I watched as the representative from Children's Services approached me as I sat in the too quiet livingroom of the home I shared with my parents, Oliver and Leona Swan. Parents that were laid to rest, side by side, not two hours ago in a small cemetery in Swansboro, North Carolina, population 2,993, well, 2,991 now, after what police say was an unfortunate car accident. Swansborough, named for the Swann family, not to be confused with Swan family. Never, ever, confuse the two. Swann's are the elite. Swan's, not so much. Swan's are regarded as occultists, enchanters or sorcerers. Witches. It's plausible. I guess. I am a direct descendant of Abigail Faulkner after all. Who is that, you ask? Think Salem Witch Trials. Who am I? My name is Abigail Faulkner Swan. What am I? Well, that is yet to be determined. Right now, I am a teenager, coming to terms with the fact that both of my parents are no longer with me. I will never feel the loving arms of my mother, wrapping around me as she kisses my face. Never hear my father's deep voice calling out how much he loves me. I'll never have that feeling of comfort when I walk in the door of our small home. The ache in my heart is unimaginable. It hurts. I keep a photograph of them in my hands, pressing it to my aching chest. The tears fall in a steady stream, like they have been since the police came to tell me about my parents. And I keep hurting.
