Yes! A re-write! I am as surprised as many of you (I assume). This is very rough, and has gone without BETA'ing. Enjoy, please :)

X-x-Twilight-x-X

I hate school.

I hate lots of things, actually. My new foster family. My old foster family. All foster families I had stayed with for the past four years of my life. I hate the stupid foster home. And I hate the carers, with their expressions of faux pity.

Who do they think they're kidding? It's not like they care.

I hate Phoenix. I hate Seattle. I hate Michigan, Chicago and New York. In fact, I hate all places that I have resided in or will do so in the near future.

I hate day. I hate night. I hate heat. I hate cold. I hate my father.

But I won't go into that.

I hate sympathetic Claire, who is driving me to my newest hellhole… I mean, location of my most recent foster family. Fools. I hate the stupid hand-me-down clothes that all seem to be at least two sizes too big for me. I hate the fact that I'm starving, and that I haven't eaten in over twenty-four hours, and I hate that, even if I could get my hands on something to eat, I would probably just throw it back up again right away.

I hate this shiny, new car and the shiny, new car smell that overwhelms me and makes me want to chuck. I hate how my hair was scrubbed, so I would look clean and at least halfway presentable. I hate how it still stinks with the odious shampoo the foster home uses to cure and prevent lice.

I hate how my eyes burn, threatening to spill over with tears. The only thing holding the floodgates closed is my sheer determination, defiance, and desire to stick it to 'the man'.

I hate my pale skin that makes me an oddity wherever I go. I hate my face, which just seems to invite boys to hit on me constantly. I hate the mothers that coo over how 'pretty' I am, and the children that want the 'pretty' girl to be their newest play-toy.

I hate the fathers that want the same thing.

And I hate, hate, HATE Forks.

Little. Miserable. Wet. Three great ways to sum up Forks. I've got a better way, though. One word;

Hell.

I stare out the window aimlessly as Claire twitters on. I wish she would just concentrate on her damn driving; in addition to having the shortest attention span known to man (and the world's most ridiculous hairstyle), Claire also has the worst sense of direction. Ever. I have yet to come across someone who's navigational skills are even half as bad.

So, as it stands, the next few hours of my life look grim. Either the combination of Claire's inattentiveness and the heavy rain will cause us to crash, leading to a somewhat horrible death, or we will arrive three hours later than expected, by which I probably would have killed myself, instead of having to listen to the inane chatter coming from the front seat. Oh, joy.

I think I'd prefer the first one, actually. I mean, both will result in death, but at least the first would be without the endless torture that is known as conversation. Jesus.

Besides, it's not as if I have anything to live for any more.

Every now and then, I hear a random snippet of information pertaining to my 'new, exciting life!'. So far, I have learnt that my presence will make the total number of students at the local school a… not-so-round three hundred and fifty-eight. My 'family' includes at least one other teenager going into the junior class of Forks High, and more kids, too. Apparently, they have already fostered at least two children, and I have been assured that they are all eager to meet me.

Huh. I wonder how long that will last.

It seems to be a pity, the fact that, if I was not such a hopeless screw-up when it comes to behaving, I would be the golden child of the foster-care system. A pretty, slender young woman, in good health, with soft looks and shy ways.

That's the illusion the carers seem to be under. I know better.

I might have been like that, right at the beginning. Back in the first few homes. The parents were nice to me, but I was too miserable to appreciate it. Too caught up in my own loss.

The later homes they put me in, I blame them for destroying me. For months and months, I found myself stuck in the care of families who should not have even passed the initial inspection.

As if I wasn't already damaged from before.

That's another factor of why the system so desperately wants to display me as a success. Most kids have it bad, right? I mean, physical abuse and neglect are the main reasons kids end up in care.

Apparently, my psychological issues trump most others.

Claire continues on, but I keep ignoring her. Instead, I feign sleep, but for miles and miles, my mind is too restless. It's much later that I finally fall into a deep slumber, blissfully dreamless, but not before a thought snakes through, dripping cold malice and trepidation.

How the hell have they managed to forget that this was where I lived before?

X-x-Twilight-x-X

Claire's squeal of happiness is what wakes me. It's still raining, but we've stopped, so I assume this is the site of my new 'family'. Oh, joy.

True to form, Claire has got me here a stunning two hours and forty-three minutes later than the ETA. Even though I'm slightly disappointed we didn't crash, I am hopeful that my incredible lateness will be the first in many ventures that will antagonise my foster parents to breaking point.

They all seem to follow a schedule. First off, they are sickly sweet, ask too many invasive questions but it's okay if you don't answer. At this stage they want to get to know you a bit. The first time you screw up, they are sad and 'disappointed', but they forgive you almost immediately.

Next, they start expecting a response. They want compliments on their food, home and family, and they want you to be good at everything. They want you to answer every little question they come up with, without fail. When you get in trouble at this point, they punish you, but lightly.

Then they get pissed. When they say jump, you had better reach the stars, or they yell, and scream, and punish you for long hours at a time. You're always in trouble at this point, so it doesn't seem to be any different when you do something bad.

Finally – this is normally the stage before I get the hell out of there, or they send me back – the violence begins. They are still trying to prove to themselves that they are good people for taking me in, and that they can be the wonderful foster parents who turn my life around. Yeah, right. So they're all polite again, like the first stage, but much more strained, more effort put into it. Then, with one word, it can all crash down like a house of cards, and they lash out (normally, a slap, or blow to the face).

They get all apologetic, but I know they'll do it again, next time. When they do, I show they that I give as good as I get. Then I am out of there.

Hallelujah.

As Claire rummaged around for a batter old umbrella (one that I'm pretty sure got left back in Seattle) I pulled my thin jacket a little tighter around me, pulled my little bag onto my back and stepped out into the rain.

Holy hell, it was cold! I resisted the urge to sprint for the nearest dry location (in this case, the house in front of me) and instead weathered it, shivering after a few minutes. I had spent most of my time at a foster home in Phoenix, and it still took me ages to adjust to cold weather.

Finally admitting defeat, Claire ran for cover, not even bothering to lock the car. I wasn't surprised; I doubt anyone would be stupid enough to a) believe they could steal stuff when they could barely see through rain, or, b) actually want to lift Claire's hole of a car. I know I wouldn't.

Yes, that's another one of my problems. I'm a bit of a kleptomaniac. Well, technically I only ever steal for necessity, but the psychologists reckon I do it to get a high.

Then again, those shrinks are idiots.

The door opens before Claire knocks, revealing my overeager new fake-parents. They must have been waiting right by the door. Impatient much?

I admit, I was taken aback by the expression of joy on their faces. I mean, wow. The expressions that I was used to included approval and one of great sacrifice – like they were martyrs for some great cause as opposed to carers for trouble children.

But these guys looked – oh, I don't know – happy to see me.

Weird.

Now, it's decision time. You see, the benefits of being taken back here, to Forks, is that I know where the hell I am. During my last night at the home, I had made a solemn promise to myself that I would get out of there ASAP, before anything could go wrong. I had a little money, and I knew that it would take a couple of days before the police finally caught up with me.

But now, my resolve was faltering, as I saw the silhouettes of my new family in the warm, welcoming light of the threshold. I could clearly see Claire's warning look, telling me to get the hell inside and stop misbehaving.

And I gotta admit, I was sorely tempted.

"You must be Bella," came the warm voice of my new 'mother'… but for some reason, I didn't feel like cringing away. Instead, I was drawn closer by the words that sounded like music to my ears. From this distance, I could just make out her smile.

She moved towards me, still smiling, uncaring that her smooth, wavy hair was getting soaked. Her face had such a maternal edge to it. "Welcome to our home."

X-x-Twilight-x-X

I would really love ANY criticism or comments you have, so review or PM me please, and I will try to respond to all of them.

Thanks, DAWEC