KAPITEL EINS- A New Home and Katja's death

God, I have no idea how to start this autobiography, I guess you could call it. I tried to think of several beginnings, all of which I forgot or were too stupid. Well, I just did start so now that that's over with, I just have to kill my brain over what I will write next, and where I will start.

I've decided when to start: at my third home. From the time I was about four years old to about nine years old I stayed with a foster home, which I can't even remember. The orphan edge didn't really have a name, most just referred to it as orphan edge #13. Orphan edge #13 was in the, poorest, dirtiest part of London you could ever imagine. I always remember looking out my window at night, and seeing some shady person or a hobo.

Of course a couple of times I would wake up to the sound of a gun shot, or someone screaming bloody murder. When I would get up enough courage to get up and go over to the window I would see a man putting a gun into an overcoat and a bloody heap of flesh under a streetlight.

Although the surroundings of the orphan edge were very threatening, the orphan edge itself was different. It was almost like an oasis, I'm not sure how to describe it. During the school year all of the eleven year olds and up were at school, so it was just a whole bunch of little kids most of the time. There weren't any specific "cliques" I guess. Every kid was paired off. Everyone had one best friend and only one. The main reason for this is because there weren't many kids there; there were about one to two kids per age. Like, one five year old, two six year olds, ya know. My pair was the most infamous. Isabell was my best friend/

Isabell was from Germany, Bonn to be exact. You're probably thinking blonde hair and blue eyes. Well, you're frickin' wrong. Isabell had black hair and dark brown eyes. She had come here with her mother to live with her aunt, (her aunt runs the orphan edge,) when she was three.

Isabell's father had left her and her mother a couple of months before they left for London. Three years later Isabell's mother died. I barely remember it, but I know enough to tell the story.

Katja, (Isabell's mother, I was allowed to call her by her first name,) had just left to go get something from the store. We waited for hours for her to come home. Eventually we called the police, they never found her, and she was declared dead. Of course Isabell was devastated, for two whole days she sat in her room crying. In her sleep I could hear her taking deep breaths, (ya know, how you breathe when you've been crying.) Nina, Isabell's aunt, had to bring food into her room for those two days. Afterwards, Isa was still traumatized, so she was very quiet, and she always seemed distracted for the next week or so. I was four, almost five then, and Isa was five.