I would just like to thank meathecat for correcting me, although I feel slightly ridiculous now. But thank you very much!
Prologue
'Sweetheart pass your father the water' my mother spoke, the words coming from her mouth with a slight hint of a British twang; the obvious evidence of the length of time we have spent in London. Reaching behind me, my seatbelt slightly cutting into my neck, I grabbed the bottle and passed it forward. My mother grabbed it, teasing my dad, offering it to him and then snatching it away; all the while laughing; right before giving it to him she sprayed some of the water; and he forged pain, wiping the liquid out of his eyes. Sitting in the back seat with my legs crossed I began to laugh.
But that was all it took.
My dad swerved slightly, adjusting into the right lane. Clearly the car in front wasn't paying attention, suddenly he braked, with no warning. My dad removing the final drops of water from his face, had obscured vision. He had no idea. He rammed into the back of the car in front; the force of which flung my parents forward; the sickening crack of skull against glass; the smashing of the glass around them; pieces of which were thrown in my direction, embedding themselves on my young skin; a huge chunk piercing the skin just below my ribs, a feeling of fire ripped through me; as if the pain was trying to engulf my whole body. They were both dead before they hit the dashboard; I didn't know what was worse the pain of my wound; or the pain you cannot see, the mental pain.
Me on the other hand, I was left behind. The memory still burns brightly behind my eyes. Now, I am left with a scar, running from the bottom of my left rib, just to my hip bone; the continual burn of guilt and regret of my situation; and my mother's locket.
But that was four years ago now.
Now I live with my gran on her farm just outside of Surrey; where I was taken when I was just 11. Young little Nina Martin carted off to her Gran's farm because she had no one else.