Chapter 1: Repressed

I lay on my bed, silently fuming at Edward. Despite how seriously I wanted to continue to be upset with him, my temper-tantrum lasted only minutes; I could never stay mad at the man. With a sigh, I rolled over onto my stomach, gazing at him pleadingly. His amber eyes gazed back at me, almost tauntingly.

"Are you ready to speak to me yet?"

Just for that, I chose to ignore him for a while longer. I stared at his profile- his lean figure sprawled across my rocking chair in position that would be awkward for any human, but somehow still managed to look graceful- my gaze traveled down to the book that lay prisoner in his grip of steel. Noticing my stare, he moved the book behind his back, in an attempt at humor.

I wasn't laughing.

"You realize that you're stealing my personal property, right? " I said in a small voice, hoping that he would feel pity. "Give it back, please?"

Edward's lips turned up at one corner.

"I'm not stealing," he reasoned, "I'm liberating it. You've worn this book out; it's had a good, long life. Now I'm going to get you a new copy. You'll get it tomorrow."

I pulled myself up into Indian position and glared a little. "There's literally no reason for you to buy another copy of a book I already have, one that I've had for years I might add."

Edward moved over to the bed, slyly wrapping a cool arm around my waist.

"You've read this a hundred times. You should find something else to do." He pulled me into his lap and placed his frigid cheek against my not-so-frigid cheek. If he was going to steal Wuthering Heights and leave me completely without my favorite classic novel, he had better have a back-up plan.

"Distract me."

"With pleasure."

"Edward?"

"Yes, Bella?"

"Don't get rid of my book." He made a point of cheekily placing it on my bookshelf on the opposite side of the room before leaving.

After Edward left, (he needed to change clothes- what would the neighbors think?) I lay on my bed, my head hanging over the edge. I wanted to go get Wuthering Heights, but I somehow knew that Edward would know, even if I put it back before going to sleep. While I observed the wooden floorboards, I caught sight of a black book peeking from under the edge of my bed. I continued counting wood grains.

Two hundred and thirteen wood grains later, the book caught my attention again. I wracked my brain trying to remember how it may have gotten there but quickly gave up. I pulled the volume from its hiding place and sat upright on my bed.

I glanced at the spine before looking at the cover but there was no title. The front of the book was just as blank as the spine, but it looked far too thick to be a journal. I frowned and I turned to the first page. A grey scene depicting a forest, and at the top of the page, the title sat in lowercase lettering.

Twilight.

I didn't recall ever reading Twilight. I don't ever recall buyingTwilight. I had never heard of Stephenie Meyer either. I continued to turn pages, stopping only to read the dedications and quotes, barely glancing over the table of contents before moving on.

"I'D NEVER GIVEN MUCH THOUGHT TO HOW I WOULD die- though I'd had reason enough in the last few months- but even if I had, I would not have imagined it like this.

I stared without breathing across the long room, into the dark eyes of the hunter, and he looked pleasantly back at me.

Surely it was a good way to die, in the place of someone else, someone I loved. Noble, even. that ought to count for something.

I knew that if I'd never gone to Forks, I-"

An uneasy feeling settled over me, although I had no idea why. Someone decided to write a book about Forks? Not exactly about Forks; but someone had decided that Forks was interesting enough to have as a setting for a book? I'm sure someone in this town would have noticed if there was a book about Forks. I would have heard of it before now.

" . . . I wouldn't be facing death right now. But terrified as I was, I couldn't bring myself to regret the decision. When life offers you a dream so far beyond any of your expectations, it's not reasonable to grieve when it comes to an end.

The hunter smiled in a friendly way as he sauntered forward to kill me."

I finished the preface with hesitancy. This book gave me a strange feeling- an uncomfortable chill. It quickly began to feel wrong under my fingertips. I turned the page.

"MY MOTHER DROVE ME TO THE AIRPORT WITH THE windows rolled down. It was seventy-five degrees in Phoenix, the sky a perfect, cloudless blue. I was wearing my favorite shirt- sleeveless, white eyelet lace; I was wearing it as a farewell gesture. My carry-on item was a parka."

I continued to read in disbelief.

" . . . It was from this town and it's gloomy, omnipresent shade that my mother escaped with me when I was only a few months old. It was in this town that I'd been compelled to spend a month every summer until I was fourteen. That was the year I finally put my foot down; these past three summers, my dad, Charlie, vacationed with me in California for two weeks instead.

It was to Forks that I now exiled myself. I detested Forks.

"Bella," my mom said to me- the last of a thousand times- before I got on the plane, "You don't have to do this.""

I hastily shut the book and shoved it away from me. It fell to the floor with a dull thud as I scrambled up to my headboard, drawing my legs up to my chest, hugging them there.

Was this some kind of joke?

My thoughts immediately jumped to Edward; who else would feel the need to delve so far into my past to attain my mother's exact words and my exact thoughts? But, still, he claimed that he couldn't read my mind, that I was a mental mute. It couldn't possibly be his responsibility. He had no motive.

I moved on, speculating about who else could know these things about me. My brain complained as it struggled to come up with possible solutions to the mind-boggling situation. Really, who else could know these things? What the actual hell?

Eventually I calmed down. I crawled down my bed and bent to retrieve the discarded novel, but my floor was barren. I shifted off of my bed to search more thoroughly. I kneeled and peeked under the covers: Nothing but nothing. Sulkily, I shrugged. I went downstairs to prepare dinner for Charlie, never quite dislodging that feeling of discomfort.

Two weeks later, I had all but forgotten that book. A book that narrated my life had dematerialized; how would I explain that? Dismissing it as my imagination, I continued on with life, never telling Edward- or anyone else for that matter- of the bizarre occurrence.

...

Disclaimer: Twilight characters belong to Stephenie Meyer.

A/N: This was a sudden inspiration.

This could be a one-shot. If I get a good response I'll keep this going.

I don't have a Beta yet, but I want one.