It's time to tell my story. It isn't a happy story, but it isn't a sad one either. It's just a story, and it's all mine. It began when I was seven or eight, I can never remember which. It was the year my parents got divorced and my whole world was turned upside-down. I remember them telling me they were to be divorced clearly. They sat me down on my own, one either side of me, and told me their news. I was devastated. I burst into tears and neither could calm me. I'm not even sure I knew what divorce meant, but I knew that it was bad, and that I didn't want that happening.
That was the start of it all. I can only assume they told my brothers as well, I've never thought to find out, but maybe I will now. I remember my Dad moved out soon after that, into a one bedroom flat where my three younger brothers and I would be forced to stay three weekends out of fpur. I hated it there. There was nothing to do, and I had to share a room with my brothers, something I despised doing. We often had to wait for my Dad to wake to have breakfast, for he would sleep in until late. He would get angry if we woke him, and so we just waited for him, stomachs rumbling, to wake up. I think we eventually learned it was easier if we made our own breakfast, and so that's what we did.
I preferred my house so much more, and my Mother too. As I grew older I would increasingly find excuses not to go to my Dads on the weekends, and instead stay home with my Mum. I would be staying at a friends one weekend, and a friend would be staying at mine another. My Mother encouraged me to do it, and as time went by I started to like my Dad less and less, and my Mum more and more.
My Mum remarried when I was nine, and the day before she did was the second to last time I ever set foot inside my Fathers flat. The last time was on my next birthday, but I'll come to that in a minute. It was the summer holidays, and I was to spend three weeks with my Dad. Three straight weeks, no breaks, no weekends with my Mum. Three weeks with just my Dad. I was dreading it. So much. My Mum bought me a phone as an early Birthday present so I would be able to contact her whenever I wished. I'm pretty sure my Dad was annoyed that I would rather text my Mum than talk to him. I think he knew I preferred her to him. I'd only been there two days and he took my phone away. I was so angry at him, the thought of being unable to contact my Mum without asking him first was to painful too bear. I began to tantrum, screaming at my Dad to give me my phone back, and he got angry. He was so angry at me.
He told me to phone my Mum and tell her to pick me up or he would throw me out onto the street to make my own way home. I was so scared, I picked up the phone and called her, all the time hoping I could remember the way back to my house in case he threw me out before she came to get me, when she picked up I asked her to come and pick me up. I'm not sure I made much sense to her though, I was in tears and barely able to speak. She told me she would top up my phone and then hung up to call me back so I wouldn't waste all my credit. When I didn't answer my mobile, because my Dad still had it, she phoned the land line at my Dads and asked why I didn't answer my phone. I told her it was because my Dad had taken it away, and told her she had to come and get me again. He took the phone off me then and said, in a voice laced with venom,
"Come and pick up your daughter"
Then he hung up. I've no idea what my Mum said to that, but I was still in hysterics, and was unable to say anything or do anything. My Mum phoned back once again and told me she needed to make arrangements for her honeymoon in a weeks time, as to who would be looking after me, and then she would come and pick me up. I went to wait by the front door after she rung off, when my Dad gave me my phone back.
I don't really remember my Mum picking me up, or the drive home. I do remember I cried for most of the rest of the day, and then my Mum, and soon to be Step-Dad Phil, took me out for a meal with his brother, who's name I've long forgotten, who had come to stay for the wedding the next day. I'd stopped crying by that time with the help of my Mum, Phil, and his brother. I remember we must have gone somewhere for a meal because as we were walking home Phil passed out in a bush. That should have set alarm bells ringing as to my future with this man as my replacement father, but it did not, as I was too tired to think anything of it.
I forgot to tell you my name, I apologise. I'm Isabella Swan, Bella for short, and this, is my story.