A/N: My very first Twilight fanfiction is up and running. It's pretty exciting to dive into a new fandom like this, although this is somewhat AU. This story has been plaguing my mind for a while now, and everytime I've started it, a new plotbunny has made it impossible for me to continue. I've settled with a storyline now however, and have a few chapters written. This will not be your typical Bella/Edward fanfic, and while keeping some of Bella's personality traits, she is still slightly OOC. I hope you'll enjoy this anyway, and remember: reviews are always welcome.
I recommend you set you site to 1/2 up in the right corner, as it will make this easier to read.
Full summary: I'd always considered myself different from other people. It wasn't until I moved to Forks that I felt truly content for the very first time in my 17 year old life. But even then, something was terribly wrong.
Disclaimer: I do not own Twilight or any of its original characters - all credit goes to Meyer. I do own the Brown family, however, and other OC's that may show up later in the story.
Warnings: Rated M to be safe. This story contains mentioning of alcohol abuse, self-destructive behavior and cursing. New warnings will be put up with each chapter, so that my readers won't come across any unwelcomed surprises. I should mention that English is not my first language, and some spelling- and grammar errors may occur. I apologize in advance.
Prologue – A Letter to No one
Reality: The world that we all live in, our daily lives attached to one another by an invisible string made out of the concept that is time; something that all humans have to deal with whether we like it or not. I am a part of the last group of people, of those who despise reality, and sometimes try to escape the path that faith has forced upon them. During my 17 years of existence, I've come up with several escape routes. I discovered early on that drawing would take my mind off things. Something as simple as stick-figures created by a childish hand, colored with several different crayons was enough to make my days just a little bit more bearable. Later however, my methods became more drastic. Books have always offered the comfort that I've searched for my whole life, allowing me to journey to another country, in someone else's mind. I never put my books away, they stayed with me until this day where I'm about to step into early adulthood. Books are fantastic, a gift sent to all of us less fortunate people who need to believe in something to lessen the pain. Unfortunately, as one goes from one awkward stage in life to another, more is needed to keep the thoughts at bay. I had my first real alcoholic drink the day after I turned 14. My adoptive parents had gone out for the night, deciding that I was too old for a babysitter and could manage on my own. Oh how wrong they were. It wasn't long before I discovered the hidden key to my father's liquor cabinet by sheer accident, and it doesn't take many guesses to figure out the outcome of that episode. Needless to say, my father kept the key better hidden after that dreadful day when they arrived home early only to find my teenage self passed out on the leather couch, a bottle of whiskey toppled over on the floor. I'd had my first taste of absolute oblivion, though, and the damage was already done.
A month later I was found in the much same position, the bottle of whiskey replaced by pure Vodka this time, and my parents decided it was time for them to take matters into their own hands as a way to make me see reason. Their brilliant solution had me sitting in a shrink's office not long after, the poor doctor trying in vain to get me to spill my deepest, darkest secrets. I merely raised an eyebrow at his pathetic attempts, refusing to utter a single word. My parents were at a loss, feeling as though they'd been stuck at a dead end ever since they'd brought me home from the orphanage when I was seven. I'll admit I didn't go out of my way to make their lives any easier. However, I never intentionally tried to hurt them either – my motives were purely egoistical and I excused my behavior by pointing out that I wasn't harming anyone other than myself. I was wrong, of course, as most teenagers are whenever they're trying to justify their reckless behavior. I refused to listen to any reasoning escaping my parents' mouths, turning the deaf ear whenever one of them would bring the subject of alcohol on the table. They went as far as cleaning out the liquor cabinet, but I always ended up finding my much needed peace elsewhere. I'd never had any friends, but by the time I turned 16, I was one of the most well-known people at school. Even though I didn't really care, it was hard to ignore all the rumors flying around about the wild Swan girl who continually showed up drunk in classes. I made friends with the wrong people – teenagers who knew how to get all the strong stuff that I eventually craved, and it's safe to say that my parents absolutely despised them.
I lost my virginity one night I'd had a little too much of the burning liquor, to a guy that I later on couldn't even remember what looked like – let alone what name he went by. My girlfriends cheered me on, as I was the last in our little group to finally let someone so intimately close to me. I was used to faking smiles at the time, so I let them chatter on about how "my guy" was the hottest they'd ever seen, and how lucky I was that he was so gentle with me. I'd only made up the gentle-story though – I couldn't remember a single thing from the whole experience. They were great friends in the sense that they had older friends that often took us out partying. But shallow friendships like that rarely leave any imprint on a person's life, let alone mine as I'd never really been easy to impress. They were fun to hang out with – besides the alcohol they were my second most important escape route, and I appreciated their constant patience with my moody self. It wasn't a big loss however, when I finally came to my senses one night, waking up in the hospital with alcohol poisoning, seeing my parents' distressed faces at the foot of my bed, and I decided that enough was enough. I cut contact with all of them, and went back to being the person I was at 13 – the quiet, shy girl who rarely spoke unless spoken to. My parents thought of my behavior as an improvement, and I guess they were right at some point, but I was as miserable as I'd always been. It got better, however, the day I read a book that for the first time in a long time managed to capture my entire attention. That's how I discovered the secret worlds of Anne Rice and J.K Rowling among other fabulous writers. The alcohol was replaced by fairytales, and I finally found my days looking just a little brighter, bringing books with me to school and hiding out in the library during the breaks.
You probably think that – judging by my destructive behavior – I had a troublesome and traumatic childhood. That my need to get away from my life is induced by some painful memory I've tried in vain to escape from. If your assumptions are what mention above, however, they would be far from the truth. Ever since I could remember, I've been different from other people. At first I thought it was because I had no living relatives left and the fact that I've spent the first seven years of my life in an orphanage. It became clear, though, as I was accepted into the lives of Mr. and Mrs. Brown that I was simply abnormal. When I finally had people to love me unconditionally, just like a child deserves to be loved, I spent years trying to prove their love false and shallow. Because, in reality, who could ever love a freak like me? My need to get away from them only confirmed my suspicion that there was something undeniably wrong with me. No matter where I went, or how I turned every thought around in my head, the outcome was never the same as my fellow specimen. Whenever a person laughs, I cry. If someone is sad, I rejoice. What sense is there to be found in a person's mind when the person itself can't make sense of its own thoughts? That's how I knew from the very beginning that a shrink isn't the way to go. If someone is ever to help me sort my chaotic brain, he or she needs to be tuned in on the same frequency as I am. So far, no such person has ever crossed my path. And above all else, this fact disturbs me the most.
I am 17 years old. But I am nowhere a teenager at heart. If nothing, I'm just simply old, worn out before even being ridden into this thing called life. Reality: The very thing I dread the most, but long for with all of my heart. Because, really, who wouldn't wish for the smile that graces an innocent child's face who's yet to realize that life isn't the fairytale that books make it out to be? By now, I know that if I am ever to smile like that, it isn't going to be a result of my father's awful jokes, or my mother's delightful cooking. That choice was never mine to make. My real smiles come out in the darkness whenever I think of a special paragraph in a book, and I am someone else in my mind – a lead character receiving her very first kiss from the perfect guy, or the hero overcoming the final obstacle. And then I feel ungrateful for what has been handed over to me without me even asking: Mr. and Mrs. Brown, the house that we live in, the college money I know they've been saving up for my benefit for years. Why can't I find happiness in that, those silent tokens of appreciation and love? Why must I always stretch for more; for a person to simply understand the creature that I am, like the characters always do in books. Because the truth is, I always find the understanding I need in books; the main character is always as lonely as I am. And then, as I read on, I grow with that person, and rejoice whenever they accomplish something extraordinary that a normal, dull girl like me can never accomplish in real life. However, the sadness still manages to creep into my very bones even when I'm in my element; with my nose tucked in a book. Because as the story moves on, the character changes and by the end we are total opposites – where they have learned to be happy, I am still the same as I was at the very beginning, and suddenly I can't relate to that someone anymore. I can only wish to be like him or her, which I know will never happen.
Maybe my situation would've been more bearable had my real parents still been alive. Maybe I got my solitude person from my father, and he could relate to me somehow. What if they'd both been alive, and I was with them this very moment, happy and content because they actually got me? This weird being that I am must've come from somewhere, right? But in the end, that's all I've got: maybes, and what ifs. Needles to say, that's not enough, and I know better than to dwell on such things. No, I have my books, and so far I need them far too much to let them go just yet. My parents show up in them sometimes, you see, in the form of fictional characters. Lupin is my dad and Tonks is my mother – the lonely wolf, and the childish girl giving birth to a baby boy who has to face a lifetime without any of them. I'm Teddy Lupin, but I've yet to find my match, and I have no godfather to tell me their story. No one knew how we all ended up in the car accident that fateful night so many years ago. Not a single whisper of knowledge besides that of an old buddy of my dad from his hometown. He merely ID'd the victims, informed the police that we were the only remaining members of the Swan family, and asked half-heartedly about my whereabouts before never being heard from again. Sometimes I hate this man, because he surely had a lot of things to tell me about the people who'd granted me life before disappearing forever. What right had he to sit on all of this information and never reaching out a helping hand towards his dead friend's daughter? And then I wonder: maybe he was simply waiting for my hand in return? I would never know though, because I had no way of contacting him. I didn't even know his name.
Sometimes I write letters, mostly to my parents. I never let anyone see them, so they stay hidden in the secret room in my ancient desk. To know that they're there makes me calm, and the reality of my situation suddenly doesn't seem so off at all. With these letters, life is more bearable, because I always write as if they're still alive and well, living somewhere a phone line won't reach them, and Facebook don't exist. Therefore, I have to do it the old-fashioned way and write letters. "Dear mom," I write, and tell her of my days living with my foster family. Sometimes, I even mention some of my inner turmoil. Today however, I write to you – a nonexistent someone that I've conjured up from nothingness so that I can finally find sleep. You are no one, but you listen all the same. I am grateful for your ability to read – because in my head you are reading this – but at the same time, I appreciate your inability to speak. I don't need to hear voices on top of everything that's already going on, and I'm not entirely sure that I want to hear what you have to say. Unless you're that someone who understands. If that's the case, I'd listen to you forever.