Chapter 1: In the beginning.

You know that feeling as a kid when you hit 10 and suddenly you think you're all grown up 'cause you got 2 digits to your age, and then that same thing happens at 13 when you become a teenager? Well, I got that feeling hard at 18. I was an adult and damn it I was gonna let everybody know!

I was brought up in Boston, Mass. in what has to be the shittiest neighbourhood the city has to offer. I remember when I was 7 we had the feds at our door asking about our upstairs neighbour, asking if we'd seen anything suspicious. Turns out he was in charge of drug distribution for the Boston Mob. The cops had been after him for years and he was sent down for over half a century. That's a damn long time!

I was raised by 2 people I believed to be my parents. Even at a young age I knew what they were doing was wrong. But they were my parents, they were all I had, I loved them and even as a kid I knew I would never tell on them. Ever.

My father's work would take him away for long periods of time. If we were lucky it was just a few days, sometimes weeks and on one occasion he was gone for nearly 3 months. Most of the time he never received any injuries but, you know, being in his profession – it was to be expected.

The first time I held a gun I was 5 years old. My father was away and my mother had gone out to get groceries. I thought it would be fun to see what was underneath their bed – despite being distinctly told to remain in front of the television. The black case had been left ajar – all I had to do was open the lid. And there it was! Even now, I can clearly remember its heaviness…

'PUT THAT DOWN! PUT THAT DOWN NOW!'

Apparently in my excitement and awe I had completely failed to notice my mother returning home from the shops. I dropped it immediately. I don't remember what happened after that.

The next time I held one again I wasn't being disobedient, rather I was aiming it at a target that was roughly the shape of a person. I must have pulled that trigger a thousand times that day – I could barely use my arms for days afterwards. To this day, I'm not even sure if any of those bullets actually hit the target. Aiming is not easy when you're not even old enough to have a fully developed sense of hand-eye co-ordination.

As I grew in height, I also grew in confidence and skill. I was 7 the first time I got through a training session without missing the target, 9 before I could consistently hit the head. I wasn't just training in hand guns either. Oh no! I was using rifles, shotguns, arrows and knives. I think I even threw an axe on one occasion. I'm making this sound like I had an unhappy childhood – but that wasn't the case. Yes, it's true that by the age of 12 I was considered to be extremely dangerous but I still got to be a kid! My parents sent me off to the scouts at 6 and I went to karate and swimming class to – all so I could socialise with other children. I was home-schooled – obviously, so this was considered just as important as the training. At 13 I joined the JROTC to get some semi-official army training - as my father would say: 'A little bit of army discipline don't do no-one no harm'. I have the tendency to agree.

At 16 my aim was declared perfect – my speed: incredible. I had a little way to go in terms of strength – 16 year old girls don't typically have the strength of Hercules. I was, very nearly, as dangerous as my father.

It was at 16 that they announced my childhood to be over. They declared that I was ready.