Second Chances – It Should Not Hurt To Be A Child
Deslyncullen
Rating: PG-13
Prereading & Beta: Ysar Sparkly Red Pen & Ange de l'aube PTB
Genre: AH
Content Descriptors: Angst, family
Major Pairings: Bella & Edward (eventually)
Summary: Disclaimer: I do not own Twilight. All characters belong to Stephenie Meyer. No copyright infringement intended. This is a work of fiction. All scenarios are solely the product of my imagination or are used fictitiously, though reference to actual events or locations may be real.
A/N: Story submitted to Fandom4LLS - Fandom For Leukemia & Lymphoma Society 2013 fundraiser, but I'm making a few changes.
Chapter 1 – The Beginning
My earliest memories were of being part of a happy family. My parents laughed all the time and called me their angel, my mother baked cookies and dressed me in pretty clothes, and my father read bedtime stories to me. All that changed after my father died. I think I was about five because I had started school that year. I didn't understand the concept of death until later. All I knew was that my daddy wasn't there, and my mommy was sad and cried a lot.
At first, my mother let me sleep in her bed because I started having nightmares about her leaving too. Every time I asked for my daddy, she told me that he had gone to heaven. I came to realize that when I asked about my father it would make my mother cry more. I didn't want her to be sad, so I stopped asking her. Instead, I'd pray that he would come visit, or that we would go to see him. As I got older, I understood that once someone went to heaven, they couldn't come back.
After my father had died, Billy, Harry, and Sue had spent a lot of time at our house. They brought their children, and those visits were the happiest days of my new life. Each night, I'd mark off the days as I waited in anticipation for Saturday. Saturdays meant Sue, Harry, Billy, and my friends Leah, Jacob, and Seth. Saturdays also meant playing dress up with Leah and running around the yard with Jacob and Seth. Most importantly, Saturdays were a reminder of what my life was before. For a while, I could pretend that nothing had changed.
Two birthdays went by like this. Sue brought food, or she would cook when she came. She helped my mother with the household chores while Billy and Harry took care of the yard. Before they left, we'd all sit down as a family and eat. Then, one day, my mother got into an argument with them. I had never seen her that angry before. It scared me, so I started to cry. Leah took me to my room and rocked me on her lap until Sue called her, Seth and Jacob downstairs. Next day, I heard my mother yelling on the phone.
"I don't need any help from you or anyone on the reservation, and I certainly don't want anybody telling me what to do. Don't come back to my house."
Things changed drastically after that. At the time, I didn't understand how crucial their visits had been to my survival until they stopped coming to our house. Without Sue's help, I became aware of how little my mother had done around the house. She didn't always remember to cook, so I had to learn to prepare my meals. On those days, I ate peanut butter and jelly sandwiches for breakfast, lunch, and dinner. Eventually, I learned to cook in the microwave. First, I made macaroni and cheese and then franks with beans, but sometimes there was no food in the cupboards—at least, nothing that I knew how to make. I remembered eating stale bread with ketchup and pretending it was pizza.
Things got worst at home. Besides not always having food, everything made my mother angry. I learned to walk softly and stay out of her way if I didn't want her to hurt me. Every night, I curled into bed and cried myself to sleep, hoping she would get better.
The first time I tried doing laundry had been a disaster.
"What the hell is going on here?"
"I don't have any clean clothes for school, so I was washing some." Soap suds were everywhere, and more were coming out of the machine.
"Well, you didn't have to use the whole bottle of soap!" she yelled.
I hadn't put the whole bottle in the machine, but I wasn't about to tell her that.
"Get the mop and clean up this mess, NOW."
My eyes filled with tears, and I bit my lip, trying to keep from whimpering. I kept my head down so she wouldn't see the tears in my eyes and made my way to the broom closet. She stopped me, gripping my shoulder hard. "You want something to cry for?" she asked, shaking me and then she smacked me across the face. That was the first time she hit me. Sometimes, when she got angry, she would hold my arms tightly and shake me until I felt my head would fall off, but she had never hit me before.
Later that day, she apologized. "Bella, I'm sorry for hitting you and yelling at you. I'm sick. I'll try to be a good mother again."
"I love you mommy. I'll try not to make you angry. I'll be a good girl." She hugged me, and we both cried.
She did not live up to her promise. In fact, things deteriorated rapidly after that.
My mother was sick all the time, so not only did I have to fend for myself, I had to take care of her too. I ended up doing all the housework. I made excuses when she didn't show up for parent teachers' night. I lied to the neighbors when they asked for her. It had been hard not having my mother take care of me, but I didn't know what else to do. When she wasn't sleeping, she was angry most of the time. Sometimes, she would hit me just for looking at her. I learned to cover the bruises with long sleeved shirts or a sweater, but one night, she smacked me so hard, it left a bruise on my face. I thought that was the worst that could have happened to me, but I was wrong.
When I got to school, the teacher took me aside and asked what happened. I lied and told her that I hadn't been paying attention and had walked into the edge of the dining table. I thought I did a good job hiding the abuse, but my teacher knew something was up. She took me to the nurse. I heard whispering in the next room, and I became frightened, but I heard my mother's name, so I crept closer to the door and listened to every word. I learned that, after my father's death, my mother had started taking sleeping pills to get through the night. From the pills, she started drinking and eventually she had started mixing the two.
Then I heard my teacher say, "We have to do something. Renee's finally lost control."
"We're concerned about Isabella's living conditions, but the state was reluctant to step in. They think children belong with their biological parents unless it would be detrimental to the kids' health," the principal told her.
"Well, I think that time is now. If you don't, then I will call social services myself. It breaks my heart to see the look in that little girl's eyes. She tries hard to hide it, but she's too young to bear this burden alone."
I stopped listening after that. I went back to the cot and curled into a ball. If mommy thought I told her, she would become angrier. My teacher went back to the class. They had left for a while, and then a lady came to speak to me.
"Isabella, your mother is too sick to take care of you. You don't have any aunts or uncles for us to send you to so while your mother is getting the help she needs, we will place you with a foster family who has kids around your age. You'll stay with Mr. and Mrs. Volturi, who have agreed to take you in. You'll share Jane's room. I'm sure both Jane and Alec will be very welcoming."
That had been another lie. Just like my mom promising not to hit me again.