Any man can be a father. It takes someone special to be a dad. ~Author Unknown

Bella Swan, 2005, 13 Years Old

I unlocked the door to the apartment, dreading what I would find when I opened the door. I pushed the door open, slowly and peeked my head around. I scanned the living room and what I could see of the kitchen, wearily. Phil didn't seem to be anywhere in sight, and that pleased me to no end. I opened the door and tossed my back pack on the couch on my way into the kitchen. As long as Phil wasn't here, I could do whatever the hell I wanted, and I intended to take advantage of that. I waltzed into the tiny kitchen and swung open the fridge. I frowned at its contents, disappointed. I had no money for lunch today, and I thought there might be some left over Chinese food from last night in here, but I wasn't surprised it was gone. Phil ate everything, just so I couldn't. He told me all the time that I was a fat little free loader, who didn't deserve lunch or dinner for that matter. I ignored him obviously. I knew I wasn't fat. I was a normal, healthy weight for my age and I was not going to let that pig get inside my head.

I pulled what was left of the peanut butter out of the pantry and made a mental note to get some money from Renee's purse. That's right. I called her Renee, because that woman was not my Mother in any way, shape or form. I hated her and her scum of the Earth husband. I couldn't wait until I was back in Seattle with Dad and Emmett. I really missed Aunt Sue's cooking lessons. Renee never made anything; she always just brought home fast food or bags of chips. I was dying to get my hands on some of Aunt Sue's famous three cheese lasagna. I was drooling just thinking about. I looked sadly down at my peanut butter sandwich and sighed. Soon. I would be home very, very soon. After all, today was Dad's visiting day. I felt bad making him fly down here every month to see me, but I didn't tell him that. If I did, then he might stop coming and I just couldn't imagine being completely stranded here.

I took a water bottle out of the fridge, letting myself be amazed at the fact we even had water in the place. I looked around the room in disdain. This place was a real dump. I hated that Renee dragged me all the way out here to live in this hole in the wall trash bin away from my real family. I set my sandwich on the table with my water and pulled out one of the lawn chairs for me to sit on. I was about to take a bite of my sandwich when a loud voice rang out from behind me.

"What the hell do you think you're doing?"

I snapped my head around and glared at the flea bag standing in the kitchen doorway. He looked like a convict with his head shaved like that, and I wanted to tell him that so badly. But, to be perfectly honest, I was convinced he would hit me if I ever made a comment like that. He'd never been violent before, but I just got this feeling about him. He was a creep. He was always staring at me and refused to answer to anything but 'Daddy'. But Phil was most certainly not my Daddy and I had no intention of every referring to him as that.

"Are you going to answer me?" He demanded, his voice going a little louder. Phil wasn't used to being challenged. Renee bent over backwards to make him happy, but then went behind his back and slept with strangers while he was at work.

"I wasn't planning on it." I shook my head, trying to stay nonchalant. It didn't matter what I said right now. Dad would be here in a little while and Phil wouldn't have time to do anything worthwhile to me. I sat smugly in my seat, still chomping away at my food. I had peanut butter stuck to the roof of my mouth and was trying to push it off with my tongue when Phil came charging over. He grabbed the sandwich out of my hands, angrily.

"What did you just say to me?" He hissed, throwing my sandwich on the floor. That was okay. Dad would probably take me out for pizza when he got here. We never stuck around this joint when he came to visit. Maybe this time Emmett would come with him and we'd go to the movies like we do at home. But I knew Emmett probably wasn't going to come. He was getting settled at college right now with his girlfriend. I think her name was Roxie or something beginning with an R.

"I said, I was not planning on answering you." I repeated, keeping my voice clear and strong. He wasn't liking that one bit. He grabbed my arm, pulling my up out of my chair. His grip was painfully tight, but I showed no emotion. I had learned to do that in this place.

"You have some respect, you ungrateful bitch," He spat, squeezing me tighter. "I'm your Daddy."

"Daddy?" I raised an eyebrow, challenging him. "I already have a Daddy, thank you. And he's going to kick your butt if you don't let go of me. I'll show him the bruises, I swear."

Phil gave me a sick, sardonic smile. He was pleased with this. "You really think that, huh? Well, what is Daddy going to say about this?"

I almost didn't see it coming. His big hand flew right across my face, making a sharp smacking sound. It took me a moment to register that I'd just been slapped. My cheek was burning and was most likely red. Tears sprung up in my eyes at the stinging, but I fought to hold them back. I was not going to let him see me cry.

"I don't see your Daddy anywhere, cupcake." He grinned. His yellow teeth were crooked and his breath smelled like fish. And not the sweet, cooked kind that Aunt Sue made. It smelled like the fish Emmett and Dad catch down at the lake during the summer, before we fry them. It was a rotting smell, sour and strong.

"Let go of me!" I tried to sound forceful, but I probably just sounded weak. I knew my voice quivered. Phil had never outright touched me so harshly before. He was nasty like this all the time, always making comments about Dad and Emmett. He called them horrible names that made me want to gouge his eyes out with a plastic spoon.

"What's your Daddy going to do about this, sugar?" He chuckled, pushing my backwards on to the floor. I caught my self just enough to keep from hitting my head. I landed on my butt, seating myself right under Phil. He towered over me and I nearly whimpered. My Dad was a cop. Can you really expect me not to have some idea of what was coming next?

He lowered himself to the floor, roughly. He grabbed my arms, shoving me backwards all the way. He pinned my hands to the floor and jabbed his thick knee in between my legs, spreading them apart. I tried to scream but no sound would come out. I was praying that a loud, high pitched shriek would erupt from somewhere deep inside of me and fast. But nothing was happening. I couldn't do anything.

He unzipped his pants and his junk nearly tumbled out. I looked long and squishy, not hard and masculine like I read about in the novels Renee had under her bed. I felt my face turn hot and fear built up in my chest. This was real, this was happening. He tried to pull my pants down with one hand, but I managed to make a groaning noise, squirming away from him. He was struggling to unbutton my jeans when I heard knocking on the door.

"Shit." Phil muttered. He put a hand over my mouth and scowled down at me. I was in tears by then, just with the knowledge of what was coming. I was hoping Dad was at the door and that I could call to him, but with Phil's beefy hand over my mouth, it was nearly in possible. My yells were muffled and he slapped me again, harder than before. "Shut your fucking mouth."

The knob jiggled on the front door, quickly. There was a bang, followed closely by my Father's voice. "Bella? Bella, are you home? It's me!"

I wriggled a little more, but Phil put all his body weight on me. What I just couldn't understand was why he wasn't ending this. My Dad was here, game was over. Couldn't he see that? He grunted and crushed his hand harder over my mouth. My teeth were digging into the inside of my lips and I tasted blood, faintly.

"Bella? Baby, open up!" Dad called, still jiggling the handle. "Bella, I know you're home! If you don't answer me, I am breaking this door down!"

God, yes, please do! Daddy, save me from this bad, bad man. I struggled so hard, I nearly got my hands free. I was screaming behind his hands but it all just sounded like a blurb of sounds. Phil was trying to be as quiet as possible, obviously thinking my Dad was just going to turn around and leave. But I knew my Father better than that. A moment later, without warning, there was a loud snap and I heard the door hit the wall. Phil jumped off me, trying to stuff his sorry excuse for manhood back in his pants, but it was too late. Dad bound into the kitchen where the noise was, looking frantic.

Phil was just standing there like the meathead that he was, with his junk still hanging out. Dad looked at me, struggling to sit up and Phil in the corner. He put two and two together and the whole atmosphere changed. The tense silence was filled with the sounds of Dad, lunging for the knife on the counter. I don't remember a lot after the first initial stab. It was like a rip, but it was squishy at the same time. Almost like he was stabbing a watermelon. It sounded like a clean cut, and that sickened me. I didn't have the stomach to watch whatever my Father was doing, and my brain would just not focus.

"You son of a bitch! You motherfucking child molester!" I heard my Dad grunting.

My Dad was killing Phil. That was all I could think. And in my head, I thought nothing badly about the idea of that. I was actually very fond of that thought. With Phil gone, Renee would fall into a deep despair, leaving me to freely go back to my good life in Washington with my true family.

Blood was the only thing that really stuck though. There was so much blood. It was all over the floor and all over my Father. But you know what was really weird? I mean, really just odd? As I was curled up in the corner, I thought about how much bleach it would take to get the blood off the tile. We definitely couldn't afford it. Maybe, just this once, I could use the famous five finger discount. How you steal something as trivial as bleach, I'll never know. Because I never got the chance to find out.

I didn't realize the humming in the background was Renee, blabbering away to a 911 operator that we needed help. Her crazy ex was trying to kill her husband and her daughter. If I had known what was happening, I would have borrowed the knife from my Dad and stabbed her in the neck. But I didn't comprehend what was happening, until the NYPD was charging in the place, leading my blood stained Daddy out the door in cold, metal handcuffs.

My Dad spent his last moments of freedom protecting me, I realized as Renee sobbed over her husband's now worthless balls. The other cops there were calling an ambulance and trying to calm her down. I don't even think they saw me over here tucked away in the corner. I knew my Dad was going to get hard time, even before his lawyer spelled it out for us. I just never thought he would get 25-Life for such a justifiable offense. The jury was a pool of morons, it was obvious. And the judge was clearly no prize either.

Because they sent my Dad to jail. They took away his freedom for protecting me.

Shit, I thought. We're totally screwed.

Bella Swan, 2010, 17 Years Old

Do you remember when you were little and you used to beg your Mother to buy you those insufferable Polly Pockets? And then we you finally got them and ripped open the package, all you could think about was the games you were going to play with them. All the stories you could act out, all the fantasies that could come true. I remember being so excited when I found all the odd positions I could make my little plastic people bend into. They were so shiny and little. It was so easy to make them do whatever you wanted. They never protested, they always just wore that sweet painted smile.

That's how I felt. Like I was a little shiny doll, being held on to by these big strong hands that just wouldn't let me go. I have no idea whose hands were holding me though. Were they Phil's? Were they my Father's? Were they Renee's? I never got close enough inside my head to figure out who was holding me. I always felt like people were bending me backwards, just to see what I looked like. So they could see how I looked in that awkward position. And on the rare occasion that the hands weren't holding me, I was discarded. I was left alone in a heap on the floor, with all the other dolls that had been abandoned.

Was this normal? I certainly don't have the answer to that. Perhaps my nice new therapist will.

No one is surprised I need to go to therapy. Everyone who felt sorry encouraged me with comforting pats on the back and sympathetic expressions. Everyone who was disgusted by me, was convinced it would make me a little less crazy. What they didn't realize was that crazy ran deep and there was no getting rid of it. Though I don't really consider myself an outright basket case, I knew I had some issues. My issues, being the drinking. Or maybe it was the violation. The horrible, demeaning rape of the soul I went through every day by just being alive. But I assumed I was being sent to therapy for the sex issue.

Sex was easy, and it was cheap. As long as you have a condom, you can do whatever you want. I don't enjoy it, God no. But it gives me a release that self inflicted pain never could. Cutting yourself was messy and burning yourself left scars. With sex, you got off and left the guy to take care of his mess elsewhere. The men wanted no commitment, they wanted nothing more than my body. I gave them what they wanted and in return, I was awarded with a moment or two of relief. Relief from the frantic jumble of thoughts racing around in my head, that made it impossible to do anything but curl up in a ball and submit.

But this was on the inside. Do you really think I could ever let anyone see what was happening in here? Oh, no. That was why I kept the mask. I stayed solid, so no one suspected anything was wrong. I was truly being sent to therapy because my family thought I was acting out for attention. Attention? The opposite actually. I chose this self destructive path and I wished to walk down it alone. I don't believe in shrinks and I find my time will be wasted tremendously by even setting foot in that door. But this was for my brother.

Not for me.

It was all decided two weeks ago, when I broke curfew. I had been doing that a lot lately and my brother was not too pleased. I knew he worried about my terribly, but I couldn't bring myself to care. I loved Emmett, God I loved Emmett. He was my life line and my very best friend. But authority was something I could not handle and Emmett felt like he needed to have a lot of that these days.

I was climbing through the window like I did every night for the past three months. I wasn't doing anything wrong, I was just wondering. There was nothing illegal or shameful about being a wanderer. I had successfully gotten through my bedroom window, thanking myself for choosing a bedroom on the first floor. There was a stump outside that gave me an easy boost to scoot in. I closed my window with a click, careful not to wake Emmett or his new wife, Rosalie. They had gotten married last year and I was deemed her Maid of Honor. I think I was only even in the wedding party because Emmett begged Rosalie to include me. I didn't want to be there, but I had to support Emmett, like he supported me. Ig he wanted me there, I would be there.

I had flicked my lamp on as I took my shoes off, feeling an ache. The heels were very uncomfortable, but I found that the sexier I looked, the more releases I received. Men liked good looking women. Do you think I would get anything at all from them if I was drowning in a sweatshirt, like I wanted to be. I turned to get my sweatpants from my the floor next to my bed and froze. Emmett was lying on my bed, flipping through a book that was laid out in front of him. He was smiling, almost like he was ignoring my presence. I was frozen, because I knew I'd been caught. But Emmett didn't seem to be angry or even very concerned. It was making me worry as the minutes passed and he stayed silent. He finally looked up at me, softly, like he was being pulled out of a dream.

"You remember this kid?" He murmured, pushing the book towards the end of the bed where I was standing. I peered down at it, feeling very confused. It was a picture of me. I was probably about six years old, all smiles and hugs. I was wearing a ballerina tutu and a Mets jersey. I was missing one of my front teeth, but appeared to take no notice in that. I looked happy.

"Where did she go?" He finally whispered, staring intently at me. I glanced up from the book, dreading to meet his eyes. Emmett had the most playful personality all the time, but at this moment and at this hour…he looked so unhappy. He seemed so lost and it broke my heart. But I was also secretly thrilled that I wasn't the only one.

"I really miss that kid," He continued. "She was pretty cool. She used to make me play Barbie's with her and push her on the swings. She used to run behind me on the play ground when kids picked on her. She used to smile when something made her happy."

I continued to stare at his mouth. His lips were moving and I was definitely listening, but all his words just sounded so false. Like a bad broken record that never stopped playing.

"I see that kid around sometimes. She always smiles and says hi, you know. But then I don't see her for a few weeks. Sometimes it's even months before she makes contact again." He gently explained to me. "I really want to find her. For good, Bella."

I looked anywhere but his face now. I stared at the walls, the floor, the ceiling, anywhere but his face. If I saw his face, I would cry and I was not having any of that.

"Can you help me find her?"

That night, after Emmett's little show of affection, Rosalie took me in to the living room and sat me down. She made coffee, but it was clear that it was only to keep her hands busy. Rosalie was a really great woman. She was tough, but was really sweet when you needed her to be. She was talented but was also extremely defensive and that made her all the more challenging to Emmett. He liked to hassle with her. It made him feel stronger.

"Bella, I don't know what's been going on with you, but it has to stop." She announced. Emmett had gone up to bed. Rosalie claimed we were having a girl to girl chat. "You're going to give your poor brother a heart attack, staying out at all hours like that."

I stirred my coffee, intently. She was still chattering away over at the counter. She had made a pot already, but after she tasted it, she decided she needed to try another. Rosalie couldn't really cook, but she was very OCD about perfection. The house was spotless, her marriage was ideal and she was flawless. Having such a mess floating around her must be driving her up the wall.

"Is it school? Is it boys?" She guessed, pouring her new batch into a coffee cup. Of course it was not the one she used moment before. That one wasn't perfect anymore. It had remains from the last, problematic batch on the rim. No way could she ever use that again. "You know, this whole mute act is getting pretty ridiculous.

Mute act? She thought my pain was an act? Was this woman for real? I couldn't help myself. I tried to bite back the words coming up my throat, but it was like vomit. Explosive and impossible to keep from happening.

"Ridiculous? You haven't seen ridiculous, Rosalie. Being silent is a choice and you cannot even try to tell me it is hurting anybody but me." I snapped. She looked a little taken back. I had hardly said two words to her in the past few months and I assumed she obviously thought I was just going to sit there and take her shit.

She shook her head, gaining control back. "Well, whatever your problem is, it needs to be solved. That is why, while you were out, Emmett and I made you an appointment to see a psychiatrist. Starting Monday at four o'clock."

I stopped stirring and stared at her. She set her cup down, clearly feeling good about stunning me and retreated up the stairs. Yeah, that's right, Rosalie. Don't take in all of me at once. You wouldn't want me to have the chance to fight back or anything. Lousy good for nothing bitch.

And that was how it started. I was silent the whole rest of the weekend and refused to come out of my room. My door was securely locked and I went out my window ever night to explore. I didn't know what I was exploring, but it was something important and different every night. Seattle was a good sized city and held a lot for me to pursue. Every night, I left the confines of my bedroom and ventured out in to the night. You saw a lot in the city, when you wandered the streets. I got a chance to do this sometimes in New York, and it was a whole lot more refreshing than this place, but I had no room to judge.

I saw prostitution and drug dealing at its fullest out here. I liked to sit on street corners with the girls while they waited for johns. It was an odd hobby to have, but the girls were nice and left me alone. I'd been mistaken for a hooker myself a few times, but the men always left politely after I corrected them. I guess they knew messing with a young girl that actually did have a family to report her missing wasn't the greatest idea. Oh, if only these men knew what my Father was in for. That'd keep them all away.

On nights when business was slow, the girls talked to me. They asked me what I was doing out here and where I was coming from. I always gave them short answers, not wanting to seem so strange for wanting to be in their presence. Usually, I read or did homework while I was sitting out there to keep myself occupied. I had no interest in watching them leave with their johns. Seeing them come back was what I was there for. I had thought about selling myself before, but I knew that ultimately, it wouldn't give me the same release I got from doing it freely. And besides, it felt a lot less dirty when you aren't doing it for a paycheck. A paycheck means its something your work at and I don't work at sex. I am a submissive role no matter what, and I let men do what they please. As long as I'm safe from actual, I'm open to anything. And knowing the things I've done brings tears to my eyes when I think about it.

I picture my Dad being stuck with a pin every time I'm alone with a man. His little girl is out here unsafe and unprotected with odd men and he was in a jail cell for trying to keep her out of harm's way. I know it must kill him inside. But I try to forget about that and go along with my day.

On Monday afternoon, I was picked up from school by Rosalie, just to make sure I made it to the session okay. I snorted when she said that because I knew it didn't matter to her if I showed up without a leg, as long as I was there she was happy. She thought she could train me to become someone different then who I was. I had no plans to really get anywhere with this quack. Who could solve my problems and better than I could myself? No one, that's who. But Rosalie and Emmett refused to listen, so I climbed into Rosalie's glossy red convertible and didn't say a thing.

We arrived at a tall building labeled, Seattle General Hospital. I sneered at the letters, letting my discomfort be shown. General Hospital? How nice and dramatic of them. I suppose they had a rubber room waiting and ready for me in the psych ward, complete with a straight jacket and two big nurses with sedatives. I honestly wouldn't be surprised if that were to happen. I was going to be deemed a lunatic; I had a feeling in my gut. Being here would not solve my problems; it would only make them worse.

Rosalie led me to the fifth floor, quickly. She had a nail appointment in twenty minutes and just couldn't be late or Dawn would throw a fit. I rolled my eyes as she frantically explained this, trying to force me to move my legs faster. I took great pleasure in her annoyed face and even giggled a little when I went straight for the stairs instead of the elevator.

"It's good exercise, Sis," I told her, innocently. "You look like you need some."

So, for the rest of the ways up the stairs and in to the lobby, I got to hear Rosalie on the phone with her personal trainer and set up an appointment for tomorrow. Rosalie was a trust fund baby, no doubt about that. Her parents died in a car crash last year and left Rosalie everything. One month later, Rosalie and Emmett were standing at the altar saying I Do. She showed no grief and that bothered me to know end. My Mother was a delusional hag, but I'd be a wreck if she suddenly dropped dead somewhere. It would tear me apart.

"She has an appointment with a Dr. Cullen for today at four o'clock." Rosalie announced to the lobby, pointing at me. I rolled my eyes as heads swiveled to look at me. A few eyes widened at the mention of this mysterious Dr. Cullen and I heard a few whispers. The receptionist looked confused to say the very least.

"Are you sure, Miss? Dr. Cullen usually only takes…very corrupt cases." She informed Rosalie, glancing at me. What? Just because I wasn't eating my own hair or threw babies out windows, I wasn't good enough for this guy? Rosalie started tapping her peeling acrylics on the counter and gave the receptionist a hard look.

"Trust e, she's a horrid." Rosalie sighed. "Can we please move along? I have to leave and she needs a babysitter."

I rolled my eyes for the hundredth time since we've been here. The receptionist seemed very intimidated by Rosalie and I couldn't blame her. She was a force to be reckon with. She looked in her computer and slowly turned to me with a raised eyebrow.

"Isabella Hale?" She asked me.

Rosalie said "Yes" at the same time I corrected her, saying "Swan". Rosalie shot me a look. Realization dawned on me and I gasped. Rosalie didn't want me to ruin her reputation by using my real name, so she was making me use her maiden name. Fuck you, Rosalie, I thought as I burned holes into her head with my eyes. The woman ignored me, making a smart decision and focused on Rosalie.

"Alright. Dr. Cullen is right down the hall, third door on your right. He'll see you now." She announced, clicking away on her keyboard. Rosalie pulled me aside before I walked back there and scowled at me. Even with her perfect face it terrified me.

"You better not get into any trouble while I'm gone, you hear me? This is my reputation, not yours. People already know you're crazy, I don't need them knowing I gave up on you." She hissed, cutting off the circulation in my arm. And I made a split decision, angry that she was being so judgmental. I promptly spit in her face and yanked my arm away. She made a choking noise and I ventured down the hall, third door on the right. I stopped when I was in front of, unsure of myself. Do I go in? Do I wait from him to open it? Wouldn't I have to knock for him to know I was here? My inner battle ended when a hand tapped me on the shoulder, causing me to cringe a little and turn around.