"Live life to its fullest. Don't be afraid to enjoy what you have, and don't worry if it doesn't last forever. Just be thankful for the experience."

ABOUT TWO YEARS AGO:

I was a freshman in high school. My mom, Renée, and I moved to Cordova, a small fishing town in Alaska. It was a place where everybody worked on the ocean, by the ocean, or with the ocean. It rained nearly every day. My mom and I were the weirdo outsiders; city folk from sunny Phoenix. We packed up and moved to Alaska when my mom fell in love with this guy Doug that she met on E-Harmony.

I was not happy about the change in location. I love sun, heat, and big cities-- everything Cordova isn't. The town didn't even have its own hospital, and the freshman class was only about 30 people. But I conceded to move with my mom-- and yes, I did have a choice. If I had asked her to stay, she would have, no questions asked. But I didn't, because I wanted her to be happy, more than I wanted anything else.

I was painfully shy, so at least I didn't have any close friends I was leaving behind. There was certainly no boyfriend to worry about. My mom was my close friend.

***

Doug lived in a two-story maroon house, up a steep hill and secluded by pine trees. If I were to walk to the end of the driveway, stumble, and fall, I would roll down the main residential area in town, past the downtown area (a market, a gas station, a library, a fishing supply store, and a cheap motel. Who vacationed here? It's a mystery to me, too.), down the bay, off the pier, and straight into the Pacific Ocean. I was so clumsy that the threat was very real.

Doug's house had a couple kayaks upside-down, tipped against the side of the house. I use the term 'lawn' loosely-- it was all gravel, with spiky weeds sprouting from under the tiny front porch. The sides of the house were faded gray from the mounds of salty snow that eroded paint for more than half the year.

I climbed out of the car, exhausted from a very long trip. The flight from Phoenix to Anchorage was about five and a half hours, and then about an hour to fly from Anchorage to Cordova. I grabbed my backpack out of the backseat of Renée's new-to-her car, but I stabbed myself with one of my many band pins and shrieked, dropping it in a puddle accidentally.

'Good going, Bella. This is a fantastic start. If you just fried your iPod, there's nowhere for you to get a new one. Fuck fuck fuckity fuck.'

I picked the backpack up and shook it a little to get excess water off. Then I grabbed my two suitcases from the trunk, and clambered up the front steps carrying everything I owned.

Doug leered at me as I practically ran up the stairs. I had never met him- never even spoke to him- until about fifteen minutes ago. And so far, I had a bad feeling. From the overly-friendly hug, to the peek down my Hit the Lights tee, and now the leer… I just have a bad feeling.

My new bedroom was about two cubic feet. There was room for a twin-sized bed pushed up in a corner, and I had a miniscule closet with a dresser inside it. A desk was cramped in the practically-nonexistent extra space. The walls were painted blood-red and the bed had a black comforter.

I threw my suitcases on the bed and got to work unpacking. My books and iPod dock got put on the shelf of my desk, and my laptop sat on the table. I had to sell a lot of stuff before moving, so I only had a few books, including my prized Jane Austen compilation. I had to get rid of all my CDs.

Sweatshirts, and my one dress, got hung on hangers, and then I threw socks and underwear into the top drawer of my dresser, then tee shirts into the drawer below it. I had an impressive collection of tees labeled with pop-punk, emo, and 'alternative' bands from all the concerts I had been to. The third drawer was for jeans, mostly skinny jeans, and the bottom drawer was for treasures.

I hid my photo album that housed pictures of my parents' wedding, my dad's home in Washington, a row of my school pictures, and my old home in Phoenix. I also stashed an antique necklace that had been passed through my family since the 1800s, my bag of concert ticket stubs, my stuffed puppy named Spork, and a small tin that held a wad of money that was my life's savings-- about $500.

The last step was to unpack my backpack. My iPod and headphones got placed in the top-left desk drawer, and I unpacked my toiletries bag-- shampoo, conditioner, brush, flatiron. Lotion, face wash, body wash, deodorant. Toothbrush, toothpaste, eyeliner, mascara. And thus completes the list of all my possessions.

***

Doug didn't get any less creepy as the month passed. He still flashed me the occasional look that I didn't try to fathom. However, he had thoroughly charmed Renée, and they were married before the beginning of the school year. The wedding was out on the pier by the ocean, and consisted of me, Renée, Doug, a justice of the peace, and two witnesses that Doug had met at work.

The honeymoon was over as soon as we got out of the car at home. Doug immediately grabbed a beer-- his first drink since Renée and I moved in-- and didn't stop drinking all night. He was a creepy, harmless drunk. Or so I thought.

A few weeks later, I was packing my backpack, getting ready for my first day of school tomorrow. All the people in town were familiar with Renée and I by then, but I had refrained from having much interaction with anybody, so I was headed into Cordova Junior/Senior High as blind as if it was my first day in town.

Just as I was about to get ready for bed, I heard my mom yelp a little. I ran to the top of the stairs, calling down,

"Mom!! Are you okay?"

"Ye-es, Bella. Go ba-ack to bed," She choked out. I ignored her and dashed down the stairs, catching my foot a little and tripping. I caught myself on the wall and went to the living room, where Doug was chugging the last half of his beer, and my mom was sitting silently on the couch, her face streaked with tears.

She had her hand over her face, but I could see the shadow of a bruise forming in the corner of her eye.

"You bastard! What did you do to my mother?!" I yelled from across the room.

Doug loped over to me and slapped me, hard, across the side of my face.

"Didn't that whore ever tell you not to talk back?" he slurred. I could feel my eyes pricking with tears from the shock and discomfort, but before they could fall, he hit me in the gut, knocking the wind out of me. He told me to go to my room, and I did, reluctantly, after my mom begged me to listen.

I didn't sleep at all that night, just sat in front of my door until Renée crawled upstairs around 2:00, then I pulled it open so she could share my sanctuary. I resumed my place in front of the door, and she laid down with her head in my lap, her tears sliding onto my jeans until she fell asleep.

***