Author's notes:
Are you kidding me? You really want to read these BEFORE the story? If that's the case, they're at the end, silly.
Until I came to Forks, Washington, I was a wholly average teenaged girl. Height, weight, hair color, complexion, fetishes, nothing within me exuded any aura of speciality, a fact I previously reveled in. But not anymore.
It started when I moved to Forks, Washington. The somber skies and ashen buildings and gray demeanor were an unwelcome change to the orange sweltering aura that preceded Phoenix. Perhaps I pitied my lonely father in a way. I was glad to be rid of my mother and her new husband. I surmised that she would be happier with a spouse whose income was derived from hitting balls with shaped pieces of wood. My mother, who looked like a carbon copy of me, except for the face. Satisfied, for once in my life.
As I exited the car, I mulled over the implications of resigning myself to the hell known as Forks, Washington.
My first day of school. All was overcast in Forks, Washington. It was a gray day. I tried not to look conspicuous. My beaten truck quickly ensured that, at least at the start. I went to the office where I talked to a woman and told her that my name was Antebella Answer. She looked at me with a curious expression of curiosity on her face, something I reminded myself to prepare for in the coming hours.
The first class was English. The teacher's name was Mr. Demurge. He gave me the reading list, and gestured to my seat. I could feel the class' collective eyes focus on my being, as an unwelcome victim of attention despite my average persuasion. I looked over the reading list. It was fairly easy. Modernism and such. My eyes fixated on Finnegan's Wake. Naturally, I'd already read it, for I was quick to grasp Irish-sounding gibberish in my grade school days. In fact, I've read the entire list. Danielewski, Pynchon, Borges, I'd read them all back the fading days of my childhood.
After what seemed like an agonizingly agnonizing hour of agony, the bell rang. A torso carrying a delicate arrangement of acne on a neck as thin as a fashion model's, approached me. Upon closer examination, I saw that it was a lanky boy with hair the color of excreted barley. He started talking to me.
"Hey! Aren't you Antebella Answer?" he inquired.
"Bella," I amended. Suddenly, I felt that everyone around was looking at us in a gaze. The attention was unwanted. Why would they focus theirs on someone as painfully plain as me?
"So, uh, want any help? I could walk you to your next class, " he offered.
Great. Assistance. I immediately started hating him as a result.
"Oh, yeah, that'd be amazing, thank you!" I said this out of obligation more than anything else. I made a mere ghost of a smile at him. I didn't want to keep his hopes up.
Our next class was Biology. The sheer amount of mortification I felt when I had to stand up and introduce myself was unbearable. As I underwent the stifling walk of shame to the only empty seat, the passage of time ceased to a grinding halt.
There, in the seat next to mine, was an insanely attractive boy. His eyes were the color of Martin Luther King, his square jaw firmly set. His hair was the color of unburnished copper. He was lanky, but in the good, way that Mr. Acne was not. Those deep dark marbles were focused on the floor in front of the desk, as if those marbles possessed a sudden reluctance to meet those of his new neighbor's. But his face, most of all. His ophanic face was a product of the most skillful sculptor in Heaven. Finely chiseled, inhumanly beautiful, from that moment I knew that that pale lavender visage was one that my memory would revel in forever.
This took all of five seconds. I continued on to my stool and sat down. I could see that the handsome boy was trying his hardest to sit as far from me as possible. His pose was locked and inelastic. Like he was resisting some potent force that pulled him toward me. I tried making eye contact with him, but I could sense his intrinsic refusal.
The bell rang. Spanish was next. I sat next to a girl whose name was so common and mundane that it slipped my mind the moment I heard it. She looked at me in a welcome smile.
"You're the new girl, right? Welcome to Forks, Washington. Sorry about the weather. How are you?" she inquired.
"I'm good, it's kind of different from where I'm from." I responded, trying not to betray my inner boredom as a result of talking to such a vapid being.
"Oh, really? Where were you before?" she queried.
"Phoenix. In Arizona." I responded casually. Internally, I rolled my glassy orbs. This must have been apparent, there the conversation ended. Spanish proceeded in peace.
The bell rang with a sonorous noise. Finally, a respite from the educational system for all of an hour. The boy with the licorice eyes slowly got up and exited in a hurry. I had no rush, so I took my time navigating the hallways to my locker, then to the cafeteria. The girl from my Spanish class beckoned me to join her and her similarly shallow-looking comrades. I sat, and was granted a view of a table. But it wasn't just any table.
The fine-looking boy was there. And with him were some other equally bodacious people. All of them were strikingly attractive in their own superhuman way.
There was the boy from my Biology class, staring into the depths of the cafeteria, away from each other, away from the masses of people consuming their comestibles, and most of all, away from the world.
They didn't resemble each other at all. There were three males. One was the alluringly attractive boy from my Biology class. One of them was intensely built, like a bench-pressing cyclist, with rabid, caliginous curls. The other was taller and leaner, but still equally muscled, in the manner of a sirloin steak. He had luscious locks the color of pineapple juice. All of them, insanely, extirpatingly, devastatingly pulchritudinous. They looked older than most students, almost assistant teachers.
The girls were similar. There were two of them, polar opposites of each other. The tall, graceful one had a full, tapered figure reminiscent of a Victoria's Secret Angel. It was the kind of figure that begged to have its clothes peeled off and thrown directly into the washing machine. Now, her hair resembled fossilized tree sap. The other was more waif-like in her beauty, like how I imagined a starving prostitute on the streets of Victorian London would look like. She was extremely slender, almost in the manner of coat rack. Her hair was atramentous to a degree that was reached absurdity.
Despite their wildly varying appearances, they were all exactly alike, every one of them. They were pale, almost cadaverous in their perfect lack of melanin, paler than all of the rest in this place where the sun never fixated its warm rays. Their eyes were all a deep obsidian, and those black spheres rested on top of ebony shadows on their face.
As though they had a rough night being forced to read poorly-written novels.
I kept staring, despite myself. I felt as Pygmalion must have, looking over an impossibly perfect statue. They looked like the unrealistic Photoshopped standards of beauty usually confined to magazines. Having to choose the fairest of them all seemed like a blasphemy.
The waif girl picked up her tray of untouched food items and sashayed over with the grace of an aerobics instructor to dispose of her plate. She tread carefully, with care. I was impressed by that. Then, she flounced to the exit, all with superhuman speed and poise. I looked to the others.
"Who are they?" I enquired.
Author's notes: Hello again! This being my first fic ever, feedback and constructive criticism would be appreciated and welcomed. Intentionally writing bad is surprisingly difficult, as I have to break all of my internal Writing Rules. I might even write an Author's commentary on my tumblr, where I expound on the various mistakes and plain crap inherent in this fic. If you'd like that, do say so in the review. Thanks for reading! -ChronicDiarrhoea