"Bella," My sweet Mother, Renee, calls to me. Her voice is gentle and soft and filled with the sort of Motherly love that some kids are lucky just to dream of. Instead of answering I turn toward her. I cannot help but think how pretty she looks, an arm draped over our couch elegantly, her tanned body draped in a soft looking blue silk dress. Her hair is put up into an elaborate pony tail that assents her naturally ready smile and her large wide blue eyes—she looks like a Queen, and if she wasn't my Mom I would have been intimidated.
"Mom, one day I hope I can look as pretty as you!" I say to her, scrambling up on her lap, even though at the age of 12 it seems a little babyish.
"Oh honey, you already are." She reassures, pulling my hair up with a ribbon that is sitting on a nearby table.
I don't believe her.
I'm not ugly of course—I know that, I have long voluminous brown hair, and a fair complexion and an average body. But I'm not gorgeous either; my eyes are not the clear ocean that Renee's are…they are just plain, average brown. I guess that would be a good way to describe me; plain…average. Nothing special.
"Ready to go Renee?" The voice of my Dad, Charlie, comes from near the front door. Renee calls out an "Of course, dear," and then kisses me on my forehead. "We'll be back before you know it, darling."
With that she stands up and heads toward the door, clutching a sparkly white purse. I watch as they retreat out of the door…but then stop before Charlie can even lock it.
Something is wrong—there is something not right about the situation. Fear freezes the blood in my body and I feel myself turn to ice. I can see nothing that is happening from my spot on the couch—but I have a strong sense of Déjà vu. What is happening?
Then Renee screams, and Charlie yells, "Get inside!"
I knew it. I knew something horrible, something atrocious, something unthinkable has just happened. If I only knew what then my problems would be solved…but just as Renee slams the door shut and runs, panicked, toward me…I wake up.
My body heaves, I am literally gasping for air. Sweat drenches my body and I feel so alone, so, so alone. I start crying like I do almost every time I go to sleep or wake up from this maddening, but real dream. It is like my subconscious is trying to torture me for the sole fact that I survived the horrible, unreal happenings that had, against all odds…happened, to my only family.
Shouldn't almost five years of reliving that dream, of thinking and rethinking and crying over that experience harden me to the whole thing? Wouldn't anybody else be anything but a slobbering, sobbing marsh mellow every time the word, 'parent,' was mentioned after that long a period of time? Surely. Still, I am not somebody else—I'm me. Plain Jane Bella Swan—almost seventeen years old, a pathetic excuse for a convict—I mean seriously? If I have to be running from the law, couldn't I be one of those famous lawbreakers? Answer: no.—a tortured, broken soul, and a girl with an apparent stalker. The stalker part was one of the creepiest parts of my whole ordeal. Horrible, not hideous (oh-my-god they were actually incredibly hot) monsters killing both her parents—bloody and traumatizing. Having to steal from her current on-the-move neighbors to survive? Mortifying and saddening. Wakening up on top of a sealed letter engraved with the word Bella in beyond calligraphied pen? The worst damn thing of her present situation—because it happened again, and again, and again.
It had started the day she had run away from the whole scene—refusing to be put in an orphanage where the monsters could just come to her and finish the job! No! That part was defiantly not happening! She had fell asleep crying on the streets of Port Angeles (wasting all her spare money on a cab) and woken up to her first of many letters along with a package of Oreos…her favorite type of cookie. That morning—well actually, it was that night technically—was no different.
She turned the sealed letter around and around in her hands—wondering if she could finally muster the courage to just chuck it, without ever reading its' contents. Maybe tomorrow.
She got out the small letter opener that had come with the second letter (after having to rip apart the first) and slid though the red wax in one smooth motion. Out came the shiny, smooth, expensive paper with the beautiful hand writing on it. Her current one read:
Head north of here my darling. This is not the right way for you—heed by me, listen to me sweet little lamb. Listen to your urges—your insides, I know they are telling you the right way to go. If only you would listen…
She looked around her—feeling as though she might go mad, trying to find where the mysterious letter leave was…but she was alone. All alone…so, so alone.