A/N: Ok, I'm going to start by saying that if this looks familiar, it's because I posted it a few months ago on my old account, I've decided to edit and repost what I'd already written, and finish the rest of the story.

Disclaimer: I don't own any of this, all rights belong to SM.

Is there anything less fun then living in Omaha? I sure didn't think so. The same old boring people doing the same old boring things, day after day. Everything in my world was repetitive: Get up, go to school, come home, fight with Dad, do homework, eat dinner, go to bed… Lather, rinse, repeat. Living in Omaha was like reading a really boring story, your mind goes all fuzzy and you don't even notice that you aren't taking anything in.

My mind wandered as I exited the large, square, high school. Ok, maybe it wasn't Omaha so much as my school that was boring… Wait, was I talking about my school or my life?

Right, my school.

Every day, all I could think was 'at least I'm a senior.'

Just a few more days I would be 18, only two weeks after that was the graduation ceremony.

I had lived in Omaha, Nebraska my whole life. At almost 18 years old I had never even been out of the state. Or so I was told.

I lived with my dad, Greg. My mom, Monica left us when I was two –she couldn't handle being a mom. Or so I was told.

It's not that I didn't believe those things, just that there were always things that didn't match up. For instance, I only had one memory of my mother. It was not a particularly clear memory. I only knew two things about it for sure. One is that it was a rainy Wednesday. The other is that it was at a beach.

So how – if I had never left Nebraska – could I have been at the beach?

I asked my dad about it once; he flipped out and sent me to my room. He always did that when I asked about anything that happened before I was three.

I used to think that it was because he didn't want to talk about my mom, but I just wasn't so sure anymore.

I was pulled from my thoughts when I realized that I've been unsuccessfully trying to unlock my car with my house key, oops. I switched keys –much easier- and threw my school bag in the backseat before opening the driver's side door and sliding in.

I began the drive home. The same boring drive as every day, I couldn't wait to get out of this town. One might think that as a teenage girl I'd be freaked about leaving my friends behind, but I wasn't.

I'd never really been that attached to people. I didn't get along with my dad and all my friends were expendable.

I just didn't feel close to people… I wondered sometimes if there is something wrong with me. Or maybe everyone feels that way. Maybe they pretend to care so they'll fit in. Maybe I'm the only person not bullshitting my way through life…

Maybe I'm over thinking it.

I pulled my car into the driveway, put it in park and yanked the key out of the ignition.

The garage door was up and I could see an ancient, brown Honda parked inside.

My dad was home.

Great.

I mean, really excellent!

I sighed as I got out of my car and walked up the path.

I wondered briefly if I had always been so negative or if today was special.

I felt a slight sadness about my life when I realized that it wasn't that today was special.

I stepped inside the house only to be met by a stack of boxes. Yay! Another random cleaning spree.

Every year or so my dad would go through the entire house. He would sort though all of our things and gets rid of everything we didn't use. It cleaned the house up a lot but it was kind of annoying. He did it because he 'doesn't want to be stuck in the past.'

For some reason I'd never fully understood; I like the past.

When I looked up from the boxes my dad had entered the room.

"Hey, Claire." He said. "You want to take these boxes to the curb? I need to get ready for work. They asked me to take the night shift."

He gestures at the boxes in front of me.

I bit back the sarcastic response. It tried to fight its way up. I gave it a stern talking to and pick up the boxes. They were heavy. He must have found some hidden pile of crap we didn't know about. Amazing.

I contemplated just putting them down. This wasn't my stupid cleaning spree, why the hell should I have to do all this heavy lifting?

I thought better of it, no need to get myself grounded over a few boxes of crap.

The door was still open, which made leaving the house with a stack of boxes in my arms much, much easier.

I made it about halfway down the drive before I lost my grip. The boxes tumbled out of my hands. Most of them just fell. Two of them lost their lids when they hit the ground, one of them spilled its contents all over the ground.

I hauled the un-spill-y boxes to the curb and came back for the other.

I picked up the items one by one, putting them back in their box. Some bits of paper, a matchbook, 34 cents (who throws away coins?) An uneaten candy bar (yuck.)

A few photos caught my eye. In one picture a little girl that I recognized as myself was sitting on a beach. She had both hands raised above her head. In one little fist, she held a handful of sand, in the other; she held the hand of a beautiful woman. A woman who looked very, very much like her. A woman who must be her mother.

I smiled sadly at the cute little scene.

I turn my attention to the other photos. They're pretty lame in comparison; just pictures of the ocean, or else sand, or unknown people smiling and waving at the camera.

I toss the photos into the box; except for the first one, which I tuck safely in my pocket.

There was only one thing left on the ground: an old cell phone. It looked huge to me; although I knew it must have been compact and stylish in its day.

Its day was at least a decade ago.

Still, it interested me. I didn't put it in the box –which I set with the others, by the road - opting instead to carry it inside with me.

I headed upstairs as soon as I got inside, walking past my dad who was on his way out the door.

He mumbled something that sounded like "Took you long enough."

I closed the door to my room and pulled the photo out of my pocket. It was a small wallet sized picture. I put it in exactly the place its name suggested, my wallet. It would be nice and safe there.

Sitting down on my bed, I flipped open the old phone. Blank screen… Duh.

I pressed the power button idly, not really expecting anything to happen. The phone shocked me by coming to life. I stared at it in disbelief for a moment. A small box informed me that the phone has '5 missed calls' and '1 new message.'

I clicked the option to listen to the voicemail and held the phone to my ear.

"Greg? It's Emily!" said a female voice. A really angry female voice. "You have no right to take her away! Do you know what you're doing to your wife? To all of us! Do you even care?"

The woman, Emily, took a shuddering breath.

"It's not what you think! You didn't even hear him out! YOU CANNOT DO THIS, GREG! Get your head out of your ass and call me back"

Why was I still listening to this? It didn't make much sense, and it was loud enough to bust an eardrum.

"You turn your stupid Honda around and bring Claire back to La Push!"

The phone fell from my hand.

A/N: Thank you for reading.

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