Prologue

My name is Desiree McIlvane-Witwicky. You probably want to hear some inspiring life-story from me, huh? Well let me tell you something, the name "Witwicky" isn't my actual last name. I was adopted by the Witwicky family when I was eight; I had been forcibly removed from my parents because they were very abusive. When I was taken from my parents, I couldn't talk, I could barely walk, I was dehydrated, and an unhealthy weight. I was starved, basically.

My father was Romanian-American with a serious alcohol problem.

My mother was Italian-American and addicted to hard-core drugs.

My parents, Antonia and Turan, never really loved each other. They fed off each other's addictions. When Antonia found out she was pregnant, she wanted an abortion, but she didn't. Instead, she kept on using drugs and even added alcohol to the mix. I came out with some problems. During the first few months of my life I was in protective services because my parents had to go to rehab if they wanted to keep me; which, surprisingly, they wanted to. They went to rehab, I went to live with them when I was six months, and everything went downhill from there.

Their addictions came back, I was the center-piece of their abusiveness. I would be hit, punched - you name it.

But, of course, a miracle happened and I was taken from them when I was eight and put into foster care until the Witwickys came and took me home. I wasn't legally their child until I was ten, and my parents were imprisoned for what they did to me. I don't remember how long, and I am trying my hardest not to remember them. But it's difficult. I haven't spoken a single word since I was taken into the Witwicky home.

Judy, my foster mother, is energetic and peppy and happy. Ron, my foster father, is the more serious one. Sam, my foster brother, is awkward and a bit socially impaired, in my opinion. Especially since his only friend is Miles - who, in my opinion, is a freak. And in case you're wondering, Sam's older than me by six months.

Judy and Ron have tried sending me to speech therapists. None of them have worked. They've tried waiting and seeing what happens. That hasn't worked. Eventually, they decided just to let me be. I'd talk when I'm ready.

I highly doubt I'd ever talk. Not with those memories going through my head.

QUICKY A/N:

MY LAST FANFIC, "NO SAFE PLACE," WAS TAKEN DOWN BY ME IF YOU WERE WONDERING. I WAS CONSIDERING REWRITING IT SINCE I DIDN'T REALLY LIKE IT THAT MUCH. SO, IF YOU'RE GOING TO BE REVIEWING ASKING ME WHERE IT WENT, THERE YOU HAVE IT.

ANYWHO, HAPPY FOURTH OF JULY! AND PLEASE LEAVE SOME SUPPORTIVE COMMENTS IF YOU CAN.

YOURS TRULY,

~SMITHY