The Tale of KJ. M. Lane

Kyra Jones Lane had a peculiar life, and a peculiar name to accompany it. Her first name, and what everyone called her, was Kyra Jones.
She was home schooled, but somehow she could be anywhere that anything big happened, and everyone knew who she was, if by aura alone. Her aura, you see, was typically concentrated on the air around the headstones that one usually avoids in old graveyards; her aura was cold, dead, and frightening.
Her mother was a happy woman, content with her lot and pleased with her life. Her father was equally pleasant, and he worked at home. They had been overjoyed when Kyra Jones was born; they spent the first four years of her life adoring her. Then, one day, as her mother carelessly turned her back, Kyra Jones wandered out of the yard and into the trees.
They found her several hours later a little under a mile away, standing alone and cold near an ancient mausoleum. There was a terrifying lack of expression on her tiny face. No one was exactly sure what she had seen or felt or heard, but the Lane's little girl was scarred, and she showed signs of a change. Her mother was frightened in the months following, for the sound of her daughter's laughter was absent from the house, and she could never recall Kyra Jones smiling. There was an air of deadness around the child night and day. They took her to psychiatrists, doctors, churches and temples, but still the Lane's daughter did not return to her joyful, normal self.
But she grew, into a beautiful raven-haired girl, blue eyes cold as ice and heart as hard as stone. No smile was ever noted on her face, though on occasion she was sighted with an odd expression behind her eyes, one of confusion and discord, as if she was fighting within herself. An entry was later found in her journal; the date marked her fourteenth birthday: "I wish for Hades, death, the grave. Anything, any relief from this nightmare that refuses to leave me and strips me of any solace from itself..." And still no one knew what she had seen.
"Dare I write the horrors I have witnessed? Nay, I cannot, for to force this burden on others is a deed fit for Satan alone; to carry this is my curse, horrid as it may be, and I shall not place it on anyone but myself. Somehow this seems the only fair thing..." And so she carried a weight that would have crippled most for many years.
The last entry made in her journal was as follows:
"This is the eve of my birthday, my sixteenth birthday, and I beg the forgiveness of those I love. To hurt you was dastardly and a coward's deed, but I had to escape.
"To my family: I am so sorry for the pain I have put you through over the last twelve years; I know you didn't understand. I never wanted you to.This was something I had to shoulder alone, and believe me when I say that this was best.
"Sweet key, I pray my release. May my burden die with me tonight, and God forgive me."
Kyra Jones Lane was found in her bedroom, a half-drained cup of poison in her lifeless hand, on the morning of her sixteenth birthday. And, for the first time on almost twelve years, she was smiling.