I am a lost child, the one no one wanted. You might be wondering my name. I have none, I am nameless. Within my own world I like to be called Silver Wolf, it gives me a sense of power. But right here, right now, I am alone, I don't even exist.

Well I suppose if you must know my name, it's Elizabetta, now get over it. I got stuck with it for two possible reasons: there is a probability that my mother was blind drunk at the time of my birth. Else it could have been some name of a sickly-sweet heroine, blonde hair and fake breasts etc., in some seriously dire movie that was on T.V while her and Dad were screwing. Either way I'm stuck with it and there's nothing I can do about it.

I look out of my window into the rainstorm that is proceeding to batter the house without seeming to relent. I hate this house, it's old and smells funny. An 'out of the way'� job that Mother and Dad thought would be the 'perfect romantic retreat'�. Pah! Yea right, more like the perfect shit-hole.

I can't believe I'm still stuck in this dump. I'm 17, I should be out there showing the world what I have to offer. No doubt most of the men in this town would take that to mean an instant offer of some absurd sex act, but frankly I'm passed caring now.
Naister, that's another name I can't stand, and it just so happens to be the name of this god forsaken hell hole of a house, another lame idea that my parents came up with, supposedly they thought that if they called the house after our surname then we would have an unbreakable connection with the stinking pile of bricks and mortar. I for one feel that this house is oppressive and downright able to create suicidal intent for the occupants.

Whatever I do, and wherever I go, I always pull the short straw. Take, for instance, the last two years of high school, I was plagued by one boy in particular who decided he fancied me, his name was Danny Frith. To me he was the epitome of filth. All that I knew about him, however, was the fact that he was the 'boy about town'� with the reputation for being a troublemaker and a chancer. I only think myself lucky that I haven't had a truly personal encounter with him. The only time I came close was, like I said, those last two years of high school. It was at that certain time in my life where I was going through the 'hate phase'�. I hated the way I looked, the way I dressed and the way I acted. However, before you think I am being self-centred, I also had a tirade of hatred towards other people, for which they reciprocated. Danny Firth was one such person.
As I was walking to my third period class of psychology, he approached me from the opposite end of the hall, we met halfway down between the lockers and the storeroom. The sneer on his face said it all; 'I'm gonna get you Naister'�. It might as well have been written right across his smug little face for all I cared. Though in retrospect I wish I had cared. I shrugged this passing comment off like water from a duck's back. I had little respect for myself at that time, and as I have explained I hated every living, breathing thing that surrounded me. I carried on my day thinking how I could get out of here for good, knowing full well that there was no way out.

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