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Bailey's Backstory: A Stolen Life

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1 Bailey's Backstory: A Stolen Life on Thu Mar 20, 2014 11:50 pm

The Chameleon


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I am Bailey Jane Canttell and I should be dead, this is the story of how I have survived.
The year was 1991 when I was born in London, I have been told that my family didn't have the means to take care of me and left me at the steps of a nearby church. I don't remember my parents, or most of the foster families I have stayed with. The last family, right before my 16th birthday made me who I am today.

It was 2007 when they sent me to Baylor School with the intention to break me from my anti-social shell. My entrance to the school sprang a slight up-roar with a vast majority of the students who had heard of my excellent grades. I never over came my anti-social behavior when my counselor suggested I take up a lesson in weaponry to ease my mind of the trouble-making classmates. My teachers suggested a rifle, to prepare me for any war that may break out from America, but I found myself growing fond of a certain bow. It was a simple bow, no real specialties between itself and any other bow that the school had, except it's dark black color. No other student dared to shoot the Black bow, fearing the bow had something wrong with it, but I like the thrill of shooting such a feared bow.
The Baylor School became a home for me as I studied and worked away, memorizing everything in every book I could possibly find.
By the time 2009 came around, I was top of my class in both Marksmanship and Studies. I graduated from Baylor School with a 4.0 and standing as Valedictorian of my class. The other students had a right to mess with me, fearing I would take their place as head of the class. Graduation was a great celebration, leaving the school behind for a final moment. The archery professor handed me a gift before I left that day, a brand new Black bow, with the ability to close up into a small case and inscribed with the letters JAC on the handle.
I arrived at the foster home two months before my 18th birthday. The family welcomed me home and made me supper. I was waiting with the other foster children and my foster father in the living room when a scream echoed through from the kitchen. I jumped up and started to run, only to be blown back by the force of an explosion. Firemen charged into the house, or what was left of it, and pulled myself and my foster father out, taking us directly to the ambulances. He died on arrival to the hospital, marking the eighth death from the explosion the killed my entire foster family.
I wish I knew them all better, but I never really spoke much with them. The family was nice and wonderful, but I barely knew the other children's names. They had come and gone far to quickly before I could remember them. The moment I was allowed to leave the hospital freely, I ran. I took up any and all jobs that I could find.
I wrapped myself up into the wrong people, trying my hardest to stay afloat. I was sent to assassinate people, anyone, people I knew and those that I didn't. When I wasn't working, I spent my time stealing bread, muffins, anything to keep from being hungry, and I was good at it. Very few times I was caught, I ran from the shops and the police, using my little size as an advantage until I could merge myself into a crowd. I have never seen the inside of a jail cell, although I could imagine the size of my rap sheet waiting for me.
I should have died in that explosion, standing closer to the kitchen then my foster father was, and yet here I stand. Alive and well, feasting on whatever I can get my hands on and constantly learning from everything in my life. I've had plenty of moments during my assassinations where they could have gone wrong and killed me instead, instead I've walked away with a scar and a few cuts and broken bones for a moment.

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