I'm not a princess. I didn't grow up in a beautiful castle, surrounded by pretty gardens and majestic country sides. I didn't go to balls, or have tea with the lords and ladies of the kingdom. I never had powerful king and queen parents that protected me.
No, I was a seventeen year old drop out working two jobs in inner-city Chicago, struggling to pay rent in the beat up apartment that housed my cocaine addicted mother and two half sisters. I walked to work each morning, as I couldn't afford a car or gas. My stomach went hungry most nights, and there were not-so-rare occurrences where I wrestled my wallet away from a masked stranger in broad daylight.

My name is Anna White. My 12 year old sister is Clara Buchannen, and my 9 year old sister is Nancy Fitzgerald. We all have different last names because we all have different fathers, all of whom are long gone. My mother is Catherine Wilson, often called Cat.

When I was five years old, my father came home drunk, looking for someone to beat up. I was in my crib when he punched me in the face, his ring splitting open my cheek. I still have a scar to remember the last time I saw my dad. Cat, angry and heart broken, found solace in the line of white powder that I hated so much.

I was ten when I got in my first fight at school, with a boy who called me scarface one too many times. Cat was as high as a kite when she came to pick me up once I was suspended, and the principal didn't think anything of it when he handed the sallow eyed woman a tissue for her sudden bloody nose.

I was 16 when I dropped out of High School. Nancy's father had stopped sending child support money, and our family had nothing to live off of. I found work at a pizza parlor and a prank shop. It was barely enough to survive, but it kept food in my sisters' bellies. However, my mother found herself unable to sustain her addiction for cocaine, and the leftovers of my paycheck wasn't enough.

She began calling in various men to have sex with me for a hundred dollars a session. I fought with her on this, threatening to alert the authorities of her intentions. In reality, I knew something like that was out of the question. If my sisters and I were placed in Child Services, we would surly be separated and I would be unable to protect them. I couldn't move out of the apartment, for I had nowhere to go, and nor did I want to leave my Nancy and Clara at the mercy of Cat. I let the men do whatever they wanted with me.

And thus came the climax of my young life, the night I decided to fight back. I started flailing my arms and punching one of my "clients" with all my might. Frankly, I'm not really sure what drove me to finally break like that, but I had just had enough. I kneed him hard in the crotch, and the man wailed, slapping me with his palm. He wrapped his hands around my throat, squeezing it with a force that nearly broke my neck. My little body was pushed deep into the soiled mattress, and my eyes all but popped from my skull.

'If a god existed,' I thought as my heart thudded and my soul was wrenched from life, 'he would never let this happen to me.'

My life was no fairy tail, but my afterlife was.
But, I suppose it was no surprise that I went to Hell.