My entire life had consisted of one long, bleak span of solitude.
That was the only way that I preferred it. I hated socializing. I had a phobia of being in large groups of people. I cringed at any thought of forming casual conversation. I imagined all the thoughts racing through the skull of whoever spoke to me, categorizing me as the freak, the ugly duck, the weird loner that ate lunch with four empty chairs surrounding her.
I called it my dysfunctional gene: the one that failed to recognize that humanity required company in order to survive.
But maybe it wasn't a gene at all. According to local gossip, I was one messed up kid, because my father had ran out on my mother years ago, leaving her alone, unhappy, and scarred.
And I don't just mean emotionally scarred.
I'm talking about the three long gashes across my mother's collarbone, forever marring what had once been beautiful olive-toned skin. She covered it up with turtlenecks these days, but everyone knew it was there. It must have radiated green or something, because I, myself, had only seen it once, and that had been purely accidental.
I'd been in desperate need of using the bathroom, and I had walked in on her stepping out of the shower. Only to be quickly reprimanded and shoved back out.
It looked so painful that my very flesh hurt for her. I couldn't even begin to fathom what could leave such grizzly marks, but my mother had offered no explanation.
I'd heard from stolen bits of conversations that I had eavesdropped upon between my grandmother and one of her equally nosy friend, that my grandmother had driven to her aid upon realizing that my father, Charlie, had left my mother. She'd arrived there to an empty house and had waited an hour before my mother, Renee, had returned.
She'd stood only in the doorway, bleeding a red puddle onto the floor, stirring it with the salt of her tears that streamed down her face like a waterfall.
Come to find out, my father had vamoosed earlier in the day when he'd caught whiff of a bit of a scandal between my mother and a La Push resident that had been anything if not adulterous. My mother had, naturally, taken off to find solace in the man she had otherwise secretly been seeing, but, given how fast the rumors of my mother's betrayal had spread, he hadn't wanted anything to do with her out of shame.
Whatever had incurred from that meeting had resulted in the nasty battle wound my mother had returned with.
No one could pry any sort of explanation from her except, "I deserved it. I provoked it."
Eight months later, I had been born.
Of course this naturally caused the residents of Forks to speculate as to which man would win the paternity test: Charlie Swan or Thomas Black, a nephew of Billy Black, the proclaimed chief of the Quileute tribe that resided in the La Push reservation just outside of Forks.
This irritated my mother into exclaiming that she had never had sexual relations with anyone except for Charlie Swan, who was nothing if not my father. Whether or not anyone believed this, there was hardly any room for debate when I popped into the world looking like a perfectly acceptable mix of Renee and Charlie. No doubt about it.
From there on out, I was deemed Isabella Marie Swan, and I, for one, never gave any consideration as to whether or not Thomas Black might be my father. My father was Charlie Swan, the ex-police chief that had blown out of Forks, Washington, before I'd been born, leaving my mother and I for the sun of Arizona.
I might have resented him for it, but I didn't doubt who he was: namely, my father.
That had left me with a mother who was given to sudden spurts of tears, long spouts of depression, and the incapability to care for herself. She no longer dated, socialized, or even gave the slightest illusion that she cared about the outside world. I had taken care of her the best that I could, but I had, unfortunately, adopted some of her social habits.
We were both classified hermits.
I didn't mind. I didn't feel much need to be anything else. As hormones went, I found mine lacking. About the same as my physical coordination. I'd seen Thomas Black before. No way that guy was my father. He had such masculine grace. I thought that Charlie must be a real klutz. Of course, I couldn't tell if the flaw might have come from my mother. She didn't leave her room much, and, when she did, it was to occupy the couch. Not much time to trip over her own two feet during that short journey.
Unfortunately for me, there was an ample supply of opportunity to have a klutz attack as I crossed the icy slope of the parking lot to my school. Junior year was nothing to celebrate, in my opinion, and busting my skull on concrete the first day back was looking equally as unappealing.
I shifted the strap of my backpack, watching my fellow classmates practically glide across what I was certain was black ice. They didn't trip, or stumble, or even pause in their conversations. I blew out a breath, slammed the rusted door of my truck, and decided that, one way or the other, I was going to have to take one for the team. I had to get a high school diploma. To get that diploma, I had to get inside the school.
I needed that diploma so I could go on and make mega bucks to afford rooting my mom out of her bitter swell of a cocoon and relocate her some place that did not remind her of Thomas or Charlie or any single person that knew even the smallest bit of information about her affair.
The first three steps were successful. The fourth took me foot on a small slide to the left, but I easily righted myself. With careful determination, however, I managed to navigate myself to the looming foundation of Forks High.
Only to then trip over the corner of the bike rack stationed near the door.
I caught myself on the rough brick of the building, my cheeks flaming red as a few people walking by snickered openly at my hopelessness. I closed my eyes for a second, attempting to ignore the pain in my now-throbbing big toe.
There was something seriously wrong with me. I must have been born with some sort of defect. I had never felt right in this body. I wasn't too tall or wiry by any means, but I felt like one of those gangly dis-proportioned girls whose only hope was to try out for the basketball team to cover up what was otherwise a terminal popularity illness in high school.
It didn't make sense for me. I wasn't short. I considered myself of normal height. I was fairly proportioned. There was nothing outwardly wrong with me.
I just felt like I didn't belong in this body. There wasn't any logical reasoning behind it. I was just an alien in this body. I had been unable to successfully unite myself to all of its functions.
Keeping a wary eye on the bike rack, I gave my idea to get through the front doors another go and was, thankfully, successful. The halls were already milling with students though, and the proximity of each youthful body with another posed another hazard. I could trip over someone else's feet as well and as easily as I could trip over my own.
I kept my head down, watching my feet suspiciously as I waded through the crowd, and I made it to my locker with no significant incident. Opening said locker, retrieving my books, and making it to my biology class were all small miracles of their own. If I made it through the day without winding up in the hospital, it would be a true, honest to God victory that I sorely needed.
Especially after a day dealing with the unnerving stares from guys I did not want to acknowledge and the accompanying glares that followed from the beautiful hierarchy of senior girls who were territorial over their potential prey. I had half a notion to tell them—just finally blurt it out one day—that they had nothing to worry about. Despite my mother's scandalous behavior, I had no real desire for any male in our school. I was unmoved by straight teeth, a firm behind, chiseled pecs—all that stuff that other girls swooned over.
The people I went to school with were like family. Distant family that I didn't really care to acknowledge, but obviously out of bounds for any romantic interest.
When I entered biology, it was the theme that was still on my brain, and it was blown to smithereens as I took an uninterested scan of the classroom and located the only seat left available.
I wasn't really sure what had happened. I thought for a second that maybe I was going into shock or fainting or something extreme like that. I felt my knees wobble precariously. I felt the books in my arms slip as if they might turn to water and melt right out of my grip.
The boy I noticed upon coming into the classroom, unfortunately, noticed me too. It was timed so perfectly that our gazes met, held, and I felt my entire world turn upside down. There was a little over four seconds when I felt that my heart had stopped completely.
When it resumed its beat, my pulse was uneven, anything but steady, and throbbing so loudly I was surprised the whole class hadn't lifted their hands to their ears to block it out. My mouth went dry, my hands turned clammy, and I felt everything in me—my complete gravitational pull—fixate on the bronze-haired student in the back of the class.
He stared at me in the same perplexed way as I stared at him, as if both of us had been conked over the head rather mercilessly. My lips parted. I breathed out in stunned fascination, marveling at the boy's perfect, smooth pale skin. It had the same quality as marble, and his eyes... My mouth twitched. His eyes were warm, dark liquid gold.
I was staring at a mirage! A hallucination! This couldn't be real!
A small fan had been perched on the top of the teacher's desk, pushing through the heat—which had been cranked up due to the snow and ice outside—in the room, and it was the first thing to stir me. I felt it wash over my face, something like a cold bath considering how hot I'd suddenly gotten, and it brushed away the strands of my hair that had fallen forward.
The boy at the desk moved, placing his hand somewhere close to his mouth, at the same moment that I shifted my weight from my left foot to my right, and I knew that he was real.
And—when the teacher cleared his throat to inform me that I couldn't stand at the front of the class forever—that he was about to be my classroom neighbor.
I could feel my joints creak and groan as I forced one foot in front of the other. Even though everything inside of me wanted to be near him, it was an exceedingly difficult task to compel myself forward.
When I finally made it to the chair at his side, I collapsed into it more than sat on it. For a second, I thought I would go right on and slide to the floor. My backpack slid off of my shoulder and went instead. The thud of it landing on the tile floor jolted us both.
He looked away from me. I hadn't realized he'd kept staring, but I could smell the honey-sweetness of his breath. It sent shivers right down my spine that felt something like electricity. I stole a glance at him. I felt the sight of him hit me like a sledgehammer again.
Mine, my brain decided without my consent.
Ridiculous. Just like the sudden notion that my heart had just adopted. The notion that I had found my soul mate. The one. The guy I couldn't live without. Was I crazy? Yes. Yes, after years of solidifying my hermit, anti-social status, I had finally cracked. A new guy had come to school, and I had cracked under the pressure, because he might actually be a little bit close to ridiculously good-looking.
But no way I would die for this guy, I told my over-active heart. Get that out of your system, you freak.
I crammed my hands underneath the table, locking them together on my lap so that I didn't do anything insane and desperate and humiliating. I chewed on my lower lip and stared hard at the desk in front of me, doing everything I could not to move an inch on my seat as the teacher began to call roll.
"Edward Cullen," he called after listing off somewhere around seven people.
The boy beside me lifted his hand. "Here."
I sucked in a breath through my nose, hoping it wasn't as loud as it felt. The soft velvet of his voice rolled over me, and I knew that I was a goner, that I was hopeless, that I absolutely wanted this guy, no question about it. I could feel that need spread up through me like fire, flaming through my veins in a way that was almost unbearable.
Maybe it was unbearable, I decided, as my head began to throb, pulsing just behind my eyes like something had come alive inside my skull.
"Bella Swan."
I lifted a none-too-steady hand and then quickly dropped it so that I could use it to anchor myself to the desk before I fell over.
Holy hell, what was wrong with me? I had never, ever, felt anything so bizarre and powerful and consuming. It was almost a physical pain.
Maybe it was a physical pain.
I had to get out. I had to get out. I had to get away from this Cullen guy before I started to get grabby and uncontrollable and...
Oh my God, what was going on with me?
I could barely catch my breath.
I attempted to lean away from him, straining in a manner that I hoped wasn't too noticeable to my right. I needed to breathe, to think. I couldn't get his face out of my head, his voice out of my ears. I had no idea how an hour passed, or how I managed to sit there and continue to function enough to draw in a few ragged breaths in order to live.
When the bell finally rang, though, I wasn't sure who was out of their seat first: Edward or me.
He gave me an almost apologetic look as we brushed elbows in our hurried movements, and I let out a plaintive yip that sounded like a frightened little puppy. But that was it.
Edward Cullen—this new student to Forks High—took off directly after that, brushing past me so fast he could have created his own accompanying tornado. I stared after him in disbelief, so desperate to follow after him that I was literally afraid.
What had just happened?
---
Something was wrong. That much was apparent.
I didn't see Cullen for the rest of the day, and I was as thankful for that as I was anxious.
Had I dreamed him? Had I really been hallucinating? Was I going crazy? I had no one to ask to confirm if I was a true nutcase or just temporary insane. Why? Because I was a hermit, and, by definition, I didn't have any friends to turn to.
For the first time ever, I wished that I had made at least one close friend here. I would have to look into that for future needs.
I hoped that he was real despite it all, otherwise my heart was racing for no reason, and I was feeling ill without cause. Really ill. Like my stomach wouldn't stop rolling, and I was having a major case of hot flashes. I ended up in the girl's room three times that day afraid that I was about to vomit, but only ended up panting over the toilet lid, my head swimming with Edward, with the tiny possessive voice in the back of my head.
I thought I had a reason for grim hope as I heard whispers of "The Cullen's" murmured through the halls. A plural Cullen? That meant that there was more than Edward. I felt like I was in a whole sea of Edward's already, and he apparently had a family.
It didn't lessen by the end of the day, so I was actually glad that I had some homework that would give me the excuse to stay late and alone in a classroom rather than risking going home where even my under-observant mother might notice that something was up. Even if I hadn't had the homework, I would have pretended to just to stay.
I ducked into the room used for study hall, even more relieved to find that I was alone.
I dug into my backpack, retrieved a notebook and pen, opened to a blank page and simply stared at it. I rolled the pen between my fingers so roughly I thought I might actually snap it. I was suppose to write a paper about Jonathan Swift.
The only name I wanted to write down was, "Edward Cullen."
Who was he? Where was he from? Why was he here?
Why did he make me feel like this?
I tossed the pen down in disgust, grimacing as the sudden jerk of my arm made my stomach groan in protest. I thought I might actually be sweating now. It was so hot in here, in the room, inside of my body. I put my head down, picked the pen back up, and forced myself to write despite my lack of inspiration for everything but Edward.
I didn't write for more than fifteen minutes before I stopped. I couldn't help it. I couldn't concentrate, and I felt stiff leaning over the paper all hunched up. I stood up, attempted to stretch, and realized that I was more sore than I had thought. All the tension inside of me was doing a job on my body. I felt like a tightly rolled ball of stress.
My joints were locking with it. My body was overheating with it. I was getting sick. I was going crazy.
Edward, Edward, Edward.
I groaned, sitting back down, and then standing up again as my whole body protested. Maybe if I walked it out...
I got to the front row of seats from my spot four rows back, and then my knees seemed to lock. I looked down at them in disbelief, and I heard and felt my neck pop.
"Ouch," I hissed.
I lifted a hand to rub my neck, but it enticed a sliver of pain to shoot from my shoulder to my index finger. I winced, drawing my arm back down, cradling it in the opposite one, but it didn't help. That sliver of pain began to snake through the rest of my body, hurting a little worse with each limb it visited. I made a small whimper. I felt sweat pearling down my spine. The room felt suddenly small and cramped and that pressure behind my eyes was back and worse than ever.
I just...had...to sit... down...
I slid to the floor in a graceless heap. I felt my knees hit the tile first, and I almost gagged with the pain it elicited as bone hit hard, unyielding floor. I tried to lift my hands to my face, to push my hair back from where it had matted with sweat. I couldn't do it. I only fell forward, catching myself from breaking my nose on the floor with my elbows.
Then the pain was the worst.
It was almost crippling, almost numbing, but not quite. It wasn't too much not to feel it, to be released into unconsciousness. It should have been. It felt like I was being stabbed all over, burned with a red-hot poker, and then stabbed again. It felt like my joints were ripping apart, like my bones were breaking.
I thought I could hear them break.
But, then again, I could barely hear anything over the roar in my head, the sound of my own scream as it came, mangled, up my throat. I listened to myself scream. I held onto it, because it meant that this pain hadn't killed me.
I listened and listened, and I felt and I felt, and then I heard the most horrible, mournful sound I had ever heard:
I heard the sound of a howl. It wasn't a dog's howl, like our neighbor's who often howled when he was left home alone. It was stronger, louder, and sounded like it was swelling up from a massive chest and expelling itself into the air with such force that people clear across the world could hear its pain.
I felt its pain. I heard its howl. I didn't even hear myself screaming anymore.
I was, wasn't I?
I had to be. It still hurt. It hurt so bad. I strained against the howl. I listened to hear myself scream, but the wolf was so persistent.
That's what it was, I realized: a wolf. Nothing else could make that sound.
It took me maybe five minutes to realize that I was not screaming. At least, not like I thought I was. It took me another five minutes to realize that the wolf was howling a lot like I was screaming, it's voice rising and falling as mine did every time I had to draw a breath.
It was around then that I noticed the splintered wood, the chairs laying on their sides, the pieces of paper that were floating in the air like flat, dull snow. There were scratch marks on the floor beneath me, but they were deep gauges. Deep and long like those wounds on my mom's collarbone.
I stared at them in wonder. I reached out to touch them.
A paw hit the ground in front of me. It was not my hand.
But it was, wasn't it?
There was a deafening roar of silence inside of my head. I felt completely alone and alienated as I stared down at that bodiless paw and things slowly drew together in a confused, senseless sort of way that I almost—almost—understood.
I tried to scream again. I heard another howl.
I felt my heart thumping inside of my chest, but it was different now. It was not like before. I felt the difference, I almost understood it as if the answer was innate and had always been there.
I started to run. I pretended not to notice how much closer to the ground I suddenly was, how I had not pushed up onto my feet to run. I pretended not to hear the rhythmic, heavy fall of four feet heating the ground. I pretended I did not feel the heat or know the truth inside of my head.
Because how could it make sense? How could I be the wolf that was howling?
I had fallen. I had hit my head. I could not smell the pizzeria across town as I barreled through the school doors. I could not hear, with incredible clarity, the sound of voices singing in the church over eight blocks away. I did not see the straggler in the parking lot, and I did not hear them scream as they saw me or acknowledge that it was Amy, the flute player from the school band.
I didn't admit any of this, and yet, the woods was the first place I headed, as if this was the place that had always been sanctuary. And, really, it was hard not to feel at home as I sunk into the underbrush, felt thorns tearing at my fur.
Fur?
Oh God. Oh no. I was not. It was not possible.
Despite all evidence to the contrary, it was not physically possible or logical or even believable that I was the wolf that had howled, that I was now on four paws, and covered in long, brown fur.
I shot deeper into the forest. I wanted to get lost. I wanted to hide until I woke up from this awful nightmare. I wanted to escape the fact that the deafening silence had gone away now, and all I could hear, again, was the sound of my heart repeating:
Edward Cullen. Edward Cullen. Edward Cullen.