A/N: This was originally a story written two other times, but I never had the story. It went nowhere. Lucky for you guys, that's drastically changed.

That being said, I am well aware of a story known as 'No Holds Barred' and

1. No, I have not read it. I assume it's pretty awesome by the number of reviews. I'm not going to read it because I don't want it to seep into my own writing and plot.

2. No, it's not the same plot. Unless RochelleCO4 and I happen to share one brain, which we don't.

Now that we've gotten that out of the way...

WARNING: There's no love triangle and the core of the story isn't the romance itself. This is about a girl fucks up a lot for selfish reasons because she felt powerless in her life and wants more. This is about her career and what she's willing to do for it. No savior complexes, no damseling. No making the Bellas/Renee/any other females out as bitches. No perfectly sassy, 100% supportive Diva sidekicks. This isn't high school. These are inherently flawed characters that will be portrayed with as much depth as I can muster. Shaming is something I don't tolerate. The same goes for abuse.

Enjoy the revamped, edited version! 8D

Rewriting the Truth

by anarchxst

Prologue

Tap, tap, tap.

The clack of my keyboard as my fingers dancing across the keys was all I ever wanted in this world. That's what it was. Dancing. It was the type of dancing I could always follow. It had its own beat, its own rhythm. It followed any melody passed from my headphones to my ears. It was beautiful.

There are many different types of dances; that one just happened to be my favorite.

His was more…violent. Percussion formed from the crack of a chair at another man's back and the stomps of boots on canvas. The melody came in the wild roar of cheers, thousands at a time. It was a dance that only few could truly appreciate. A barbaric dance, but breathtaking if done right (if not a bit overly dramatic).

Even as my hands raced across my laptop keyboard, dancing in deft accuracy, I was still merely a writer.

He was dirty and foul mouthed, violent and full of rage. Gruff. Mean. Strange. Still, he made art. Hard, painful, gritty art. He didn't just create it, he became it. Maybe that line of thinking is where things went terribly wrong.

Ours was a dance full of missteps and awkward shuffling. My dance was slow and only for me – a solo never meant to become anything else, while his was impulsive and too close for my liking, always looking for a partner. But, when it worked…

Oh god, did it ever work.

Without each other, we would've had nothing.

Now, I hear that tap, tap, tap. My music.

I look to the television on my right as it flashes bright colors. An engine revs, vibrating my speakers. The crowd cheers, almost drowning out the music that starts. His music.

I can feel my stomach churn as I frown at the screen.

And the dance begins again.