Hello! And welcome to the technically third rewrite of Crudele! I originally began writing this story in 2012 when I was either eleven or twelve years old, and since the deletion of Crudele, I have received numerous messages and emails both asking for the rewrite of Crudele to be updated and have had people ask me for the original copy.

If you were a reader of my Caius' Daughter series, I regretfully inform you that I also do not have a copy of that series to my knowledge.

(I have fifteen people on the list to send the original to if I can find it, and I will be checking all my drives and computers, but to my knowledge the original copy of Crudele no longer exists unless some AMAZING reader has downloaded or copied it somewhere. If on the rare chance someone has, please message me. I believe I left off at about 31 chapters.)


Bella's Point Of View;

It will be as if I never existed.

He had never been so wrong. The nightmares still plague me in my sleep. I miss them with every aching part of my being.

I wish he had been right. I wish I couldn't remember how his favourite composer was Debussy, how he hummed along with the music just under his breath so you could barely hear him. I wish I couldn't remember his eyes, topaz swirling around a golden crown, the black of his iris seeming so much deeper in contrast. I wish I couldn't remember the way he looked as the snow fell on the soft breeze around him, hair in the wind as he smiled.

Winter was his favourite season.

I wish I couldn't remember his family;

Alice happily flitting around the house, keeping her plagued mind at bay with shopping. How her spiky hair bounced as she ever cheerfully put together flower arrangements for Esme, deep set gold eyes swimming in her ideas. Decorating for Christmas; I had never expected to love a purple Christmas tree, but it was beautiful in the way that an oddity was beautiful.

Jasper, rereading the same novel as if he had missed something, perfect mind and all. Alice would walk into the room, and you could feel him emit the happiness she brought into the room with her, both faces lighting up as she'd place a Santa hat atop his head.

Esme baking cookies in the kitchen, throwing a handful of flour at Carlisle, their laughs echoing the feeling we all felt that Christmas.

I miss those days; life was so much simpler and happier for me. I miss the brother and sister I'd lost, the three of us gathered around a chess table taking turns playing as we talked, sharing stories from both their lives and mine.

I miss them.

I miss Edward.


Somewhere along the way after they left, I had picked up a hydros habit, as I preferred to call it. It's far better than the alternative term, I thought. Bottles stashed in my closet; some leftover from my recovery after the brush with James, some I had stolen from Carlisle's study after they'd left.

I'd reasoned with myself that it wasn't like they could possibly use them, and they definitely wouldn't be back in Forks before my lifetime was up. Edward had made it very clear they wouldn't be; they wanted me to have a normal life. But there was no normalcy in it anymore.

Taking my first three of the day to stave off the sickness a little longer, I sat back against the wood of my closet walls. I knew both of my parents would be disappointed, but with such an easy way to continue reupping, and with the vast amount of medical supplies Carlisle had just collecting dust at this point, I don't think they'd find out for a long, long time.

The first time I drove back to the house, I'd known it would hurt.

But as sobs wracked through me, slamming my hands against the steering wheel to feel something other than what could only have been my half emptied soul, I wondered how one person could experience this pain and still go on breathing.

As I feel the first whispers of the opioid take its' effect, and my shakes lessen altogether, my father calls up the stairs,

"Bells?" It's the same worry as every morning for him, hoping I'm still here.

"I'm here, Dad!" I respond loudly, picking myself up off the floor.

Turning the corner into my room, hands shaking from the anxiety of coming up around him, I slip the fourth pill into my pocket and turn the closet lights off.

I see Charlie in the doorway holding a plate of bacon and eggs; the delicious, homey scent following him in. I feel guilty, as ever since Edward left along with my motivation, my father had learned how to cook through trial and error of his own. For the first few months, there was a lot of burnt food, and a lot of giving up and ordering takeout.

I take the plate feigning gratefulness, and he leaves for work for the day.

Already losing my appetite from the pills, and wanting to redose later to keep my buzz going through the day without issue, my resolve is that I'm probably not eating today.


It's August. We finally have a brief reprieve from the onslaught of the almost constant rain through the summer, and I have taken to the woods on a rather dark journey.

There's a river that runs somewhere near me, and I only vaguely remember where I'm trying to go from my time spent with Edward.

Our cliff.

But soon after, I receive a call from Jake, and it's time to turn back around already.

Taking one last longing look at the cliff, just barely in sight, I begin to head home.