I grew up in a single parent home. Just me, my older brother and my mom.
It used to be the three of us against the world. My mother has worked harder than anyone I have ever known, without a college education and two kids to support. I love her for everything she has done.
My brother Charlie is away at Oxford becoming a Biology Professor, so he isn’t really around much.
Neither of them really understood me.
I want to be someone that my mother can be proud of. She can walk into a room and not be ashamed of her own daughter. It seems as though everyone has turned their back on me.
I sit alone, I eat alone, and I cry alone. I am tortured by my own misery that I can’t stop the burning need for love.
I crave it.
My insides boil to a point where it’s thrust out of my control and the heated animal thrashes its ugly head.
They all said they loved me, uttered that damning four letter word.
So I did the only thing that was expected of me.
My real name is Jenna Fowler.
I met someone my junior year of high school, captain of the basketball team, real charmer. Smooth talking, fast paced, J-Crew prep. Everything his name stands for.
Tyler Warren, the light eyed playboy that told me everything I wanted to hear. I fell for it and I gave him all of me.
I believed all of the flowery words of affection. I believed the way he looked at me was real, like he could see everything I was thinking. I believed the lies that got me into bed with him.
Then he dropped me off at my apartment and told me it was over. He told me I was an easy screw and played me for my insecurities.
I gave a piece of my heart away, a part of me that I couldn’t get back.
That was the night I became Delilah Rose.
I cut my hair off to my chin and dyed it jet black.
Revenge.
Next came Logan Jones.
The Bad boy.
The mean streaked hottie with a crooked smile. He always carried a blade, smoked a pack a day and worked the streets for drug money.
He wanted me and I didn’t want him. Over time, my wall gradually came down and I let him in. I thought he loved me back. So, I slept with him.
I was wrong.
I caught him with my best friend, in my bedroom, and on my bed.
He draped the sheet around his hips and kissed me before he walked into the kitchen. Not so much as an explanation or a backward glance.
I cried the whole two blocks to the train station; Delilah Rose took hold of me again.
I sported a new nose ring and my hair slowly turned to a violet purple.
Pain.
Eric Pierson walked into my life one month later.
Sweet and sensitive Eric.
The Artist.
He used to paint me, called me his muse. He was genuine and sincere, always there when I needed him. I loved him and he loved me so I gave him what he wanted.
Then he got bored of painting the same battered and bruised lost girl.
So he left me and Delilah Rose picked me up.
I wore heavy makeup and my hair turned to a bright shade of sunshine yellow.
Happiness.
Ry Beaton was the only one that truly got all the way in.
His long legs, sideways hat and wise a** jokes always had me laughing. He was like me, alone and bruised.
He did too many drugs and drank too much alcohol but I wanted him anyway. I truly loved him and fully let him inside me.
I could see so much potential that he wasted on partying.
I got tired of waiting for him to grow up and the games got old.
I found him in the backseat of his car one night, at another one of his parties. Some blonde tramp on top of him, her legs clamped around his waist, their breath fogging up the glass.
When Ry shut me out, Delilah Rose let me in.
I pierced my lip and eyebrow, and my hair transformed into a bloody red.
Love.
My senior year rolled around and no one had caught me.

James Huntington.
The Frat boy.
He was easy on the eyes, had the body of a male model and knew how to use both as a weapon.
For the first half of my senior year, he convinced me that I was different and mysterious and sexy. All of the things I wasn’t.
I slept with him, knowing full well that he didn’t think I was any better than a piece of trash on the street.
He was good at it, coaxing me into bed.
Soon his promises became empty and the sex became routine. I craved the excitement.
So I left him in the hotel room, his smug smile still burned into my memory.
Delilah Rose pounced like a lion in wait.
My red hair became bubble gum pink.
Clarity.
The last was Travis Walker, a tattoo artist from Philly.
He spoke with an accent and gave me my first taste of the dark side. Wild passion and kinky sex.
My body art had grown rather quickly. My navel had been pierced four times, my neck had a bent nail in the back and my ears had become small gages.
He tattooed me, a hissing skull on the small of my back.
When I found the shop receptionist with her skirt over her head and my boyfriend in the piercing chair on top of her, I freaked.
He looked up at me and begged me not to leave him, said it was a mistake. I left anyway, desperate to get home.
Delilah Rose had taken permanent hold of me now and my hair had become an electric blue.
Greed.
I now sit in the conference room of the Cleveland Police Department, a seventeen year old convicted of six homicides.
My hands are cuffed in front of me, black combat boots shuffling as I am ushered into a holding cell.
I perch on the edge of the bed, my red mini skirt tight around my thighs. The detective walks in, a file in hand. He leans against the wall across from me as the bars slide closed.
“Can I ask you something?” He asks, opening the manila folder.
I don’t say anything; just shift my cuffed arms over my head, my black belly shirt shimmies over my ribs and displays the underside of my breasts.
“Why did you do it Jenna?”
My clear blue eyes penetrate his and I smile. “My name is Delilah Rose.” I tell him, clambering to my feet.
I walk right up to him, pushing my blinding white hair over my shoulders, a breath away from his mouth. “They all said they loved me.”
Confession.