This was written for "The Life and Times of Bree Tanner" challenge on Project Team Beta.

Thanks to Drummer110010101 and justaskalice for beta'ing at ProjectTeamBeta(dot)com! If anyone wants to be a beta or if you're writing without a beta, go to that site because it'll help you loads!

I ran. It was something that came so naturally to me, so familiar; I barely felt any burn in my legs as my feet slapped against the cold pavement. No one paid attention to me, the bruised girl who looked like she broke out of a psych ward.

They shied away from me like I was covered in slime, or filth on their bathroom floors. I didn't cry. I had run dry of tears by age twelve. And now, a year later, I was breaking away.

I didn't want to have to stare into my father's cruel face anymore and see the pure hatred, hear the terrible insults as he punched me all over, again and again. I bit my lip to keep my dry throat from choking in protest.

I needed water, and I slowed as I cast a glance around the area, craning my neck to look around. Suddenly, my petite body slammed into someone else's and I froze, cowering as I stared at the man in front of me.

He had a forbidding face and was very tall… I winced and then whimpered as my father's face flashed through my brain. The glared at me with annoyance, scowling, a look given to me by my dad every day, although there was less hatred in the look of this man.

With an impatient grunt, the man shoved me aside like I was a rag doll. I flushed, staring at his retreating back, shame welling in me at the sight of him.

Ugh, shame! I hated it; I hated feeling like a worthless piece of crap because of everything he said to me! I pounded my fist to my leg in frustration, trying to wipe away the searing anger flashing through me and the miserable defeat at the same time.

He had finally kicked me out. I knew that he'd been trying to make me leave him alone ever since mom had… left. He blamed the whole ordeal on me; he actually blamed everything on me! From his continuous inability to pay the bills to his alcoholic tendencies, I was the cause of it all.

I was stupid enough to call him on it when he got home a couple days ago. His rage was irrepressible and I found myself unable to move after he was satisfied enough to move on to his beer and television.

I lay on my bed for three days, staring at the ceiling. Not moving or speaking, I closed my eyes and slept, trying to erase the pain in my dreams. Even then, monsters with my dad's ugly face formed. They chanted, over and over, the same words, 'Your fault! Your fault! YOUR FAULT!'

I had softly touched my hand to my cheek imagining it was my mother's, whispering to me that it'd be okay, that she would come back and rescue me. My stomach twisted sharply. She promised, and she never did. Not once did I see her in six and a half years.

It was after he left for work today that the idea to run away possessed me, my every thought consumed with the possibility of leaving my bastard father behind. And I battled myself the whole day, walking around my childhood prison in a zombie-like state.

And then, my mind had reeled as I realized if I didn't get out soon, he would kill me. I heard my dad's car at the same time, the tires squealing as he screeched into the driveway. My heart rate had quickened as I looked at the clock; it was only one o'clock.

That could only mean one thing: my dad had been fired again. Putrid fear had snaked its way to my body until adrenaline took over. I heard his car door slam shut, and his boots on the step. The door opened… and I ran.

His fist swung out to get me as I shoved him out of the way in the threshold, but I was too quick this time, ducking out just in time. I didn't pause as I tore away, knowing that he wouldn't bother to follow me.

I came back to the crowded Seattle sidewalk, getting pushed and shoved by busy and hurried men and women. Yet, I felt so free. I was going to live a tough life, possibly a short one, but I was sure I would not let myself get murdered at the hands of my father.

I pressed my knuckles together, cracking them before setting off again. I wish I'd gone before my father could get home, so I would have been able to grab some shoes. My toes were freezing, and my feet were stinging and sore from no protection.

I swallowed before setting off to find a shoe store, my intent to steal a pair of sneakers. I passed a mall that was sure to have a couple, but I knew that if I managed to get out of the store itself, there would be a million other people between me and the door.

Finally, I stopped in front of a new-looking place called 'Fab Feet' and pushed the door open. The comfortable warmth hit me like a ton of bricks, and I squirmed, not used to feeling so nice. My dad wasn't able to pay for air conditioning or heat, so I had to fend for myself to stay warm or cool.

A lady behind the counter smiled prettily at me as I blinked at her. Before she could open her mouth, I ducked behind a shelf, making my way to the back where the woman's shoes were. I bent down, picking a box at random with my size stamped on the front, making sure I was out of the woman's view.

And then, with surprising speed, I tugged them on. I prayed that she hadn't looked at my feet. As I stood up, placing the box back noisily on the shelf, I tried to make it seem like I hadn't done anything but gaze at the shoes.

I chewed on my bottom lip, flipping my hair as I pretended to look at different kinds of shoes. My heart pounded in my chest with dull thuds as I picked up a box, fumbling slightly as it slipped an inch, my palms sweaty.

I sighed loudly, putting it back on the shelf with a dull thud. I glided towards the door, trying not to sprint out as I pinched myself. Five steps away, my breath caught, four steps and my heart went into overdrive, three, and then two… sweat pricked on the back of my neck and my hair felt heavy and hot on my head.

I took the final step, was in the doorway… and a blazingly loud alarm rang shrill through the store, making me jump and emit a small squeak of fear. I looked back wildly at the lady who looked nice before, but was now charging at me with a face worthy of my dad's.

And once more, I began to run. My new shoes increased my speed tenfold, and I was blocks away in no time, glancing over my shoulder in a frightened way. She was nowhere in sight, and I stopped to let my breathing to go back to normal, leaning against the wall of a greasy looking restaurant.

I shuddered, wondering what my mother would say if she knew that I, Bree Tanner, had stolen a pair of shoes… and gotten away with it. The thought sent a jolt of excitement through me, making me smile and laugh, holding my head high as I set off again.

I needed water and food next, so I glanced around, searching. A hotdog vendor caught my eye as he fried the things. Who knew what they were made of, but I had to get something. I walked closer, grinding my teeth against the slightly rotten smell that was coming from the greasy man behind the cooking meat.

I nodded slightly at him as I studied the small menu pasted on the front of the cart. He made no signs that he noticed I had approached. I counted silently to three in my head before whipping my hand out quick as I could, and then his hand was coming closer and closer to mine. My fingers closed around the hotdog and I started pulling it up.

But his hand was there before I could, suddenly pressing it down onto the searing hot grill. I cried out in pain as he pressed it harder onto the surface, desperately attempting to make him let go. Tears fell down my cheek as he continued to relentlessly push.

My hand was getting numb, the pain was so awful. My knees knocked together as he finally pulled up, staring at me with a smirk as I pulled my hand, the hotdog clutched in it, away. I held it to my chest tenderly, whimpering with pain.

I looked into his gray eyes and they seemed to scream that that was the payment I was to give him, my pain. I backed up a few paces before turning and sprinting away. I collapsed onto the ground outside of the mall I passed earlier, sobbing in agony as my hand throbbed.

I rocked back and forth, tears leaking in desperation at the excruciating pain. Whimpering still, I shoved the hotdog in mouth, cringing when I realized it was only half cooked and rubbery. Shakily, I got up still clutching my hand to my chest.

I weaved through the crowds of people towards the bathroom, rushing before collapsing on the floor, pressing my cheek to the cool tile. I didn't care who had trodden on it or where it came from, just that it made me feel better.

My stomach churned randomly, making me gag. Feet danced around me like I was an infected slug, too disgusting to touch. It seemed like hours had passed before a toe prodded me roughly, as if it was checking to see if I was dead.

I coughed feebly, attempting to ignore the queasiness in my stomach and the burn on my hand. I bit my lip as I sat up, clumsily getting to my feet. The toe prodder was nowhere in sight, and I let out a moan of frustration. I was in a shady part of town, where everybody kept to their own business. No wonder no one had offered to help me.

That also explained the hot dog man, so cruel and heartless, not even speaking to me.

I clutched the rim of the sink as my stomach lurched dangerously, making bile rise in my throat. It rose, causing me to spew the hotdog all over the basin. I closed my eyes, breathing heavily.

I wiped my mouth with my good hand, at least glad that my stomach was no longer heaving. I pushed the door open, looking around in uncertainty.

Where was I going to go next? How would I be able to survive in this world, where a man would burn a thirteen year old girl's hand to the point of numbness? My throat closed as tears threatened to spill over.

I had to get out of there.

I walked as fast as I could away from the bathroom, escaping out the main door and rushing outside. The cool air was familiar and I reveled in it, letting my lungs fill with air, and then let go.

I slowed, and then stepped onto the curb. My feet were halfway off, and I hobbled dangerously. I inhaled, focusing on keeping balance as I spread my arms out, my burnt hand lolling limply off my wrist.

I started walking. Slowly at first, and then I put one foot in front of the other faster, making me speed along, ignoring the people probably sending me weird looks, or eye rolls. I wouldn't know if they did, because I didn't bother to look. I stayed firmly on the curb, making no move to fall into the street or stumble back to the sidewalk.

I breathed in, and then out, and in and out again. I closed my eyes, trusting my feet and my balance to guide me along.

Finally, I stopped. I stepped into the end of an alley, glancing down uneasily to check if anyone was there. With relief, I stepped inside, swiftly looking at my surroundings. Pausing only a second, I pulled a door open to reveal a dirty hallway filled with rags. There was another door leading to God knows where, but I ignored that.

I gathered all the rags I could find together, arranging them into a lump I could put my head on. I only left out a few with a strange, goopy brown stuff on it. It had turned crusty and smelled faintly like puke.

I let the sound of my own breathing calm my raging fears and lull me to sleep.

For the first time in a long time, I didn't wake until morning. Unfortunately, that was to a woman screaming at the top of her lungs. I shrieked, hopping to my feet and blushing profusely. I opened my mouth to apologize, but she hissed before grabbing my arm roughly and pushing me out the door.

I stumbled before pulling myself up, and she stared at me menacingly. Then, shaking her head at my lack of response, she spat on me.

It felt like I was getting slapped on the face as her saliva hit me, falling down my cheek slowly. I was too stunned to stop her before she let the door fall shut behind her, effectively throwing me out.

Tears stung my eyes and I furiously wiped them away, disbelieving. I remembered when I was tiny, before things fell apart, and my mom took me shopping. I had looked at the homeless people and felt disgusted, like they weren't worthy of anything. Would I have spat on them? If I had seen myself, would I want to spit on me?

It hit me like a ton of bricks; I was someone who might as well have been covered in garbage bags, since I was sleeping on rags and stealing hot dogs. My hand was still throbbing, and I was pretty sure my arm was now bruised because of the woman's vice-like grip.

Miserably, I walked along, my feet dragging behind me. I didn't really think about where I was going, but I ended up standing in front of the mall I'd thrown up in the other day. Hesitantly, I walked in again. I looked around, and immediately a bookstore caught my eye.

Reading was my only escape from the world I lived in; I could go into another person's head and follow them on their adventures or journeys. I strolled along the aisles, glancing at different titles and authors until finally picking one I liked the most and making my way to the café.

It turned out to be a bad idea. The aromas were delicious and my stomach turned over at the mouth-watering scents, longingly aching and grumbling. Someone glanced up from their own book to glare at my noisy stomach, and I blushed. I stared at the book, attempting to take in the words but my concentration was off, making it impossible.

As my stomach gave an enormous roar, someone plopped into the seat across from me. I stared at him in incredulity as he took the three books in his arms and let them fall on the table, spreading them out and staring at the covers as if trying to burn them into his eyes.

I expected him to look up, and notice I was here, but he didn't. I waited for a few moments, before clearing my throat. He glanced up, gave me a half smile, and then reached into his back pocket, removing a notebook.

I raised an eyebrow while he scribbled something on the paper, and then shoved it in my face. I looked at him, uncertain what to do. He motioned furiously for me to take it, so I cautiously pinched the corner with my thumb and forefinger.

I stared at him for a second before bending my head to read the note, which stated: Hello, I'm Scott. I'm a mute, so that's why I'm not talking. I'm fifteen, and you look like you're some runaway twelve-year old, I was worried about you, cause I'm stupid like that. Call me dumb or stupid or retarded and I won't give a shit about you anymore, cause I'm not gonna take that. So yeah, write your reply because I am completely deaf in one ear and 50% in another. Sucks, I know.

Surprise coursed through me as I looked back up at him. What did he mean he was worried about me? Suspicion replaced surprise as I looked him up and down.

Finally, I bent down and started writing: Look, I don't know who you are! How the heck do I know I can trust you?

He studied my note carefully before laughing, and a little bit of irritation sparked in me. He handed me back his reply and I read: You don't know you can trust me, little one. I like you already. Want something to eat? I'm gonna go get a brownie, but I guess you might want some breakfast?

I still didn't like him, but I hadn't eaten anything (without throwing it back up) for four days… my father didn't always supply food, and I sometimes starved.

I hastily scribbled back my answer, and he flashed me a small grin before standing up and making his way to the counter. He was tall with sandy, ruffled hair crowning his head. I noticed his bright blue eyes right away, and the way he smiled… two small dimples stood out.

When he came back, he had two steaming mugs of coffee and a plate with four brownies on it, all covered with ice cream. I felt my eyes widen when he let a fork fall into my hand, and then he placed the mugs down. He started writing as I began shoving food in my mouth, not even embarrassed at my terrible manners.

He pushed the paper across the table, and I immediately peered at his message: There you go. I hope you like chocolate. I didn't bother with breakfast food, because what food is better than brownies? Anyway, I'd love to know your name, if you have one. Sometimes people don't have names, although they may be lying to me… I can never tell.

I giggled a little at Scott's words and started writing back: My name is Bree. I don't know why you're so interested in me, though, I'm nothing special. He almost rolled his eyes when he read my message, and I took a sip of the coffee with narrowed eyes.

I'm interested in you because you look like a runaway… yes; I believe I told you that already. Whenever I see someone like you, I make it my mission to help them! I blushed when I read his next message, and then frowned.

I wrote: Well, sorry to disappoint, because I'm not going to go back to my dad. I wasn't going to give this guy any details… at all.

Scott frowned and then started writing. He wrote a very short message this time, only three words: Are you sure? I paused, and then nodded my consent. Sighing, he began writing again.

And you don't want any of my help, at all? I shook my head again, and he looked at me in a disappointed sort of way, before gathering up his books and standing.

I watched him sadly as he walked away, leaving me and the food behind. I caught his shoulder, and he scribbled another hasty message to me before ripping it out, and going again. I read the words quickly: If you don't want any help, I'm wasting my time with you.

The words stung, but I didn't stop him again. I slowly sat back at the table, beginning to pick at the brownies again. I was going to be fine… but I couldn't trust anyone anymore. I had to accept one thing: I was in this alone.