The House on Ambrose Street

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Chapter 3- Who I Was

But I should probably start at the beginning, just so you have an idea of what really happened. Because—according to my house—I’m telling it wrong.

I moved to Liverpool, England last May. And I can’t even count it as last May, since it’s only September. I’m twenty two, fresh out of college, and on my own. I don’t have any family; mine died in a freak accident during a vacation when I was three. I was so tiny that I wasn’t crushed by any of the debris of the train or rail tracks. I was surrounded by four walls of wreckage until the rescue crew removed this one piece of railcar and heard me screaming.

Okay, maybe that’s true, but I actually never went to college. Sue me for lying. And I’m not twenty two. I’m closer to twenty six, I think. I did have no family to go to after the accident—literally everyone from aunts and uncles, to grandparents and anyone in between, died before I was born—so I was put up for adoption. The people that adopted me never celebrated my birthdays, but they made me go to school, so I just matched my age to the other kids’ in my classes.

All right, enough backstory. I should get to the good part.

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