A/N. Hi everyone. This is my first fanfic so please review and stuff to let me know how I'm doing and how I can improve. The story is basically as it says in the summary. Don't expect Edward to come too soon, though, as I want you to get to know Bella first.

ALL CHARACTERS, ETC, BELONG TO STEPHANIE MEYER. I DON'T OWN ANYTHING.

Chapter 1: Answer Back

Staring in the mirror, I held my breath as I attempted to staunch the bleeding. Regardless of the amount of times I was forced to take care of these wounds, the smell of blood still made me nauseous and dizzy. I heard the front door slam downstairs, and only then could I rinse the cloth now saturated with blood. As I brought the now dripping cloth back up to my face, the world's edges turned black and the room began to spin. Disorientated, I placed my palm on the cool face of the tiled wall. It left a crimson handprint. This then disappeared as my vision failed, and I collapsed to the floor as the darkness engulfed the familiar scene.

Waking up, I gradually became aware of the cold, hard tiles pressing into my spine and my new bruises. As experience had taught me, I kept my eyes closed and breathing even while I investigated my surroundings and tried to remember what happened. From the tiles on my back I knew that I was laying face up on the bathroom floor, and I realised that my feet were facing the door, as I could feel the surface of the bath with my left hand. This meant that the sink was on my right. Then as that reasoning passed, I remembered with a jolt what I was doing in the bathroom. The house seemed quiet, so I slowly opened my eyes. The ceiling spun as I blinked a couple of times, but then my vision cleared. Wincing slightly, I lifted my left hand to my face and felt the dried blood. Gently I eased myself up to sitting position, and then stood up to examine the damage in the mirror. A busted nose was not a serious injury for most people, even less to me, but that didn't mean it was painless. As for all the bruises, they were mild by James' standards. The cloth was still wet and I dabbed at the congealed blood around my nose and what remained of its earlier path down to my chin. Making sure I held my breath, I wiped my face clean, and then turned my attention to the room.

The stench of bleach was so strong in the bathroom that I made my way to my bedroom. It was exactly the way it was when I left to go to the sink: bed cover creased from being sat on, a couple of precious ornaments smashed and a now dried blood stain on the carpet. Just seeing the mess made my breathing quicken and hearing sharper as I made sure that he had gone. Crouching down, I examined a broken china doll. The tears fell unhindered as I collected the shattered pieces of my Dad's final present to me.

"Don't cry at my funeral, darling," my Dad whispered in my ear as I wept beside the hospital gurney.

"Dad, you know I will. Who ever heard of a girl who didn't cry at her own father's funeral?" But by saying that word – funeral – the fragile barriers I had built whilst visiting him for the final time collapsed into ruins, and my sobs escaped.

He hugged me closer as his eyes watered as well. I still don't know if he knew that I realised that he was weeping whilst cradling my head against his chest, but I never let on. He had been so strong, so dependable, always the parent I would turn to when I needed help or advice. The cancer, though, had made him an invalid, a prisoner in his own body, and now he was in the final stages of a slow and very painful death. Nobody knew that it was killing a part of me as well.

"Shh," he breathed, but it made him choke and cough loudly. This in turn made my heart wrench. The nurse checked on him, but he signalled for her to leave us a minute. He pressed the doll into my hands as my sobs gradually died down. "Just promise me you will do what you have the potential to do. Aim high. Try hard with everything, don't repeat my mistakes."

He smiled weakly as I nodded into his chest. "Hey, you'll always be my little girl, you know that. Everything's going to be okay, honey. Everything will be okay."

Even then I knew that it was a lie.

His words reverberated around the hollow room as I cleared up the mess. "You'll always be my little girl." That's what James sometimes called me: his girl, his bird. I hated those words. They were so derogatory, as if I was a pet. His pet. But I would never, ever belong to him. Soon I would escape; as soon as I leave for college, I can escape from his clutches. I have my future all planned out; all I have to do is study hard enough and the dreams will come true. My father's final wish will become a reality.

My eyes swam with tears as I dropped the individual pieces of each ornament into the bin. I tried to reason with myself, to pull myself together: it isn't the presents that are important, it's the memories. And they are out of his reach.

A car pulled up in the drive, and I felt my heartbeat spike until a peek through my window told me it was Renee, my Mom. Quickly I dried my eyes, took a last glance around my room and checked my cover-up in the mirror. Last night's bruise, now turning a yellow colour, didn't show above my left eye. My nose, now free from blood, just looked a bit swollen. I could laugh it off: I had played volleyball in gym today, and it was easy to get a whack on the nose by the ball. Well, it was for me anyway. I plastered my fake smile onto my face as I descended the stairs.

It was just trivial chat over dinner. I managed to avoid the subject of James, just telling her that I got hit by the ball.

"Aw sweetie, you need to be more careful." she had said. It was just me who knew how true that was: never again would I answer back to James.

I was studying at my desk, and he was flicking through my favourite book, Wuthering Heights.

"Come on," he had wined, "Your place is so boring. Let's go back to mine, we can do so much more." But I had known that my house wasn't boring, we were simply expecting Renee back from work any minute. And the only thing we would be doing at his place would involve a guilt trip and pressuring me into things that I didn't feel ready for. That was all that ever happened at his place; it always ended in an argument, and you don't argue with James without consequences.

"No, I can't James. I have a biology test tomorrow." I replied, looking up from my notes.

"What did you just say to me?"

I took a deep breath: I knew what was coming, but I also knew I had to study. I needed this biology grade. "I said, no, James. I need to study." I dropped my gaze back to the papers in front of me. I didn't see him get off the bed.

He grabbed my hair and pulled it so I was forced to get to my feet and face him. Yanking my head back even further, he leant his head close to mine. "Never. Answer. Me. Back. Again. Isabella. Is that clear?!" His breath was warm and he spat on my cheek when he yelled. I screwed my eyes up as the pain became too much: I had promised myself a long time ago that he would never make me plead, or beg. He would never see me cry. "Answer me you bitch! Is that clear?"

He let go of my hair and grabbed the tops of my arms instead. I could feel the bruises forming already: individual hand marks with recognisable finger shadows. But still, I blocked out the pain. I opened my eyes and craned my neck so I could look him in the eye. "Yes that's clear. I got it, thanks."

Then the next thing I felt was his fist collide with my nose. I felt the blood drip and the fire start in my face, but I remained quiet and still stared him in the eyes. Obviously he had heard the sarcasm. "You'll pay for that you whore. You ungrateful bitch." He reached for the nearest ornament, my china doll, and slammed it against the floor. This was preceded by a couple of others, before he swung his fist into my stomach. Winded, I dropped to my knees. Then he aimed kicks at my stomach and legs. I instinctively curled into a foetal position to attempt to protect myself from this onslaught, but still didn't utter a sound. Eventually he stopped as his phone rang. Without saying a word to me, and not before stamping on my leg one last time, he left the room to answer it. I listened for a second to make sure he had gone, and then slowly stretched my body out, wincing. Despite the searing pain, I grinned briefly: I hadn't shown him just how much he had hurt me.

As I dragged myself to the bathroom though, the tears very nearly overflowed. I love James. I always had done, from the moment I saw him in eighth grade. When I was new and scared, he was the only person who talked to me. He was friendly and funny. How had he changed so dramatically? Who the hell is he now?

A/N. Thanks for reading, hope you like it. Please review to say whether you think it's worth carrying on with or not. :D