A/N: Considering there is no actual category for the movie 'Thirteen', I'm slipping this into Misc. Movies. It's a one-shot, so don't ask for any more chapters. It's a quick look inside the oh-so-cruel mind of Evie Zamora. Oh, and one more thing:

Disclaimer- I don't owwwwnnnn it. Wish I did.

One girl once described me as a snake. She called me that. 'You're a fucking snake'. I couldn't believe it. But the more I thought about it, the more sense it made.

I can camoflauge myself well. I've moved four times in my life, and every time I slip inside the group I need to be in, no questions asked. They allow me in, because I look like them.

But when someone stumbles upon me, in the wrong way, I strike. Sometimes just to injure the person, to give myself time to slip away, back into my confortable surroundings. But other times, I attack just enough to kill. And I'll slide away a few feet and watch the person die.

I love how their body quivers when they realize their life is over. And it disappoints me when they get away, get safe. It makes me feel like it was all useless.

That's what happened with Tracy.

She got away, much as I tried to stop that. I really wanted the satisfaction of seeing her rot away into nothing. Maybe slicing her wrists so deep she'd bleed to death on her crummy bathroom floor.

But it didn't happen. She's still alive and I'm moving to another place tomorrow. I feel like I've failed. Like I've failed greatly. She was the one person I didn't manage to destroy completely.

She's so strong. Even through all the drugs, the sex, the violence, through all of it she stayed strong. She still knew who she was. I couldn't change that. I couldn't make her an empty shell.

But I still have my memories with her. When I pierced her belly button. Oh god, I was so fucked. It was bleeding so bad. But it was worth it. That girl was made to have a pierced navel.

And the night I came in and saw the dark spot on her sleeve. I really did love her, if only for that moment. I didn't want her to hurt any more than I needed her to. Self-harm has never been my thing. It makes me cringe, the thought of my poor Trace dragging whatever she used across her skin.

She always had pretty skin. Smooth, unaffected. At least until I got a hold of it. Now it's bruised, beaten, cut.

But she's still alive.

I suppose I'll always remember her. She was the only one that really left an impact on me.

And now it'll be a new school, a new Tracy. But no one, and I mean no one, will ever be like she was to me.

She's one of a kind. Always will be.

fin