I sat down on the plane with a dull thump. I liked sitting here; the aisle seat was always my favorite seat on a plane because when I was younger, I was terrified of seeing the ground disappear as we ascended into the air. I still am, but to a lesser extent.

I could feel the gaze of the man in the middle seat next to me, whom I didn't even glance at while sitting down, on my face and traveling down my body. I began to wish that I'd worn something else, but I had wanted to seem as inconspicuous as possible, and a black - unfortunately, low-cut - hoody was the only think I had handy this morning. The neck stopped to just above my bra, showing a little bit of cleavage. To think that I was going to be leered at on the flight on which I really needed to relax was not exactly a comforting thought.

I ignored the gaze of the man and focused on my thoughts. What on earth was I going to do when I got to Florence? I didn't know why I came to America in the first place, I felt like I just needed to get as far away from my dad as possible. But now that I've calmed down, and had time to think, I just count being in a different country from him is a blessing.

I decided Italy was the best country to go for, as I have family there. I can speak the language fluently, as my granddad had been a great tutor. He was Italian, my granddad, and he always wanted me to know the language as he wanted someone to take an interest in their ancestry. My mother and my Gran couldn't be bothered to learn. My mother didn't because she was a teenage rebel who just didn't care, and my Gran because she's crap at learning even a few words of a different language.

I was young when my mother told me that granddad had passed away, and I remember crying more than anyone else at the funeral. But, granddad gone or not, I still proceeded in learning the language in his memory. The Italian side of our family came for the funeral, but that was the last time I ever spoke to them. Until I had sent a letter, just last month, to my cousin asking if I could come to visit. Her lack of questioning, coupled with the fact her roommate stole their rent money and apparently was now living somewhere in Cuba, meant the timing boded well for both of us.

The plane had taken off soon after these thoughts had passed through my mind. No matter how hard I tried to keep my glance away from the window, I couldn't resist having a peek. The sight of the clouds swirling below the plane did not bring a rush of anxiety to my body as it had once done. It was, actually, rather soothing. Content that I wasn't going to vomit, my gaze landed on the two men next to me.

The man seated next to me had very dark hair, but not dark enough to match his eyes, for they were a cool-toned black. He had high-cheekbones and wore a leather jacket, which hid a wiry yet strong torso. His features instantly reminded me of a model for Abercrombie & Fitch. From the arrogance on his face, he could have been. He held my gaze for a second and then faced the front again, a smirk on his lips. I turned back to the front of the plane, frowning, thinking I couldn't possibly have chosen worse seats. Arrogant people on planes, and in general, are worse than babies and people taking up two seats in my book.

I started planning out what to do when I reached my destination. How was I going to avoid the questions of my cousin, if she were ever to ask, as to how I got hold of so much money? I had stolen my dad's credit card details right before I left. I had it all planned out, I wasn't some stupid girl who didn't know what she was doing. I could imagine that might sound heartless. But it's the least I'm owed after a lifetime of disappointment. At 16 I could have left home, but what would I have done? How could anyone have helped me? So I bided my time, gritting my teeth through the beatings and covering the scars, until I reached 18. And then, I started planning.

To give a bit of background, my mother hadn't grown out of her rebellious phrase when I had been born, but I had still loved her very much and thought that her drinking was normal. As a child, whatever you grow up with is how you expect life to be. At that age, I didn't know what alcohol was. It's not like I spoke about it to anyone, so nobody could correct me. After all, why would I if I thought it was normal? Then, when I had just turned fourteen - I started looking for my dad, without my mother's help and permission. I eventually found him. He had used to be a gangster- and at first I was scared about having an ex-gangster as a father- but then he told me he would never hurt either me or my mum, and I had made the mistake of believing him. After all, he was the only dad I had. My mother was rusty with him to start with - barely giving him a glance when he came by to pick me up for a day out. But pretty soon she found herself falling back in love with him- and he moved back in after a month or two. Six months of family bliss passed by- but then the drinking got worse.

At first it was nothing weird- a beer or two every few nights. But then it became every night. And then it became more amounts every night. And then it became bottles of vodka every night. My mum never asked him to stop, so he never got professional help. I could hear them yelling from my room upstairs- and I cowered down into my blankets- somehow thinking if I could squirm deep enough into my bed, all the shouting would go away. But it didn't. I couldn't understand why my mum wasn't saying anything. After all, by then I knew that she had a drinking problem, but she had never been violent. How could she not see the damage and changes that were happening?

I could hear the slap- it was like a huge alarm clock going off in the morning: you want it to stop, but you can't make it stop without going to it. That was what it felt like. I had no way of knowing if my dad had slapped my mother or if my mother had slapped my dad. But then the next morning I saw a huge mark on my mother's face - and I immediately felt that I was in the shit. Pretty soon, this became as regular as an alarm-clock. They started having arguments every night- and each morning after the argument, my mother would have an even bigger bruise on her face. But he would have bruises too. Sometimes they hit each other so hard that the bruises turned black and blue. It got to the point where my mother would stop arguing with him- and would instead stay silent. But then he got mad at the littlest things- like the TV remote, or his crisp packet being empty - and I could hear him beat her again.

You hear all the stories on talk shows about children in abusive families- and everyone watching goes 'awww, those poor kids,' and then get on with their daily lives. But you really have no idea unless you've experienced it. It's like you're trapped- but you can't escape without the key. And I had no key. At one point I thought my mother was - but then I would see her becoming more vile, more evil, and I knew she never could be my key.

Dad thought that I couldn't hear them- but how could I not? My dad's shouting was so loud, and this was only made worse by his punches to my mother. I used to think that 'home' meant safety- like when you had an argument with a friend at school and you ran home crying to your mother's loving arms. That was home. Now when I had an argument at school- and they were becoming more and more frequent by my silence to my friends- I had no home to run to. No mother to hold me. No mother to tell me everything was going to be okay.

I immediately knew that a new line had been crossed when I got my first slap. And following that, there were punches, and kicks, and bleeding noses, broken bones...

I didn't believe that either of them loved me. In fact, I just didn't believe in love anymore. I couldn't imagine being loved. The thought of someone touching me almost made me sick, and pretty soon I became reclusive.

And there was no escape.

I hated being ill, as that meant a day off school- and that meant staying home with my mother and dad, and that meant more pain. It was easier to recover at school anyway, as I wouldn't get slapped and kicked. When I had the flu, I skipped school and hid out in the basement of the library for days, only dragging myself out to go home. School was the only place I could escape to- where I could at least try and be myself- but most of the time my attempts were in vain. No matter how much I tried - I just wasn't the same person anymore. I couldn't giggle with my girlfriends about hot boys, and I even couldn't worry about exams because I was already worrying about the stuff at home.

Some life for a fourteen year old girl. My life was already ruined by the people who created me.

My mother couldn't take it anymore- and one day she just packed her bags and left. She didn't tell anyone - not leaving a note.

I had cried myself to sleep that night. My mother had left me- the last person in my life that I loved and I thought could help me.

But then the next morning came and I couldn't seem to bring myself to be sad about my mother- she had left me? On my own, with this evil man? I could only feel anger. She was my mother, she was meant to put my life before hers and always protect me. I know that sounds real weird for me to say that she was supposed to put me before her- but that was what mother's do, isn't it?

My dad found out that she had left, and he was just angry. I heard him break lots of glass in the kitchen- but I suppose I was glad that he was breaking the glass and not me. Soon I wasn't angry at my mother anymore- I didn't have the strength to be: I just felt tired. Tired of my life that had been turned so violent in the past year..

That was all there was to say.

The beatings didn't stop. I became the new punch bag - replacing my mother more than ever.

I hatched a plan to fleece him. I stole his account details- and snatched his credit card. I managed to hack into any security on the computers- that was my talent, hacking. Some people call it stealing- but I call it revenge. He wouldn't even notice. He would be too scared to go to the police and ask for help to get his money back, given all his criminal history. He wasn't intelligent enough to ask around any remaining connections, as they had all ditched him as soon as he his loyalty to them.

And so here I was - on a plane from Atlanta to make an indirect connection to Florence. My plan had worked perfectly. Nobody had asked me my name - apart from the passport checker people, but that was normal. My bags were packed and already in the plane. I was well fed and watered.

So no, I wasn't too interested by the attractive man next to me. I had decided to hate men - which isn't that surprising when you think about it.

The said attractive man was looking forward, nowhere in my direction. And that's when I felt it: the urge.

It was as if some kind of Power was urging me to go somewhere with this guy- and he was already reaching for his seatbelt, sure that I would follow him. It was so clear, the Urge, and it was almost irresistible. What the fuck was it? It almost seemed as if I had thought this out of the blue. And I began to wonder whether I had. Was my sanity that clearly damaged? But no, a voice in the back of my head was saying that I would never feel such an urge, particularly out of the blue. But there was a distinctive pull, around my naval, and a tingling in my hands that wanted me to unlock my seatbelt and stand up.

After all that I had been through with my dad, I wasn't in the mood to be hit on and taken somewhere by a strange guy. So I gathered all my mind and cleared all thoughts from it, wiping it a hard drive.

The guy next to me winced, and I looked at him. He had a shocked expression on his face, but when my eyes met his, he smiled.

Fuck, he was gorgeous! Pale skin, sexy mouth, gorgeous teeth...

But gorgeous or not, I was pissed and not in the mood for conversation.

"I'm Damon," he said, still smiling. It wasn't a nice smile either- it was a sort of arrogant You'll- Fall- For- Me smile.

What a dickhead.

I realized that I was glaring at him, but this only made him smile more. And he was waiting for an answer- but I was too pissed at him to give him my name back. So I just said;

"Good for you."