Nice to meet you, my name is Amy. Well, it actually is Amilia, but I prefer Amy. I like the name, it's the nickname my sister gave me when we were little. Mom and dad also called me Amy all the time. It's nice to have a nickname. Because that means someone cares enough about me to think about which name would fit me.
I don't remember much about the time we spent in germany. A few memories are there, but since we moved to Chernarus when I was only nine, most of these memories are blurred and hazy. In the beginning, living in a new country was difficult. Both Susan and I were able to speak english, since our father is from the USA, but although this gave us a way of communicating, it was not the same as speaking the language everyone else there was speaking.
Susan was always better at finding new friends than I, so it was no surprise that she managed to fit in so quickly. I, however, spent most of the time on my own, or with Susan. Often I also preferred this to meeting up with other kids from school. They were always active and loud and I didn't know how to deal with them. This makes it seem like I disliked the other kids. But that's not the case. It's just that I like it more when it's quiet and when people around me are calm.
I suppose it's quiet now, but the people are far from calm. Of course, everyone is on the edge, trying to survive another day. Mom and dad were like that too. When things got bad, we went to a place where nobody else was. Nothing but a small hut in the forest. Where exactly this place was is something I can't remember. Mom and I stayed there, while dad went out, coming back every now and then with food and other things we needed. Time passed, and it even became remotely normal. We got used to it. Until on time, dad didn't return. Weeks passed, longer than he had ever been gone before. Neither mom nor I said a word, but we both knew what it meant.
When we were almost out of supplies, mom left. She went to get more. I was worried that she might not make it back either. But she did. I wanted to go with her, but she said that I was still too young and that I should stay in the house. So I did. For a while, the two of us managed on our own. Until one evening. The old door was thrown out of its hinges when someone kicked against it. Three men came in, pointing guns at us. They told us not to move. I was frozen with fear either way. Mome stayed where she was as well. Since there was no resistance, the men came inside and closer to us. What happened then is blurry in my mind. I know mom threw herself against one of the men, pushing him against another man and all three of them fell down to the ground. I remember her shouting for me to run. And so I did. I ran as fast as I could, telling myself that mom would make it alright. While at the same time I knew she would not be able to. Although I knew there was nothing else I could do, I felt like I was leaving her behind.
More than two days passed, until I dared going back to the house. Maybe I should have let it be and remained with the uncertainty, as it was with dad. Seeing a person dear to me dead was far worse than not knowing. Again I ran. I went further and further, until I could not remember where I was or which direction the house was.
That was a bit more than a week ago. Since then I've been on my own. And to be honest, I don't know what to do. Mom and dad always protected me, so I never needed to find something to eat or be able to defend myself against danger. A few days ago I met a nice woman who helped me, otherwise I might not have made it this far.