I love my mom and my brothers. I always have, and I always will. But love does not constitute like. I love them because they're my family, I love them because they will always be apart of me, I love them because they are who shaped me. But sometimes I hate them. Sometimes I just can't stand being around them. Me and my mom used to get along, back when I was younger. Me and my twin brother did too. We were relatively happy, although my oldest brother didn't have the best relationship with my mom or twin. I loved him though, Dylan. He was a good brother to me, and we related to one another in a way I couldn't relate to my mom or Norman. Those two, they had a very special bond. Since the moment he was born, she fell in love with him, fell totally attached to him. I came five minutes later, and while she said she loved us equally, I didn't and will never compare. I came to peace with that.

I put it aside through life, and pretend like I'm included in their little bond. Mostly because it makes me feel better subconsciously, but also because I hate confrontation, unlike Dylan. I'm always playing the peace maker, always trying to smooth things over, always trying to fix everything.

But some things cannot be fixed. Some situations can't be mended, and some people can't be helped. I learned that very late in life, and in the most horrid of ways.

Often I say to myself, I could have done more, I could have been better, I could have stood up. I should never have left. But we're getting ahead of ourselves here. Maybe I should start at the beginning, or rather the beginning of this awful mess we were brought into.

My father, Sam, was a very mean man. He used to beat my mom a lot, and he used to do…stuff, to me. I wished him dead almost every day. I left the house a lot to get away from him, but one day…one day that was different. I was sick with a cold, and didn't have the energy to go anywhere. So I sat in my bedroom that I loved so dearly, and wasted away. My mom brought me soup and tea a couple of times, but I got hungry eventually. I stepped out of my room, my mom was folding laundry in the living room, Norman was putting together a smoothie, my dad was nowhere to be seen.

I coughed, making my entrance known.

"Hi sweetie. What's wrong?" My mom asked.

"I'm just a little hungry." I answered with a hoarse voice. "Do we have anything I could eat?"

"Sure." She smiled, kissed my forehead and began walking to the kitchen. "Sit down, baby, don't use up your energy."

I sat on the couch and crossed my legs over one another. I took a deep breath through my mouth, causing me to cough again.

All of a sudden I felt heavy breathing down my neck, and large hands on my shoulders. I gulped.

"You sick?" He grumbled in my ear.

I nodded slowly.

"Answer me when I talk to you." He growled.

"Yes." I answered.

"Don't think that means you get a day off." He stated.

My eyes started watering. I didn't answer him, a big mistake.

He grabbed my long curly brown hair in his fist, "I said speak to me when I talk to you." He bellowed.

I cried out, and continued with sobbing. He began to punch me. I was already so taxed on energy, I let him, and eventually I passed out. I don't remember what happened next. I just know I woke up in my bedroom to hear Norman screaming on the top of his lungs for mom. On wobbly feet, I followed their hurried footsteps to the garage. Dad was under a large shelf. He was dead.

From what mom said, she pried him off of me, and had Norman carry me to my bedroom to get sleep. Then, she supposed he was angry, and in a fit of rage, shook the shelf that fell and killed him. I wasn't sad, and I don't believe mom was either. Norman on the other hand…that's another story. He cried when he found dad dead, and he cried at his funeral. I didn't understand the sadness, when all I could feel was relief.

Several months later, I sat on my bed doing college homework when mom burst into my room with a huge grin on her face.

"Guess what?"

I looked at her oddly. "What…?"

"We're moving. In two weeks, we're up and leaving." She jumped for joy.

I blinked. I wasn't necessarily happy about it, but I wasn't angry either. "What about college? What am I supposed to do?"

"Don't worry. There's a little University in town you can go to, they offer your major and minor. I studied in on it, baby, it's all gonna be fine. Just apply for a transfer." She responded, sitting on my bed now.

"And if I don't get in?" I raised my eyebrows.

She smiled softly, caressing my cheek softly. "You're my smart one. You'll get in."

I sighed.

"Be happy! We can finally get away from this place, you can make new friends. It'll be amazing. Come on, we have to start packing." She clapped her hands.

I smiled softly. "Okay."

And that was it. I got into the University, and we packed non stop for two weeks, then put all of our stuff in a U-Haul.

White Pine Bay, Oregon. That was our destination.

The beginning of a long and tragic story.

Stay seated folks, I would say you're in for a ride.

You might be asking yourself two things. The first one being, who are you, writer? Who are you really? And to that I have an answer. Then you'll ask, and what about your oldest brother, Dylan? Didn't he go with you, too? Another answer, this one a little more complex.

To the first, my name is Samantha Bea Bates. I was named after my father, Samuel Bradley Bates. You'll notice a pattern here, considering my brother is named after my mom. Norma Louise. I'm seventeen years old, and currently in my first year of college. My major is in Psychology, my minor is in criminal justice. I differ from my siblings in that I find solace in books, and in education. I buried myself in school work as a kid, and I read every book I could get my hands on. First at my school library, and finally when I'd almost read everything there, I moved onto the local county one.

Specifically I spent time researching psychologists, and several books on the minds of criminals, and the mentally ill. How they operate, what creates them. The mind always intrigued me. I knew that when I was finished with high school, I wanted to be a psychologist. I wanted to understand those that society had thrown away.

To the second question, well, Dylan was what my mom considered a lost cause. She truly could not stand him for some odd reason, and he truly could not stand her due to it. I don't believe they didn't simply get along, because after all, as Winnicott said, "A baby cannot hate the mother, without the mother first hating the baby.", my mother just hated him, and I didn't know why. So when we left, she didn't tell him, but I did. Although, my mom and brother wouldn't be aware of that, of course. They had no idea I kept in contact with Dylan, for good reason of course.

Currently, we were in the car on a winding road up a mountain that overlooked the ocean. I was in the back, sprawled across the seat. I had earphones in my ear, and was listening to soft instrumental as I read my book.

"This is the part where you say, 'Mother, this is beautiful, I am so happy we're moving here. You are so smart to have thought of this." Mom said.

"Mother this is so beautiful. I'm so happy you're making me move here. You're so smart, forcing me to do things I have no say in." Norman smirked.

I chuckled at that.

She smiled at him. "You're an ass. What do you think Sammie B?"

I looked over to her with a soft smile. "It's great mom. I'm excited."

She looked back at me in the mirror with her sparkling blue eyes that both of my brothers shared. I, on the other hand, had brown eyes.

"Oh, look. Shut your eyes!" Mom said to both of us.

I didn't listen.

We pulled up to a large plot of land. A motel was in the front, worn down and decrepit looking. But in the back was a large house, full of character and body. Gosh it could be gorgeous, with just a little fixing.

Mom got out of the car, and ran across to the passenger side to open the door for Norman. I slid out on my own, my feet hitting the gravel beneath me.

She got on top of the car and sighed happily. "Open your eyes."

He did, a smile now on his face.

"What do you think?" Mom asked.

Norman laughed. "This is crazy, mom."

"It's not crazy, it's not. We're gonna run this place." She hopped off the car and hugged him. "Yeah. We own a motel Norman Bates."

I swallowed, taking it all in. "Can we go see the house?"

"Of course we can. Let's go!" She said excitedly.

We all walked up the vast amount of winding stairs to the very old, but beautiful home.

"I bought the whole thing, the house and the motel on a foreclosure." Mom stated, running to open up the drab curtains. "The best part is that everything came with it."

"Awesome, you can't buy furniture like this anymore." Norman said, although I couldn't tell if that was sarcasm or not.

"I love it, mom." I said, walking around. "It's old, and it's got…character."

"Doesn't it? We just have to imagine it without all this crap. Just, simple elegant furnishing, open space, light, linen drapes. This space is just beautiful." She said happily. "Come on, guys. I wanna show you upstairs." She grabbed our hands and tugged us forward.

"What's up there?" Norman pointed forward toward a very small set of staircases. "My room?"

"Noo." Mom shook her head. "I put you down here, closer to me."

"So is it mine?" I raised my brows.

"No. I found you something better. Come on." She ushered us forward.

She opened a door. "This is Norman's room," then she ushered us once more down the hall, "and this is mine."

I looked at her expectantly.

She smiled, running back down the stairs. I groaned, but followed her. We went past the stairs, just before the kitchen, where a door sat before the basement stairs began. She flung it open and sighed. "This, Sam, is your room."

And it was beautiful. There was a big bay window, with a bench just beneath it. The trim on the walls was just delightful, and the built in shelving was even better. All the ideas for what I would make my room become popped into my head one after another. I couldn't wait.

I looked behind me, mom was grinning, and Norman looked sullen.

"Norman." Mom sighed. "We've been through a lot. All of us. This is our chance to start over."

"Maybe some people don't get the chance to start over. Maybe they just bring themselves to a new place." He said.

"They do get to start over." Mom corrected him. "They just have to try. Trust me. It's all going to be good, you'll see."

And we would. We would see. Just, maybe not what she wanted us to.