New story; it switches perspectives between the main character, Erika, and Paul.

Hope you like it.

Leave me reviews. =]

--- So, I went to publish this story and, before I added this little note, it had exactly 666 words.

I'm going to take that as a good omen. Enjoy the story.

Chapter One: Erika

I'm not a slut.

That's the first thing you need to know.

The second thing, or rather, the other, is that:

I'm not a murderer.

I'm a survivor, and you can go fuck yourself if you're going to try and make me feel bad for it. I'm not ashamed of the way I live my life and nothing anyone- or anything - says will change that.

My name is Erika Chloe Diodorus, and I didn't always live in Forks.

But the story of how I got here is depressing, not to mention long and boring- I'm not going to waste the time it takes to spell it all out. All that matters is that I'm here, I'm alive, and I'm fighting like hell to find my way out.

"Hey Erika, what are you doing tonight?" Mike Newton called, his shrill voice piercing into my brain with a furious type of vengeance. I cringed as I turned and saw that he had his whole "gang" crowded around him, all ready and willing to make fun of the "weird" girl.

I ignored him with a roll of my eyes and shoved the rest of my books into my bag, heaving it over my shoulder. "Let me guess," Tyler Crowley continued, running up to drop his arm around me. I shrugged him off and quickened my pace. "You're going to La Push?"

The others giggled and I took a deep breath, stopping to let them finish their well-constructed libretto. It was just a couple of days before summer vacation, and I understood that the anxiety oftentimes made teenagers a bit antsy.

"What do you think I'm going to do when I get there, Eric?" I asked, mock excitement alighting my features as I stared at the dark-haired boy.

"Uh, uh," He stammered, lost in my gaze.

"You're going to sleep with the Indians, you sick rez rat!" Mike finished and they all laughed, bumping fists and slapping hands as they walked away.

I gave another sigh.

Where I'm from, at least we can conjure up halfway decent insults.

I let my thoughts swarm around me as I began the long walk to La Push. I would drive, but I don't understand cars, and it's been far too long since my last enhancement for me to run.

So I idled, enjoying the feel of the cool rain on my face.

At least they exiled me somewhere with nice weather…

A car sped by and Mr. Swan, to Chief of Police, chased after them, siren blaring.

I slapped my hands over my ears and groaned.

I hate this life I've been cursed to live.

This world is loud, bright, stupid, and weak.

It was a joke, really, exiling me here in Forks.

The men, and boys, have this awful diagnosis here that makes them useless to me: pencil dicks and inflated egos.

I could kill them, of course, just to appease my impulses, but it wouldn't further me as a person, or give me enough pep to make it a week-- if even that long.

The reservation populace is much better. They have vitality to them, a life source that would make even immortals jealous. And what's better, I've heard rumors that there are werewolves among their dark-skinned ranks.

And nothing would make me happier than to sink my teeth into the soul of a shapeshifter. That is, if I could ever find one.