I guess things really went to absolute shit when I found that book. I was in the library and it was just some random book that I picked up because I was bored.

But that's not where my story starts and I think that a proper story should start at the beginning, whether the beginning is exciting or not. So let's go back 16 years. My mother, Lindsey, is screaming in a hospital, giving birth to me. My father, Lloyd (Yes his name is Lloyd. Tragic, I know.), is holding Lindsey's hand and looking for all the world like he is going to throw up. Poor thing. And then there's me. Lindsey gives one final push with a blood-curdling scream and there I am. Disgusting, wrinkly, slimy, screaming, me. They cut the cord and weigh me, before handing me back to my mother. She smiles down at me and I immediately stop crying. I smile back up at her. They name me Stella Luna. I'm smaller than I'm supposed to be, but nobody seems all that worried so I guess it's okay. After all, big things often come in small packages.

I stayed in the hospital for a few days, in a room with all of the other screaming babies. My mother and father visited me every day and stayed with me until they had to be told to leave. I had this annoying little anklet that made it so that nobody could take me out of the hospital. It was uncomfortable, but it's not like I could tell anyone seeing as I didn't know how to talk. So I endured the discomfort. Sometimes when it would get really bad I would cry, and when I would cry, things around me had a tendency to fly around the room and overall mayhem would break lose. Toys, pacifiers, other babies. And yet, when a nurse would come in to see what was wrong, everything would be completely normal again and I would have stopped crying.

Eventually, my parents were allowed to take me home. My father held me close to him as my mother drove. Love radiated outward from both of them. Love for each other, and for me. I could feel it, and it was beautiful. And then the car flipped. Suddenly, I was weightless. And then I wasn't. When I came to after being knocked out, there were sirens all around me. They pulled me from the wreckage with exclamations of surprise and disbelief.

"Not a scratch!"

"How is this possible?"

"Should be dead."

"Not even crying."

"Does anybody know what happened?"

Nobody did. After that there was a lot of adults talking about foster families and group homes. I had been the sole survivor. Both of my parents had died on impact. Logically, I should have also. But I didn't. In fact, I didn't even have a smudge of dirt on me. No scratches, no bumps, no bruises. Just me, staring silently up at the fireman who had pulled me from the wreckage. He smiled down at me in the sort of bewildered way one smiles at an item that they don't quite understand but can't bring themselves to dislike. When it came time to hand me over to social services, he signed the adoption paperwork instead. He and his wife had wanted to have a baby anyway. And so I was passed from one loving family to another, equally loving family. Not so bad, all things considered. Right?

On my first birthday, my new family threw a party for me. It was great. It was the first time that I tasted cake. I hadn't really grasped the concept of "friends" yet but there were other children there. I was so happy. Until I wasn't. Something happened. I honestly don't even know what it was, but as children do, I was throwing a tantrum. Screaming and crying. Just being a pain. And as I screamed, things started floating around me, just as they had in the hospital. Spoons, forks... and knives. They flew around me in a whirlwind of utensils. Adults ducked, clutching their children. One of the knives broke ranks and impaled itself in the door about a centimeter from my adopted father's head. He watched it as it quivered there. He turned his attention back to me and his face became a mask of determination. He pushed off the wall as if that was the only way that he could move. He made his way through the whirlwind of utensils, trying in vain to get to me before a fork lodged itself in his eye. Time seemed the stand still as he stopped in his tracks. Everyone else at the party looked from him to me in surprise horror. He fell to the ground, and so did the rest of the utensils. After a moment of shocked silence where not even the other babies made a sound, my adoptive mother ran to his side.

"No, no, no. Please no. Please. Don't leave me. Somebody call 911!" She shouted. The crowd of parents were in shock. Nobody moved. "Now!" A woman lurched into action, pulling her phone from her purse. Everyone was still giving me frightened looks. They looked at me like I was an alien. Imagine having people look at you like a monster.

A little while later, the police came, and so did an ambulance, but it was too late. My adoptive mother's hands were covered in her husbands sticky red blood. He was dead. That stupid, plastic fork, has went through his eye, and lodged itself in his brain. There was an investigation, but it was ruled an accident. After all, who would believe that an innocent baby girl had made objects fly and killed the person who had literally pulled her from a wrecked car. But that didn't stop my adoptive mother from seeing what she saw. She gave me up soon after. I was sent to a group home. It was actually nice there. I was happy there for all of two years.

Alright. I'm bored so I'm gonna go ahead and speed this up.

When I was three years old I was sent to a foster family. Then I was sent back to another group home after my foster brother died under mysterious circumstances. That group home was a lot less nice than the first one. Less than a year later, there was another family, and another death. By the time I was six years old, there had been a total of nine deaths. People avoided me. Parents would come to some of the group homes and when they asked about my history, the head would have no choice but to tell them. The families would find someone else to take home. The other kids started rumors about me and even the police looked at me occasionally. A lot of people thought I was some type of psychopath. They may not have been wrong, but that's an entirely different issue.

The one good thing that came out of all that negative attention? At that point I was old enough to know that all the bad things that happened were happening because of me. I managed to control it. I locked whatever beast that was inside of me away. Eventually, a nice little family took me in as a foster child. They ended up adopting me. They saw little ten year old me with my long blonde hair and my gray-green eyes and chose me. Even after they heard about my history they chose me. Me. It was one of the happiest days of my life. I had a mom, a dad, a little sister, an older brother, and even a dog. Life was perfect, and for once, it stayed that way. I convinced myself that whatever had been inside me was gone and I grew up pretty normal after that.

Anyway, here we are. I started at the beginning, but this is where the story really starts. It's not the beginning, or even the middle. It's the end.

So I've technically already written 13 chapters of this book, which means at least for a while, I should be publishing pretty often. I'm doing the first five chapters today, and then I'll probably publish once a week. I hope you enjoy!

xoxo

-Sierra <3