-one year earlier-

I had come to Europe to write. I had grown up in Canada, and moved to New York to study journalism. I went over to Europe in the middle of the thirties to write about the political developments in Germany in the hopes of sending articles to a newspaper back home. I hadn't really been aware of what had been going on before I got there, but I figured that what ever was going on had to be important.

My family had not wanted me to go. My mother had cried, my father had yelled and my younger sister refused to talk to me – or to allow me to see my little niece and nephew before I left. My goodbyes had been short and tense. My father, he had also been a writer as well. He had written a few novels, nothing worth reading, in my opinion at least. My mom doesn't work. She takes care of the house, and of her grandchildren. She couldn't comprehend why I was leaving. As a child, I had barely been allowed to ride my bike with my friends, so the idea of me traveling across the ocean was not…in her plans for me, to say the least. I had been expected to be married and have children by now, but after my engagement fell apart a year ago, I think my mother gave up entirely. None the less, leaving my family had been hard – my niece and nephew, in particular - but I knew that if I was going to get anywhere in the world of journalism, I had to immerse myself in current events and get my hands on a story.

I had begun my journey in London, but the city was far too dirty for my liking (hypocritical coming from someone who had lived in New York) so I moved into a small countryside town just outside of Paris. While I had wanted to actually go into Germany itself, I had been observing the developments of the country – and I wasn't stupid. Being in Nazi-occupied France was dangerous enough as it was.

For the first month or so of my stay in France, I was highly disappointed. None of the French locals would talk to me about their experiences under the Nazis – and the Germans certainly weren't going to tell me anything. I had learnt French in elementary school when I was little, so communication wasn't a problem. But as soon as they got wind of me being a journalist, I was swiftly and rudely gotten rid of. Apparently the Germans were particular about what information about their affairs was made public.

The little inn I was staying at was directly above a café, so I was able to watch the comings and goings of the town through my bedroom window. The most investigative journalism I had come up with in the first month was that Germans liked their coffee. And their women. I would be kept up at night by Germans yelling and leering at the local…female entertainers.

Feeling restless and hopeless, I decided to take a more rustic approach to my writing. I checked out of the inn, leaving anything non-essential with the hotel owner's teenage daughter to have, and I set out on foot, with nothing but my old school bag, to walk to Paris and hopefully find something interesting to write about on the way.

This time wandering the French countryside had given me a lot of time to think. About myself. About my life. About my mistakes. I thought of my family, and thought of the type of story I was looking for. But, much to my own dismay, I found myself replaying the day that changed everything.

"What do you mean, it's off?"

"The wedding," I stammered, "it's off. I'm done. It's over."

Chris looked at me long and hard, and then burst out in obnoxious peals of laughter.

"Like hell you are," he sneered as he grabbed my arm and forced me into the side of the kitchen table, "you would be nothing without me. No publishers would know your name. If it weren't for me…you would be nobody". As he held me tight against the hard wooden table, I could see beads of sweat forming by his hairline, and could feel his breath on my forehead. I considered my situation. What he said had been true enough…but not enough for me.

I brought my knee up into his (to be honest) less-than-impressive nether regions and watched him fall to the ground. As I stood over his body, my adrenaline kicked in and I found myself in possession of a new found rage.

"You absolute fuck. Go to hell, you pathetic, lying piece of shit. Leave me. Take the car, the house, the dog. I. Don't. Care. Have fun fucking that slut. I hope she rides you so hard, she breaks your fucking dick.".

It had felt good. I felt power.

It didn't last for very long. I moved back in with my parents and that power soon fell away and I was left with heartbreak. 8 years of my life I had been with Chris. Eight years, and now that I was left on my own, I was keenly aware of how his parting words had rung true. Every editor I had seen since we split found some reason not to have me published. They said its because I lacked experience, but I knew Chris' network of cronies, and I knew he was determined never to see my name in print.

That's what inspired me to go to Germany. While they wouldn't take my articles about local news back home, if I found something, something original, something off the radar of everyone, and if I made it great…well, they couldn't refuse me. Someone would publish me. And then Chris would be forced to see my name.