I remember the day I entered St Greaves the same way I remember my own name. It's a piece of knowledge embedded into my skull which could only really be removed by drugs, an oncoming lorry or perhaps a baseball bat to the back of the head. It was the day that any sense of normality in my life would be promptly trampled on my stampeding zombies and locked away in the nearest dungeon.

Yet...I had never truly felt alive until I had to fight for my existence. My real life began when I started St Greaves.

...Metaphorically speaking, of course.

My life actually began 13 years ago in the back of a jeep with my mother's corpse. My father had been driving, we didn't make it to the hospital in time so she died in childbirth. Things haven't exactly improved from there.

I don't know my father very well. I don't even know what his name is, because people always referred to him as "your father" and I never really thought to ask. He was my father, and that was the end of it. I just did what he said.

For as long as I can remember, he has been running and hiding from somebody or something. He never took the time to explain. He would pick me up in his rusty old jeep every few months and drop me off somewhere new, with new people to take care of me. Either the world owed my father a favour, or my father owed a favour to the world. Or at the very least to all the people who had let me stay in their homes thus far.

When he told me I would be staying at a boarding school, I was surprised. I had never been to school before, because I was constantly being uprooted. I couldn't write and I could barely read, not that it's ever been important. I had been expecting to be ditched off at some stranger's house like normal, but father must have run out of people who owed him one.