Author's note: Hey, guys. A few of you have marked this as a favorite, and I want to apologize for leaving you hanging for three years. I can't promise anything, but I want to try to make this story. I've changed a couple things. It probably won't be very noticeable. Here goes! God bless.

Disclaimer: What's Butch Hartman's is his, and what's mine is mine.

I splashed cold water on my face and looked at myself in the mirror. 'Who am I?' I often asked myself. But no matter how hard I searched for the answer, I could never find it. And now that I've moved to a new city, finding myself would be even harder. Or would it? Maybe it would be easier. Maybe I'd find a fit; a mold.
...But it was only wishful thinking.

My father and I moved to Amity Park to run away. He called it "moving on." We had to get away from home. Or rather...from a nightmare. My mother commited suicide. I found her in the bathroom upstairs. Deep valleys were carved into her wrists. Her lifeless body was limp in the bloody water. Her head hung back, relaxed, as if she were sleeping and would wake up at any moment.

I avoided that bathroom from then on. I couldn't even look at the closed doorn that no longer opened. My father grieved in his own way. His dull stares pierced through me, though he never looked at me. Whenever he spoke, it was as if he were accusing me. Blaming me for her death. He never said it outright, but his tone was clear. I remember the way he'd grip his coffee cup each morning as I entered the kitchen.

I grabbed the hand towel and dried my face. I wondered what my new school was going to be like. What kind of people went there. Were they all the same? Were they different? Would I be accepted? I hoped to make at least one friend. I never had many back at home. And the ones I did have didn't stick around for very long. They realized how messed up I became. At first, they were supportive because a mother's death is something unimaginable. But they tired of my attitude. My constant state of depression and existential view of the world. I could almost understand. Who would want to be around someone who never ever smiled, who wreaked of days-old clothes and unwashed hair, who didn't care about anything or anyone?

I sighed heavily and made my way into my new bedroom. It was pretty large. My family had always been very wealthy. Even with my mother gone, my father made more than enough. He was the most successful lawyer in the central United States. My mother had been a well-known novelist. I never understood why they married. She was artistic and sensitive. He was logical and hard-pressed.

I sprawled out on my bed and laid there, staring at the ceiling. It wasn't one of those popcorn ceilings, so I couldn't make out any shapes. But it seemed to swirl just the same. Everything seemed to go in circles these days. I kept asking myself the same questions and coming to the same answers. It was exhausting and it proved that I didn't know anything at all.

I crawled under the white sheets and the deep imperial purple comforter. I sighed in contentment. There was something about having your own room. The privacy, the sweet loneliness, and the way you could really make it your own. A lot of people didn't like being alone. Maybe they were afraid of beling left with their thoughts. Or maybe they were afraid of abandonment. But I thrived in solitude. I didn't have to worry about what other people thought. I could be totally and completely myself. I didn't have to speak out loud, I didn't have to try. I could simply just...be.

I tried not to think about what lay ahead of me the next day. I concentrated on the sound of my breathing, and it soon lulled me to sleep.

DP-DP-DP-DP-DP-DP-DP

I dreamed of my parents. My father was blind, walking up a staircase. My mother was dancing on the pages of her books. They couldn't see each other. Or me. I called to them, but they couldn't hear me. I yelled, I screamed, but still...Nothing. My screaming seemed to go on for hours, until I woke up to the sound of my alarm. I groped for the treacherous thing and switched it off.

Lazily, I got out of bed and walked to my bathroom. I turned on the shower and waited for the water to get hot. I stripped my clothes and stepped in, immediately relaxing once the water began to massage my muscles. They were tight, always tight. I never seemed to relax.

After I was finished with my shower and getting dressed, I went downstairs into the kitchen. I knew what waited for me.

"Morning, Dad," I mumbled. I began to fear my father's blank stare. I opened the refrigerator.

"Good morning," he replied. His words iced over me. It had been six months since my mother's death. I was beginning to suspect he might hurt me like he did her. My father had never physically hurt me, only my mother. But he was rather emotionally abusive to the both of us.

Not in the mood to eat, I pulled out a pitcher of orange juice and poured it into a glass. I slowly sat down at the table across from my father. He was reading the paper and drinking coffee. I didn't dare look at him.

"How are you?" I wanted him to love me again.

"Oh, just fine. And yourself?" It was as if he were mocking me.

"Fine," I said quietly. I downed the juice and grabbed my things. "I'm going to school now."

"Would you like me to take you?" Disdain and contempt.

"No, I'll walk." It was only fifteen minutes. I had checked a map online.

I quickly left the house and made my way to Casper High. The whole town was rumored to be haunted. Many apparitions were seen, voices heard, that kind of thing. It was even reported that some were physically harmed. I was pretty skeptical, but who knew? Maybe the town really was haunted. Or maybe everyone was just crazy. It sure was a beautiful place, though. As I walked to school, I saw frosted bare trees everywhere lining the streets. It was near the end of January, and a new semester was beginning.

My heart beat a little faster as I entered the perimeter of the school. Many kids were outside chatting or goofing off. They seemed like your typical teenagers. I noticed a few cheerleaders practicing their routine, one girl in particular. She had long, thick dark hair and a caramel complexion. Her figure was that of a girl on the conver of a sports magazine, though her hips were round. She was so beautiful, until I heard her laugh in an annoying high pitch. She was laughing at a kid wearing glasses who accidentally dropped a large stack of books he was carrying.

Then I saw him, the most beautiful boy I had ever seen. He was helping out the kid the gorgeous cheerleader was making fun of. His hair was jet black and his eyes were the clearest blue. His slight tan glistened in the sunlight. I saw him say something to another guy who was standing next to him. He was a mixed race and wore a strange red beret. They both walked into school with the one who dropped his books.

I walked up to the doors, feeling on me the judging eyes of the Latina.