Prologue part a(nus) Imagine receiving a package from someone you never met before. I'm not talking about a worlds away pen pal either, I mean your own mother. The woman who birthed you (or in my case created you in a Petri dish then shipped you off to a foster family the second you were born in a test tube then off to boarding school), yea her. So there I was, casually laying in the dark summer grass of Stoney Brook Academy of Science and Drama reading the latest horror by Stephen King, when some assho dropped a box on me. By assho I mean the gorgeous Ricky Winters. Who happens to be as straight as a twizzler and be my only friend. "Uhm, thanks for crushing my ribcage," I glared at him once I recovered and found my page in my book, the package resting discarded next to me. At the time I figured it was just another fruit cake from my aunt. She's convinced I love them. "Erin, you might wanna open it. Like now," Ricky's dark eyes examined me intensely, laying down next to me and shoving the heavy parcel to me. I dropped my book onto my face, finally getting to the good stuff and something happens, I thought. "How about you open it and tell me what's in it?" Silence. "Well?" "Last time I opened something from your moth-." "Give it." I sat up so quickly my vision blacked out for a moment. I know what happened last time he opened a box from a mother; a bomb was attached to a wooden crate and I forced him to disable it because HE opened MY mail. Chewing his lip, Ricky watched as I tore off the tape and cautiously opened the box. His bomb disabling skills topped mine so I wanted to make sure everything was okay. "Wow," was all I could say, exhaling heavily. The box was full of moleskin notebooks as far as I could tell. A month was stamped onto the cover of each starting with last months: June 2013. "Well, that explains the weight." I shrugged, starting to lift out the notebooks, looking for a note or something for an explanation. At the bottom was a wooden chest about the size of a loaf of bread. I tugged it out, crumpling some of the notebooks. "This is weird," Ricky mumbled, looking around to make sure no ones watching. Unlike me, he has a social life and people think highly of our school's gay, cuddly, all around American boy. "Shut up and help me figure out how to open this," I snapped, exasperated that he was too concerned with his popularity to concentrate on me. Last time my mom sent me a package she needed help with a project. "I can't find any seams on the box. I doubt she sent me a fucking solid wood log carved into this as a joke either," I cut him off before he can even say it. "Well, uh, lemme see it." I hefted the box into his capable hands, starting to look for the first journal. It took awhile, but there was just a year: 1990. Five years before I was born. 2013 minus 1990 ... Twenty three years of journals. 1990-2000 just had the year on them so ten plus thirteen times twelve... 166 journals. "Well lookie here, Freak got a package," Trevor leaned over me, grabbing the notebook out of my hands. "Give. It. Back," I growled lowly, my heart aching, I didn't know what my mom wanted or if it was possible to miss someone you've never met, but each package she sent poked another hole in my heart. She'd never called or told me about herself, never sent a birthday card or cash, just these strange boxes and requests. I started getting them at four and the last one I got was this one at sixteen. "Why should I?" Trevor had began to flip through the notebook, not looking at me. "Because, be...uh-," Ricky saved me. "Because she fucking asked you asswipe. Respect women before I whoop your ass with this," he welded the box with a grim expression. I almost giggled. Trevor's eyes suddenly grew wide and he looked from me to the notebook and back, "YOU REALLY ARE A FREAK." He yelled, throwing the book at me and ran.