My mother was a free spirit. She listened to no one, cared only about herself, and acted on impulse.

When she met my father she couldn't help herself. Despite all of the warnings she got from her friends, and from her parents, she couldn't stay away.

He was a wild child, ready for a fight at any moment. One could almost imagine him riding away on a motorcycle, wrapped in leather and studs. He had long, dark, flowing hair that would make all the girls swoon, and a smile that would light up the room. Or, that's what my mother had told me, I had never met him. According to her, he came into her life, a whirlwind. Gone faster than a blink of an eye.

That is why it was no surprise to her parents when she showed up at their doorstep, half naked, crying about being pregnant. I was the result of a love story to die for, as my mother told it. Rather, I was the result of a weeks worth of 'unholy' loving, according to my grandparents.

My grandparents were reverent followers of the Lord. Even more so, they were influenced by the opinions of the neighbors. Had the word gotten out that their daughter was pregnant without being married, they would surely be knocked down off their pedestal.

The day after she showed up on their doorstep, my grandfather woke her up early. He ushered her out the door, grabbing his keys on the way, and drove her to a clinic. He escorted her inside and promptly scheduled an abortion. My mother didn't want me, so she didn't disagree.

A few short hours later she left the clinic with her father. It had seemed as though a burden had been brought off both of their shoulders. Neither of them had suspected a thing was wrong. That was until a short six months later when she gave premature birth.

It was a long, hard, unexpected labor. When I was introduced to the world, surely it was a disappointment. Three pounds, two ounces, with a myriad of health problems. All of which were in account of the attempted abortion, which had stunted the growth and development of my body. It was a miracle I wasn't born without any visible deformities.

That's what my mother called me, a miracle. She took my life as a sign from the Lord. Everything happened for a reason, she saw this as a sign that she was needed more at the Lord's side, serving him. She joined a group of missionaries that traveled the world. My mother left me at her parent's doorstep, claiming that she found her purpose in this life.

As I grew up, she would sporadically appear a few days at a time. Checking in to see how I was doing. My grandparents would smile and act as though they were proud of her. In reality, they were annoyed that she had left her mistake for them to clean up. Despite what their daughter had done to their reputation, throwing me out would make it worse. So, with their chins held high, and with as much grace as possible, the two of them raised me.

Growing up, I was told, I was the exact opposite of my mother. I was quiet, I kept to myself, and I was meek. Not that I could be anything else with all of the health problems I had.

Fragile, that's what my grandmother called me. People were afraid to even look at me, lest it caused me to fall down. I couldn't run very far, my lungs and heart couldn't take it. If they didn't give out first, my muscles and bones would.

This made it hard for me to make friends. No kid wanted to be friends with someone who couldn't play. I couldn't play tag or dodgeball, I couldn't play capture the flag. Most of my recesses were spent sitting on a swing, being ignored by the rest of the kids. This didn't change much as I grew older, however, I was no longer ignored.

Middle school kids were heartless. They were finally old enough to view me as a freak. I was smaller and easier to push around than the others in my grade, which made me a target. It was purely physical.

Then high school came along and they learned how to speak. They learned how to verbally strike a person down. They knew how to hurt without laying a finger on me. In my point of view, this was worse than middle school. At this age, they should have known better, had a moral compass of some sort.

When I graduated, I walked out of that school without looking back. My grandparents flanked me on each side, guiding me to the car, neither proud or disappointed, just relieved. I was almost old enough to leave the nest.

The next day I applied for a job as a librarian in our town. It didn't take long for me to raise enough money to live on my own.

Then history repeated itself.

My mother showed up on my grandparent's doorstep. This time, I was there to witness as she begged my parents to take on the child in her arms. She had gotten pregnant with one of the other missionaries while abroad. Mother gave birth almost six months before to a beautiful, healthy, baby boy. The exact opposite of me. I felt no jealousy or ill will unto him. Only weariness towards my mother. I took him into my arms and left my grandparents to deal with my mother.

That was the day Charlie came into our lives. He was rambunctious and full of curiosity. He wouldn't slow down for anyone, anyone but me. It was as though he could sense I needed gentle care. He would always be hesitant to touch me, his eyes would ask for permission, begging to hold my hand. It didn't take long before I was wrapped around his chubby little fingers.

When Charlie was three our mother died. She was riding in a taxi to visit us after her latest missionary adventure, when she got hit by a drunk driver. The taxi driver survived, but my mother never stood a chance.

I never mourned the loss of the mother I knew, only the loss of the mother I didn't. Charlie was too young to understand, he only cried because 'gamma' and 'pa' were upset. Their only child had died before them, leaving them with two grandchildren.

Two years later, when I was twenty-two, and Charlie was five, my grandmother suffered a heart attack. It was a shock to us all, as she was such an energetic and healthy women. She had survived, but only for a few days. The doctors couldn't get her heart back into it's rhythm.

Charlie was upset, he would never see his 'gamma' again. I was upset because one of the only, rather reluctant, parents I had ever known was gone.

It didn't take long for my grandfather to fall into a deep depression. The love of his life and his daughter were both gone, leaving him with two children he never wanted. The depression had wrapped around him tightly, leaving no room to breath. He suffocated over his losses, and he died in his sleep less than a year after my grandmother. I had no doubt he was happy with her in heaven.

Despite their obvious disliking of me, everything they had was given to me. I was their only living relative that was old enough. They left a large sum of money for Charlie that wasn't to be touched until he was eighteen.

I got the glorious brownstone house on the outskirts of DC, and their vacation home in Florida. I got the keys to their two beautiful cars. Most importantly, I got custody of Charlie.

Shortly after my grandfather's funeral, I had to go in to the doctors to get one of my regular check ups. That was the day I was delivered a devastating blow.

"Tawny Harris?" The woman calling my name pulled me out of my thoughts. She was tall, blonde, and friendly looking. Her pink nurses scrubs made her stand out in the dull waiting room.

I stood from my chair and walked over to her. We said our greetings as she led me to the doctor's private office. In no time I was seated on one side of a desk, staring at the wall ahead of me. The nurse ducked out and said that the doctor would be with me shortly.

This was nothing new to me. Because of my poor health, I had check ups every three months. A week later I would go in and the doctor would discuss all of the test results.

The doctor shuffled in a few moments later. He eyes lined with wrinkles, both due to stress and happiness. The man had been my doctor for as long as I could remember. Yet, in all that time, I had never seen such a devastated look on his face.

"Tawny," he greeted, perching himself on the edge of his desk.

"Dr. Grough," I smiled, "How are you today?"

"Fine," he grimaced, "I'm fine."

My skin began to crawl with uncertainty and prickle with anxiety. Never had I ever seen him so upset before. So I stayed quiet, waiting for him to drop the ball.

"Tawny, we noticed something in your blood work this time around." He paused, mustering up the strength he needed to get the next words out. "You have cancer." I sat in silent shock, barely able to process the news. There was no denial or acceptance, only confusion.

The next few months were a whirlwind of activity. Moving from one doctors appointment to the next. Each one looking for answers, each revealing more of what I was dealing with, each one filling me with more dread.

The cancer was slow moving, but all encompassing. It had woven its way into my bones, lungs, brain, and every other organ one could think of. Despite how little it had affected me as of yet, and how slowly it was moving, I was told there was nothing they could do. I was to be subject to a slow painful death. My organs shutting down one by one. I was given a maximum of two years to live, if I chose to fight it.

This had reduced me to a sniveling, hopeless fool, balling my eyes out in my grandpa's beloved car while sitting in the drive way. The darkness of night hiding me from the rest of the world. Suddenly, I was grateful that Charlie was having a sleepover with the neighbor's kid. That way he wouldn't have to see me like this.

I rested my forehead against the steering wheel.

What was I going to do with Charlie? It wasn't like we had any relatives left to take him in. Would he be abandoned? Would he stay awake at night, wondering why I left him?

I shook my head, trying to reign in my thoughts. I took the keys out of the ignition and leaned back into the seat, allowing myself a moment before leaving the car.

The second I opened the door, the cool night air greeted me with open arms. The rush of air made my eyes burn and I grimaced. My crying alway resulted in wheezing, a head ache, and burning eyes. I sniffed against the pain while slamming the car door shut. I gained a small bit of satisfaction in the action.

Consumed with my thoughts, I shuffled to the front door. The keys were making a loud jingling noise as I tried to find the one for the house.

I jammed the key into the lock and turned it to the right. My brows furrowed when I realized I couldn't turn it, the door was already unlocked. My senses were now in high alert. I never leave the door unlocked. An owl hooted off in the distance, making my skin crawl. My breathing quickened, making my lungs hurt. As I pulled open the door, my short breaths turned into wheezing.

A few steps into the house my feet flew out from beneath me. I landed on my back, jarring my lungs. Hacking, I moved to push myself up into a sitting position. I flinched as my hand landed in something wet. That must have been why I slipped coming in.

Fighting to get my breathing under control, I brought my fingers to my face, trying to figure out what I had slipped on. My right hand was covered in a liquid that was thick and red, my left looked like it was just covered in water. I did a double take at my right hand, blood?

Why was there blood on the floor?

"Charlie," I whispered. Where was Charlie? He was next door, but was he?

"Charlie?" I called out, forcing myself to get off the floor.

No response.

"Chuck?" This time a little louder, using his 'big boy' name.

No response.

"CHARLIE?!" I yelled in a full out panic, scrambling through the house, looking for him.

"CHARLIE! ANSWER ME!"

Living room? No. Dining room? Clear. Charlie's bedroom? Nothing. My bedroom? Nada. My grandparents bedroom? Zilch. Their bathroom? Empty.

"Charlie?" I whispered once again, peeking my head around the door to my bathroom.

"Charl-" I stopped and stifled the urge to scream.

All of my cupboards and drawers were open, contents haphazardly thrown about in the bathroom. Bloody towels were in the tub, gauze and bandaid wrappers littered the bathroom floor.

In the center of the mess was a man. He was slumped up against the bathroom sink. Unconscious or dead, I did not know. His long hair was wet, and had plastered itself to his face and the side of his neck. His arms were lax at his side, one holding a pair of scissors - undoubtedly the reason his shirt was cut open - the other was... metal?

He was wearing clothes that were fit for combat. His boots gleamed in the moon light that filtered through the window. A gun was holstered at his hip. My eyes grew wide as I stared that the metal weapon. I barely noticed when the man's arm jerked, twitching with pain. I looked to his face again.

I was met with a piercing set of blue-green eyes. I gasped and shock and slammed the door close, leaning against it as though it would keep him in. My wheezing intensified as I freaked out over the bloody man in he bathroom.

I stayed that way for the next hour, too shocked to move.

AN:

And so it begins!

This post is the first chapter for Tawny. I would like to let you know that there will be no other posts until I have completed the story, so please be patient. I hope you understand.

Its not quite the bang that Matty got introduced with, but there is plenty coming, I promise.

-Cali