Starting a new story. Not quite sure what brought this idea on . . . but it is certainly one I have wanted to share for a bit, and I am now taking time off from OLRF to write something new. Hope that it is good . . . a Little OOC, set in current day or a year or two before, Normal pairings.

-Anna

BellaPOV

I stare at the wall, watching dim shadows flicker across the less than smooth white surface to put off the boredom and loneliness I feel as of present.. I imagine patterns that are not there. I see in the cracked wall a man kneeling, perhaps praying to the God I do not believe in.

"Hey No name!" a boy sneers at me from across the room on his twin sized bed. I ignore him. He pauses, assessing my reaction, then begins to frequent.

"You deaf, dead or dumb?" he asks with a snicker. Two other boys and one girl laugh with him; I assume they are his posse or his family. I still ignore them, fixing my idle gaze on the wall. I trace my fingers

"What are you doing, freak?" the girl says, making her friends laugh. She is obviously pleased. I do not respond with the retort that hangs on my tongue, because I see that teasing me and impressing her posse members is important.

"Maybe she's tapping a secret passage!" one of the two boys laughs. I close my eyes, tracing over the wall with one hand, connecting the dots and bumps in the whitewash to gain hold of the emotion I feel so strongly. I am startled by its presence. I have not felt in three years, particularly since the crash. Emotion scares me now.

"Well, tough luck kiddo! You're a Piece of garbage and you're staying where you belong: in garbage. We're gonna be outta here before you can call for mama, and then you'll be here alone! Maybe the janitor will like you. He loves little girls like you," the boy who started the teasing taunts.

"In that case, I am quite sure that he will take a taste from her before she leaves," I say, turning and nodding a bit to the girl to show who I am talking about. The boy shoots from his spot on the bed like a rocket. He holds his fists up, ready to fight, lip curled over his teeth.

"What did you say 'bout mah sister?" He snarls. I stare at him with lifeless eyes before raising my eyebrows, not in an act of innocence or weakness but in one that says "you heard me, so what is your pansy ass going to do about it?"

"You're dead no name! D-E-A-D!" The girl says as she jumps up with her brother. They smile at me, of complete confidence as they approach. I stand, brushing off my legs, ignoring them. I am not afraid. They move faster, taking my "distraction" as weakness. I allow them to come within inches wait for them, and then to start.

The girl throws the first punch. I lash out and catch her hand by the wrist, twisting it and successfully tossing her aside. The boy comes forward, and I allow myself to apply a clean kick straight to his chest. I feel no sort of remorse as I do this. One might say that it is wrong for a 16 year old girl to fight 14 year olds, but if they see these fourteen year olds; experience their aggression firsthand, they will change their minds.

I fight. It is the only thing I have learned to protect myself with. I punch the boy in the nose, hearing a sickening snap before blood seeps onto his face. The girl has my mercy, and therefore she doesn't receive any direct punched or slaps, just pushes or twists as I stop her from punching me.

I win the fight, and turn to the other two boys to see their reaction—I am prepared to have to defend myself against anyone who may seek revenge. But they are still, staring at me in fear and awe, and I cautiously turn back to the girl and the boy, keeping ear out for any other danger.

I help the girl up and offer to walk the boy to the infirmary, which grants me strange and distrustful stares from them. I turn and walk out myself, not turning around to see if they are following—I already know that they are. I hear their footsteps against the tiled floor of The Home, and I walk into the infirmary with them hesitantly trailing behind.

The nurse recognizes me.

"Aw, Bella, what have you done now? What have I told you about fighting?"

"I am sorry, Nurse Lydia," I reply formally, and she sighs heavily.

"Come here, you," she says to the boy, and leads him to a space for laying down and applying medicine. The girl remains, and she turns to me.

"You know, you're a pretty decent gal after all," she says. "Will you teach me how to twist someone's arm like that?" I am about to reply when the nurse, having caught the girl's question, replies for me over her shoulder.

"No, she won't. because you won't ever have to fight, darling. You'll be a good girl, and when you grow up you'll have nice things and a family that loves you." I see in the girl's eyes a hope and innocence that tell me that she has not always been here. That underneath the hard surface she showed when fighting me is the little girl that loves unconditionally and relies on her brother for protection, that likes toys and teddy bears and tea, and that wishes to grow up like the women who wear expensive fashion.

She has hopes and dreams, and she has not always had to fight. In her eyes I see a mirror of me at that age. In her eyes I see the hope, the innocence, the dreamy nature that I was accustomed to. But, lurking behind, are the shadows of fear that her life has conditioned her to.

I smile at her, faintly, just before a lady walks in. Well . . . I can't really say "a lady" because that would be assuming that she is just anyone, just some worried gal fretting over this and that that I've never met before.

This lady is "The Clerk". Her name is really Ruby, I think, but us here at The Home call her The Clerk because she wears a suit everyday with fishnets and high heels that clack click clack against the floor as she walks—more like marches. Her hair is always pulled into a tight bun, and her lips set in a grim line, smiling rarely. Some are afraid of her. Some call her a "tight-assed bitch who needs to loosen up and get the fuck her high horse" (words of a surprisingly small boy who lives in the same room in The Home as I) I like Ruby. She is not falsely cheerful, like others here, and she speaks the truth in every word or tap of her shoes. A pleasant change for me.

"Are you Code ID No. 16582?" she asks me. I nod solemnly. Our Code ID numbers are what we are identified by—never names. We learn our Code ID numbers through hours of studying our file and our forms when we first come here. I have known it by heart for three years—known it to be my identity so strongly that I have almost forgotten what my real name is.

"Come with me. There's a family who has come to adopt you." I nod, and follow her down the corridor, where she will take me to my group room here at The Home for the last time, before I will probably be sent back about six months, maybe a year later if I am lucky. I will pack my things and follow her to the meeting room, the room where we meet the family we're supposed to be living with.

The Home is where I live. No—it is where I have learned to survive. It is an orphanage for people like me, who have been caught doing an act of juvenile delinquency at least once, who have been bounced from foster home from foster home, who have lived on the streets, who have been caught in fights constantly.

Who have learned to survive in the real world on their own, because their parents never taught them how and aren't here to now.

I am Isabella Marie Swan. When I was 11 years old, my parents died. They were both attacked by a pack of wolves. I know it doesn't sound likely. But I was there. I was there when my mother screamed to me to run, when my father turned his back for just a second and then got attacked. And so I ran, and ran, until I got home. I was lucky—or so some people might say. But I know that I was unlucky when I emerged from the forest untouched and not followed.

I never saw my parents again. There was no funeral, no formal one with a coffin and a headstone and a priest and people, but a week after they were murdered I went back and found their remains. I was not squeamish as I carried them to a small nook in the forest with a little meadow and a waterfall stream and buried them there. In my little heaven, the place I planned to be buried. I artistically made logs into their names, Storm and William Swan, over their make shift grave.

After that, after burying my own parents, I went crazy. I saw delusions—illusions of matter, colors melting into the ground and becoming, everything turning into color or matter. Ghosts. My parents, voices—they all came. But I never screamed, or ranted to anyone. I never fought or hit, kicked or insisted for others to see what I saw. And yet I was still sent to a doctor, still advised to see a therapist, when I talked to anyone about outliving both my parents.

Trauma, they say. I have a lot of it. I used to cry out for my mother and father at night, used to scream their names until I fell off into an unconscious sleep filled with memories as dreams. And one day, when I did that straight in front of my therapist, broke down and spoke gibberish, I was sent to a mental asylum.

I was released at age 13, when the doctors said I could become a functioning member of society. They released me into The Home. Right. A goddamn functioning member of society. I was bounced from foster home to foster home, and over time, I stopped crying. Pretended I was okay, pretended like I still didn't see what I see even now. I don't have tears left, and now the only things I care to remember are the memories of my parents—excluding the pack of wolves, including the burial because they were buried in my little heaven. (It is my heaven even now, the place I think of often and plan to visit once I grow up and get a house of my own away from The Home. The place where I plan to build my house, to raise any sort of family that I probably won't have, to be buried. It is my only hope, my only love left, my only sunshine, because it is where my parents are resting, where they wait for me.)

That is my life. So I feel nothing as I pack my things and walk forward with the lady to the meeting room to meet the family which I am sure is dysfunctional just like the other foster care homes I've been in where the only reason I'm there is for the money I bring in with my presence. No different.

This is my life.

Here we go again.

EdwardPOV

It is Esme's idea. She wants to adopt. She wants to adopt a human. I do not blame her for wanting to have a child again, a human child—but bringing one into our family I do not approve of. Of course, another solution might be to simply change a human child through the three day process of fiery pain and burn everyone in my family including me went through to become a vampire, but if we did that we would undoubtedly have the Volturi on our backs.

And so now she has arranged to adopt a girl who has no other identification except for Code ID No. 16582. We all looked at the description and information on the girl, and what we found is pretty interesting. It has also put me, Carlisle and Jasper on edge.

The file we read of the girl said that she suffers from "immense trauma" which led to the forming of her current "problems": Obsessive Compulsive Disorder, Paranoia, Delusions, and Disassociating State.

In other words, she is a stickler for everything to be neat and orderly and clean, she is paranoid, she has hallucinations, and she zones out from time to time—Carlisle has told me that one in Disassociating state can perform tasks mechanically, without thought—such as driving a car, or cooking dinner, or committing a homicide or suicide.

Fair reason to be wary of this girl.

We are driving to the orphanage now. I am annoyed with most of the thoughts of my family. I rue the fact that I possess the immortal gift of reading minds—there is no way at all to turn it off. I know that, in addition to having to deal with my family's thoughts, I will have to bear the burden of hearing the thoughts of a girl who is described as half insane.

I wince. I try to keep my mind occupied, so I will not have to think of the girl too much. I figure that if I do not make direct contact or eager friendliness with her; if I stay out of her way, that she might stay out of mine for the most part.

Still, like my family, I can not stop thinking of her.

-I wonder if she is on any medications or sedates . . . perhaps we can ask someone who handles that at the orphanage?—Carlisle

-Oh, this is wonderful! Of course Alice and I will have to go out shopping for clothes and furniture for her new room, but never mind that! I hope that she will like our family . . . I'll have to talk to Rosalie and Edward . . . –Esme

-Why did Esme have to go and send in forms for adoption? For a human!It's crazy! This girl is insane, from what I read on the file, and everyone's obsessing over her! Big deal! Even Emmett is looking forward to meeting the crazy girl!—Rosalie

For once, I actually agree with Rosalie . . . somewhat.

-Oh, oh oh oh! This is great! I bet me and the new girl will be best friends! I wonder if she will like shopping . . . maybe we can go shopping together and I can get to know her! I hope she'll like me! –Alice

-Hmm . . . Alice is excited and Esme is, too, Emmett is probably thinking of all the ways he'll be able to tease her (am I right, Edward?) which I'm not sure is good because she sounds pretty unstable . . . and no one knows how she might respond to his teases, or us. I'll have to make sure to keep good track of her emotions and to keep fair distance, too . . . a human for a sister. Wow. –Jasper

-Ha, wonder if she likes sports! Football, baseball, basketball! This is a great chance! Edward won't even play a game of one on one catch with me. Hey, maybe me and my new lil' sis will finally make up the greatest prank ever and get Edward with it . . . shit, he's listening!—Emmett

I frown, realizing that I've been sucked into the obsession with the girl, in the process of listening to my family's thoughts.

I wonder what the girl will look like. The file said she would have brown hair—probably cut short, since the file also said that she's been in a mental asylum. Brown eyes—flat, like all brown eyes are in their darkness. 5 foot 8 inches—taller than Rosalie and Esme, the near same height as Jasper (off by 2 inches) nearly the same height as me (off by about 7 inches) and under Emmett (off by around ten inches to a foot). Which is tall, even if it may not seem. She is caucasion, and that is all that is described.

She will probably be average like humans are. And, if she's 5.8, I imagine that she will be fairly slim, even if she is over the 200-pounder mark, because of her height. But that's all I can see in my minds eye. So, us among a human—who's thoughts will likely be insecure when she sees us. Oh, sweet Jesus, if you weren't listening 90 years ago when my mother and father died, and when I became a God-forsaken vampire, will you please, please, spare me the wrath of insecurity and insanity in this girl's thoughts?

The car (Carlisle bought a new car, a sort of SUV with room for all of us, including the eigth member of the family that we will meet soon) stops, and I realize that we are at the orphanage—which is nothing like we might've imagined. It is a sleek, modern building that looks more like an office space than a house. It has four stories and windows that resemble the ones on the sides and front of hospitals. Inside, we see rooms with twin sized beds, nighstands, and the other things an average room might have. There is an infirmary, and a kitchen, and a cafeteria—like a boarding school.

Everyone—excluding myself and Rosalie, need I remind—is excited as we get out the car and walk inside. I run my hands through my hair and step inside the building in line with Carlisle and Alice.

"Can I ask what I can do for you?" a guard asks as we enter. So I was right—this place is like an office space. Esme explains that we are here to adopt and pulls out the forms for proof, as well a shows her ID, and we are let inside.

(A/N: Keep in mind that I have no real knowledge on this sort of thing, so I am making up things based on what I think might happen in a real orphanage/adoption agency)

As we walk down the long hall, I notice several stares—some hopeful and some distrustful, but for the most part awed by our beauty—from the children and teenagers. I see into their minds and view the fear and pain there, see the reason why they are now stuck in the modernized building with the overly cheerful workers, forced to live with what they have and what they are given, and conditioned to live one day at a time because the next morning is the beginning of the unknown.

I shiver, wondering if this is what might have caused some of the girl's insanity, wonder if this is what she feels so paranoid of, so skittish. I feel sorry for her—a pity that is not necessary or appropriate.

And then I remind—no, keep myself in check with a rebuke—myself that I am not supposed to get in the girl's way, and that means not feeling any emotions toward her. No pity, no sympathy, because it is clear that all the pity in the world could not stop me or hardly any of my family if, for one second, she opened a bleeding wound and one of us or most of us lost control.

Jasper looks at me, questioning my emotions. I walk faster, so that I am in line with Esme and I try to keep calm and indifferent. Esme, however, takes the chance to talk to me.

"Edward, please please be nice to the girl. Don't scare her, okay? I know that the idea is in your high disapproval, but I really think this could work and I don't want anything to ruin it, if we can help it."

Esme, please note that I love you like a mother, as sweet and caring as you are, but if you ever give a speech to me again about "being nice" to the half insane human girl we are about to adopt, I might tear my hair out and rip off my ears.

"Aw, Edward is just mad because he won't be the odd man out anymore. He won't be so special, because Moms and Carlisle here will have someone else to worry about. He won't be their little boy anymore!" Emmett said, wiping away a fake tear. I growl, but everyone else laughs, mostly forced.

"Hey, I wonder if Edward might have finally met his soul mate? She's paranoid, he's paranoid. She's a neat freak, he's a neat freak. She zones out, he zones out. They're a perfect match!" Emmett said, laughing and attracting many a stare. I reach out and slug him on the arm.

"Ow! That almost hurt!"

"Emmett, no teasing your brother or your new sister. Ok?" Esme warns. He shrugs.

"I'll try," he offers. We all laugh then, knowing the word try is quite necessary.

"Oh, I think this is the right room," Esme says as she points to a room with a sign on the wall outside it saying "Meeting/New Family room". I frown and sigh, preparing to be bombarded with a hoard of thoughts from an average human girl as we walk inside.

And then I receive perhaps the best—and worse—surprise in 90 years.

Because, standing there next to a tall lady in a business suit and glasses (she is stony-faced; a look into her mind reveals that she's worked in the adoption business for 10 years and has seen about everything) is the most beautiful girl I had ever seen.

She has long, very long, smooth and shiny brown hair with facets of red and hints of gold that waves and curls past her shoulders and almost to her waist. She is taller than I pictured, but a quick glance reveals that she is in fact 5.8—just taller by a half inch. She has long arms and legs, and hands that look strong yet soft and warm.

But her face is the most to behold. She looks like a porcelain doll with her ivory skin that had slight rose undertones and a glow under the fluorescent light. Her eyebrows hold arches that look natural, a person forever questioning something. Wide cheekbones that in their placement framed the gentle slope of her nose, which's nostrils turn up like a button in a rounded triangle. Her lips are full, the upper lip sticking out just a bit more than her lower, a reverse pout.

But her eyes. Deep. So deep that I am startled by the contrasting emptiness there. They are chocolate brown with darker and lighter blends mixing in. I am lost in them, even though she is not looking at me.

And her scent. Potent. Hard to describe. No perfume could ever compare, and not even the best of scientists could have found the right ingredients to match it. It is flowery, like a vase of freshly picked roses atop a round table, and sweet, like a ripe apple—or maybe a hot apple pie left on the sill of an open window to cool. Fresh, like a gentle summer breeze. Comforting and melt-in-the mouth, like how humans describe the spice cinnamon to be. My throat burns, and I realize at the same time that this girl's scent has made me actually crave food that I loved as a human.

Her mind . . . . is silent.

My wish to Jesus is granted, ironically the sarcastic and rhetorical one.

I can not hear a thing from the tall, beautiful, extremely wonderful smelling soulful eyed and half insane girl. Who is now staring at me as if she sees what I see in her.

For once, thank you, Jesus.

Maybe.

BellaPOV

There they are.

My new family.

They are all beautiful. Inhumanly so. There is a tall, dirty blonde man who looks to be the oldest, and the second oldest—or maybe she is the oldest after all but just doesn't look it?—seems a maternal looking caramel haired woman. Then there is a tall honey blonde boy, and a short—five feet maximum—black haired girl with a spiky haircut—almost like a flirty slip-up, if you imagine right—and a pixie sort of face that fits her height. A burly, muscular boy with dark curls and a grin on his face, next to the most beautiful girl ever, and maybe the most beautiful there—a tall, golden blonde girl with a frown on the face that looks like a supermodel's. They all have snowy pale—but not stark white skin and unusual butterscotch eyes.

I wonder why they are here adopting me, an insane girl, instead of posing for photoshoots at a huge modeling agency. I look them over again. I think that is all.

But wait! There's another one.

Turns out that the blonde girl isn't the most beautiful one.

He's tall. He looks more boyish than the rest. He has bushy eyebrows that are directly over his brow bone. His face is slightly triangular near the jaw, and his chin is strong with a slight dimple. His nose is perfectly shaped, and his cheekbones are high. His eyes are the same shade as his family's, but I find that they remind me of topaz.

I frown a bit. Where did all that come from? I'm not supposed to be ogling one of the family members! I'm supposed to be the distant crazy girl who shuts herself in her room and keeps the lights off and the curtains drawn—which I do—and eats only when necessary. After all, after a while of living on little food, my body has become accustomed to eating when I'm near starving to death—I can't eat at any other point. So, a crazy girl who doesn't come out her room for most meals and stays to herself, doesn't talk and doesn't smile nor laugh. Sounds good, to me at least.

God, I really hope that they are not one of those family's who go to things like swim meets and football games and softball practices, not the type of family who has movie night and make-your-own-sundae Friday . . . . in other words, not a family who suffers from the ADFL (American Dream Family Life) which includes:

Having at least 2 plasma screen TVs.

Living in a small town or suburb; or a neighborhood where families frequent in living or pursuing the ADFL.

Having at least 100,000 dollars in both savings and checkings; or their yearly income (after taxes) having more than three zeros in it.

Having a father that has a potbelly, mows the too-neat lawn with a rusty lawnmower and a beer.

Having a large pool—either in-ground or above—that often holds vast amounts of children during barbecues.

Having barbecues. Period.

Having a living room with a leather recliner.

Havig at least 2 children with classic good looks:

Blond hair

Blue eyes

Tan skin and dimples.

Having "all American children" who are jocks at school, excel in everything and go to a vast amount of parties during the year.

There are many more; too much to list in my mind right now. But I think this family might fit a few right off hand. I don't think I'm going to like it there. But, I'm used to being unhappy by now. You give the world a smile, and the word flips you off. It's normal.

"Well, this is the Cullen family. And this is . . . .," Ruby trails off, motioning to me, signaling that I am supposed to give my name.

"I am Bella Swan. Good morning. It is nice to meet you." I revel in the sound of my Italian accent, which I owe the thanks to my father, who came from an Italian family—too bad they decided to Amercanize his name.

"Or, if you wish you may call me Isabella," I replied, just as formally as my first comment.

"I am Esme," the maternal woman says, and went on to introduce her family. The dirty blonde on is Carlisle, the tall honey blonde is Jasper, the short one is Alice (who is smiling so wide at me that her face might crack. I am starting to get creeped out), the big, burly one is Emmett, the beautiful golden blonde is Rosalie.

The handsome bronze-haired, boyish boy is Edward.

"It is nice to meet all of you," I say, giving one short, polite smile. Edward's expression looks surprised, and curious.

"Are you Italian?" he blurts out, much to the scorn of his family, who all glare at him and send me apologetic glances. Do they expect me to be offended? I am quite proud, actually, and I don't hesitate to show it.

"Pah! Avete notato?" I say, tilting my head. He half smiles, but looks away. I smirk, glad to have fixed him.

(A/N: "Pah! Avete notato?" is actually Italian for "Pah! Did you notice?")

"Hi Bella! I'm so happy to meet you! Do you like shopping?" Alice asks me excitedly.

"Alice," Esme and Carlisle (the mother and father, I realize) warn her.

"Hmm . . . shopping del libro, sicuro. Shopping di musica, definitivamente. Shopping dell'alimento . . . . forse. Acquisto dei vestiti? Soltanto se ottengo scegliere, Tesoro."

"Umm . . . . what?" she asks, looking confused. I sigh. Did not any of them know Italian? It was the language I grew up with, and therefore the only language I knew well. If they wanted me to speak English, they could at least look into buying me an Italian=English dictionary.

"Hmm . . . . Book shopping, sure. Music shopping, definitely. Shopping for food . . . maybe. Clothes shopping? Only if I get to choose, darling." My English is sharp and mispronounced, but she seems to understand.

"Oh. Okay!" her face lights up instantly.

"Please forgive me for asking, but do not any of you know Italian?"

"Edward does!" Alice and Emmett say, pointing to Edward, who glares at them. Ah, of course, he does not want to be translator for the crazy Italian girl.

"Amperora, deludente?" I ask.

"I'm fine." His face says otherwise.

''La vostra faccia è un traitor, doice."

"Sorry ?" he says, almost a question. I smile, a bit. At least someone there is as reluctant as me.

"Alright, are you two done with your private conversation?" Emmett booms. I nod, not turning to Edward again. Carlisle speaks then.

"Well . . . I suppose we should leave now. Bella?" I nod to signal that I am ready, looking down and checking my bag, making sure that everything is fastened tightly. I also look down to hide the very slight smile on my face. This is a good start, as far as adoption goes. Usually the mother is a fat woman wearing a too small baby gap T-shirt and loud-mouthing about what I should and shouldn't do, and we end up in a spat before we even leave. But this is different. These people seem smart. And interesting.

And maybe . . .

No, I could not nurse hope. I could never, ever begin to nurse hope that I might love again someday—love anyone again. And I couldn't nurse hope that I would ever receive love.

Because, when you're conditioned not to hope, not to expect, how can you hope for anything, how can you allow yourself to rely on someone else for comfort . . . when really, that person is in fact the person conditioning you not to hope?

So, what did you think? I know, kind of long for a first chapter . . . but I really wanted to get into what Bella/Edward is thinking/feeling. This is not one of those stories where Bella is 13 or 14 years old. She is 16, and considers herself an adult.

And yes, I do speak Italian. Just a little note: here is a translation of the conversation Bella and Edward had after she found out he spoke Italian:

"Ah, disappointed?" Bella says.

"I'm fine," Edward responses.

"Your face is a traitor, sweet," Bella replys.

"Sorry?"

Yes, that is the translation. Okay, just a few more notes:

Bella will not be just "a-okay" with everything. She has trauma for her past, and she will show it. She will not talk freely, she will not smile often, and to be honest Edward and Bella both have reluctance toward each-other, so this isn't one of those schoolgirl crush fics.

That's it . . . sorry if that disappoints anyone, but I like to write deep.

-Anna