I never thought I'd find love. Really. I was an outcast all my life and I had only one friend who...
Well, I don't want to talk about her. It hurts too much to even think about her. Anyway, my parents died when I was four. Their death was a bit ironic. Being werewolves, they were often trying to be killed. A little rain and a mountain did them in at the end. I was the only one to survive. Well, me and my saint bernard puppy, Kit Kitsune. I call her Kits. This may sound pretty damn weird, but I owe my life to my dog. When we were in that mangled mess of a car, the leaking gas caught on fire. "Get out! Hurry, baby!" My mother yelled at me. "Baby, remember, we love you so, so much. Never forget and become the best werewolf ever to live..." Then the smoke made her lose consciousness. I was about to suffer the same fate. Then, my puppy grabbed onto my collar and pulled me out and away from the mess. I was lucky that she was such a large puppy and I was such a small child. After that, I went to live with my aunt in Arkansas. I hated that woman. She was so mean and only watched over me for the (Very) large amount of money left to me by my parents. It was her fault that I fell into the grip of drugs. I quickly got off them when I hit Kits during a high. Reliving that and feeling terribly guilty, my brain turned off the need for the white powder. After that, I stayed quiet in school and strived to become the perfect student. All this said, I wasn't sad when my aunt informed me that we were moving. So I packed up my things and my dog and we moved from sunny Arkansas to snowy Colorado. We were in a large, very old house that was so plainly haunted. It suited me. My outside sure didn't show it, but I was a cutter. An emo, if you care to use such terms. I cut my hips so that I could maintain my beloved style. I'm what they call a southern belle. At age sixteen, I had long, curly blonde hair and lightly tanned skin. My eyes were, and still are of course, sky blue. My ears were pierced twice. I was a country girl on the outside only, though. Well, the lifestyle sure as hell leaked into my heart. I loved, and still love, hunting and guitars and those comfy faded jeans and trucks. Oh God, did I love trucks! I fancy myself a sufficient hunter, knowing my way around both bow and gun. My name is Bannaka Rush and this is my story. My story of love. My story of pain. My story of life with it's twists and turns.