My mother was the unluckiest person in the world. She was cheerful and intelligent, hardworking and diligent, but also extremely clumsy and always had some injury or another on her body. She had the misfortune of falling in love with a total sleazebag and getting pregnant in high school, but she never regretted it. She liked to say that all the luck she built up during her childhood was infused into me. I always laughed at her teasing tone but I often wondered if it was true. See, I've always been lucky. Unusually lucky.

Every day, I find eight four-leaf clovers, eight being my lucky number, and I've only been sick twice in my seventeen years of life. The year I turned eight, miracles occurred left and right. My mom was suddenly promoted eight different times that year and we moved into a really nice house where I had my own room. I made eight new friends (yes, I counted) and they are still, to this day, my best friends. It was truly an amazing year.

So overall, my life has been pretty awesome. But there's a dark side to my luck, because nothing good can go unpunished. It has only happened once, but it was far too much of a coincidence to really be a coincidence.

The year I turned thirteen, I found my first three-leaf clover. I was so shocked when I found it. Usually, when I reach down blindly and pull a clover from the grass, I don't even need to count to know that it has four petals, but I count them anyway, out of habit. That day, I looked into my hands and counted three. I glanced around, thinking that one petal must have been ripped off somehow, though that had never happened before either because I was always fairly gentle, but I knew by the shape of the leaves that this particular stem had three petals. Just three.

I hoped against hope that it didn't mean anything, but a feeling of dread grew in the pit of my stomach. That week, my mother ran into a series of accidents. Like breaking not one arm, but both. Car accident. Tripping down the stairs. Stepping on piles of shattered glass. The list went on. My mother didn't notice anything different from her usual clumsiness, but I could tell that her bad luck had become extreme. I thought being around her all the time, acting as a good luck charm, might ward off some of the accidents but she got hurt all the same.

And then she died. No, not died.


That night, I happened to be out with my friends. My mother had insisted, because I had been cooped up inside all week, secretly keeping an eye on her, and she told me I needed to get out. I figured a couple of hours couldn't hurt.

I was wrong.

She had been standing on top of our rickety old ladder, trying to reach for something in the attic, when the ladder tumbled into pieces underneath her. Or at least, that's what it looked like.

Her death was ruled as a freak accident, her bad luck maxing out. My grandparents were heartbroken but accepted it and graciously took me in.

I rejected the ruling. Maybe it was irrational, but I believed that my finding the three-leaf clover had a hand in her death. Our ladder may have been old and rickety, but I knew that it was completely stable. When I managed to sneak a look at the broken ladder, I saw that the steps of the ladder were loose; they'd been tampered with.

I wanted to find out who did it, who murdered my mother, who got away with this atrocity. I wanted to run away, to explode, to die. I swore to hunt down the murderer. But I couldn't really do anything.

Life went on. Rumors about her death faded and people forgot. At times, even I almost forgot the rage that was lying dormant inside me. But one look at the attic and the anger flared up again.

That was four years ago. Things are different now, calmer, and I'm older, less innocent, less naïve. Just as helpless as I was before, but more determined to do something about it. I'll find my mother's killer if it's the last thing I do.

Every day, I sprint the three-mile trek to my mother's grave, relishing in the burning pain in my legs, the struggle for air in my lungs. It makes me feel so alive, and so lucky to be alive. Every day, I pick one of the clovers clustered around her headstone and every day I count four petals.

Imagine my surprise when today, on the fourth anniversary of my mother's death, I count only three.

A/N: Surprise, surprise! A new story, indeed, and by the looks of it, MULTICHAPTERED (not a word, I know). GASP.

Well, I'm trying. The thing with multichap stories is that I can never plot out everything beforehand so it's hard for me to write stuff. And it's not for lack of trying either. Ideas just don't come to me until I'm actually writing and if I planned, nothing would go the way I intended. Yes, I have tried before and no, it did not work.

But I'm really determined to finish this story! An actual story with at least 10 chapters! An arduous challenge, I admit. BUT I AM DETERMINED, GOSHDARNIT.

So for those of you actually following me...please enjoy. :D That's all I really needed to say, haha. Until chapter one then!

Write on. Read on. That's my motto.

© Copyright 2012 by The Siege