

Okay let me get the story straight before we go any further.

I've been in care for the past seventeen years.

Now I know you're expecting some sob story about how utterly terrible it was and how hard my life has been, but really after the first few years of actually being aware of what is going on with your life and also becoming aware of how bad it is, you learn not to care. So you don't have to fear a sob story from me.

I don't know who my mother and father are and I don't know where I was born- apparently there are no records of either.

But what I do know is the only person I love in this world is my best friend Emily (yes, I told you we'd get round to her) We've always been moved from home to home together because we were so inseparable if any social worker split us up we'd usually find a way back to each other and this would be through running away.

They just didn't want to have to deal with the hassle of that and gave up and started placing us together with anyone who would take us.

And I can tell you, we were not an easy pair to foster.

We've always been in trouble from a young age, you may say that's what you get from being in care and not being brought up in a proper loving home but I say that's what you get from permanent boredom.

Maybe if you're a physiologist you could find other reasons for our behaviour, I don't know.

And now we're both eighteen, fresh and ready to take on the world! No, im just kidding.

But we are eighteen and you know what that means? Yes you got it. No more care!

We're free to do as we please. And this is the point where I'd love to say that we got clean, got jobs and are renting a nice little flat somewhere. But sorry, this is the real world.

Don't get me wrong, we want jobs. There just isn't any to be had.

So "how are they managing to stay alive, and where are they living" I hear you ask.

Well much to our displeasure, we are… claiming benefits off the government. And we're living in a council flat. Like I said earlier, Classy.

Now for the burning question, "how did these two mystery people come into our lives?"

Well, this is how it happened.

Myself and Emily – were casually not minding our business as we sat on the steps to the block of our flats, rolling joints and cigarette's just to pass the time.

This is what you do see if you want to stay alive around here, you change yourself to suit your environment.

If you don't smoke – start. It's a good way to meet the people around here when you're all huddled under the smoking shelter together you usually get talking.

If you don't smoke any drugs – start. It's a good way to get yourself invited to parties and let's face it. It's a good way to spend your time when you have nothing exciting happening in your life.

It's kind of like being a chameleon. That's what me and Emily are - professional chameleons.

And now we are keeping the cigarette companies, and the drug dealers of this country in pocket.

So like I said, we were sitting there not minding out own business watching all the people stroll past us going about their lives, when out of nowhere this car drives into the estate. Now I usually wouldn't have glanced at it twice but this car was not the kind of car you'd see around here, the driver was clearly either lost - or was about to finish someone off.

It was a Mercedes – black sleek, like a shark.

It didn't mean anything to us at the time, but it did mean enough for us to move- after all you want to be on the scene if it really was someone coming to bump someone off.

So off we went back to our flat away from the potential crime scene.

There are no using the elevators in this block of flats - Nelson Mandela House. (yea it makes me laugh too) Well there's no using them if you didn't want to get trapped in them for… oh the rest of your life.

So we walk around here. Up and down seven flights of stairs every day.

Really it's a miracle im not dead. But then saying that, it doesn't even get me out of breath… or Emily.

So I guess its ok, as long as you're not drunk and on your way home from a night out or a house party, then it's a whole different story.

Up to the seventh floor along thirteen doors, it can be quite a challenging thing to remember after a bottle of vodka or two.

You can't miss our flat, it has a big bright red front door -with a cat flap. We don't even have a cat! But who can afford to go changing doors for the sake of a little gap at the bottom.

Well it does come in handy I guess, especially since I've been on this stupid tag – a tag for those of you who don't know, is something inflicted onto a person after a bout of antisocial behaviour by the police.

It means that I have to be in at night by 10'oclock – and lest just say when its five to ten at night, and you can't get your front door open fast enough thanks to being very drunk from a party that your friends in the flat below threw to celebrate their brothers bail, shoving your foot through the cat flap is always the best option.