San Juan, Puerto Rico -June, 1989.

It's funny how big events stick in your head. Usually it's only the bad stuff too. I only have fuzzy, faraway memories of time spent with my grandmother. But I remember her death every day, crystal clear, like it's being played for me on the big screen.

I was only six that summer, still young enough to enjoy the dirt under my feet, but old enough to start to question my background. My parents were long dead and I had no memory of them. I'd been living with my grandparents for all but the first two months of my life –and it had never bothered me before that year. My history was kept pretty much under wraps. I do remember whispering, passed looks between my grandparents whenever I'd ask. I was fairly good at reading people even at a young age and I always felt some unrest. Some unsolved piece of me. Half missing. I always thirsted for answers. I was insatiable and would never be full with the sparse lies I was fed. Unfortunately, the summer of '89 I got my answers. Though I wish with all my heart I hadn't.

I was playing in the field behind my grandparents house. The sun was setting but still scorched the dirt with harsh Puerto Rican fire that our village was famous for. I was brown skinned and wild, laughing and playing fetch with the stray dog we'd taken a liking to in the last year. My Grandmother was fashioning a basket close to my play area to keep watch over me –I was always exploring, learning, giving both my caretakers headaches when I could.

I remember a growl. A low, guttural sound that made everything else seem to quiet. A smile froze on my face and my laughter dissolved. A pitiful yelp from my sweet honey colored dog came from my right and I saw the usually heroic animal cower in fear from something hidden away from sight. That monstrous growl came again, closer. I gust of hot, foul breath came from the bush at my right and stirred up my sun bleached hair. It was only then the world started to fade back and I heard my grandmother screaming.

"Lola! Mi hija! En la casa! Volve a la casa!"

I had never heard her so panicked, so loud. My abuela was usually such a gentle woman. But I could not follow her orders. I wanted to run back to the house but my feet were frozen to the ground. A disgusting purr of breath stirred the bushes again and then suddenly from behind me there was a terrible roar. The throaty screech of something that sounded like a lion stretched in the air and shattered. I finally found the strength to spin around. When I did, I saw everything in what seemed like slow motion. My abuela had scrambled out of her chair but only made it a few feet from it before this huge, dark mass tackled her to the ground. At that time I was so young all I could think of was a monster. It was this massive, hairy thing with shoulder blades taller than me and teeth the size of steak knives. It had a long snout and black eyes. I watched it dig a massive paw full of daggers for claws into my grandmother's back. Her skin ripped. Red splashed across the dirt. I remember her screams.

My grandfather burst from the door on the porch. Something silver glittered in his hand but there was too much going on for me to watch him for long. My eyes darted from him to the soaked red, disfigured body of my grandmother, and then left to where I felt that hot, rank breath on me again. I didn't have time to scream. The second monster came at me and I felt white hot pain all down my left side.

BANG!

I remember a shot. Loud and clear as day. I had fallen to the ground with no knowledge of how I'd gotten there and saw the monster rear above me with massive paws before howling darkly and falling to its side. White spots clouded my vision. I felt something warm under me. I was swimming in the feeling. It was hot, sticky -pungent. Then I faded.

And I don't remember a second after that. The next thing I new I was awake in a crude hospital bed with my abuelo by my side, ready to tell me a long, long story. I won't bore you with it. If you're a hunter like me, you probably have a similar story or have heard countless others like it. My parents died when I was born at the will of the supernatural. My father and grandfather had taken up the family tradition of hunting down evil –killing what others couldn't fathom, sending things back where they belonged. Of course when you kill for generations, you're bound to make some enemies. And you're bound to have things stalk you and hunt you down, swear vengeance. The things that killed my grandmother and nearly killed me were not monsters, they were two pissed off werewolves.

And the only reason I'd survived the attack was because 1.) the bastard only hit me once before my abuelo put a bullet through it, and 2.)you don't kill evil for generations and not make a few friends along the way either. My grandfather called in a favor, a modern day medicine man to work some voodoo on me. I was saved by the skin on my teeth. A six year old against a werewolf isn't pretty odds, so I guess I'm pretty fucking lucky. And my saving came with an added bonus. The magic or crazy ass voodoo the guy used changed me. Not only did it pull me back from the brink of death, but it gave me this…ability. I know it's going to sound stupid as fuck -but ever since the accident I've been able to heal people. Ironic really, because I was given all that power and still couldn't heal myself.

Six years old and on, I was cursed with scars to remind me what had happened. The entire left side of my face -save for my eye- is carved up pretty good with three deep incisions that extend all the way down to my jaw and throat. My lip turns down so it looks like I'm always scowling on that side. My arm has the same jagged raised wounds down to the back of my hand and there's some residual scarring on my chest and my side. There's some damage to my thigh as well but it only goes to my knee and then stops. But yeah –try making friends when you're seven years old, have just seen your grandmother massacred and look like Frankenstein's Latina bride.

I grew up a lonely little girl. I grew up hardened, isolated. I had all the time in the world to learn from my grandfather who started teaching me the ways of the supernatural once it couldn't be kept a secret any longer. I grew up mean, tough and vengeful. I wanted destruction. I wanted pain to come to everything that had caused me hurt. I wanted blood.

I still do.