AN: I DON'T TWILIGHT OR THE CHARACTERS, THEY BELONG TO SM. i just own my OCs.

I wake up in a cold sweat---a sharp, biting sensation stretches down the length of my spine and gives my fingers this tingly feeling. I pull the purple covers around my shoulders and my heart beats fast.

And noticing the ache in my fair skinned wrist.

I click the reading lamp on and look down at the spot. Another soon-to-be bruise—a giant red welt that covers the front of my wrist and wraps around to underside. So I grab my pen on my bedside and add another point to the tally I've been keeping for the past two weeks since I moved here—to make the sixth time this has happened.

SIX times.

SIX times that I've woken up with a sore spot on my body. Six times I found myself lying awake in my bed, way to terrified to fall back asleep. Because of the voice that haunts my dreams.

Ever since we moved to the gloomy town of Forks, Washington I've been having these weird nightmares. In them, I hear a male voice. I never see his face. It's just his voice, whispering things that I don't want to hear—that ghosts exist, that I need to listen to him, that he won't let me rest until I do.

Luckily, I'm able to force myself awake. But that's when he grips me—so hard it leaves a mark.

I know it sounds completely crazy and at first I tried to find some logical explanation—maybe I had twisted my arm the wrong way during the night; maybe I had banged my leg on the corner of my bed or rolled over into an awkward position. I tried telling myself that dreams were the result of stress—moving from sunny Phoenix, Arizona; of changing high schools and leaving al my friends behind. I mean, there's bound to be a period of adjustment, right?

But now I know that it's more than stress. Because, between the bruising and the aching, and the growling sacks underneath my brown eyes from the lack of sleep, I feel like things are getting worse.

"Bella?" my mother, Renee asks, standing by my bedroom door. "What are you doing up?" I bury my wrist in the mound of covers, noticing how the smell of him—spiced apple—still lingers in my sheets. "You were moaning in your sleep," She continues. I know that I sleep talk but this was getting really serious. I glance at the fire red numbers glowing in my digital alarm clock. Its 4:05 a.m. "Ehh a bad dream I guess," I say trying to shrug it off, I never was the best liar.

She nods and plays with the belt on her robe, just lingering there in the doorway, until she finally ventures the question: "You're not hearing voices again, are you?"

I study her face, wondering if she can handle the answer, but then decides that she can't. So I shake my head, watching the expression shift from anxiety to relief. She lets out a breath and forces a smile, still fidgeting with her robe, probably wondering about my sanity and if I need to go to an asylum.

But that's okay.

Because I wonder about it too.

This isn't the first time my parents have found me awake in the wee hours of the morning. This isn't the first time they complained about the moaning, or given me that frightened look—the ones that says I'm going crazy.

Or noticed all my bruises.

The first time I got one was around my ankle—a large purple splotch, lined with a handful of scratches. The night it happened, I went to their room, asking if they could hear the voice, too, wondering if maybe someone had broken into our house—if maybe the voice wasn't part of a dream at all.

But my parents said no, they hadn't heard anything. They looked particularly concerned after my father had checked things out, upon my insistence, like they were far more scared for me then with me.

"Do you want me so fix you some warm milk?" Renee asks now.

"No thanks," I say, still able to hear the voice from my dream. It plays in my mind's ear—a sow and rhythmic breath the pushes out the two syllables of my name over and over again: Bell—a, Bell—a, Bell—a.

"I just want to get back to sleep," I lie, catching a glimpse of myself in the dresser mirror. My normally chocolate brown eyes are troubled with veins of red. And my hair is a mess—an unruly tangle of dark brown waves swooped high atop my head in a sloppy ponytail, because I can't deal with having to style the high-maintenance mane.

Because I haven't gotten a full night's sleep since we moved to this damn house.

"Good night, mom," I whisper, and lie back on my pillow to appease her, so she'll go back to bed. I grab my blue ipod chromatic and select Clair de Lune in hopes that it'll calm me down.

In hopes that it will drown out his voice

AN TIME

Okay so this is my VERY FIRST story on fan fiction. so review and yeah that stuff. To me Bella sorta seems outta character so don't kill me for that...........this WHOLE story came to me thought a dream. and I'll try to update every single day. and flames are allowed since i need criticism.