Chapter 1

Let me tell you something about myself. Everything that could possibly go wrong in one person's life did go wrong for me. You know when two big tectonic plates crash? Like in, I don't know, Japan? It causes earth quakes and tsunamis and buildings collapse, people are dying and there's fire everywhere. That's me, right there. A disaster.

When I was born, at home pretty much without any modern equipment or meds that one would need for delivering a baby, my dad looked at me once and saw that I was not a boy. Disappointed, old school as he was, he took off, no one knows where. Or that's what I was told. I don't even know if he is alive anymore, and – to be honest – couldn't really care either. My mom was miserable when he left. And she was miserable because of me too. An uninvited guest to ruin their oh-so-happy marriage. So she took off too, to heaven. She went and got herself killed, with pills and liquor, just like that. And I was still the pathetic bundle who cried in the crappy and filthy living room.

I was taken to about a billion different foster homes, and from the moment I learned to walk and talk they all wanted me out before the month was over. I wasn't really a model child. I ran away every chance I got, took food without permission (what a crime), didn't go to school much or dress up like a good girl would've. I didn't go to church, or stay silent when I was forced to go. I did everything I could to get everyone to hate me, because I hated everyone too.

When I was 16, I ran away for good. I should have left sooner, I thought back then. Now I'm happy I didn't. I slept in cars in the junk yard, washed dirty dishes in restaurants for money, and stole food when all of the money was spent. I washed myself in the city river, when I remembered. Nobody cared about me, but that was fine. I didn't care about anyone either. Around my 18th birthday in the summer of 1996 came the bad boys, the booze and the heavy shit. At that point, all that really mattered was the meds, the sex and the drinks. I wanted to be high and drunk all the freaking time, and when I was sober enough to realize what I have become, which was hardly never, I hated myself. I never did anything to change, though. And this lasted for years, and years.

But the good thing about hitting rock bottoms is that there is only one way to go from there. One day, a couple days after my 24th birthday, after another rough night filled with coke and bad, cheap vodka I somehow woke up in a dirty alley. I had been sleeping in a card board box. No idea how I got there, or where I was. I saw a lady in her fifties, who was taking out her trash. She saw me too. She looked at me with pity for a while and went back inside from the same back door she had come from. The she came back out a couple minutes later, a big steaming bowl of hot chicken soup in her one hand and a furry grey blanket in the other. She sat down next to me, put the blanket around me and made me eat the whole soup.

That was about two and a half months ago. And I have been clean and sober every single day of those very long weeks. That very same lady, who helped me there at the alley, helped me to get on my feet. Her name was Bridget and she ran a self-financed AA-clinic. I got to sleep at the cellar in a real bed and eat with her, in exchange for helping at the clinic. I cleaned the place and went to buy supplies for her. But what she thought back then was the most important part was the fact that I helped others by telling them my story. She called it the holy trinity of helping; I helped her, I helped them, and I helped myself.

Then she passed away, in early October 2002. There was a cancer she never told me about, and I cannot blame her. It's not like I ever told her much about myself either. I knew even before she died that Bridget was not gonna be there for me forever and I needed to get a place, and a life, of my own. I had been saving every single penny I could get my hands on. With the money I bought a plane ticket to as far as possible and got a job at a pet store.

I now have a place, a small studio apartment with one bedroom and a tiny bathroom, but it's mine. I have money to buy food and equipment to actually cook. I have enough underwear for every day of the week, and a little bunny to take care of, imagine that. The bunny is now the only bad boy in my life.

It's still not easy, and will never be for a person with the past like mine. Every once in a while I see ambulance and police vehicles passing with whistles blowing, and I instantly wonder if the victim is someone I know. It never is, I don't know anyone from here. Sometimes it drives me insane. I see the dead body they take to the hearse and think that I recognized the face, or read the news from the paper and the name of the dead guy sounds familiar. Whether I knew them or not, I selfishly think that it could have been me. But I also think that at least someone has it worse than me.

"So, dear diary" I whispered to myself. "Now you know who I am."

I closed the little black book and hid it to the back of my night stand's top drawer. I stopped to look out of the window. I sighed, the scene from my window was so freaking beautiful. The black bunny jumped to my couch/bed, that was basically his territory since I always sat on the floor, but he jumped out a second later when the door bell rang.

"What the.." I wondered, it's not like people pop on my door every now and then, no one even knows, or cares, where I live. I went to the door and checked from the mail box to see who it was. All I saw was a big buckle of a belt with a silver star of it. Reminded me of the stars the sheriffs had in the Wild West.

"Who is it?" I asked from the mail box and immediately felt stupid. The man on the door bent over when he realized that my voice came through the hole. He was looking at me curiously, and that made me feel even more stupid. Or I think he was looking at me, but I couldn't tell for sure because he wore big black sunglasses.

"Dog Chapman, the Bounty Hunter" was the answer to my question. Who? Was I supposed to know him? The man had a low, husky voice, like he had been drinking too much whisky. "Do you know where Ronald is?"

"Who's Ronald?"

"Ronald Lee Walker. Listen, can you open the door, please? It hurts my back to speak to you through the mailbox." I heard someone laugh in the back, a younger man. There were more of them. There was no way I would let these people in just like that, they could be anyone.

"No." was my strict answer. "How many are there of you?"

"Me, my fiance Beth-"I heard a quite hi, "and my son Leland. So the three of us." Liar. I knew it the second he finished his sentence.

"There's more. How many?" I insisted. There was a short pause, apparently during which they were trying to think for a suitable answer.

"There's my other son and my daughter downstairs. I promise you that's it. Could you open the door now?"Still lying.

"No. You have three there, two downstairs and three standing next to the ugly cars outside my window. That's eight against one. And I don't know who Ronald Lee Walker is."I replied, still speaking through the mail box with no intention of opening the door.

"Listen, can we show you a picture?" the man was talking again. I figured that maybe it's not dangerous to take a look. I stepped back from the door and they threw a mug shot from the hole. I looked at it for a while. In the picture there was a pale skinned guy, around my age or a bit older. He had blond or ginger hair, but it was hard to tell from the black-and-white photo, and he had a tattoo in his neck, Chinese marking or something like that. Suddenly, staring at angry his eyes, I realized that I do know this man. I just don't remember from where. Definitely not from around here.

I opened my door but kept the chain lock closed. The man was standing tall now too. He had long, blond, tangled hair and much tanned skin, and some wrinkles. He was wearing black weaponry clothes and gloves. The guy was huge as a mountain. Behind him there was a lady with platinum blonde hair, strong make up and pink fake nails that looked like they were made for scratching people's face. Painfully. There was another guy too, a shorter and smaller than this Bounty Hunter, but he was standing in the dark so I couldn't see his face that well. I gave the mountain his picture back.

"You have lied to me, and that son of yours looks like he could snap my neck any minute." I pointed at the dark figure further away in the corridor. "I will let your girlfriend in. For five minutes."They looked at each other, and Mr. Mountain said something to the walkie talkie.

"All right, honey. I will come."

I closed the door, unlocked the safety chain, and opened the door again. Beth, the fiance, stepped in and made herself comfortable on my couch. I shut the door.

"I have seen him." I said carefully. "But not in this state. And I don't think his name is Ronald."

"He might have used different names for sure, and ran across the country to get away from the local police departments. Do you know where he is now?" she started with the basic questions.

"I don't." And how could I? I didn't remember him that well, but I was damn sure it was not in this state that I had seen him. Beth looked like she understood why I had so little memory of him. She seemed like she had been through the same, at least almost the same.

"Okay, you see this Ronald is a fugitive. That means that he has failed to appear to court on a certain date, so we got to get him to jail." Yes, thank you, I know what it means, I almost wanted to tell her. "We checked through his records and papers and saw your name and a few others in some arrest paper from about three months back. We found out that you had moved in here from New York, where the arrest happened, and thought we could come and find out what you know."

"I have been clean for two and a half months, and remember everything from that time." I instantly said.

"That's great news. You should keep it that way." she encouraged me. "That would mean that the arrest happened right around the time when you got rid of that bad stuff, am I correct?"I nodded. "Do you remember the arrest? Where it happened, what happened?"

I do remember that, vaguely. . It was one of the few times I have actually been caught. I am fast and nimble of my feet, and I can climb, jump and run better than most of the cops. This time, I guess I climbed, jumped and ran my way into a dead end. I think the charges were insulting an officer in a situation where they tried to arrest someone else. Maybe this freaking Ronald. I called the officer names and tried to object the arrest and ran when they decided to arrest me too.

"The place would be of no use for you."I told her. "And I can only guess what happened."I was speaking the truth to her, even though I could have lied and led them out of the city and the state even. Her future husband lied to me, them little white lies of his. But why would I lie? I didn't know a damn thing about Ronald. The fact that I have been arrested with him once means nothing. I might as well tell them that. Beth could tell I was not lying.

"All right, then. Thank you honey." She stood up and was about to walk to the door, when she turned back around to me. "Listen, girl to a girl." she started with a small, mischievous smile on her face. "How did you tell my man was lying? I've known him for like 20 years and I don't still know anything that would give him up."

I smiled back at her. The question surprised and amused me. "He was talking too fast to be telling the truth. The first time, when he said that it was only the three of you, that was true and he couldn't lie about it because I saw you, but he was constantly thinking of another lie to tell me and when I asked about it, he had the answer ready. Someone who tells the truth always keeps a short pause, like a second, to consider what to say and how to say it." Experience talking. It apparently impressed her, though. She just smirked, nodded and went out.

Jesus Christ, dear diary. Look at that. A bounty hunter in my home, looking for a fugitive. In my home! Guess the past hasn't really stopped haunting me yet.