((Hola to my fellow writers out there who love the Twilight series. I'm Black-Cotton and this is going to be the second story I will be working on. For those of you who are a fan of Wilted Petal--which is not in any way related to this fiction--might find me as an author who writes short chapters. Behold, I am impatient and not afraid to admit it. Instead of making long chapters, I continually make a lot of short chapters, which in turn make up for faults. I do not rely on reviews, but I respect them by all means (especially constructive criticism). It's nice to come home from school and see a hand-full of comments, but that's just one out of the many positive things of writing. I hope to accommodate you on an awesome ride with Bella and the Cullen family as well as my own characters, and gain your trust and admiration. I have to say, though, that I am busy and attracted to procrastination. Feel free to hound me with emails until I get back on track.

With that said, I leave you with only the phrases of my story. Please enjoy.))

Disclaimer: In honor of Stephenie Meyer, I do not own her characters, or the creativity she has unleashed to us from the heart of her world.

Chapter One:

Naming of the Dead

Bella's POV

I press my hand to my swollen belly.

The heart thuds in a rhythmic beat.

As the due-date gets closer, I am beginning to discover one thing that overrides my deepest fears: excitement. In a world that carries the seven deadly sins, I hold the deadliest: the art of being Proud. I am proud for leaving Edward and the Cullen family. I am proud for turning my life in a 180-degree spin and landing straight into Luke's arms. I am proud of so many things; I can make a list.

Many people think I'm ridiculous for leaving Edward. Charlie is even regretful. But I have my reasons. Edward Cullen is a vampire; Isabella Swan is a human. Let's see a show of hands for those of you that can make out a comparison.

He promised to change me, yet he never could do it. He also knew that I wanted him to do the deed--not Alice or Carlisle--and make it so we were sole-mates in a number of ways. He took advantage of that aspect. Time was running out. The wasted years were slipping out of my caressed hands like water. Not to say my years with him were wasted, but I couldn't even kiss him passionately. Everything was always on alert. And soon the dream of myself as an old lover to Edward gnawed me from the inside out.

The time came when I had to leave.

It wasn't easy. Walking away was like cutting half of my heart and tearing it from my body--figuratively speaking. Alice acted like a medium after I left. She'd contact me a few times a month, trying to sort the good and the bad. Her goal was to reunite Edward and me. The last time she called me, she claimed she had a vision. I cut her off and told her I couldn't go back; that I had to move on. Selfish, I know.

I took on depression, along with the medication to cure it. The funny thing was that the pills didn't work, no matter how many I took. They never seemed to take the edge off of the pain. What they did do, though, was blur the line of right from wrong. I want to say I was strong, but I was far from it. No one knew that I overdosed. That part of my life was easy. I took about 20-25 pills of one strong prescription a day. I was lucky I wasn't dead on the spot. My friends were alcoholics. We all had at least one thing in common: we didn't know what do to with ourselves. I wasn't one to drink, though.

I had no home. My shelter was the bathroom settled in New York's subway--kind of like The Pursuit of Happiness with Will Smith. That was when Luke sought after me. He was the local police officer assigned in the subway. I never knew it, but he followed my every footstep without me knowing. When I was sleeping inside the bathroom, he'd sleep just outside the door. When I was cold and shivering, he'd take off his own jacket and let me borrow it for the rest of the day. My memory was a little flaky, but on one occasion I remember him pulling me away from the railway when I nearly fell in front of a train.

At first I thought he was a true saint and did it out of pure kindness--and it was like that in the beginning. But as the months passed by, I grew a strange liking towards him, and he somehow felt the same way no matter how much I was messed up.

One day, I went too far. How I got a hold of so many depressants, I can't tell. I ended up on a bench, unconscious. When Luke tried to wake me, I wouldn't respond. He sent out for an ambulance...

In no way, shape or form, can I remember my recovery. I went under, but somehow I got back up. I think it was because I knew Luke was waiting on the other side. He had always been waiting, he says, from the first day he looked at me. My dad paid for the rehab since my insurance couldn't cover it. The days in rehab were the darkest of my life, hence why I cut them from my memory. Charlie would visit me on holidays and Luke would visit once a week. Those were the only times I could remember.

When I finally was released, Luke made sure I staid sober. He was there every step of the way, holding my hand. He knew he was walking on eggshells with my addiction. If he'd confront me, I'd flat out throw a tantrum. I'd scratch him, tear his clothing, and bite his arm when he pulled me away from those damn pills. Yes, I was like a child. Somehow he still wasn't ashamed to stay by my side. I'd cry myself asleep, but Luke would hold me while I was crying. How in the world did I deserve such a man, you ask, I have no idea.

And so, like I said, I got through it. I could see clearly again. It took me four years to understand what I was doing to myself. Luke and I got married two years later, of course.

Now I stand in a cemetery, as a 26-year-old who is 7 months pregnant, all the wiser. No one has died, trust me. I visit this place often. Sometimes Luke joins me when he's not working. People may ask why I go to a cemetery for my peace of mind. The answer is it's relaxing. I like to walk around and give the owner of the grave a history. And when I really muster the courage, I venture in the infant section. I look for names that would fit for my unborn child. The quietness of the dead soothes me.

In a world that carries the seven deadly sins, I hold the deadliest.

My name is Isabella Swan and my story is just beginning.