April 10, 2011.

It was simply a case of being in the wrong place at the wrong time.

I was a month away from graduating. My mom had lost her job, so we came to live with our relatives until she got a new one. What I hadn't known at the time was that she hadn't lost her job at all. In fact, she was in trouble. And that trouble? It came to find us.

The house was eerily quiet when I had finally come home, late from an end-of-the-year party. Frowning, I nudged open the front door. The lock was broken, as if someone had taken a saw and cut straight through. "Hello?" I called out, as it was unusual for it to be that quiet, on account of living with six other people, two teenagers and four adults. I could immediately tell something was wrong. The house was destroyed, and the walls were splattered with blood.

Pictures, furniture, everything was broken. My breathing picked up significantly as I traveled up the stairs, where bodies littered the hallway. I came to a dead stop and gagged, recognizing the face of my now-dead aunt. Her body was decapitated, and missing all other limbs as well. The sight was so shocking and gruesome, I had to turn away. And wished I hadn't. The bodies of my both my cousins lay in wait for me. Their necks were bent at odd angles, which I found strange considering my aunt was killed grotesquely.

Why spare them the horrific mess?

It only continued to worsen. When I came downstairs, all of other bodies were mutilated as well. I started to cry. Was no one left? A loud cry cut off by a gurgling sound stopped me. I hadn't stopped to think whether or not whoever had done this was still there.

I whipped around to rush out the door, but it was too late. A man stepped out in front of me, with brownish-golden hair. He had dark rings underneath his eyes, or rather, it seemed that way. He stared at me, and the misery written there was all over his face. "Klaus." He called out, casually throwing the name around like best friends would. Another man came out from behind me, with ocean-blue eyes, and dirty blonde hair.

A smirk dotted his face. "Ah. You must be the little orphan girl." I thought I would throw up from fear. "Who are you?" I asked weakly. Instead of answering my question, he deflected to a statement. "Since you do not technically share blood with these", he waved his hand around dismally, "idiots, I shall grant you a merciful and quick death." Oh no. I began to step backwards.

The other man, the one with the tired eyes, grabbed hold of my shoulders and held me firmly in place. Oh no. No no no! I wasn't supposed to die like this. I racked my brain for a way I was supposed to die, but oh well. Last minute adrenaline I guess. The man's-Klaus'- eyes flashed yellow-black, breaking me from my reverie. I shrieked and flinched. The man, not-Klaus, moved his hands down to my elbows instead, as if somehow afraid I would break loose otherwise.

"Nothing personal, love." Klaus sneered, as he reared back his hand.

I didn't feel the pain, at first. In fact, I didn't feel anything. Then came the blindingly aching pain. Then the nausea, the fatigue, the lightheadedness. The man behind me let go of my arms, and I fell flat to the ground, clutching my rapidly leaking bloody neck.

I made no sound, simply waited for everything to go dark. "Stefan, clean up this mess..." My vision faded in on itself, and I thought it was over. But it was only beginning.

By the time I revived consciousness, the house was picture-perfect clean. The scent of bleach drifted into my nose. It stung. And astonishingly, I was breathing. Just barely, but I was. A strangled choke escaped my lips. "Help...." With a look of surprise, the other man, Stefan, came to stand over me. His eyes were lit up in confusion. Klaus came into the room as well, and I immediately seized up. The action caused my throat to jostle, causing me more pain.

A spark of interest and surprise flickered across his features. "Well. Still alive and breathing." He crouched down to my level. I glared at him as best I could for what he had done to me. But he only laughed. Even then, I could feel my temper sparking up. How dare he laugh while I, the last Myilt, lay dying beneath him? "She's a fighter. We may yet to see the Myilt fire in her. Hm. Give her your blood, Stefan. I have a better use for her."

The man, Stefan, looked at me with something like regret. "I'm sorry." He whispered, so low Klaus couldn't possibly have heard him. Then he bit into his wrist and forced his blood down my throat. I didn't know what the hell he was doing, only that this all must be some kind of sick joke. I tried to gag and spit it up, but he held his hand over my mouth, forcing it down.

A sob bubbled up in my chest. Why did this have to happen to my family of all people? We hadn't done anything. Sympathy dotted Stefan's features. Then, more gentle than I thought possible, he picked me up into his arms, my head falling off the side, while my legs and arms dangled uselessly. "She'll heal in a few hours." He announced.

I felt light as a feather.

April 27, 2011

The first week, Stefan was wary of me. Always watching me out of the corner of his eye, always ready to jump up and stop me if I tried to run. I quickly learned about vampires, werewolves, and witches. However, learning the existence of these creatures was the least of my worries.

Klaus had decided 'other uses' meant 'human blood bag.' Every day, all week long, I was drained of blood. Klaus and whoever else he decided I was a peace offering for. And usually, they didn't leave much left for the latter.

By the third day, I was in so much pain I couldn't even move. My vision swam and I could hardly keep consciousness. My face was gaunt, and ghostly pale. My body was wrung with bruises and other ugly injuries as punishment from Klaus for refusing to obey. Even though he could use compulsion, he decided he wanted to go a far more malicious route, and make me bend to his will.

Stefan often bandaged me, and fed me his blood (whenever Klaus allowed it). The second week, I'd tried to escape when they both were sleeping. Klaus had woken up, and decided the best punishment was pain. He'd snapped my arm like a pencil. Then, he'd allowed no blood to be given to me until Stefan convinced him it wouldn't heal correctly on its own, therefore leaving me weak and useless. After that, he'd decided to compel me.

By the third week, I'd come to terms with the fact that there was no use. Even if I could escape, where would I go? Stefan seemed to share in this hopelessness, at least, I thought he did.