Wheels grind to a halt as the moving truck behind me pulls into the driveway. I observe my new surroundings, taking in a pink apartment building with cream trim and a white door. Yup, that's what you should expect when you move to Death City. Houses painted nonsensical colors, spattered at random throughout the neighborhood. I roll my eyes as I look further down the street to see bright green, blue, and even purple mixed in with some more natural house colors.

"Scarlet!" Yells my mother, snapping me from my internal criticism of the city, "Come help unload our furniture."

I inwardly groan. There is so much junk packed into the truck and our car that the neatly trimmed grass I was presently standing on would grow an inch before we were done. Even though I'd rather go run around the perimeter of the city, I grudgingly walk over to where my parents are dragging random stuff onto the lawn which now looked like a dump, when only a few seconds ago it had looked freshly attended to.

"Is it okay if I take my own stuff and pick a bedroom first?" I ask hopefully. If I can waste time setting my own stuff up in my room then maybe I won't have to help my parents as much.

The best part about being an only child is being able to have first and only pick of everything. Walking through a new house is like walking through uncharted territory; every creak in the floorboards makes you jump and your excitement builds with each new door you open to reveal an empty but seemingly exotic, room.

The first bedroom has a slanted ceiling, giving it the effect of only being a half-room. It only has a skylight halfway up the slanted side on the left. Deciding it's not the room for me, I walk out.

The second room is spacey, with light blue walls and a mural of a sailboat on a wild seascape, smack-dab in the middle of the wall to my right. I look at the tiny little seagulls, delicately painted, seemingly dancing along the edges of the painting. As my eyes drink in every detail of each cloud or wave, I shiver as a feeling of deja vu washes over me like the water in the mural. Suddenly, a rushing fills my ears and I can't breathe, as though a pillow were being pressed against my mouth and nose.

It's ten p.m. The night before I'm supposed to go to the DWMA. I lay in my bed, pondering whether or not I should be worried about making friends or not. I've always gotten along relatively well with new people, but I've also made my fair share of enemies over the years. Stuffing my head into my slightly lumpy pillow, I sigh. Realizing that not getting enough sleep would be a bad thing to do, I shut my eyes and let dreams fly me away.