I sit down in the overly loud cafeteria, staring at the red apple in my left hand. My black nails shine brightly against it, my pale fingers long and graceful. Life is slightly boring at the moment, if I'm thinking about the way my fingers look.
I lean back in my chair and watch the many different people in the lunch room. There's the Goths/punks/emos/scene kids, the preps, the fine arts kids, band geeks, nerds discussing their latest academic achievement, jocks, oddballs, wannabes, and me.
I don't really fit in with anyone. I'm not preppy, I'm not a nerd, and I don't quite fit in with the art kids. And besides, what good are people? They always hurt you eventually.
I take a bite from my apple, sucking the juices slightly. Sweet. The apple crunches in my mouth as I watch the different drama for the day.
The theater group is practicing quite dramatically for the next play or something, and apparently . . . one of the cheerleaders got pregnant? Did I hear that right? Well, I probably did, knowing this day and age.
I finish the apple and stand up to throw it away, when I feel like someone's watching me from behind. I turn slightly and see nothing. I must have imagined it, or maybe –
"Hey, Swan, why don't you watch where you're going?" someone shouts at me as I hit something solid. I look up to see one of the football players whose name I don't really remember.
"Sorry," I mutter, looking back at the ground.
He brushed past me, and I throw away the apple core. Then I walk back to my seat. I pull my book out of my bag and start reading.
When the bell rings, I go to my biology class, reading as I walk. I do this every day, and always manage to not get pulverized as I walk. I don't watch where I go, and most people hate that. They threaten to beat me up, and often, they go through with it.
I sit down at my empty table, and read further as the rest of the class files in. Before the bell rings though, I've fallen asleep.
But all too soon, someone's yelling at me to get up.
"Huh?" I mumble, rubbing my eyes. I blink a few times to see Mr. Banner standing in front of my, arms crossed and tapping his foot impatiently.
"Nice you to see you've joined us, Miss Swan," he says. He goes to the front of the room, where I notice a new guy standing awkwardly.
He has these beautiful green eyes. Seriously, they were amazing . . . so stunning, so deep. I could get lost in them. Or paint them and stare at them for eternity. Yeah, I like the second choice. And his bronze hair is quite literally everywhere. He seems bored and odd, standing there. He is quite tall, probably over six foot. And handsome.
"This, class, is Edward Cullen," he says, gesturing to the guy. "He and his family have just moved here and, well, they're here. Edward, take a seat by Miss Swan, the one I just woke up."
Edward nods and takes his seat next to me.
Edward Cullen. I haven't heard the name Edward in ages; it's actually a really old name, if I remember right.
He glances at me randomly throughout the class as I begin to ignore Mr. Banner and doodle on a piece of paper.
I glance over after he had glanced at me again and noticed him writing in a notebook. I couldn't make out what most of it said, though. I wonder what he's writing . . .
He scratches out a part of it and underlines yet another. He makes a note on the side of the page, and then flips to the front of the notebook and begins reading over it.
"And now, class," says Mr. Banner, "project time."
"What?" half the class moans.
"Yes, project," he says, shuffling papers on his desk. He picks up a thick stack and starts passing them out. "You and the person sitting at the table with you shall be working on making a detailed diagram of the human skeleton. Due in two weeks. Do not put it off."
I take a paper from the person in front of me, hand one to Edward and pass them back, looking at the front cover. I flip through it quickly, already thinking of how to do this. It shouldn't be too hard.
"Where do you wanna meet to work on this?" asks Edward.
I jumped slightly as I hadn't been expecting him to say anything.
"Uh, not my house, it's a wreck," I say.
"We can meet at my place, I guess," he shrugs.
"Alright," I agree. "When do you wanna meet up?"
"Tomorrow after school," he says. "I just need to move some boxes so we can work."
I nod, thinking of what to tell Charlie. How to explain this to Charlie.
I give an involuntary shiver.
"You okay?" asks Edward.
"What? Oh. Yeah. I'm fine," I lie.
I look down, long brown hair falling in front of my face. I pull the sleeve of my jacket and shirt up, looking at the black, blue and sickly green bruises lining my wrist. I drop the sleeve and straighten up to find Edward looking at me.
"What?" I ask as the bell rings.
We grab our stuff and walk out of the door.
He shrugs.
"I'll see you tomorrow," he says and walks off.
When I get home, it's to find Charlie not home. I grin and go up to my room. I flop onto my bed, wincing as I move wrong. I sit back up and pull my hoodie off, over my head.
I walk over to my easel, looking at what's staring at me. It's a dark stormy night, as I've painted it, with a dark tree with leaves being blown off. It doesn't look half bad. The canvas it's painted on is about 32" by 12".
Out of the corner of my eye, I see my reflection in the mirror. I walk over to it, looking at my body. My shirt's a dark blue shirt is a size too big for me, hanging loosely on my body. My black skinny jeans are right on my body.
I lift a hand to my face, feeling the cut above my eye. I put a bandage on it, but it's still trickling blood, but only slightly. I wipe the blood away, smearing it along my hand. My cheeks are hallow, and I'm as pale as paper. There's a bruise showing from under my bangs on the left side of my face. My brown eyes look sad and empty of the light I remember I once saw in them.
I pull up my shirt, looking at my stomach. I'm so thin . . . There's bruises all over my body, cuts on my abdomen. I look away from the mirror, dropping my shirt.
I go downstairs, knowing Charlie will want dinner when he gets home. I dig through the cabinets and the fridge. I pull out some chicken and onions, peppers and tomatoes and cheese. I'll make him a quesadilla. I get out a pan and turn on one of the burners, preparing to make his dinner.
I'm setting the table right as he walks in the door, placing his food and beer down.
"Ah, good bitch," he says, putting his jacket on the coat hook by the door. He sits down, knocking me aside roughly. I maintain my balance.
"Thank you, sir," I say. "I was hoping you'd enjoy it."
He takes a bite. "It's okay."
As he eats, I sit down, not eating. I only eat if he allows me. He finishes his beer, and I grab another one quickly. He trips me as I walk to over to him. My wrists take the impact as I land on my hands and knees.
Dammit.
He delivers a kick to my ribs, knocking me onto my side. I curl in on myself without really thinking about, just trying to protect myself.
He picks up the beer from my hand and this me over the head with it. That's the last thing I remember that's not hazy and red before passing out.
