The Nordic Wolves - The Missing Princess

A week ago, if you had told me that the world as I knew it was all a lie, that all of the fairy tales that my father used to tell me at bed time were actually not fairy tales and that all these supernatural beings, such as vampires, shapeshifters, fairies and dragons, were actually real, I would have laughed at you until I had peed myself and then called the men in white coats to come and get you. Now, a week later, as I am in the middle of a forest standing by the most beautiful lake I have ever seen, surrounded by wolves in various sizes and colours, and a number of very large, very muscular and very, very naked men, I am starting to think that maybe it is I, who is in need of the straight jacket and padded room and a hell of a lot of medication and sedatives as i am pretty certain i have completely lost the use of all my faculties and you are soon going to find me sat in a corner, rocking back and forth and talking to myself as none of this is making any sense to my primitive brain.

So now that I have your attention, and trust me, I know I have your attention, because if the fact I am surrounded by naked men is attention-grabbing, then maybe you can share that padded room with me. I could always do with new friends. Let me tell you a little about myself and how I came to be standing in the middle of a forest area in Norway, surrounded by what I could only think was my brain playing an evil joke on me.

So my name is Kari Marit Larson. I am a little under six feet with long white blonde hair and bright sapphire eyes, which I am pretty certain I inherited from my father's Nordic genetics. I have an athletic build which, through the years, I have been envied for, as it seemed to come naturally to me even with my love of food. Not everything came from my father's Nordic genes though. I do follow my mother in my hour glass figure and my not-so little chest, which have nearly got me into some unwanted situations over the years, especially when I first hit puberty at thirteen and my foster parents' son thought I was free game. The black eye and broken nose I gave him earned me not only a new foster home, but also a number of scars that I am still ashamed of to this day, but I will explain more about that in a moment. I am getting ahead of myself.

My father, Anders Erik Larson, was from Norway. He was a tall man that I looked up to in awe, he was a little girl's hero. He had dirty blonde hair which was always long on top. His dark blue eyes were always filled with love when he looked at either me or my mother, and whenever he smiled his whole face lit up and he got dimples in both of his cheeks. He was my hero and my best friend who made sure he came home every night to tell me stories before bed. He absolutely dotted on me, or so I thought. My mother, Jennifer Clarke, was a petite brunette with startling emerald eyes, who I always thought fitted perfectly alongside my father. Their love was that of a fairy tale. Or so I thought. I soon came to that startling reality that, happily ever after, was the biggest fairy tale he had always told me. It was something that I no longer believed in and it was the reason why most of my life was spent on my own, as I couldn't open my heart up to that kind of heartbreak. My heart was already in pieces from my family.

My father had come over to London from Norway for a conference, where he had met my mother. He used to tell me that it was love at first sight and it was like they were the only two people in the world the moment he looked into her eyes. He would say his heart was so full he didn't think he could ever feel love for another. That was until nine months later, when they were blessed with my appearance, and he couldn't have been happier. When I asked about his mommy and daddy, he would tell me that he was all that was left. Now I wonder if that was all a lie as well and we were actually just a dirty little secret, because at the age of five, I said good bye to my father in the morning and I never saw him again. No warning or explanation, he just disappeared. The police looked for him but they found nothing of him and said his name didn't exist before he had met my mother. After that, my belief in happily ever after was crushed.

Not only did I suffer, but it totally broke my mother's heart and she became a shell of herself, which meant I had to suddenly grow up and look after my mother and myself, as she had lost both her parents when she was twenty, so it was just the two of us. For the next three years, my mother was a zombie. She moved around the house barely speaking, just being. I just didn't understand what was happening, or what we had done to make my father leave us without a word. I still don't understand it all today. The one thing I did understand, was the fact that I lost both of my parents that day, maybe not both physically, but mentally.

She looked after me to the best of her ability in her state, but mostly I had to look after myself. By the age of six, I was a master at cooking pasta, and the meal of pasta and cheese became a staple diet for me, but it hadn't come without a few burns and scars, which I was good at hiding from my teachers and i didn't make friends very easily, so it was easy to go unnoticed around school.

One evening, when I was eight, all of that changed. I was no longer going to be able to go unnoticed. I still remember it like it was yesterday. I can still smell the metallic smell of blood from when I walked into the house. I walked into the house from school and noticed no food had been cooked again. Sighing, I went in search of my mother to see what state she was in today. I walked upstairs and checked her room, noticing that her bathroom door was open. Wondering it over, something told me I wasn't going to like what I found. I pushed the door further open to find my mother had finally given up. She was in the bath, the water that filled it was red, and her left hand hung over the side, her head was lulled towards it. She had taken a razor to her wrist, and from the looks of her, she had done it this morning, most likely just after I had left for school. At least she waited until I was out of the house, I suppose. I dropped my bag on the floor and, without emotion, I turned, picking up the phone on her bedside table, I called the police. Something in my head told me it would be OK, I would survive this, I just needed to be strong and continue on. Looking back on it now, I'm surprised my mother lasted as long as she did, and I'm surprised I survived at all.

When the police turned up, I was in the kitchen cooking myself my dinner. They knocked on the door and I let them in. The female police officer knelt in front of me, noticing that my face was void of emotion and smiled at me. Everything after this was a complete blur and I remember little of it

Over the next few weeks, I was subjected to speaking to child services, psychiatrists and a number of other doctors. They had determined that not only was I malnourished, but they suspected I had the starts of PTSD, as well as a mild case of OCD.

Foster care was a whole new ball game for me. My first family were only in it for the money, and after three days of me turning up to school in the same clothes, the teachers reported it to children's services and I was removed from them. The teachers had begun to take more notice of me, which led to me being noticed more by my classmates, which led to me being bullied, making me go more into myself. My second foster family, I was with them for three years. They were a good family, and I got my three meals a day and clean clothes, but that was all. After three years, they decided that I would be better off somewhere else, they couldn’t cope with my nightmares. The next family I was with until I was thirteen. I had hit puberty, and I suddenly became desirable, much to my annoyance. But the worst was the foster family's son had come home. He was seventeen and decided that I was free for the taking. He had come into my room one night and held his hand over my mouth, whilst his other went up the skirt of my nightdress and into my panties. his reasoning was I owed him this as his parents were spending money to keep me alive. I struggled against him and managed to get my knees between his legs. When he backed off, I punched him in the nose, breaking it. Next thing I knew, he had a pen knife out and had stabbed it in my side. I continued to fight, but I eventually passed out. When I woke up, I was in a hospital bed and a Police Officer was sitting beside me. Apparently, he had accused me of attacking him and it was self-defence, and for the first time since my father left. I cried. I cried so hard it hurt. I was told I wasn’t to blame and I was left with scars on my stomach my back and down my legs from the encounter and full-blown PTSD. Thankfully, he wasn’t able to complete what he had started.

The next and final family I was put with was God send. They were an older couple, Teresa and Jeremy, both of whom were in their early sixties and had been fostering since they found out they couldn't have children of their own. They welcomed me with open arms and helped me to somewhat overcome the PTSD and the nightmares that now plagued me. They knew everything that I had been through, and they were considerate of me, not giving me the look of pity that most gave me. They took me into their home and made sure I was well-fed, dressed, and cared for. They supported me with my studies until I was eighteen. Which I appreciate them for. Otherwise, I wouldn't be where I was today with my career. After completing my A levels, I managed to obtain a scholarship to Reading University where I completed a Bachelor's, a Master's in Food Microbiology and just finished my Doctorate in Agricultural Microbiology, specializing in food Bacteria. This led me to a job as a researcher in the field.

It is this job that led to me being stood in the middle of a forest, blood dripping down my arm, my vision blurring, a stick in my hand, as if that would be of any help, four very large growling wolves who were baring their teeth and three very naked men.

This was not how I expected the end of my life to be.