Disclaimer: I own nothing except Krys and John (at this point anyway).

Prologue

"You little bitch! Get in here now! Don't make me come get you!" The voice belonged to a large, heavyset man who at that moment was standing in a living room saturated with beer cans and empty bottles of vodka. He was around forty years old with greying black hair and dark brown eyes. At his yell a small, thin girl of around sixteen years of age scurried into the room, flinching at the cold, hard gaze the fell on her. The girl had long black hair that fell to her waist. It had white streaks in it, though you couldn't tell at the time. He hated the streaks so he had her dye her hair completely black. Her eyes were strange as well. They were a deep, rich amber. Both aspects of her physical character were natural, which made him hate her all the more. Her name was somewhat long and unusual but her mother was unable to have any more children due to complications with the birth, so she had put her favourite names together to make her only daughter's. Her name, in its entirety was Krysanthe Alera Valari Amethyst McRae. The man was her father, John McRae.

John stared with hatred at the young girl as she cowered in front of him. "Didn't I tell you to have this place cleaned up by the time I got home?" The young girl shrank back more. His eyes grew colder as he lifted his hand and backhanded the girl, sending her off her feet into the wall behind. "Well? Answer me when I speak to you, you pathetic little runt." Krys lifted her head and quickly stumbled to her feet at the glare she was receiving before replying in a small voice that he did. "Then why didn't you?" Krys hesitated before saying that she hadn't the time. In all honesty she knew this would happen, it always did. Every night her father came home from work and crashed on the sofa. He always drank a lot and then went on a rampage through the house breaking things and generally making a mess. He would then leave with orders for her to clean the house, but to save the living room for last. She had tried doing it first, but he had gone through the house searching everywhere and found the rooms she hadn't yet had time to do. She never did it again; it only made the punishment worse. "Didn't have time? I gave you plenty of time you little whore!" He yelled at her before grabbing her by the hair and pulling her by it up the stairs behind him. "I've had it with you! You're pathetic! Can't even do one little job right, well now you'll pay!"

He opened the door to a small room at the end of the upstairs hall. Anyone unused to the smell of blood would have gagged upon entering the room, but both of them were used to it and he basked in it. In the room was a single bed, stripped of sheets, the mattress saturated in dried blood and a single desk. He dragged her over to her bed, flung her on it and handcuffed her face down on it. He stripped her of her clothes before wandering over to the desk and selecting a small, sharp knife. He returned to the bed, gleefully anticipating the event that was about to take place. He looked down on her bruised and broken body revelling in the red scars that contrasted so well with her pale skin. Marks covered her body. Words engraved on her skin showed his thoughts – 'Worthless', 'Whore', 'Bitch' and 'Pathetic' being the most common. He held the knife almost gracefully in his fingers, like an perverted artist with a masterpiece, before he descended it onto the living canvas below him. She didn't whimper, didn't scream, didn't make a sound. It would only anger him. Her silence was maintained as he pierced her skin, slowly drew the knife down and lifted it away to admire his work, before starting the process again. She was silent still as he turned her over and repeated his work and she was silent still as he divested himself of his clothes and repeated the act that stole her innocence.

"You know," he said as he pulled himself from her, "You remind me so much of your mother. She was weak, pathetic, useless, just like you." He lifted the knife. "I met someone today, a woman. She hates children, doesn't know I have one, doesn't want one." He traced the knife over her pale stomach. "She and I are going to run off to Vegas, elope, and me? I'm not going to need you any more, now am I?" Her eyes widened as the knife stopped and pushed slowly into the skin on her stomach. "But I can't let you go, can I? What if you told?" The knife went deeper. "So I suppose tonight was my way of saying… goodbye I suppose." He plunged the knife the rest of the way into her stomach. She bit down hard on her tongue and blood filled her mouth. He leaned over her, sneering at the pain on her face, before chuckling dryly and kissing her softly on the forehead. "Goodnight sweet." In a first act of defiance she spat the collected blood in his face and said, clearly, "See you in Hell." After that she knew no more.

Hey, everyone! This is a bit of a change of pace for me. White Moon Pack isn't going well and I've wanted to write this for ages. I finally gave in. I've decided that I'm going to put my new HP story on hold for a while, until I sort out WMP and this one, as I like this one better. I'm also going to take a break from WMP for two weeks after I put up the new chapter. Well, I'd appreciate it if you'd tell me what you think, or how I could improve, so thanks if you do and I'll answer any questions you have. Thanks for reading and I'll try to update as soon as I can but I'm making no promises as I've just returned from hospital for personal reasons that I'm uncomfortable with sharing.