AN: Okay, so I'm pretty new at this. I was indroduced to the world of Twilight fanfiction about a year ago and have been addicted ever since. I'm well aware that my writing is probably shite and I misuse commas and other punctuation. There is much room for improvement. Be my beta? Anyone? :)

Anyway, this first chapter is pretty short. I just wanted to throw this out there and see what you all think of my Bella.

Stephenie Meyer owns Twilight.

It was just a dream. It was just a dream. It was just a dream.

I repeated this mantra to myself silently. It was just a dream. I was still breathing and there was no blood. No bullet wound. I hadn't been inside my parent's old house in four years. I had not walked up the stairs and opened the door to my old bedroom. I had not heard a sudden explosion or felt creeping warmth spreading from a small point in my chest.

I did, however, gasp for air. I hated waking up like that; gasping, sobbing, and terrified for my life.

Splashing another handful of cold water on my face, I took a deep breath and lifted my gaze to the vanity mirror in front of me.

My eyes were swollen from crying, but still the same deep brown they'd always been – deep brown and vacant.

I shifted my gaze to my cheeks, not wanting to stare into my own empty eyes. Bits of color began making their way back into my pale complexion as I stared, and I was glad for that. Maybe it would mask the deep circles under my eyes that had become so prominent in the last four years. I looked like a damned raccoon.

Vile creatures, raccoons. They may look cute and soft, but God forbid you get anywhere near them. They'll tear you to shreds, given the chance. Smart men hunt them. Dumb men do their best to cage the beasts or get close enough to touch them, which never turns out well.

If I could just catch up on some sleep, I was sure those ugly purple rings would start to dissipate.

But sleep came with a price I was not willing to pay unless absolutely necessary.

And anyway, there was no sense in going back to bed now; it was just past five o'clock in the morning and my shift at the diner started in less than two hours. I might as well start my day.

"Dierks! Breakfast!" I called, walking the five steps from the bathroom to the kitchen. I heard a low groan emanate from Dierks' bed. It was more difficult to drag him out of his bed in the morning than it would have been to wake up a hung-over sixteen-year-old boy for a sunrise church service on Easter Sunday.

But, like all men, the way to Dierks' heart was through his stomach.

I filled his bowl with his favorite food and, seconds later, heard the padding of four lethargic paws as he made his way into the small kitchen.

Turning towards the old nineteen-seventies fridge, I let my mind start to wander on the possibilities of the day. Surely it wouldn't be different than any other day in this ridiculous town. I would work my shift, serve the same gossipy old women and dirty old men I always served, drag my poor lazy dog on a walk, work a short shift at the bar below my apartment, and eventually lay down in my bed to endure another sleepless night.

It was always the same. I don't believe for one second that everything changes. Some things are just set in stone.

I've heard there's a whole world out there with a whole mess of folks living different lives that have nothing to do with this small town. A million times I've been told the world is turning around me, but it literally feels as though I'm just standing stuck in one muddy spot.

This town was quicksand, and I had nobody with their feet on solid ground to help pull me out.

I was stuck like a pin in this damned life.

I grabbed an apple, slammed the door to the fridge, and hoisted my weary body up on the counter to enjoy my breakfast. Pink rays of sun were just starting to slither in through my dirty windows, but they didn't seem to light up the space a bit. It was still just as dull and dingy as ever. Hell, the place barely passed for an apartment. It was nothing more than an old, dilapidating loft. The rust colored brick walls were spattered with an array of posters – Bob Dylan, Marilyn Monroe, Willie Nelson, Hank Williams Sr., Frank Sinatra – which did their best to mask the crumbling bits and holes. My double bed sat in the far corner under one of the two giant paned windows, which I later came to find were more than a bit drafty. A small bathroom big enough for an old claw-foot bathtub, sink, and toilet was set off across from the front door, and the tiny kitchen and main room were divided only by a small counter "bar." Aside from my bed, an old bedside table, and a few stools at the bar, the loft was void of furniture, which made the space look even larger than it already was.

That was one thing about this place – it was large. Spacious. Empty. Dull. So damned dull.

Don't get me wrong, I had tried my best to brighten it up. I brought in flowers to set on the counter and beside the bed, but they always dried up and died. I bought cheap pieces of cheery art to hang on the walls, but they just seemed out of place. Hell, I had even hung bright yellow curtains over the windows; I took them down after the sun successfully sucked the life out of the canary yellow, leaving them nothing but a dull reminder of the color drained from my own life.

There was no brightening this place.

There was one beautiful thing here, though. An old upright piano. A Baldwin, even. When I moved in, it was just sitting there, like it had been waiting for me for years. Jacob (the man I rent from) told me it had been there since he bought the bar, and he didn't really give a damn what I did with it. It was mine for all he cared. And I was more than happy to keep it. I spent a week's worth of tips to get it tuned, and played every chance I got.

I wasn't great, by any means. In fact, I hardly even hit mediocre. But I'll be damned if I didn't have potential. I had taken lessons as a child, before my whole world had turned upside down, so I knew the basics and I was a quick learner. It wasn't difficult for me to build on to what I already knew.

There was hope there in that piano – the only beautiful thing in this room.

Taking a bite of my apple, I turned to Dierks.

"Lazy mutt," I sighed. Dierks was flopped over on his side, muzzle buried in this bowl as he attempted to eat the remainder of his breakfast while lying down. I wouldn't be surprised if he fell asleep like that.

For a moment I envied him. He slept so damned soundly. And he slept so damned much. Hell, I was pretty sure he slept the entire time I was at work. I wished I could sleep half as soundly as he seemed to. Together, I suppose we balanced each other out. He was just making up for the sleep I lost.

Dogs are pretty dependable like that.

I took a final bite of my apple and slid off the counter. If I couldn't sleep, I might as well do something productive.

I made my way back to my small bathroom to get ready for another pointless day in my dull, empty life.

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AN: So? Whadya think so far, chickadees? I'm not so sure a whole lot of you are going to like her. I'm even more certain you won't like Edward when he finally makes his debut, but we'll cross that bridge when we get there.