Old Soul
Summary: Bella arrives in Forks, and her past is hardly that of your normal human. Will she and Edward see through their new complications, or will the monsters of her history tear them apart.
Chapter One: Hypocrite
It's been a long time since I've feared death. I'm not a brave person by nature, but death isn't a dividing line for me. That's all there is to fear, the loss of everything as you know as you cross into everything you don't. Still, I'd be lying if I said I wasn't afraid now. I am afraid, because for the first time— in a very long time— dying means losing something.
Something I never thought I'd have.
It seems unfair to lose it now, just when I'd found it. I had grown comfortable believing it didn't exist, believing that it was a cruel lie that outlined my destiny, an illusion, a con.
Love.
To find that it was real...that there was a reason, that this wretched path had a purpose— I can't explain what that meant to me.
So even if I'm forced to lose it now, I can't regret the forces that brought me to Forks, or what I found there. Even if it was brief, even if in my long life I only had it for a moment. Because in that moment I was happy, I was whole. Sounds corny right? That was what I thought too.
But, yes, it was even worth dying for-and even more, it was worth what was worse than death.
I stared back at those despairing ruby eyes. So familiar.
And I was at his mercy.
And I was afraid.
But I have no regrets, and even though it's killing me— I'd do it again.
Mrs. Kohl thought I was emotionally unstable.
She'd been a social worker for over twenty years so maybe she would know. But I doubt she'd ever stumbled across anyone like me, so I was more than willing to overlook the negative opinion.
That's not ego, really, I'm pretty unique. Not one of a kind exactly, one of twelve. But one of twelve, in a world of six billion people, that's still unique. But it wasn't like she knew that, to her I was probably just another case file with another tragic past. Kid's taken in by the system are there for a reason after all.
She kept giving me sidelong glances as her burgundy Ford cut through the forests that surrounded my new town, my latest attempt. It was the end of winter, but the old pine trees were still a dull, worn-out green and hung heavily in the sky; we moved down the road as if surrounded by large mossy walls.
"You have an interesting name, is it short for anything," she asked, by way of conversation.
I wondered why she bothered considering she'd spent the first thirty minutes of our journey on her phone, discussing wedding plans with her daughter.
"No," I lied.
"It's an old fashioned sort of name," she pried deeper and I wondered what she was trying to get at. Did she think that she'd learn more about my past than the five social workers before her had? And Bella wasn't an unusual name; or is it old fashioned now? (I never knew) But my real name probably would have raised some questions. Oddly enough I liked Bella better, I felt like a Bella.
"It's just a name," I sighed, "Kohl means cabbage, is there any importance to that?" I stared straight ahead. Silently I added that her head looked like a head of cabbage that had been left in the pot too long.
"You speak German?"
I glanced at her cautiously, her wrinkly eyes looking back at me with a friendly but still probing manner. She was pretty smart for an old woman who had needed to glance at my file to know my name.
Staying silent was easiest and I leaned back in my seat trying to listen to the radio she'd turned down low. It was a golden oldies station and James Darren was crooning one of his hits. I'd been such a fan of his back then.
"Are you looking forward to all the nature," Mrs. Kohl asked. The silence had dragged on between us long enough.
Mrs. Kohl wasn't a nature lover, I could tell that much by her tone; she didn't see much value in the ocean of green that surrounded us.
"Yeah," I answered easily, trying my best to sound normal.
Her pencil drawn eyebrows raised an inch, "Really?"
"Sure, never lived in the country," I lied.
"Well, the Winters are a very nice couple," she stated assuredly.
The sales pitch was nice but not needed. I'd met the Winters only once, but I knew enough to know they weren't nice. Not bad people by any means, but they hadn't taken me into their home to be nice. Which actually suited me just fine.
Getting new foster parents is sort of like trying on clothes. I don't mean to downplay a complicated system but that's really what it's like. With some families the fit is all wrong, the arms too tight, the buttons held on by sheer will. Thankfully the world isn't a closeout where all sales are final. When the new fit is worse than the old fit it's usually best to just move on, keep your receipts and return the old life without a backwards glance.
There is one thing that is different, sometimes the clothes reject you. Sometimes you weren't what the clothes had in mind, maybe they pictured being worn by a blonde teenager who wanted to go out for cheerleading, they find it's you that doesn't fit.
Can you guess what I say to this?
Move on.
Nothing much is worth fighting for anyway.
Forks
The name flashed by, welcoming me to the small town that was about to become my home. It was an odd name. It had been an old lumber town, one that held onto survival by the determination of the people who lived there, that the few tourists who ventured to one of the rainiest, cloudiest places in the entire continental United States.
The Winters home was a small ranch style, set back in the woods with a winding dirt road leading up to it. From first glance it looked like the sort of house that had once been well loved and cared for, but had fallen on hard times.
As had the Winters themselves.
Mr. Winters was a man in his late fifties, he had a rugged beard that made it difficult to read his expression. His hair had mostly gone grey and he had one of those stomachs that stuck out to hang over his belt even though the rest of him was wiry and skinny. He was waiting on the porch when we drove in, some dogs that were caged to the left of the house barked crazily and had most likely warned him of our arrival.
"Mr. Winters," Mrs. Kohl said, stepping out of the car. She wore pumps, styled in a way that had been popular in the eighties, the driveway was dirt and her heels stumbled but she shook his hand with a polished smile.
I got my things out of the backseat of the car. There wasn't much, all of it stuffed into one black garbage bag. I swung it over my shoulder and went to stand next to my new father.
Father.
That was a thought, and a ridiculous one. Mr. Winters had no ambitions of filling that role. His gray eyes looked at me with little expression as I stood before him.
"Isn't Mrs. Winters around," Mrs. Kohl asked glancing around the yard.
"Shopping," Mr. Winters grunted. "Stuff for…Bella." He paused before saying my name as if it had taken him a moment to recall it.
"Oh," Mrs. Kohl's tight lips softened some, her nervousness disappearing. "Excited is she?"
Mr. Winters grunted in agreement.
"Well, good luck Bella," Mrs. Kohl said. She drew me into an uncomfortable hug that was probably supposed to be reassuring. I shrugged her off, maybe if I was new to this game it might have been welcome. But I doubted it.
"Well, all the preliminary inspections have been made," she said to Mr. Winters. She glanced at my file for a moment. "Mr. Havershim," here she frowned for a moment, "Er-Mr. Harvershim was handling this case but he is no longer-I'll be handling Bella's case work. I'll give you a few weeks to settle in and then I'll drop by to see how things are going."
She'd swiftly shoved Mr. Havishim under the rug. He was something of a scandal, so I couldn't blame her for not wanting to mention it. He hadn't been particularly negligent, he was simply a racist who enjoyed putting children into 'white homes'. In some cases some very bad homes, it seemed skin color was significant recommendation in his mind. So much so he hadn't done his due diligence when looking into some families. He'd been fired, and all his cases reassigned. But not before I'd managed to find my own new home. Something I was grateful for.
Mr. Winters grunted once again.
"I'll give you a ring before, I hope I can meet Mrs. Winters next time."
He nodded.
Mrs. Kohl gave me a last curious look, but was more than eager to get back in her car and drive away. I watched the old car as it left and I knew that Mrs. Kohl wouldn't find room in my crowded memories, she was forgotten the minute her car left the driveway. But I doubt she had room for me in her thoughts either.
Mr. Winters and I stood alone in the yard. It had been a long drive to Forks and it was still daylight, but under the cloud cover it didn't make much difference.
With a loud smack of his gums, Mr. Winters turned back to the house and I followed.
When we entered, I thought the smell would be the thing I remembered most about the Winters's home. It smelled like old cigarettes and the damp moldy smell that wet carpet can take on. And something else, a sweet sort of sickly smell. Dying smell. It reminded me of times I'd rather forget and so I held my breath and focused on the only other occupant in the room besides the silent Mr. Winters.
Because, Mrs. Winters was not out shopping as her husband had stated.
Mrs. Winters was seated in a recliner, her face poking out of a nest of pillows, her brown eyes taking me in with the visual acuity of a hawk. She was watching my face, maybe wondering if I'd finally snap now that I'd been dropped in their laps. Now that there was no escaping.
Mrs. Winters was dying.
It was the first thing she'd told me during our previous meeting and she'd watched my reaction just as carefully then. She's lied to the state, because who would place a child with a dying woman? But she had her morals, and she wouldn't lie to me. It had been too many cigarettes in her youth, and she 'hoped to God' that I was leaving the 'devil's cancer sticks' alone.
It had been obvious to my former case worker that Mrs. Winters was ill, but Mr. Havishim hadn't minded and he hadn't asked as many questions as he should have. I was one of a hundreds of teenagers who needed someplace to stay, he assumed I could do worse. After all, who wanted a seventeen year old girl?
Her hawk gaze continued its stare for a full minute, but I must have passed her test yet again because she gestured me further into the room, patting the couch that was beside her.
"Good," she wheezed. Mrs. Winters didn't waste words I'd learned. Maybe it was because every word cost her so much effort she'd learned the value of being brief.
"Your rooms 'n back," Mr. Winters mumbled before turning around and heading outside.
"He works- hez- in shed," she managed to say, pounding at her chest in some frustration.
I nodded.
"Look afta him," she directed me, those same brown eyes bearing down on me. "He's lost, God knows he -he he–needs someone to do for 'im."
I nodded.
I knew what I was getting into. The Winters had been married for over twenty-five years, and never had any children. And I wasn't some late-in-life (very late in Mrs. Winter's case) desire for progeny. They had never wanted children, still didn't.
She'd been a waitress at a truck stop, her husband made furniture that they sold to tourists who passed through town. They liked the town of Forks, they liked being left alone. But their independence from society had changed when Mrs. Winters fell sick with lung cancer. The doctors had done all they could, the cancer had spread too quickly and done too much damage. There was nothing more to do but call Hospice and send her home to die.
Small clear tubes ran from a cylinder of compressed air and entered her nostrils. The equipment was familiar enough that it shouldn't be troubling, but it stated the truth as if someone had written her fate on her forehead. But I wasn't afraid of her, not of the pallor of her skin, the sunken quality of her eyes, not even of the smell of death.
She noted my gaze tiredly, "Dying's not bad," she said. "Leaving's the hard-hez- part." Her breath came in pants and she looked at me maybe hoping I understood what she meant.
Dying I knew, leaving not so much. But I nodded anyway.
"He's useless," she said weakly but there was a faint smile on her lips as she said it.
I looked around the room. It told the tale well enough. The plants in a corner were dying from lack of watering, clothes were piling up for want of laundering, a garden hose had even been dragged in through the kitchen window in an effort to clean the plates that were piling up in the sink. Mr. Winters had probably never bought or cleaned his own clothes, cooked his own meals, tidied his home or even gone shopping. He was a husband in the old sense of the word, and now that his wife was dying there was no one to do for him. If he were a widower he'd probably just remarry, find another woman to care for him. But Mrs. Winters was still clinging onto life.
Or maybe if they'd had a daughter she would have been the one to come. As they didn't, here I was.
Back at the Central Youth Facility, home to other misplaced young people, they'd probably think I was crazy for wanting this sort of a life. For even trying this sort of a fit. The Winters were the hideous orange polka dot sweater that no one wanted to take home. They didn't want a child, they wanted a hired girl that never had to go home, that they didn't have to pay.
But maybe I was type of girl that wasn't looking for a prom dress or the perfect pair of jeans. Maybe all I wanted to a lousy sweater that I could hang over my shoulders and provide just enough warmth to keep me for shivering. Maybe I didn't want clothes that were looking for something permanent, maybe I wanted clothes that would take what they could get and leave the rest alone.
They weren't planning on forever. And neither was I.
Forever, is an awfully big responsibility. I know the danger of tossing that sort of word around. What I was looking for was a word like temporary, transient, fleeting. When you live a life like mine, most everything is. So why pretend, why force it to be something it's not.
Move on, I reminded myself of my new motto. This time I would stick to it. Move on, and try to enjoy life and, even if for only this once, I'd live without memory or precaution.
I brought Mrs. Winters a drink of water and held the glass for her as she took deep sips before I left her to her nap. She slept fitfully and I stared at her for a moment, wondering if she really knew how close death was. She probably did.
Once she was snoring, I crept through the house until I found the back bedroom that had been designated for my use. It might have been a sewing room once, the old machine and some quilt frames were still stacked in a corner. But the twin bed looked almost new, and the faded quilt in a blue and gold design was old but clean. The room smelled lighter, a window had been left open to air it out. There were no pictures or artwork, but a small dresser stood empty to take my bag of clothes.
I dumped the bag out on the bed. All the clothes were second hand, but I'd picked through them and only kept what was nice. The Winters had promised that I could keep half of the money the State gave them for looking after me. Provided I didn't spend it on 'damn cancer sticks' or drugs.
Maybe some new clothes.
There was only one item in the bag that couldn't be worn. It was a small cat statuette. Which might make people think I was one of those girls that like kitsch cat sweatshirts or posters of kittens on my walls. But that's not the reason she sits there.
I found her in a Good Will store when I was five, back when we were traveling through Northern California, before the big bust up in Kelso. She was nestled back with the household goods, looking out of place next to frying pans and discarded cassette tapes. A seated cat, carved of stone and although small enough to fit in my hand, it has a weight that reminded me of times past. Everything seems to be made of plastic now, but she was solid.
Maybe I'm a hypocrite. All my talk of leaving the past in the past, and yet, ever since I found her, everywhere I go, she sits in my room. Silent guardian and watcher. Which is a comfort considering she's been more silent than ever these years, maybe she's dead.
Where do all the dead Gods go?
Bast. Her name sounds like a hiss or maybe a curse.
I remembered kneeling before a statue of her, it was taller than my mother and plated in gold that made it shine as a god should. But then maybe it wasn't gold, but simple paint; Child eyes make everything wonderful. She was a warrior goddess, but I always thought her eyes were kind, even if her claws were sharp. The priests burned incense constantly in the summer months to appeal to her, and you could buy a stick to take home in exchange for grain. The grain was for the goddess, but the priests were the ones that ate it. Still the incense seemed magical and I hide the one my mother bought me in the case that stored my kalasiris. When I opened the lid to dress in the morning, her scent would overcome me.
In my weaker moments, I've wished to smell it again.
You see the flaw of course. It's easy to move on from clothes that don't fit, to toss aside orange polka dot sweaters. But, even for me, some things stay and follow you through the centuries.
I situated the small cat on the middle of my dresser. If there were proper prayers I have forgotten them. Perhaps I never knew them. She was the goddess of my mother's people, and 'mother' is something that I only knew briefly. My father favored Jupiter, choosing the deity of Rome as a link to his home, a place outside the sand and heat that I grew up in. His first son, Marius, prays to Mars, god of war and courage. Marcus, the second son...he found his solace elsewhere.
But I didn't like to think of them now. You'd think the memories would be foggy and misplaced, hidden underneath the ages that have swept between us and that time. And while so much has been lost, forgotten, cast aside— somehow those first memories still hold.
So I am a hypocrite. Move on. It's a weak attempt at bravery, an attempt at being stronger than the little girl I was all that time ago. But here, alone with the Winters, I might actually have a chance to give it a try. An attempt to really flow with time rather than stand against it.
Because time is wearing me away, like the water that wears away the stone.
It really is time to move on.
School is pointless.
I was reminded of this fact as I sat in my new history class and attempted not to fall asleep. They were teaching the American Civil War, and the stories they were telling were mostly wrong or flawed in some way. Or so I assumed, in my experience people never got history quite right.
Our teacher was talking about war and death. He knew the numbers of people who had died, but he didn't know war. It was so far away from them, this war when people had died, and they had died so very long ago. I suddenly saw a boy's face in my head, he was on a dirty bed sheet and I was trying my best to keep the flies from landing on his face. He was delirious with fever and he kept trying to remember a song his mother had sang to him, it was an old Hungarian tune. I had tried to sing it, but my throat was dry and the words wouldn't form. He died and I tried to feel an emotion other than jealousy.
I couldn't remember his name, if I ever knew it, but his face in those last moments still lingered.
"And Sherman marched eastward finally ending his march–"
The dying boy was gone from my mind, even if the stink still hung in front of my nose like a tangible thing. I tried to at least look alert while our teacher prattled on about things he didn't understand, I didn't see how the other teenagers were managing it.
My gaze slid to the blonde boy who had introduced himself eagerly at the start of class. His blue eyes had widened a bit when he saw me, some anticipation in that expression. He was friendly, maybe overly so and my cluelessness and awkwardness had been misinterpreted as being aloof and cool. Cool, what a strange term to express popularity.
A blonde girl, who suits him better than I do, is irritated by his shift in attention. And I couldn't say I blamed her.
She slid a note across my desk.
Aren't boys sooo obvious, it's like Kindergarten and you're the shiny new toy.
I crumpled the note and nodded my agreement. But I really didn't understand her or the boy and I wished lunch would be soon. I was hungry and the flaky pieces of cereal I'd eaten this morning were a pale substitute for what breakfast should be.
"And Sherman later—"
How are they standing this? I buried my head in my hands.
Of course not many of the students at Forks High looked as if they got up at five to tend to an invalid and do a load of laundry before coming to school. They seemed odd from my perspective, youth is so sheltered now. Only a couple hundred years ago most of these girls would have been married and raising their own children. But presently they are given this title of teenager, an extension on the innocence of childhood.
Although innocence may be pushing it if the couple I saw necking in a blue van this morning is any indication.
It was harder to stay awake today without the fear of being called on. Teachers always dismiss you the first day. I was certain that somewhere attached to my transcripts was the title 'Foster Child'. They'd pressure me even less. People usually imagine a colorful past to go with that term. They'll wonder if my parents were drug addicts, or maybe my father was a little too friendly. It's easier to say they beat me; no one really wants to pry after that.
But of course, they didn't.
The parents I had this time around were good people. I was their third child, and I was welcomed into their loving little brood with the kind of warmth that always lulls me and makes me want to stay. But I wasn't the child they'd hoped for. Odd how they still loved me. Officially it probably says somewhere that I was kidnapped and the case is still open. But they were German and countries never seem to share records well.
I wasn't kidnapped, I was reclaimed. Taken back by my older family, folded back into the niche that has held me for centuries. We left Germany for Sweden, smuggled out on a steamer and ended up in South America. Over the last seven years or so we ventured upward, at times tracking and hunting, and other times running for our lives.
Not that our lives mean much.
Maybe I'd still be running with them if we hadn't gone to Kelso. It had appeared to be a harmless little bit of tracking at the time, how were we to know that we'd become the prey? When the police pulled me out of that bloody building they probably figured I was too traumatized to remember what had happened. If I'd told them the truth, they might never have let me out of that hospital.
After all, the horror that made one young policemen loose his lunch didn't even make my 'top ten gruesome scenes' list. Some other file somewhere probably said I have survivor's guilt or maybe PTSD but it's really relief and the chance to spend a few quiet years before I have to go back to them again.
A bell rang and everyone rose to their feet like cattle, I slipped into the heard feeling oddly soothed by the rhythm of feet on tile and the murmur of voices.
The blonde boy tried to catch my eye and I ducked into a girl's bathroom. It was filled with a row of fake blondes reapplying make-up, gathered about the mirror with their lipsticks and mascara. They were talking about gossip and I hid in a stall when I realized I was part of the latest news. They must not get many new topics here, not if I'm drawing attention.
Such strange creatures. And then I had to wonder if I seemed strange to them, I wish I had some way of knowing. I didn't really want to be different. I actually really wanted to fit in, blending in so seamlessly that I became part of the background.
I couldn't help but wonder what the other twelve would think if they saw me here. Acting like I'm one of these students, just another blank soul embracing existence for the first time. But then, I knew what they would say, after so long I've practically memorized the way their hearts beat.
They'd be disappointed, shamed that I've seemingly given up and decided to live without them. But not surprised. Suicide should have been the next step in the protocol that governs our existence. But it always was so pathetic. And despite what they may continue to hope for, there is no breaking the curse, I've come to terms with that. We're stuck in this endless cycle, Marius's oath sealed us this way.
Marius, closer to me than anyone else and also just as far, I can feel him somewhere. I just have to close my eyes and it feels as if he's next to me. I could find him if I wanted to. But I never have, he's the one who seeks me out. When he's old enough he'll find us all and drag us back to his foolish crusade, and I'll be forced to go.
So it wasn't too much of a sin to want to live here now, to embrace this normal life and pretend that the violent echoes of my past don't haunt me.
I'm hungry, I leave the bathroom when the noise level dropped some, I slipped back into the hall. I made it to the cafeteria without much notice. The Winters gave me some money for a school lunch and I waited in line. The boy in front of me kept glancing at me from the sides of his eyes, but I didn't turn to speak with him. He's taller than me by a head, and his dark hair is a little on the greasy side. Or maybe it's that hair gel that even boys use now. I stared blankly at the food that is sitting under heat lamps, it looked unappetizing.
Greasy Pizza?
Maybe I'll stick with the salad bar.
It was then that I noticed them.
And the instant I did alarm bells rang in my head, my steps froze and the blood that flowed through my veins stopped. Everything seemed to stop, my heart, my breathing, even the room itself slowed down to an unnatural pace. I was stuck staring at them across the room and wondering why I hadn't sensed them sooner.
They were beautiful, glacial skin and smooth features. I knew they were even more beautiful in the sunlight, when the sun reflects off their skin shooting motes of light into the air, just like diamonds. They smelled even better, like a twisted mixture of all your favorite scents. I knew what it was like to feel their cool skin pressed close, the hardness and the unbreakableness of them.
I knew what it was like to have their unnaturally white teeth settle at your neck, rip through flesh and drink your life away as your fingers go numb and your vision goes dark.
After time stops, it always speeds up again; extra fast, as if it needs to catch up.
I dropped my tray at a table and turned, I left the cafeteria and my feet started running as soon as I was out of the room. I was sprinting through the halls, people watched me as I went but I couldn't slow down. My speed was fueled by panic, I was running so fast my brown hair came loose from the clips that secured it and flew in the open air as I exited the building.
I was in the yard and I chanced looking back for the first time. My heart was screaming in my chest and my legs were stiff but I couldn't stop, I kept running even as my hair blocked my vision.
They weren't following me but I couldn't stop.
I was off the school grounds and running through the small neighborhoods that surround the school before my pace slowed. I stopped next to a red mail box and tried to breathe even when my lungs felt ready to burst. I bent at the waist, clutching my knees and closing my eyes.
I was shaking.
But wasn't fear, I realized this only then. I should be afraid, I should be terrified. There is a clan of them here. Five of them. And only me.
But I wasn't afraid. I was furious. Why are they here, why now when I have a chance to live a life away from my family? It's been decades since Marius and I have been separated by this much time; how long has it been since I've had the chance to live my life alone?— I have to think hard to remember. The first peace since 1830, when I lived for several years in a Chinese village high in the mountains.
And I wanted this!
I wanted to live here in Forks, to go to school, I wanted to pretend that I knew nothing of them.
Vampires.
But that is a modern word. In a world where they are romanticized, and loved. In the early times they were considered demons. In India they were called Vetalas, those who inhabit corpses and drink blood. In Africa the Asanbosam and the Adze who hunts children. They knew to fear them then. They knew of dark things that drank blood and the people were wise and feared them.
But they were also called gods. And worshiped. And fed.
I breathed deeply. I know I can't fight them, it's like trying to fight a tank or a bulldozer. I was alone and the only skills I had at my disposal would only slow the time until they attacked and bled me dry.
Move on.
There's a state road that goes out of town only a few miles from here. I could get there and hitch a ride. Sure, there is a reason why they tell teenage girls not to hitchhike, but the humans I meet can't be any more dangerous than what I'm leaving behind. But I should go to the Winters's house first and get my things. I'll want some clean clothes and a little food, and my statue.
I could only hope I was out of Washington by nightfall, I'd hate to have to be dragged back. And it's not as if I can tell them I decided against Forks because the town is overrun with vampires.
But where will you go?
I stared blankly at the red mailbox. It read 343, and no doubt the numbers mean something to someone somewhere. A home, a place where you can never be turned away, a place where they have to take you in. But when you've got no place to go, no home, when your last chance at normal just failed you...where do you go?
Move on.
But to where? My handy guide to life falls short of answering that question. This was me moving on, this was me carving out a different life. Forks was my shot at a few years of peace away from Marius's dogged crusade. After high school I could shed the skin of a teenager and be an adult with an open world. Maybe I'd even go to college. I snort at the irony of me in college.
Move On.
I know.
Move On.
I was angry, I was still fuming. I'd finally found something that worked. Why do I have to leave? I wasn't completely helpless. Marius and I, we'd found tricks over the years. There was no reason I couldn't slip under their radar. After all, I'm at a school with hundreds of other young and tasty bloods. I could stay here, just for a year. I just need to avoid them, it couldn't be that hard.
MOVE ON
I really am a hypocrite. Because like it or not, and come what may, Forks is where I plan to stay.
A/N: As I hope you can see, this is going to be a very different retelling of the original Myers novel "Twilight". If you're devoted to cannon, this story will throw a wrench in some plot points, but ultimately it is still a love story. I originally started working on this story in my spare time as a way to develop my first person perspective, and eventually completed a story that is over 150 pages. It's been sitting on my hard drive...and tonight I decided to publish it. Whether it is good or bad, ultimately it is for the reader to decide.