This story is being edited chapter by chapter, so some will look nice and neat while others will look messy and immature.

Enjoy.

"Here ya go, kid." The driver rolled his neck to work out the kinks as his hand automatically stretched towards the backseat.

"That'll be forty-three dollars."

Shuffling through my carry-on luggage, I brought out the bright yellow wallet holding all of my American money. The notes were bland in colour, but smelt fresh and clean as I carefully counted out the notes I owed him. He threw back the change with a grunt, and motioned for me to get out.

I opened the car door and was struck by pine and wood smoke – deep, forest sounds and faint laughter. It seemed idyllic, peaceful.

"I haven't got all day, kid."

I ignored him, dragging my two suitcases out of the car and slamming the door. He drove off in a hurry, sending splatters of dirt over my jeans. Scowling, I swung my handbag over my shoulder and grabbed both suitcases, one in each hand, and started towards the front garden.

Louise Redwood. That was the name stamped on my passport, a name I had skirted and hid from for years. When my family died when I was 11, I was put immediately in a foster home, with a couple who weren't ready for parenting, and didn't know how to handle a traumatized pre-teen.

That was before I ran away. Don't get me wrong, they were great people – I still have their address, and one day I'll write to them. But I couldn't bear it anymore – the whispering, the overly cautious way I was treated. I wasn't even treated carefully – I was handled. Handled like a spooked horse, or a crying kitten. I decided one night, listening to my new 'parents' argue, that for the first time in 3 years, I was going to take control of my own fate. So I ran.

It wasn't easy. I often went back to steal food, or sleep while they were out. But then Greg found me, and put me in a place I found much peace in. He owned a car store, and offered me a place to sleep while working full time. He taught me everything I currently know about cars. He bought me a flat and paid the rent, sending me to school too. I asked him once about why he did it, and he slowly stopped what he was doing.

"I've made many mistakes in my life – sins I can never repent. If the only thing I do is give someone a home, a purpose, then I'll die happy." He then grinned and threw a wrench at me.

He died when I was 17, forcing me to take over the shop. Surprisingly, I was a novelty. Not many girls work as a mechanic, and soon I was booming in business. I had to forge a fake passport to proof I was an adult, and a few other papers, but it only taught me to respect the black market – I never cheated anyone out of their money. I began taking dance lessons, enjoying me freedom, my new way of life.

Until the government got involved.

Noting I had escaped from child services for years, they tracked down my legal guardian, which turned out to be people named Sam and Emily Uley, all the way in America.

I was given one week to sort everything out before I was put on a plane.

Emily had sounded nice on the phone when I talked to her in the foster home last week. I was wary though – what would she do with me in a few months' time, when I turned 18?

The drive finally wore out onto grass, and a house came into view. It was a two story grey bricked house with a brown door and a black car out front.

I noted with disappointment they didn't have a big garage. So much for fixing up my bike.

I did have a bike. A Legacy 250 Automatic Cruiser, to be exact.

I finally dropped my bags on the front porch, nervousness stirring the pit of my stomach. This is it, I guess. Go hard or go home. Licking my lips to somehow moisten my suddenly dry mouth, I knocked on the door.

A woman with dark hair answered it. My words caught in my throat as I saw her face. On one side deep, dark scars mutilated her face, making the other beautiful side shine out in stark contrast. I lowered my eyes, focusing on her hands.

I had no right to be staring.

"Good evening." When had I turned so formal? "Is, uh, Emily or Sam Uley here?"

The woman smiled and reached forward, pulling me into a tight embrace. I froze before gingerly hugging back, looking at her quizzically as she beamed at me.

"I'm Emily." She grasped my hand. "Sam is at work at the moment. You must be Louise?"

I nodded and picked up my bags, following her as she gestured me in. What do you say to your new foster parent? Oh, sorry you got saddled with a foreign orphan brat? I apologize for completely uprooting your lives because I couldn't handle the system?

In the end I kept silent, gently refusing her offer of tea. Smiling, she led me upstairs to a room at the end of the hall. It was quite a nice room actually, with wide windows that actually had a balcony seat. I fully appreciated the double bed, and as I looked it over Emily let out a small laugh.

"This is the biggest bedroom. It's not much, but I hope you like it. Maybe you can come down later and we'll talk?"

I wanted to tell her that talking was something I had no interest in doing. But I nodded politely and showed a small smile.

Emily gave me another hug before leaving, closing the door softly behind her. As I stared at the empty room, a familiar urge made itself known to me.

I loved to make things my own. Cars can be forged with your own signature if you knew how, something I intend to learn someday. So I made the room my own, creating a space I felt comfortable in. The clothes and shoes when in first; easy to put away and fold. Next were personal effects – like the old and tattered blanket my mum gave me on my sevenths birthday – I brought it up to my nose and inhaled, a slight cinnamon scent still clinging to the fabric. Next was a guitar stand on the wall, where I proudly hung 'Jerry' for all to see.

After stashing the two now empty suitcases under the bed, I reluctantly opened my carry-on, putting the familiar red pillow on my bed and my toiletries bag on top of my bedside table. As I lifted out a folder filled with foster papers and business contracts from my now sold mechanic shop, a crumpled photograph on the bottom of the bag caught my attention.

With shaking hands I lifted it out, smoothing out the creases hastily across my knee. I sat on the bed as my knees gave, and I traced the smiling faces on the photo, my lips starting to tremble.

It was the last family picture I had of my past. We – my mum, Carlie, Jason and dad – were standing on front of our yacht, laughing at the cameraman. It had been our last holiday to Greece, where we sailed around the Greek islands in dad's yacht.

It was also the week before they died.

I felt sadness surge through me before I could stop it, and I shoved the photograph under my pillow in an effort to squash it.

I haven't seen that picture in years. Neither have I been this close to crying in years.

Pushing back the tears, I stood up and pinched myself. The physical pain brought me sharply back into reality. I turned on my bedside light – night had truly fallen while I unpacked - and checked my reflection in the full length mirror behind the door.

Dark hair. Blue eyes that were still shining with fading tears. And tanned skin, matching the loose beige clothing I wore on the long plane flight here.

Let's hope they weren't expecting someone more.

The hallway was dark, and I stumbled along unfamiliar ground as I made my way downstairs to the kitchen.

Emily was bustling around the kitchen, with four or five pans cooking different things on a massive stove. Lounging near the door on a chair was Sam Uley - whose face I looked up as being one of respected Elders of the Quileute reservation.

"Louise?" He stood and held his hand out; none of the warmth Emily gave, only business. As I took his hand I frowned. He was burningly hot, scorching even, and his eyes narrowed as he snatched his hand back. He must be running a pretty high fever.

"Are you okay? You seem to be running a fever-"

"Is there any more paperwork to be done?" His voice was sharp.

Something in his voice made me want to cower. I've never felt an urge like it before. No, not an urge. It was more like an instinct.

And something in me bristled back in anger. "Yes." I matched his sharp tone. "I have to send back a few things."

He sat back down and opened a nearby newspaper, signaling clearly the conversation was over.

Dinner was an uneventful affair, where Emily and Sam asked me questions about Australia and I answered them as evasively as I could. It had been silent for a while before Sam asked out of the blue, "So, have you got a car?"

I shook my head. "No. A motorcycle. It's been shipped here. Do you guys have a garage nearby? I'll need to fix her up after the flight."

Sam looked surprised. "You can fix engines?"

"My specialty is motorcycles." I finished my meal and took it up to the sink, rinsing it and washing it habitually. Spending time by yourself in a lonely flat made me constantly wash and clean to avoid living in filth.

"Louise, what's that on your hip?"

My hands automatically hitched up my low rise jeans even as I answered back calmly. "Fell on a crowbar at work."

"From what height?" Sam looked disbelieving. "It looks like a pretty big scar."

"It's also from a long time ago, so no big deal. It's fine." I wiped my hands on my shirt, forcing my feet to move. "May I be excused?"

A long silence greeted my question. Sam was staring hard at me, looking for some sort of doubt, while Emily looked worried, hovering between letting me go or finding out the truth. Finally, she nodded. And I practically ran out of the kitchen.

My new bedroom didn't have a lock. I pushed a suitcase in front of it, backing away and tripping over my own feet to collapse on the bed. Memories were coming back the harder I tried to shut them out, slipping like water through tight fingers. With my eyes clenched shut I burrowed my head in my arms, trying to stop my past from coming back through.

"Louise, go get ice cream." Jason whined as I got out.

"Fine," I took the money mum offered me. "I'll be back soon!"

I ran to the little shop next to the petrol station, digging out the ice cream from the freezer and skipping happily to the counter. I felt like such an adult.

The lady at the counter smiled at me as I placed them on the counter. "That'll be two-thirty, honey."

I painstakingly counted out the coins and asked for a receipt politely, feeling mature. By the time I got my change back I was itching to go back outside, the sun hitting the side of my head as I skipped jauntily towards the exit.

I was so carefree, so full of happiness.

I've never been that happy since.

The exit doors slid open as I skipped forward, my left toe suddenly caught in my other foot as I fell onto the hard concrete. The ice creams fell to the ground as I cried out in pain. A shout made me look up so see my dad make drop the petrol pump on the car, the automatic handle spurting oil across the back window and trunk before dripping onto the ground and spreading. As he started to walk towards me a red car passed the station. In slow motion the window opened, and a cigarette butt was casually flicked out.

Onto the waiting petrol.

The fire flared, impossibly quick and hungry. My father's right side caught flame and he screamed and thrashed to get the fire off. I started screaming, struggling to get up. The fire reached the first petrol booth, and after a couple of smoke filled seconds, exploded.

The explosion caused the other one to explode, and in fear I scrambled up, sliding on ice cream and falling again. The automatic door slammed shut on my hips, and I screamed in agony as the metal cut into my skin and cracked my hip. Another explosion seared the souls of my feet and sent the whole shop shaking. I began to crawl away from the fire, pushing back anything in my path. People were screaming and running, getting into the way in a haze of smoke and fear filled voices. But I kept on crawling.

The exit door stood before me, and I feebly pushed it open. People ran around me, and then I was rolling over and over, before hitting something hard before it collapsed. Whatever I rolled into creaked then broke, and then I was rolling down a dirt hill, crashing into bushes and trees and thorns. A tree trunk loomed and smacked into my head, silencing my screams as I blacked out.

I was found by the police at the bottom of the hill a few hours later, with tears silently streaking down my cheeks and blood dribbling from my hips. I didn't speak. I didn't move.

They were dead.

I was dead.

The room was dark and gloomy, my bedside light still on. I must have fallen asleep. Tears were still trickling down my face – I rubbed angrily at my cheeks. Stop it. You're not 11 anymore. I crawled under the covers and then went to turn off the light.

A sudden fear gripped me. I didn't want to be left alone in the dark.

A childish fear is a strange sort of fear. It never leaves you, only adapts into variations your mind can't control. It wasn't the dark that scared me. It was the faces I saw in the shadows, blaming me with their hollow eyes.

I left the light on all night.