Sooo here it is. I've been wanting to make a fanfic for twilight in a long time. But, I have a tendency to not finish what I've started... that is not going to be the case here. This was basically me writing down a story on my own, and then thinking about twicking it a bit, until i thought maybe it could be made into a fanfic :) Hopefully you like it! Reviews are always the best way for updated chapters.

Disclamer: I do not own Twilight or anything written by Stephanie Meyers.

When I was younger, my mother would always tell me stories about princesses and princes who would fall in love and live happily ever after. I remember telling her that I hoped one day a prince would come find me and take me away. She didn't say anything, she only smiled.

Now, at the age of Seventeen, living at home in a place called Forks, with my father and older brother who was graduating this coming June, I knew this was not going to happen. I've learned too much of reality to still hold on to that small dream I once had as a child.

Truthfully, the thing that really fixed my dreams was my mother's death. I don't like to talk about it much, but I guess you could say this is my one exception. Her death wasn't an accident, which made it that much more horrible. She had lived up until I was at the age of twelve- around five years ago now.

By my opinion, my mother lived a good life. My family wasn't rich, but middle class. She had a nice home, a loving husband, son and daughter. She had such a good life, that she wanted to share it with someone else. My mother miscarried when she was eight months pregnant with my baby sister. She fell down the stairs one day when me and Jason were at school, and dad at his law firm. She had to crawl to the phone to call the ambulance. Jason was in his first few weeks of grade seven, me in grade five. This was long after the stories of princesses and princes stopped.

I guess you could say this was the turning point of her mental breakdown. I remember wondering why she wasn't happy enough with me and Jason, and she would just look at me sadly saying; "Bella, someday you'll know what I mean."

Her death had come to a shock to everyone except those of us who lived with her. She hadn't gone back to work at her school as a primary teacher after the miscarriage. She had started to go to the doctor's office more frequently. I remember asking my dad where she had gone, and him telling me she was just getting some things fixed with her body after the pregnancy and all. But she kept going back every second week after the pregnancy, until it became every week, and then twice a week and so on. Even as a fifth grader I knew there was something wrong.

My grandmother had cried a lot at the funeral, me at her side. Even my brother who was so sturdy, my solid rock had cried. Her loving friends, which she had a lot of, were all there crying into their handkerchiefs laying roses down on her final resting place.

My father, not shedding one tear, stood closest of all, his hand slightly outstretched, caressing the polished wood of the oak casket.

I imagined my mother laying there, her long dark hair, so much like mine, spreading out around her pale face. Her eyelids covering her chocolate brown eyes that I also had, just not as deep as hers.

My father had not talked to us once from the day she died until a month and a bit afterward. He stayed home from work, and sat down staring off into space.

He recovered a bit after that, but not fully. He would not talk to me, only my brother who still held my hand wherever we were together. I hadn't noticed that he had not talked to me in a while, because I know I wasn't in much of a talkative mood either.Until one particularly cold day in early December, he looked at my brother and asked him if he would like a drive.

"Yes, please." I had answered.

My father just looked at me with his distant eyes, and then turned back to Jason, looking for an answer.

Later on, I remember asking my brother about this, and he said he had noticed too. "I think it's because you remind him too much of mom." He had said after a bit of consideration. "He misses her too much and you just remind him of his pain."

I remember dismissing this quickly. Thinking back on it now, it seemed all too possible and a little too eerie. He didn't look at me the same after her death. Only talking to me on the rare occasion when it was absolutely necessary.

Now, as I am sitting on my bed, drinking my lemonade and thinking back on these times, I think what mostly made it surprising to me, was the fact that I didn't want to see it. I wanted to stay asleep and wait for the bad dream to end. Every time my mother had gone for the liquor cabinet, or come towards me with her hand open ready to strike, I should have known. I should have known with the way my father looked at me with distant eyes not trying to protect me, or the way my brother would always step in between me and the rest of the world at any chance of me getting hurt.

Like I said, I wanted to stay jaded forever.