When I was born, my mom died. She had lost too much blood, and the orphanage that found me named me Raniana. I had to grow up fast in the orphanage because there was only one caretaker. When I was 13, the orphanage was closed due to a fire a few days before. Regardless, all the kids were adopted a month before so I was the only one left. Sometimes I wish I had died in that fire. And that fire was caused by me.

Why, you might ask, Why did you cause a fire? Despite the fact that everyone hated me, it was clear I didn’t belong anywhere. In the end, I ran away from the town, the city, the state that I lived in. The country I was born in. The cemetery where my mother was laid to rest her last living breath. I snuck on a private jet headed to Japan. I learned the language fairly quickly, and I blended among the native Japanese people.

After five years of hiding, I was found. I was found by the worst community ever. The Alite 15, or the A15. They were clearly following me from the beginning. I had seen them riding in a Ford Transit Passenger Van in Popejoy, Iowa where my old orphanage was. On one hand, I was glad someone still cared about me, but on the other hand, it was frightening they knew who I was! I had changed my identity to Mika, which means beautiful fragrance. I always wore a kimono, and had my hair in a bun with chopsticks. I only spoke Japanese, and I had my own machiya, and no one bothered me.

I knew I needed to get out of there. I ran, untying my kimono and running in my stretchy leggings and T-shirt. I undid my hair, letting my long, wavy, black hair flutter behind me. I snatched up my bow from my back and my arrow holder from my thigh. I was prepared for this. I shot my chopsticks towards the A15, but they grabbed and smashed them.

In my fear, I accidentally ran into a tall man, and he turned around. To my horror, he was the leader of the Alite 15. My father, Jonathan Mortortor. He held out his hand to the 5 men that were chasing me, and grabbed something out of his pocket.

“Sorry, but I’m not sorry,” he said. ”But you’ve got to go. I can’t have a young girl after her

father. You deserve to die slowly.” He raised a pork knife, but I dodged. As I moved to run, a pistol fired and someone’s life that I cared about was ripped from their body. Mine. As my fingers caught a tree, my feet slipped and I felt my spirit leaving my body. I looked at my father’s face with dying eyes and whispered, “How could you . . . . ?”