Call me Amy. Amy Gerard. Since the very day I was born, I was raised singlehandedly by Dad – a factory worker with odd shifts, and even with that dependence I had to endure scoldings and beatings that he himself called discipline. This gradually stopped – despite most if not all of it being justified – as I grew older and more sensible, even if my age never really hit the two-digit mark back then. That was a time scarred in my mind, even if it was one I tried all to hard to forget.

The streets of London painted a much more grim picture that Ralph McTell ever could - or for that matter would: theft was hardly uncommon, as were rumors of rape. As I walked alone and unaccompanied to and from school, I was always cautious and indeed fearful – every corner was foreboding, every halo of a streetlamp the watchful gaze of an awaiting thief. These ten minutes were always the longest of the day, even longer than arithmetic, which childish, silly me hated.

The early 2000s brought with them this new wave of fads labelled "Emo"; my affinity to black sweaters and full, lace skirts shoehorned me into that very stereotype. I embraced it in the hope I would belong somewhere, a decision which brought me solace despite the bullying cases I had witnessed – and once being a victim with a pair of broken spectacles, promptly repaired with matching duct tape. But this was where I ultimately belonged, where I could sink my roots in for now.

I still recall May 17th four years back, when I was transferred to a new school and a new life soon as the last day of school.

It was a cold and horridly windy morning – that kind which sent my untied hair into a waving breeze, and wrapped my long cotton skirt around my slender – although my gym teacher prefers the word "scrawny" – legs. Another long walk through those streets. Within the first minute or so of the journey, the rumble of an approaching van stopped me dead in my tracks. It was a red and black vehicle with a silver wolf painted on its side. A rarity indeed for cars to pass by this street, much less this modified one.

I walked away, eyes concentrated on the uniformed man who left the van, walked to a ground-floor apartment, deposited a brown envelope in the postbox, and walked off.

Then I stopped. 27 Rutford Lane APT 18. My address.