Fear. Pain. Anger. My life has been filled with all three, and more. But I suppose that's the same for everybody. Mine just had a little bit more than usual.

But I shouldn't focus on that. I should focus on the good things. My family. But of course, fear, pain and anger found their way into that too.

My mother and father were deeply in love. My mother was kind, but fiery. My father was the same.

My mother had bright, shoulder-length, red hair that she always had in a messy ponytail, big green eyes, and pale skin. She was slender and youthful.

My father had brown hair, a knowing smile, and blue, probing eyes. He was in the navy. He was a marine sniper, a deadly shot. He also could kill someone with his bare hands. When he entered the marines, he was trained in defence, and fighting. He found that he excelled at it, and realised I would have to learn as well. So I was three when I was signed up for every Martial Arts and fighting class there was available. I was even better than him. I was five years old when I learnt to kill with my bare hands. By the time I was eight I was deadly.

But I wasn't infallible.

I had always known myself in the same image. I had no qualms about how I looked. I never had. I'd never seen why I should. I knew that I was considered quite pretty, but I didn't know anything more than that at the time. I had long, wavy blonde hair, a long, thin nose, large, bright red lips, and my eyes... my eyes were perhaps my favourite thing about myself. They were large, and green. But they had a teardrop pattern circling the pupil, like a ring of water. The teardrops were blue. I had long, thick, black eyelashes.

My birthday had always been an important occasion in our family. I was an only child, and my birthday was really a celebration of the day our family became whole. My birthday has since become the day I hate most.

On my eighth birthday I skipped down the stairs of our house, ready to be greeted by birthday cake and ice-cream for breakfast, my mother and father drinking coffee, smiling warmly at me. A stack of presents by the door, ready to be opened. Laughing as I impatiently rip open the wrapping paper rather of trying to be neat and save it.

Instead I found a sight I hadn't seen for six months, my father in his Marine service gear, carrying suitcases.

My mother had tears in her bright, blue eyes, and didn't see me on the middle of the staircase. "Jethro, can't you wait another day? It's Kelly's birthday. She'll be heartbroken."

My father held her in his arms. "I wish I could. But orders are orders. I can't disobey."

"We're a family. I know your men are your brothers, but she is your daughter. Doesn't that count for something?" My mother pleaded.

My father placed his hands on her shoulders. "I know. I have no choice, Shannon!"

"Tell Kelly that." She said angrily.

"There's no need, Mommy." I said shakily. Tears were escaping out of my eyes. "I heard everything."

"Kel," My father began using my nickname. "I have to go. It's my duty."

"No daddy. No. Not again."

"Kel..."

I looked at him through tear-blurred eyes. He walked away from my mother and came over to me, and tried to hug me. I refused, and just kept saying 'no'. Someone outside honked a car-horn impatiently. He faced it and then turned back to me sadly. "It's time."

He carried his things out and placed them on the camouflaged truck. He turned and stood at the foot of the driveway, and I had walked down with him. He bent down on one knee so that his face was just slightly below mine.

"Should I sing the special song before I go?" he asked softly.

By this time tears were streaming down my face. "Yes."

"Hush little baby, don't say a word

Papa's gonna buy you a mockingbird

And if that mockingbird don't sing

Papa's gonna buy you a diamond ring"

I hugged him and cried harder than ever.

"Daddy, don't go. Please don't go. Don't go, Daddy." I begged him.

"I love you, Kel, I always will."

He turned to my mother. "We'll promise what we always do." My mother said softly as they hugged. They looked deep into each other's eyes.

My father started. "I will return."

"I'll be here when you return." My mother promised quietly.

She never would realise just how wrong she was.

So we stood at the foot of the driveway, and watched Leroy Jethro Gibbs leave. For the last time.

******************

A month earlier my mother had witnessed a Mexican gang member shooting a Marine. She had identified him successfully, so she had the Naval Investigation Service as protection, but the Federal Bureau of Investigation kept trying to take over their investigation.

Unfortunately the gang member escaped. And he knew what my mother looked like.

We were travelling to school one day when we heard a sudden crack in the windshield of our car. There was a bullet hole in the front. I looked to the front seat. There was blood dripping down the side of the drivers head rest. There was a bullet hole in the head of the NIS Special Agent driving the car.

I looked to my mother in fear. "I love you!" she said, calm yet regretful.

"I love you too, Mommy." I said.

I was about to die. The car swerved towards a brick wall on the side of the highway. My mother undid her seatbelt, and launched herself in front of me.

Everything went black

******************

I felt pain. And a distant knowledge something bad had happened. If I woke up, it would be bad. There would be nobody left for me. My head hurt. My leg hurt a lot. And my stomach. I opened one eye. "Mommy? Mommy, are you okay?"

There was no reply. "Mommy?"

I opened my other eye. I looked slightly to my right. The passenger door was open. I saw a weaselly face looking in at us. He was wearing an FBI bullet proof vest.

"Is my mommy okay?" I asked him timidly. My words were slurred by the pain.

"I'm sorry, kid." He said regretfully. "And there's something else..." As he trailed off, I knew there was something very, very wrong. I already knew that I no longer had a mother. What could be worse? "You're father was killed this morning by a bomb in Panama."

That. That could be worse.