Dear Child,

I am happy you chose to hear a tale from my youth. You asked, I believe, for a familiar story of heartbreak and obsession and now I can do one better. Mon Cherie, I present to you the story of Jake's Emily. But my dear child before we begin, I must ask you to be patient and wait, I will accept questions and I will accept the occasional remark but you must remain patient and wait because everything will make sense in the end.

Do you remember Rose? Yes, the one with wild hair. Yes, the lonely one. Now, Darling, pay attention there are things you must know about our little Rose.

Rose Moore was little before 14 when she met our Jake. She was naive, now that may sound simple and really, my dear it really is, but you must also understand that not only was Rose naive she was a hopeless romantic as well. For us onlookers it was at that time a very worrying thing not because Rose was couldn't take care of herself, no, no, of course she could. Rose Moore was very capable. But sometimes, when Rose was in love like she believed she was with Jake she chose not to take care of herself and let herself be trampled on like a can of soft drink.

I may be getting ahead of myself.

Let us start before the beginning, before Rose came, before Rose had met Jake, before Rose had made friends.

And we begin.

Jake and Emily had a history. There is no where else to begin. Anyhow, Jake and Emily shared a long tedious history of alcho-pops and tequila shots, of smoke and smudged lipstick, of bongs and lost thongs. She was his first and him hers. Rose of course, didn't know this. No one warned her about the history. No one bothered to tell her about Jake's Emily and the significance ever shirt, belt and sock held in Emily's screaming heart.