This story is told through the eyes of Sarah, an American who moves to India with her family the age of 7 (and a half). The majority of the story is told in flashbacks, but allow me to clarify a few things.

Sarah lives next door to Don. She is about 5 years younger than he is. She is not mentioned at all in the film, and she is a product of my own imagination, an explanation for the ruthlessness and promiscuity that Don exhibits in "Don - The Chase Begins Again".

I do not own Don, or anything even remotely relating to him. I just love the character and wanted to write in a history that did him justice.

I do own Sarah, her family, and all of the words that I write.

Comments, critiques, and any feedback is LOVED greatly. I don't usually post my fanfiction... and I'd like to know what others think.

...chapter one...

I met him when I was seven and a half years old. I remember my age because I wore it like a banner then, like a badge that gave me the right to do many more things than a seven year old could even conceive. I used my age to bolster my claim that my parents had no right to hold me hostage in this strange, new country. Back then I still thought that my words held some value in their minds.

"You can't do this to me!" I screamed as my father walked. He was slowed by the gigantic box that he was carrying to the door.

"Shh!" He was losing his grip on the cardboard. His body wasn't used to the heat, and my aggravation was surely wearing him down. I could almost taste the stale peanuts I would eat on my plane ride home.

"I'm seven and a half years old! You can't treat me like a slave!" I was screaming so loudly that my voice cracked.

"Be quiet! The neighbors will hear you!" My father said this in a hushed, frustrated voice. He stopped in an attempt to reposition the box in a more favorable position. The box would have none of his negotiation, but this gave me an excellent vantage point to finish him off. I watched his thin fingers grapple with the box as it wilted in the thick air. I knew my victory was near.

"I won't be quiet in this hell!" I felt the surge of energy that comes from using forbidden grown-up language. As the box slipped from my father's grasp and onto the brick walkway, I screamed, "I'm going home!"

My father was too angry to follow me; I escaped around the house to the back yard, which was well-manicured and filled with a myriad of flowers and a beautiful (if somewhat grandiose) water fountain. In protest, I began to throw rocks into the shallow water.

"You will break the fountain." He said in awkwardly perfect English syntax. I turned around, wiping a stray tear from my face. The boy had materialized from nowhere, and stood a foot away from me.

"Damn the fountain." I said courageously, waiting to see his eyes widen beneath that mop of black hair. Swearing was a big deal back home and, I assumed, an even bigger deal here in India, where everyone wrapped themselves in sheets. He met my gaze levelly, though, unimpressed. I threw another rock at the gurgling fountain to spite him.

"Stop." He gritted his teeth. I raised my hand to throw a larger rock, but he grabbed my wrist before I could. He squeezed until it almost hurt, but I wouldn't let him see my discomfort.

"Let go of me." I said in an almost-scream. He tightened his grip. "You can't touch me. I'm not your whore!" The word hung in the air, resting on a thick cloud of hot humidity and waiting for the next syllable. After a moment of glaring, his fingers released my wrist.

"You are right." He said in a cocky voice, without the remorse I thought he should have. "Whores are pretty." He backed away from me, with a smile on his face that confused me. It confuses me even to this day. I didn't feel insulted, under that smile I felt a strange kind of happiness combined with nervousness.

I stood dumbfounded as he walked. My mouth hung open to catch flies even after he disappeared over the white fence, and I walked around in a daze for the rest of the week.

At that moment, I decided to give India a chance.