Disclaimer: I completely wash myself of anything and everything of these books. Please read below text if you are still confused and under the impression that I am using or even remotely fond of the book series in question.

All right. I'll say this right now. I HATE the Twilight series, as in loath it with my entire being. It is an underdeveloped, underwritten piece of pure advocacy of chauvinistic behavior chock full of descriptions of how perfect the manflesh of you lover is. It sends messages to young, impressionable adolescents that being utterly helpless and tolerating of domineering behavior as well as needing a significant other to live happily is a neccessity and will attract many to you. It also promotes performing suicidal stunts simply to hear or see your absent lover, is, in fact, a proper, acceptable action and you do not need to visit a psychiatrist or go to therapy. That being said, let's continue. This is, for those of you who actually, god forbid, like Twilight, a simple story that follows along the majority of the original plot with different characters. For those of you who have retained sanity and dislike the sheer stupidity of the actual story, this is a retelling of the original book with unique, hopefully believable characters. If you have any questions or comments, please send them to me via review. If you believe the conversation is to personal or wish to have it in private, please PM me. I will not tolerate flames nor dignify them with a response. If you don't like it, then you can, for lack of better terms, kiss my ass and fuck off. I hope I have gotten my point across. On with the story.

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Sundown
HallowedHallsOfWriting

I'm Kaye Hart.

And I'm on a plane.

I'm on a plane, and heading to my own personal hell.

I'm on a plane and heading to my own personal hell, better known as Forks, Washington.

To live with my dad. For, according to my mom, father-daughter bonding. Hear the sarcasm yet?

But I digress. I'm on a plane, heading to my own personal hell, better known as Forks, Washington, to live with my bastard of a father.

And it's all because of a stupid shrink.

imalineimalineimalinearentyoujealous?

I've always been a good child. Or a relatively good one, anyways.

I wasn't a fussy baby – I hardly ever bothered my nineteen year old mother by crying at night. I ate the food I was served without complaint, I wore what was in my closet without demanding more clothes, I quietly colored in my coloring book when my mom needed to study for her tests. I was the perfect child, a mother's wish, the teacher's dream. I turned in neat work, scored the highest in tests, always had my homework, and was totally organized.

I was my mother's little angel, and I was happy with my place in life.

My brother was the one I looked up to the most, though. Being a little three-year-old, I would look up to my brother, so big and strong and world-wise to my naïve eyes. He was the epitome of sheer coolness. He was a leader, and you could tell. I looked up to him, and wished with all of my heart that maybe, one day, I could be as cool as him.

And he was cool. He didn't ignore me like most older brothers would. He found time to play with me, to help me with my work, to hang out with me. He was Superman, and I was his loyal sidekick.

Eventually, I decided I wanted to be like him too. And my mother was shocked when her little china doll began wearing old jeans and holey t-shirts, coming in covered in dirt and mud, beginning to rebel, letting her schoolwork slip in the joys of just being 'that girl'. The little sister the guys didn't mind letting tag along, because she was fun, and she didn't just sit inside playing tea party with Barbies. The one who would laugh at all their gross jokes and get just as down and dirty as them. The tomboy who was 'one of the guys'.

Then my dad left. And everything went to hell.

The love story between my mom and dad was always very complicated. He was a new teacher, fresh out of college, teaching high school students economics. She was his star pupil. Eventually, they fell in love, hiding their relationship. And, like all horny teenagers (or adults), they had sex.

And guess what happened?

My mom, at sixteen, got pregnant with my brother Chase. Her life was completely ruined, shattered into tiny, miniscule pieces. Her parents all but disowned her, her friends abandoned her, and she had to drop out of school. Luckily for her, though, my father surreptitiously transferred to another school in another state, and had her live with him. She could stay at home with the baby while he would earn money. It worked out, for a while. Chase got older, and she could go back to school. Being the incredibly smart girl she was, she managed to graduate high school, and was in her second year of college, having completely skipped over the first. She finished the third. And, at the end of the fourth, at nineteen, she graduated and got a job at a very notable sales company as their new saleswoman. During the summer, she found out she was pregnant again.

Me. Kaye Vivienne Hart (my mother's maiden name) Llewyn.

Of course, she had to take time off of a job she just started. When she came back, everything started flowing smoothly once again.

My mother was always the lucky one.

Everything was fine for a while. Then dad got fired. Laid off. Whatever you want to call it. Suddenly my mom was the bread-earner, the one in charge. He didn't take to this feeling of helplessness very well. And when he tried to move the Llewyn family to another state, my mother put her foot down. Said she would not give up everything she earned just for his own reasons.

Then the fights started.

Late night screaming matches that flowed well into the night, keeping me awake and giving me nightmares. Chase was a hero for me then, too. He'd crawl into my bed and hold me like our parents used to. He became my father, brother, and somewhat mother all in one. It wasn't enough to stop the fights, though.

A month after the first battle, my father walked out on us when my mother revealed that she had found out he was cheating on her.

He stomped out of the door. Before he left, he shouted at my mom one more time.

"You know what, Valerie! You can keep both of the fucking kids, you whore! They're your mistakes!"

And that hurt. That hurt really badly, knowing that he thought of us as some piece of property, as mistakes (as he so eloquently put it). Even though I knew he was just mad, just angry, and that they were probably lies, it stung. Because if there's one thing I know, everything, everything, has a grain of truth in it.

Somewhere, deep down inside him, what he said was true to him.

But my mother didn't take that lying down. She never did.

So she shouted back, hair flying around her face, strands sticking to her lip gloss, streaks of mascara due to crying when she had gotten so worked up, eyes flashing with rage and insulted pride.

"Don't you ever step foot near this door again, William Anthony Llewyn! I never want to hear from you again! Don't you dare come within ten miles of me ever, or so help me god I will murder you!"

She literally kicked his ass and sent him sprawling down the steps, then threw his suitcases out after him. After that, she slammed the door shut, and locked it, not letting up until the sound of the car engine faded out into the distance. Then she just turned and stomped up the stairs past me and my brother into her room, where she proceeded to lock herself in, not coming out. Shaken, we went to our room.

The next day, we awoke to the sight of my mother burning all of mementos of my father in a huge bonfire.

My mother eventually began to change, going from lax, easygoing older sister-esque to an overbearing, domineering prison warden. She started taking over our whole life and dictating our every move. We were supposed to be good, grateful little children and follow her every command.

Soon after, my mother had decided I had gotten enough kicks out of acting like a tomboy and threw out all my clothes, molding the eight-year-old me into her perfect little angelic daughter. This was about the time when she started to bring potential customers home, when she left my brother at the park with instructions to keep himself busy until she came to pick him up. Then she would dress me up in tasteful dresses and paraded me around to show just what the model mother she was. It won them over, every time.

So, I got used to playing mummy's little angel again. And my guy friends started to distance themselves from the proper little girl I was rapidly becoming, and I eventually picked up one or two girlfriends. Technically, we were political friends, them being the daughters of rather wealthy coworkers of my equally wealthy mother. We would go over to each others houses, alternating days, and we would play with dolls, as well as having private tutors on etiquette and how to be the model child.

It was pure hell. But I loved my mom, so I put up with it.

When I was twelve, tragedy struck.

My brother died. In a freak accident, of course – how could they possibly insinuate that someone was enemies with such a 'charming, simply delightful young man'? A rabid animal attack – at least, that's what they told me. I know better than that, of course.

I snuck in to see the body. It was mauled. No animal could have done that. It was too precise, too, well, neat. Aside from some scars, there were no ripped-off chunks of flesh, no missing limbs, nothing. Just some scars that used to be cuts on the tendons of his legs and Achilles' heels, designed to prevent him from being able to move. Oh, and two puncture wounds on his juglar.

That was not the work of an animal. That was the work of a human monster.

Of course, when I saw the two marks, I immediately thought, Vampire!

But it couldn't have been that. After all, they don't exist, right?

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