This is the story of a schizophrenic. Of a murderer. Of a little girl. Of me.

My name is Natasha. Natasha Redfield. I'm twenty-six years old. Most of my life has been troubled and corrupted by the evilest of people...my family.

I was born on June sixteenth,1986. From the day of my birth, i was unwanted. My father never claimed me. Instead he left with the story of "buying my little girl a teddy bear because i am so proud." i have never seen him since.

That was the beginning of what i guess you can call my malevolent life.

My earliest memory begins when i turned four. My mother was a hooker, constantly coming home late on a nightly basis. There was never enough food in the house, and i was made to clean and keep the apartment in order...

I'm cleaning the dishes in our small kitchen. I'm small, so i have to stand on a little worn stool to accomplish this feat. My little hands are red from the scalding water, my eyes tired from squinting in the dim light to make sure i hadn't missed a spot. i accidentally squeezed too much dish detergent on the plate i am washing; it's slippery and slick in my hands. It begins to slip from my fingers as i struggle to retain my grip on it. But i fail. With an earth shattering crash that seemed to shake the whole apartment, the dish fell to the floor. It was at that moment my mother decided to waltz into the apartment, closely followed by one of her sleazy customers of the night.

'Natasha! NATASHA!' her shrill voice rings out; the hairs on the back of my neck rise in fear. for i know that in a moment, i will have to face the consequences of dropping the cursed dish.

'Natasha! Get your pajama's on and your little self to be-' her voice cuts off as she rounds the corner into the kitchen. 'What in the hell happened here?Did you drop my dish?'

I begin to quake in fear; i can barely get any words out I'm so scared. 'Mama, i d-didn't mean to...the dish...i dropped...i mean, it fell...mama, it was an accident...'

My mother, in her seven inch crimson heels, strides over to the broken fragments of the dish. She picks up a big piece and examines it, spinning it this way and that in the dark light. i crouch near her feet with bated breath, praying that my mother might not be so mad and she'll just send me off to bed with no dinner, like she did most nights. i was just so tired. But that was not to be.

With an inhumane snarl she lashes out and gives me a vicious kick with her painful heels. I yelp like a wounded dog, which i might as well be, for all that she cares.

She goes to the corner of the kitchen and picks up a broom. Standing over me, she begins to beat me with it, until my mouth is sour with the metallic taste of my own blood. And still she keeps right on beating me, pummeling me. The last thing i remember about that night before my world faded into the darkness was the image of my blood on my mothers heels, matching with the scarlet of those deadly weapons. And then all was blessedly quiet.