AN: This is my new story, and no I haven't forgotten about the others, I'm just having some writers block with them. However I do have quite a few chapters of this story written and am very proud of it. So in honor of New Moon out on dvd today I thought I would post. This is my baby so I really hope you enjoy.

Disclaimer: Stephanie Meyer's owns everything Twilight.

"Fall down seven times, stand up eight"

-Gene Wilder-

Prologue

My life began its shame from the moment I took my first breath. I was never given an opportunity to screw up for myself; I was just placed in this eternal decent into hell. There has never been a moment in my life that I could recall that I completed some action that earned my position in life. Except just that, my life, from what my mother told me, the breath in my lungs, simply my state of being was enough of a reason for me to be punished and put into turmoil.

My mother, Renee Dwyer, had me when she was 20 years old. Now at 36 years old, her hair is stringy and almost appears unwashed, she has wrinkles from the years of excessive drinking, her eyes are hard, she looks to be pushing 50. From the pictures I've seen of her when she was younger, she was beautiful. She had thick, shiny brown hair and a smile that could light up the darkest day. Unfortunately, I never knew that smile, except for the picture I kept hidden away in my pillow case along with my other treasures, which included a small teddy bear that said "Daddy's little one" on the tummy, and my favorite book Sense and Sensibility

I have no recollection of receiving the bear, it was tattered and missing an eye, but he was mine and he was my only comfort. I cannot even begin to count the number of times that I held my teddy with all of my might to help keep the memories of my demons at bay. I named my teddy when I was 4, I named him Charlie. I saw the peanuts Christmas special, and I saw how much love and hope that small withered tree brought everyone. That tree gave me hope that one day I would have my own Charlie to fight for me and to make me feel special. I realized, even at the age of 4 that I would never have a Charlie to come rescue me, so I named my teddy Charlie and he would at least keep me company, never judge and always be a comfort.

Jane Austen's novel joined my little treasure bag when I was 10. I had found it in the school library, and I quickly became enamored with Edward and Elanor. It wasn't like the normal fairy tales and love stories, it was more honest, and the beauty that I could see in their shyness enraptured me. In contrast Marianne's passion for all things life had to offer, allowed for me to dream and hope that one day I can maybe posses that ability. I was never able to return the book because my mother had us packed and out of that town 3 days before I was supposed to return it.

Ж

The first memory I have, I think I was 2 or 3 years old, I was of watching Lamb Chop on the small black and white TV while I heard my mother and her friend in her bedroom making loud noises. I'm not naive enough any longer to think that they were playing as I assumed,when they had reemerged from the room hours later, their clothes wrinkled even more when they went in there. I don't remember his name, nor do I care to, he was just the beginning of the long list of men that entered and always exited our lives. We never stayed in the same place after they left, which they all inevitably did. Due to this lifestyle I've lived all over the country, moving from city to city, town to town, all in an effort to begin a new- or that's what my mother always said:

"This is my new chance, a start to a good life."

The good life meant her life only and it usually lasted for only 8 months -if I was lucky- before we were off to our next home.

There was one constant in my life besides my mother's presence, and that was the bottle that was attached to her hand. It was the reason that, until I was old enough to reach the cabinets and get the refrigerator door open, I was fed once a day, if it was a good day. It was also the cause of her reminding me of my lack of worth, and the burden that my existence caused her.

I don't remember the first time she hit me, but I do know that it was a part of my daily routine from the time of my first memory forward. After her flavor of the month left, she saw that I was watching TV, and loudly informed me of her hatred for Sherrie Lewis, and then she proceeded to backhand me across the cheek. She always felt the need to punctuate her words with smacks and kicks; a few times her empty bottles would help her emphasize her declarations of my inability to deserve any form of affection or in a lot of cases her belief that I didn't even deserve to breath.

It usually took her a week to find a new man, and it would take about a month before she would harm me in front of him, and about two weeks after that for him to join in her "fun." I don't remember any of them not participating. The only thing I know was that my mother and her partners never harmed me sexually, they seemed to think that the crass words and other physical punishments were enough humiliation for me.

Ж

When I was sixteen my mother had just ended her relationship with a man named Laurent and we had moved to Seattle. It was the furthest west we had ever gone. She found a job as a waitress at a diner, and one night while working she met a man named Phil. I'm not sure why, but this relationship was more intense then any of the previous ones she had had; it was almost like they consumed each other. As a result of their attraction, my punishments became much more severe and frequent as well as the amount of money spent on alcohol, which affected the amount of food at home, and my only meal became the lunch provided at school. I began to withdraw more into myself than before. I never made friends, because I always knew we would be leaving soon and I didn't want them to ask questions. I was able to hide the scars and bruises that littered my skin at school, but that was only because I never let anyone get close enough to notice.

On March 15th, 2009 my mother and Phil's relationship hit a new level. I was off of school because of a teacher's workshop and holed up in my corner of the living room- otherwise known as my bedroom, nursing the new wounds their intensity caused me, cradling Charlie to my chest tightly. The other two occupants of the house were living it up in my mother's bedroom.

The scene very reminiscent of my first memory, almost poetic if you think about it enough, me in the living room – her and her newest conquest "playing."

At about six at night Phil came out of the bedroom almost in a daze, picked up his belongings and left. I waited about 2 hours for any movement from her room, I knew better than to check sooner, the reminder was a long pink scar on my thigh from where a broken bottle of Jack had been dragged up and down.

When I approached her door, the sight before me was not what I was expecting; my mother was lying naked on her bed, in a pool of her own vomit.

Ж

Following my discovery, and call to the local authorities I was placed in a temporary group home, until they could locate my next of kin; it took them one month to tell me they found nothing. I could have saved them some time, my mother had no relatives that I was aware of and my father has always been an unknown to me. I then began my circuit in the foster care system.

The first placement was with the Jones' – I was a paycheck to them, I was given food, which was an improvement from living with my mother, but that was about it, otherwise I was invisible, which I guess was a step up as well. That placement lasted 2 months, and they decided that they wanted to move to California, and I went back to the group home.

I was only there for a week and I was then placed with the Madden's, they helped bring back the loving memories I have of my mother, and added a few new scars to my collection, I was removed after a visit with the social worker a month later.

The last family I was placed with were an older couple, the Nathan's, I was there for about 2 weeks when Mr. Nathan had a stroke, and they could no longer care for me.

I stayed in the group home until August and that was when I met Mr. and Mrs. Stanley. They took me to their home in Forks, Washington to live with them and their daughter, Jessica. When I first met her, I knew I was not a welcome guest, and whenever her parents weren't looking her and her friends made sure to let me know. They would shove me at any chance, take the things given to me by her parents and destroy them. They would torment me at night, playing cruel jokes; my sleep has never been worse.

One of Jessica's major complaints was that I was going to be a senior like her, and that I wouldn't even turn 17 until a few weeks into the school year. My mother had started me off early, after having me take a placement test the summer before I turned 5; she wanted me out of the house as much as possible. The advantage to this situation being a year younger in school let me hide better from my classmates, no one wanted to hang around with the young freak.

I spent the majority of my time the month before school in my room, reading the books that I had checked out of the library, they were my safe haven, my chance to dream of a new start.

Little did I know that once the end of summer came and the school year began, my new start would lead me to my own good life.