Imagine...

YOU, yes, YOU, flipping through your TV to catch up on the news.

First you see a curly-haired young teenage girl on the news.

"I can't even express how mad I am, that people are even considering this a possible crime!" she yells out during an interview.

You continue flipping through the channels, coming across more news stations.

"She's acts like she's holding it together and that she is okay with her life, but she acts almost emotionless when she talks about these deaths," a news-reporter says.

"I just think that poor girl has been through so much," a random person on the street says.

I sat in my hidden castle, my cozy home. I slowly sipped some warm apple cider, looking down my arms to see the many deep cut scars I had inflicted on myself as the only person I had left in this world wrapped my special blanket around me.

My name is Clare Edwards, and that curly-haired teenager was me. Only, I think this story will be quite different from what you would imagine.

I am offering you a chance, to peek into my life in the days leading up too, and following, the night that changed my life forever.

This is my diary, about the experience I had with the real Girl on Fire.


The polo field was lovely as always. I felt very blessed to live the new lifestyle I had lived. My step-father, Glenn, had recently had a major success with his job, and we were on our way to a bigger and better life style, as a family.

The white wire fences had beautiful purple flowers weaved in and out of them. It was very fragrant, very dainty.

I was wearing my beautiful floral dress, strapless and four inches above the knee of course, and a white cream sweater. My shoes were simple white flats, and I had a wide-brimmed straw hat that reminded me of a hat I wore for Easter when I was young. I had put on spotless makeup. To be honest, I looked like a goody-two-shoes, grandma-ish, dainty. I didn't look as rebellious as my true thoughts and desires were.

I loved that about myself.

No one would ever expect something so dangerous out of me. I was too sweet. The sweet Christian virgin who lived with such modest people. If only they knew about me and Jake's secret sexy night together, or about how much I loved the passionate sex I had with Eli, now almost every day. If they only knew the dirty things I have done - deep throating, sex tapes, master & slave games - they would shun me.

If only they knew.

Even though I might seem like a sick girl, no one disgusted me more than Patricia Vanderbilt.

That bitch made me want gag her.

I always hated her, since the day I saw her. She lived in a huge mansion, with her son and her pregnant daughter, both biological. Don't tell anyone, but if you ask me, her son is totally the father of his sister's baby. But you didn't hear that from me! She was widowed three times. Rumor says, she ate her first husband, and executed her other two. Don't worry, you can tell everyone I said that. It's no secret.

The worst thing was how sweet and innocent she acted. She brought me and my mom sweet cinnamon rolls the day we moved in to the new city. She said she made them herself, but they were obviously store-bought. Everything she said to us that day was at best, a back-handed compliment.

Then, when I was walking down the stairs, I heard her on the phone, talking about how she wanted to slit our throats.

She hates us. I hate her too.

She did many other horrible things that I won't bore you about, but just know, she is a terrible human being, even if she looks like she is still grieving her husband's deaths.

Right now, she was eight feet away. Her red frizzy hair carelessly curled, her purple eye shadow splotted all over her eyes, her clothes so disgustingly pale. Everything about her made me hate her. It was too bad that I liked her kids, even though they were incest freaks.

She gave me the most vicious, disgusting stare you have ever seen in your life. I happily mirrored her facial expression.

Even though Patricia was the cannibal, murdering, incest, slutty bitch of the town, news was taking a turn when disaster struck our town.

There was a road that let out to the more open area of town. No one really did farm there, it was just an open area. It had about seven to ten houses on it, and they had all burned down. When the fire fighters got there, they said they could still smell the gasoline.

Seven children died, all about the same age; 7. Three babies died, and several sets of parents died, along with a young couple, about twenty-three, that had found out that night, that they were going to start a family and had happily posted it all over Facebook.

As I watched Patricia gain sympathy from someone's grandmother, I knew she knew I knew.

Patricia Vanderbilt was somehow connected to these murders, and somehow, I was going to prove it.

I just didn't know how.