Tears slid silently down my cheeks as I let the thin blade slice my skin. I didn't cut my wrists. That would be much too obvious. I cut my ribcage. Right beneath my boobs. So easy to hide, considering I was 14 and not taking my shirt off for anyone.

If anyone knew, they wouldn't understand. Couldn't understand. I'm depressed, but I'm a good actress. People who cut their wrists want everyone to know they're depressed. I'd rather no one did. I go through every day as I always have, smiling and laughing and skipping classes. The happiness is just bullshit, though. I go to a performing arts high school, where everyone can act. Why they can't tell I'm acting is beyond me.

But all of that is about to change. I've lived here in Paris my entire life. I speak French, my friends are French, I even wear French. Anything French is all I know. But now, my parents think I need a 'reality check.' I'm moving to La Push, Washington, into our winter cottage. Now I understand why my parents made me learn English a few years ago. They've been planning this. I can tell.

That's why I'm hurting myself. Again. I haven't done this in two weeks, but hearing the news of my leaving Paris has brought me down to a new low.

"Shit." I cussed under my breath as a gleaming drop of blood fell down onto the white carpet. Well, that was going to take some work to get out.

I stumbled into the shower, almost forgetting to take off my socks. I let out a feral hiss as the steaming water hit the fresh wounds. Never gets fucking old.

I sat down and let the water pound my tense shoulders and let my mind wander. Usually not the safest thing, but this time it was…kind-of pleasant.

When I got off the plane in Port Angeles, I would be picked up by Melinda, my new housekeeper/babysitter/legal guardian. I've never even met the woman. But people come into your life for a reason, you just don't know why until they're gone or yours forever. Let's just hope this is going to be good.

I remember the Quileute boys…delicious. I used to hang out with one of them, Collin maybe, all the time when we were up there. Now I would get to see him at school every day. And if my memory serves me right, even three years ago Collin was pretty damn stunning. But then there's all the older boys…this is going to be fun.

Maybe you'll stop the cutting. It only gets worse, you know. Ugh. Stupid logical side of my brain. I do as I feel.

After taking the time to deep condition my thick, wavy mahogany hair and pluck my eyebrows, I started to wrap my chest with gauze. I flinched as the material rubbed the wrong way. I threw on my white terry cloth robe, and rubbed some mousse into my hair. I flipped my head up-side down and took the time to diffuse and blow dry. Flipping my head back up and patting down flyaways with smoothing balm, I sprayed my hair with shine spray and stuck my always-present barrette into it.

My biological mother gave it to me the day she left, when I was six years old. Intricately placed crystals on pure silver surrounded three beautiful pearls, in a design that looked like a lily. (.com/product_details_ i did my best describing it) I always pinned back the hair behind my right ear, so my bangs on the other side hung down over my left eye.

People always gawked over my eyes. They were a deep violet that faded into black at the edges. I didn't think they were that special, but they were extremely rare. Most new people thought I had contacts. Either way, I kind of hated them. They seemed so boring, so...unattractive.

I flipped open my lighter, and put the tip of my eyeliner into the flame. I quickly rimmed my left eye with the thick, smoky liner, and repeated the same with my right eye. Smudging the top with my finger and examining myself in the mirror, I was satisfied. The makeup made me feel so much…sexier. Only if it was a tiny bit of eyeliner.

I threw on the outfit I had lain out last night. Dark, slimming skinny jeans, a low-cut long-sleeved black top, black stilettos, and a pair of diamond and pearl little hoop earrings with a matching long necklace. I was rich, to say the least. Grabbing my Chanel tote and iPhone, I looked around my room for the last time. It was so bare now, the white walls no longer covered with posters of shirtless American male models. I almost let a tear escape as I shut the door, but I mentally slapped myself before it fell. I would miss this house.

Once at the airport, I had two hours before my flight took off. Damn delays. I sipped my cappuccino slowly, savoring the authentic taste. I wouldn't get many more of these once I got to the U.S. I sat waiting, reading my battered paperback version of Jane Eyre. I could read it over and over again, never getting tired of the twisting plotline. I wish I had lived in that century, of long dresses and elaborate curls. The finest silks and gems I'd have adorned.

But I lived in the 21st century, depressing as it was.

I was almost finished with the book when I heard boarding for my flight being called.

Here we go.