I tried writing something like this a few years back... That didn't go so well. My writing... Was... Yuck . So I'm trying again. Hopefully this is somewhat better?
…Let me know! Maybe...? Either way... Thanks for reading this, at least!
I found myself surrounded by beauty. The grass was a brilliant shade of jade green, the sky a perfect shade of cloudless blue, the pond before me was crystal clear. In the distance, I could hear the sound of the animals bustling around. I felt I could sit in this one spot for the rest of my existence.
I was plagued by memories of my past. Through the change of most of my kind, memories of a past life are forgotten. Many desire to find a truth, to learn who they were before. Me? I just wanted to forget.
My name is Isabella. I was the oldest child of Esme and Charles Swan and born in 1912. Life was perfect for a while. My parents loved me; I loved them. My mother, like most others, stayed at home to care for the family. My father was a member of the police, but it seems all good things have to end. When I was 8 years old, my father was killed in the line of duty, leaving me and a pregnant mother to fend for ourselves. An old family friend offered to marry my mother to help support us. She accepted. This was the beginning of our decline.
She was now Esme Evenson, and through adoption, I became Isabella Evenson. She gave birth to the child and this was the beginning of the abuse. Charles Evanson, my stepfather, became an alcoholic. He beat my mother up. At first, she was accepting and went as far as making excuses to anyone that saw the bruises. People started talking; she was in denial. It angered her, the "rumors" and "lies" that were spread through the town. She took it out on me. My younger brother was spared. This is when I started hating my mother.
At age 12, Esme was pregnant with her third child. My stepfather was ecstatic and reminded me, every time possible, that I was not his and would never be loved. When Esme had her child nine months later, it was stillborn. This threw her into depression and she was never able to look me in the eye after that.
The physical and verbal abuse continued. Well into my teenage years, I took it. It took two slaps and spit to the face that day for me to realize it wasn't worth it. I may not have been worth much, but hell if I wasn't more than that. I was 17 when I realized this. I screamed at my mother and grabbed my younger brother by the hand. That's when we left.
I didn't know where I was going, but eventually I found a place for us to stay. It was an old rundown house about five miles from where we lived. I promised my younger brother I would return to the house with memories of a past life when our real father was still alive. It took two weeks to gather the courage.
When I walked into the house, there was no one around. There was broken glass all over the place. I salvaged as many of our belongings as possible, gently handing the only photo of my father left unscathed through the years. I walked through the house, cautious. I stepped into my room. There my stepfather lied. My breath caught, but I was determined to continue on. I gathered the few clothes I owned, watching him the entire time. He never moved and never appeared to take a breath. I grabbed his arm. It was cold. I watched his chest. It never moved. I check his pulse. It wasn't there. I slapped him. He didn't respond. There were two crescent-shaped holes on his neck. He was dead.
I did the only thing I knew. I ran.
My brother and I held up. Barely. I didn't know how we were going to survive. He was only 9 at the time, and I wanted to give him the childhood he deserved, but money was tight. I took on a job as a tailor's assistant in town. Through the gossip mill around two months later, I heard of the missing case of Esme Evanson. She was gone, they said. Presumed dead although no body was found. As sick and twisted as it may be, a sense of pleasure entered my body. I was glad to hear she was gone. No one could remove the smirk from my face. She got what she deserved.
I was bitter.
A month after that, I started dreaming of her. Thoughts of her plagued my dreams. I couldn't escape her. One night, I was screaming in my sleep. My brother tried to wake me, but I was unable to open my eyes. I was thrashing all over the place. I felt I couldn't control my body. All I felt was fire. I heard a man laughing in the distance. It was beautiful yet bloodcurdling. I forced my eyes open. The unknown man had his face on his neck. The last thing I remembered was the peaceful dreamy look on my brother's face. He was dead.
I closed my eyes and allowed the fire to consume me. I waited for death to come.
I was pulled from my memories with a tap on my shoulder. She paused for a moment until I looked up at her. "Bella, it's time to go." I nodded and pulled at the grass I was sitting on. I didn't want to leave.
It took a while before I replied. "I'll be right there. Give me ten minutes." I saw her nod in the reflection of the pond. She ran off and I waited until she was no longer in the vicinity. I stood up and inched toward the pond. I stared into the clear water, my reflection looking back at me. Long brown hair. Dark blue jeans. Pale pink top. White sparkling skin.
...Blood red eyes.
I stared into that image. It was so me... but it didn't feel like it was. I closed my eyes and walked in the other direction. I had a new life. It had been nearly a hundred years since I was born. It was time to let things go. I walked twenty feet before sprinting away as fast as I could. I worked my muscles as fast as they would allow me to go. I could feel the wind running through my hair. I felt alive.
I stopped when I reached the area where the girls were. The two girls that had become my family.
Renee and Maria.
I took my seat in the stolen car behind the wheel and drove.
Alrighty. That's my prologue. Hopefully it's not too bad. First chapter should be up soon! Thanks for reading!
~Mar
