"Fairy Tales can't be found, but they can be written." Those words are seared into my mind.

Ever since I was a little girl, my father would tell me and my sister a story every night, before we went to sleep. His favorite story to tell was of a guild. A guild filled with many different mages and magic. A guild that valued the lives of their friends over everything. That guild was named Fairy Tail. My father would always say, "Do fairies have tails? More importantly, do they even exist? That guild is just like them. An eternal mystery, and eternal adventure. My father would spend hours just talking about fairy tail, and I would spend hours listening to the wonderful, exciting tales. But it was no more than a fantasy. I knew that I would most likely never get to join the guild. Let alone meet somebody from Fairy Tail.

But nevertheless, I still listened to the enjoyable stories of the mysterious and fun-filled guild. I never believed that I could one day become a great Mage like the ones in Fairy Tail, but that guild still remained my idol. Every one in it as well.

My sister payed less attention to the interesting stories. She was more intrigued with the outdoors, and spent much time camping outside during the summers with our loving mother. Our mother had hair as black as the starless night. Compared to her hair, her eyes were like a bright pink rose in the middle of a black hole.

Our mother was gone by the time I had turned six. She had been diagnosed with a rare cancer that had no cure. And we had not the time nor the money to postpone the deadly disease.

With my father who had fallen into a great depression, I was left with the house hold chores and my sister. Because we lived near the shores of the ocean that separated our continent from the kingdom of Fiore, my sister spent much of her time collecting sea shells and strung them into bracelets and necklaces. This was my sister's way of making money. She would walk around the small beach town selling her crafts. I, on the other hand, would take any part time job a six year-old could take. My father stayed inside the house and rarely ever came out. He never visited mother's grave, and he never made sure my sister and I were okay.

My family lived like this for about a year and a half. Then the men in dark clothes came. They set our small beach town on fire as they raided the huts that were lined alongside the beach. The men killed all of the men in the village, including my father.

My sister and I huddled in a corner, cowering from the scary men holding torches. As they towered over us, I brought my sister closer to me, and hugged her shivering body. I could feel her sobs racket through my own small body. Life had been hard to accept before, but this turn of events was much worse in comparison.

My sister's purple-pink eyes were tightly shut, and her usually snow-white hair was gray from ash and soot. Her arms were wrapped around my frail body, and I could feel her nails digging into my back. I felt the same pain she did, the same terror. I remember the heat of the flames.

The men had laughed with a wicked malice I had never experienced before. The men threw their torches down, onto the wooden floor of our hut, the only home we had known our entire lives. The house instantly caught fire, lighting up the dark night. Out of instinct, I shot up, grabbed my sister, and pushed her through a small opening in the flames. My forearm became engulfed in flames, and I screamed and pulled away, quickly putting out the fire. There was only one thing to do, I realized as I fell onto my stomach, facing the area where I threw my sister. Her eyes went round and her pupils dilated from shock. She quickly turned around and reached her hand out to me. I shook my head.

"Run!" I screamed, but instantly began gasping for air. The surrounding air was polluted with ash and smoke, and was hard and heavy to breathe. One of the men kicked me, and I was sent flying across the room. The heat worsened. Just as the who had kicked me earlier began to raise his sword, another man, who seemed to be of higher authority, stopped him.

"Don't. Put her with the others. She might be small now, but she'll grow," the other man had said. I still remember his words to this day. By now, the smoke had gotten to my lungs, and I passed out.

I don't know how much time passed, but when I awoke, I could feel a rocking motion, and the pain from my burn earlier, came full blast. I cried out, and looked at it. My forearm had a bandage carefully wrapped around it. My biceps and hand were untouched by the flames but my forearm suffered greatly. The fire made me shudder in fright, and brought back the awful memories that had occurred. My father was killed. The village was burned and left in rubble. And my sister was somewhere in the world. I hunched over on the floor, my small hands curled into fists so tight that my knuckles turned white and my nails drew blood. My vision became blurry and the tears just poured out of me. The pain, the terror, an the regret of having lost my sister all washed over me in a great wave and left me in shreds. I balled up my fists even more if it were possible. I lifted up my head and cried as loud as I could.