I own nothing written by Stephenie Meyer. I'm just playing in the universe she created. The present date for this story is October, 2010.

Beta's: Arizona Hale (EDIT: March, 2012) and Project Team Beta.

Prologue:

Life is full of surprises, and I don't mean the sweet, hallmark kind. I mean the kind that knocks you in the nuts when you least expect it. And like a punch to your balls, surprises end in the same way; with you confused, breathless, in pain, and on the ground in a fetal position wondering what you did to deserve this.

What can I say, I'm a pessimist.

...

Each tick echoes incessantly in the tiny room. I look at the clock again: thirty minutes left. Thirty minutes before I can say goodbye to Mr. Flannigan's feeble attempts at dissecting my mind and unlocking the emotional treasure trove it holds. Four hours before we can say goodbye to this place forever, the place that has been our home for a year.

Most teenagers would be sad, maybe even depressed about moving, be it because of friends or family they would be leaving behind.

Most teenagers.

I couldn't care less. It's not as though I would be leaving anyone or anything significant behind. It's actually sort of a relief, to be honest. In fact, just the thought of never needing to be in this dingy office or having to be around the jerk-offs that make up the student body and faculty here is enough to make me giddy.

"It's understandable that parents can get on your nerves from time to time, and undoubtedly you had issues with yours. But the thing about parents is that no matter how annoying they could be, we still share similarities with them, even if we can't see it at the time," he says, in that sick, consoling voice. I keep silent. With the crickets chirping, he goes on, "You must have had something in common with one of your parents."

"Nope. Nothing."

"So you don't miss them?" he asks disbelievingly, for the umpteenth time.

I sigh silently. He's probing again. I rake my eyes over the musty-smelling office. The desk still has its standard pile of files that need to be re-copied. His name plate and pens are still neatly placed at the front of his desk. Hell, he still has that awful "hang in there" calendar…

The calendar.

I check the date and realization clicks in my head; Today is October 1st, the "anniversary" of our "parents'" deaths.

The feeling of triumph that comes with figuring out Flan's ploy is quickly dashed by annoyed realization; clearly, Flan is taking advantage of the date, hoping its significance will stir an emotional response, our imminent departure putting him into desperate overdrive.

I guess my behavior this past year would alarm any school administrator. My isolated, brooding demeanor, mixed with my "delinquent" attitude and actions had the school officials treating me like a ticking time bomb, as if I'd be pulling a "Columbine" one of these days. Still, his pathetic attempts to draw out the repressed "trauma" to my psyche infuriate me to no end.

If there is a god, he has a fucked up sense of humor.

"….. Life completely changed, going through all sorts of adjustments, like your sister having to raise the both of you, and not even out of high school herself! Between having to listen to her, take care of Reni, move to a new area, and have to deal with everyone around you questioning your sister's abilities as a legal guardian…" he goes on.

Again, I say nothing. Let him enjoy the sound of his voice. He's like a broken record anyway, I think to myself. I shift in my chair, too subtle for Flan to notice. He may be well-intentioned, but he seriously needs to get a life.

But throughout I can't shake the bits of dialogue that pass through my mind in response to his words.

"I heard their dad was with the mafia."

"She must be sleeping around…"

"She's hot as fuck!"

"That Tony kid is a bad seed."

"They must be seriously fucked up in the inside if they're so pretty and smart on the outside."

"They're a family of criminals. Stay away from them."

My Jaw clenches just thinking about it. The gossip. The slander. You'd think in the twenty-first century people wouldn't be so anal about an emancipated 18-year-old, let alone an emancipated 18- year-old taking care of her siblings, what, with all of the drugs, sex and violence shown on television these days. I guess independence, selflessness, and responsibility really is that unbelievable in a teen.

"I can understand you feeling anger towards them for dying, because if they wouldn't have died, everything would be the same as before." I toss a scrutinizing look at him.

"It's not like that."

"Oh?"

"Bella and Reni are all the family I need."

Flan sighs tiredly, rubbing the bridge of his nose before answering. "Tony, I know this is our last session together, and I'm happy that we were able to make some headway with your anger management, but this past year you haven't once opened up about your life before the fire, let alone your parents. This is our last session together, and I really want to help you, but I can't if you're not honest with me. Once you walk out that door….."

Oh here we go again, the "guilt-trip" technique. Sheesh, you'd think after a year someone like him would stop using this bullshit. I guess it's a blessing in disguise, though. Heart-wrenching rants guarantees me ten minutes of uninterrupted daydreaming.

And then he says something I'm not expecting.

"…if your parents really didn't mean anything to you, like how you've implied your entire time here, then it's silly of me to keep tip-toeing around the issue," he says, in a bold tone uncommon for his timid demeanor. Aggravated by my silence, he turns away, running his hand down his bald spot.

"I'll be more forward: Were your parents abusive? It's obvious you have deep-seated issues with them beyond their deaths. Was it your father? " He turns back to me, on the verge of asking another line-crossing question when he sees the look on my face. Instantly all color drains from his already pallid skin, and his eyes widen in shock. I'm sure he's reacting to my ire in a multitude of other ways, but I take no notice.

I can't stop shaking. I clench my fists, the small voice in my head begging me to stay in control as the inferno inside singes everything in its path. My jaw locks, and all I can think about is how much I hate, how much I despise him: my father—the faceless bastard that left me, my sister and my mother to fend for ourselves, the sick fuck who callously left my mother in Forks when he became bored with his little love game.

Pain registers in my mind as my finger nails bury themselves deeper into my flesh. I can feel the energy build in my fists, in the air around me. From the corners of my eyes I already see the tint of green building in the air, just starting to glimmer. The monster in me, the vampire half that I inherited from him is awake now, fully risen from his slumber. Eagerly, he urges me to let it all out; the anger, the bitterness, the resentment, in one devastating explosion. It would be easy, he says, so very easy to throw the shards and rip the pathetic human in front of you like—

The thumping of an elevated heart rate brings me back to earth. My eyes re-focus on Flan, who looks just about ready to shit himself.

I close my eyes tightly, taking deep breaths. I think of South America a year ago with Miri. The monster fights me, not wanting to be put back to sleep after just waking up, but with all my might I force it down, back into the bowels of hell. I breathe deeply, in relief. He's gone...for now. I open my eyes.

Flan's sweating bullets. His heart's okay, but I can tell he's still scared shitless. Of what, he doesn't consciously know. He forces himself to plaster a smile on his face, even though it looks more like a grimace, and then asks, "Better?"

I turn my eyes away from him, smile gone, ashamed by my lapse in control. Instead, I look at the potted plant in the corner.

"Yeah."

"I'm sorry," Flan begins. "I shouldn't have pushed you. I'd forgotten how much the issue affected you."

Sure, Flan's annoying. His job consists of constantly trying to pry in my personal life on behalf of the sycophantic principle of this school, but that's a counselor's job, isn't it? To learn about his clients? And he did help me this year with my control. I look up, seeing him fidget in his seat and continue on with his flustered apology.

Aww hell, might as well humor him. Besides, he's right. This past year I've brought the expression "keeping silent" to a whole new level. Minus the public information available in the files and the few tidbits I've allowed him to know in order for him to "help" me, he knows virtually nothing about us. Ironically enough, if my past was something that I could spill, well, I probably wouldn't be stuck here every Thursday afternoon in the first place.

The Swans: freak show of the community.

I roll the phrase around in my head, mulling over the truthfulness of the title. Our cover story—that Bella became emancipated so she could take care of us after our parents died in a fire—was and still is impenetrable due to her meticulous planning, but it didn't explain our inhuman beauty, paleness, or intelligence. Our forced social standoffishness didn't help either, and it sure as hell didn't make the whispers and gossiping go away. Hell, even the teachers were at loss on how to handle our situation. We were living enigmas, and Flan, from the moment he received my file, wanted desperately to solve the puzzle that was my life. This past year must have been sorely disappointing for him. I re-examine his posture. He's re-settled in his black leather chair. Weary resignation hangs about him. A small treat then…

"I was never very close to my parents," I begin. Flan swiftly sits up, eyes widening, hardly daring to believe it.

"Bella always took care of us from the beginning; she was pretty much my mother," Is my mother. I think, "I never really knew my father. We kept to our own worlds." It may have been based on a lie, but it was as close to the truth as it was going to get.

Flannigan eagerly badgers me for more details, keeps asking about how the fire started, but I'm done being charitable for him. Besides, I don't want to keep going on about a fire that never happened…

I look at the clock again and am swept with relief as I see that our session is finally up. Flan seems to notice as well because he gets up and remarks, rather disappointedly, "Well, I guess this is it." I get up and face him.

"Guess so." We shake hands.

"Take care of yourself, Tony. And if you ever want to talk, well, I'll be here," he says, sheepishly.

"Right," I say, absentmindedly, running a hand over the unruly, mahogany mess that's my hair as I walk backwards towards the door.

He has that look about him—the one where he wants to say one more thing but can't muster up the balls to just up and say it. Or ask it. I don't give him the chance, though. Before Flannigan can say another word, I'm out the door and striding down the fluorescent-lit hallway. I turn a corner and push open the school doors, walking into the afternoon light. I never look back.

Everything is T-POV unless I note otherwise. Change in POV will be marked with three stars in the center of the page followed by first name initial of the new narrator.