Summary: This is the story of how Victoria and James met. The story of mixed emotions and a twisted love. Victoria/James
Authoress know, I know. Who would want to read about this most hated couple? Well, this is the question I present you: who wouldn't? So read and review!
Disclaimer: I do not own Twilight. Nor Victoria or James.
Victoria POV:
They asked me to go pick up the meat again. No. My parents, who are too lazy to do anything for themselves, ordered me to pick up the meat from the slime-ball-of-a-neighbor Wyatt O'Riely. Of course--other than being slothful--, my dearest mommy and daddy have other motives (as in, they expected the news on a possible son-in-law). I already dread the thought of being in the vicinity of the vile man but vowing under the sanctity of God that anything and everything I do has to be passed by the misogynistic pig who has never heard of a bath on top of that? I don't think so.
The thought of going to bed with the three hundred pound, oily, balding, horrid man who is twice my age makes me want to vomit my breakfast and some organs. Besides, my future would be bleaker with him than being kicked out of by my own parents. Eh, like I needed them anyways.
Though, I have to say, the walk to and back from his house is far worse in threadbare shoes in the woods on a windy evening and caring a basket of pork and beef with the added onus of not being eaten by a ravenous bears who, by the way, might find me a very appealing center piece.
A massive force set every step I took by three. My strength and stamina slowly dwindled against the raging wind. Soon, to recover, I stopped behind a tree. Chills coursed through my body, creating a frozen cast around me. I released my flaming red hair to protect my poor neck against the cold. Agh, the wonderful stench of pig fat radiated from my beautiful hair. My beautiful, precious hair. The only thing I liked about myself. When my grandmother was still alive—may her soul find peace--, she admired my hair and often called me her little lion because my hair resembled so much of a lion's mane. I wish she never died…she was the only one who understood me…for that matter, who ever cared about me.
Pathetic tears streamed down my numb, rosy cheeks from remembering my beloved grandmother. She took care of me, and I took care of her. Or, that was what I was suppose to do anyway.
Pushing the horrid memories from my wretched, I gathered my belongings, drew my hair back and stood up with some difficulty. The wind didn't die down during my break; in fact, it grew in strength, charging all its energy at me. Dust clogged my air passages, causing me to sneeze. The basket of meat slipped from my arm; the meat soon was covered by the swirling dirt.
No! Not the meat! As quickly as I could, I stuffed the meat into the woven basket. Extra dirt began to line the lining of my basket—today's newspaper, The Forks Gazette (Headline Story!: 1910, The Year of the Great Massacre!); it prevented the basket from getting destroyed by the meat juice. But it was too late; all the meat was destroyed. A sickening feeling crept up from my stomach to my throat. My parents will surely force me to undergo Father's whip lash or worse, the hot, burning coal for my clumsiness. Of course, everything depends on how much moonshine they consumed while I was gone.
The scars only from two days ago still tingled on my arm.
The horrible feeling I had in my throat grew more volatile when I approached the little cottage-type house I lived in since m birth. The horrid place holds too many terrible memories within its wooden structure. From day one, my eighteen year life has been spent at the service of demons from hell.
Maybe, if I get Pete and Joshua out before I show Mother and Father the meat and send them to town for a few hours, whatever punitive action will be taken on me will not spill over to my baby brothers. But I can only hope.
As I braced myself for the worst, in the distance, I could hear a faint slamming. Open. Shut. Open. Shut. The rhythmic sound of the wind opening and closing would send the most ominous chills through the bravest soldiers. Against the raging wind, I tugged to my house; then, through the light film of dust, the door marked with my blood and tears swung open and closed. My parents could have left the door opened when the stumbled in, or my brothers could have been scared enough by our parents' hate and just made a run for it. Something a girl like me could never do.
A strange presence took hold of me as soon as I came close. My inner voice screamed for me to run the other direction, to never stop until my legs couldn't go on. But I couldn't turn and run like a coward.
Whatever happened or will happen, my brothers need me.
The strong scent of blood hit me hard; blotches of blood covered the usually meticulously clean door (I should know, I have to clean it every day). I pushed open the door; fear, apprehension, anxiety filled up the bitter void that people call my heart. Had my parents finally committed the worst sin of them all? Had they killed Pete and Joshua?
Furniture was turned upside-down, and more blood splatters covered the wall. Then, I saw the sight. The sight of my European-descendant father, sitting in his favorite chair by the fire place, covered in his own blood and severed limbs were thrown all over the room. A ravenous beast must have done this, a bear. Under normal circumstances, I would have thought this, laughed at the old man's pathetic demise and go to town to shout my new found freedom, but these weren't normal circumstances.
A man with tangled, long hair that was tied up in a ponytail stood over the corpse; his clothing barely contained the mightiness of his muscles; despite the various streaks of mud all over his smooth, pale skin, he smelt so good. The intruder, sensing my presence, quickly turned, flashing his bright, red eyes at me. I didn't know whether to be afraid or joyous.
Authoress Note: Like it? Hopefully the answer is yes. Also, I do need a beta reader, so if you're interested, please PM me! Next chapter will be from James's POV. Please review!