Dear reader,

Now that you have found this letter then you have found the body. My body. I understand now, I understand everything. My death is inevitable, but I believe that I can prevent others. My time is running out, and I can't avoid them forever. I am afraid. I am alone. I need help. As soon as you know, you will be targeted. I know that it may be hard to believe but there is no way that you can retrieve the infomation I have discovered about what is coming. You must find it for yourself, for i don't have enough time to tell you myself,  and understand that if you are to undertake this journey then you must be prepared to face the ultimate price for knowledge. I hear them coming now, and my time has run out. I no longer fear death, for i have experienced far worse, and had plenty of time to warm to the idea. After this I can finally be at peace. My journey is finally over but yours is just beginning.Please don't hurt them; you must save them and whatever you do, don't look in the mirror.

Yours faithfully,

Maria Mane

My 'Who am I?' paper, that I was assigned two weeks ago by my new form tutor, lies on the table, rejected. It is bursting with colour and images of my family, my friends and Snoodle, my dashound. Two full pages about who I am, or who I was. But I'm not that person anymore. Not since it happened; not since I found out. I sit in an armchair in the corner with my laptop on my lap and an empty word document open. I thought that writing this paper again would give me some closure. Some assurance that one day I can return to being the girl that I wrote about in my last paper, or some variation at least. But the page is still blank and the cursor is in the same place it was fifteen minutes ago when I picked up my laptop. I slammed the lid down with a great force, not caring about the probable damage to the screen. I hear the front door open and my aunt Billie calling that she bought my favourite for tea. She's hardly being discreet in trying to cheer me up and encourage me to re-enter the world. Normally I wouldn't notice, but it is the fourth time that we have had my favourite food for dinner, this week.

I run up the stairs mumbling something about homework, though i know she won't buy it because I have missed school for two weeks now on the feeble excuse of a headache. After today though i really feel one coming on and trudge to the bathroom to get some asprin. When I have rumaged through the cuboard shelves a couple of times, and find that they are not there, I call mum out of habit, but choke on my words before they come out. I force the tears back and shuffle back to my room with a worse headache than before, and no asprin. I decide to spend the evening watching movies in my nightwear rather than moping round the house like a wet blanket. I wander downstairs to find aunt Billie clearing away what's left of the lasange, but stop in her tracks when she sees me and asks in a hopeful voice, "Have you changed your mind about not eating?" I give her a quick shake of the head, only to see her face fall, so i walk over and take three large forkfulls of cold lasange and stuff them into my mouth. Her face lights up.

I am halfway through finding nemo, when i hear a loud rap on the door. I call my aunt Billie, but I can hear the shower running so pause the movie and shove aside the bowl of toffee popcorn. As soon as I open the door, I regret it. Stood before me is detective Burrows, in his usual attire of a grey trench coat. I hear his words as if they were coming from a distance.

"Hello Esme, dear. I am hear to discuss the investigation involving your parents murder!"

 I have now been sat in the living room for ten minutes whilst aunt Billie is argueing with detective Burrows in the dining room. Their raised voices make it easy for me to hear their conversation, but i choose to black it out, for I'm not sure that i want to hear what they are saying. Finding nemo has finished and I am sat watching the credits just to pass the time. As I pick ip the box to put the film away, a letter falls to the floor. It is in a bright pink envolope, just like the ones that I sent my birthday thank you letters in last year. I pick up the envolope off the floor, and turn it over. It seems to be adressed to me, but the writing on the front is a bit smudged and hard to make out so i look closer and my heart stops. This was mum's hand writing; mum had written me a letter before she died.

My fingers slipped under the seal, carefully opening the letter, not wanting to destroy one of the few possetions I have left of her's and dads.