My name is Clarisse McClellan. Once the acquaintance of one Guy Montag, the esteemed fireman, I now am far away. I'm not quite sure where I am, but as one insane eighteen year old, I question all that I am. I am a girl for noticing things, a girl for moments and for thoughts and for details that the rest of the world seems to find trivial and pointless.

I know better than that.

No one knows this, but I once had a sister. She's gone now, but she was rather too much like me. Alice was so much like my grandfather and me that they took her away, to some place, probably where I am. If I let my mind wander, I sometimes imagine that we are in the same place of bars on windows and gray jumpsuits and endless tests. I see the two of us smashing our way out of this horrible, detestable, malicious place. Like the cars that wreck themselves on the highway, we could escape into the world and save the books and ideas that locked us away from the world. That's what the told us when we were taken, taken from our home in the middle of the night, my grandfather and me. I watched a helmeted man shoot Grandfather in the chest, shouting "That's what you deserve old man; no one needs your thoughts anymore. People are happy, and thoughts are safe without all that useless knowledge to clutter up their minds. Who cares about the classics, you damn geezer, huh? All we need is four parlor walls and we can live happily."

I cried when they burned him. It was as he would have wanted though, they burned him on top of our books, the beautiful books. I stood on in silence, a fireman holding me in place, making me take in the scene. Moby Dick, Great expectations, The Bible, Shakespeare's Collected Plays… all gone, burned to ash and grime under his body. A fitting death for one so learned.

He and my sister fostered the only love I was ever allowed; reading. They say insanity runs in my family because of it, and I'm inclined to agree. My father, a broken man, was taken two months after I was born, or so my grandfather told me once. He was the one that built our basement library, the one that fire proofed it and sound proofed it and made it my only safe haven. Thank God that it was never discovered. A year after he was gone, my mother committed suicide. I don't remember her face. After all, pictures of the dead are banned.

Author's Note: Hey guys, this is NightmareMyLove, and this is my first post ever. Hope you like it. Give me suggestions if you think you have a detail to add. Maybe someone could recommend me to a beta too? Or volunteer to become a beta? ^_^ thanks a million.

As a side note, this is going to be (hopefully) a foray into the deepest places of the darkest parts of the human mind, and why we do what we do. I intend for the effect of this story to be particularly psychological, and if you have suggestions later on that might make it more… disturbing, abhorrent, morally, intelligently galling, anything like that, please, tell me. I take all reviews seriously.