A/N & DISCLAIMER ; OWN NOTHINGG. I FINALLY HAVE A NEW CHAPTER! AND WELL, ITS A LITTLE OFF THE WALL. BE PREPARED FOR LOTS OF BELLA/EDWARD NEXT CHAPTER! AND EDWARD'S POV!

BELLA POV

12:00 AM

12:00 AM and I was cursing fucking Jasper and his jackass ways. I never set my alarm clock and I don't even fucking know why I have one, but - well, okay, that's a lie. I do know why I have one, but its a completely pathetic and silly and pussy reason and I'd never admit it to anyone.

My mother would have slept all day if she could of, especially after the depression hit her. She'd lay in bed for hours and hours; sometimes sleeping, but mostly just lying awake, staring at the ceiling and letting her life pass her by. Its fucking typical that she'd have a semi-insomniac for a daughter. But, anyways, my dad bought her this alarm clock once when her sleeping habits were getting a bit out of hand. He said all that sleep wasn't good for her health or some shit like that. It was just an excuse. I'm sure sleeping all the time could lead to some serious health issues and some even worse bed sores, but that's not why he bought her the damned thing.

He was scared. He was terrified of what was becoming of his life and his beautiful wife and the damage it would cause to his already fucked up daughter.

When I was eight he caught me burning one of my barbies heads over the oven stove, and when he asked me why I was doing it, I said, "I saw mommy do it to one of her books." It was her fucking journal. And I never understood the fear I saw flash before his eyes then. I don't think I even truly understand it now.

Fear for his beloved wife, the only women he had ever truly loved.

Fear for his only child, his only daughter, his only confident in this secret life of burned pictures and painful screams and tear stained clothing that we were forced to lead.

And ultimately, fear for himself and the life that he had so precariously created. Fear for the future of his town and his legacy and the things that everyone would say. He was just afraid.

But then my mom finally died. And everything changed.

But I'm not about to get into all that fucking nostalgia and shit. After her suicide, at the funeral, all I could hear was my moms cries and screams and all I could think about was how fucking pathetic it all was.

The preacher we had at the time, Johnson or Johanson or something, he was going on and on about how every death mattered and how everything that happened, happened for a reason. How it was all supposed to be for the greater scheme of things or some shit like that. And everyone at the funeral was fucking eating that shit up - everyone except me, that is.

I think if it all mattered, if this guy called God really did need my mom to off herself for the better of the world, then I think he would of been a bit more creative when coming up with her fucking suicide. A slit to the wrists in the bathtub is fucking pathetic, and shit, if this God guy is real, I think he'd be a bit more imaginative then that.

I mean, come on, the whole virgin Mary thing? That shit took imagination.

My mom was crazy. She was mental and fucked up and insane and in her eyes, nothing in life mattered anymore. It was that simple. So she killed herself. That's why she died. Her death didn't matter to anyone, it wasn't important and the whole world didn't weep for her demise. People sent us enough flowers to last a lifetime and I was given about a million "I'm sorries," but no one truly cared. They were just basking in the scandalous-ness of it all.

I don't live for the past and I don't live for the fucking future. I live for the present. Because who fucking knows if I'm going to end up joining my mother on the crazy bandwagon and offing myself as if I were born to be some sacriligious offering to the world.

And fucking goddammit, I've gone and gotten so fucking lost in my thoughts that a whole fucking hour has passed and all I have to account for it is my mentally exhausted mind.

I need to get some fucking sleep.

12:45 AM

I think I dozed off for fifteen minutes or so. But then the screams of, "YOU MUTHUHHH FUCKUHHH, YOU DIRRRTYY MUTHUHHH FUCKAHHHH, EHMEHHGAWWDDDD," jarred me from my peaceful state of sleep. I don't know what I was thinking when I decided I wanted the second story bedroom instead of the third.

Oh, right. I was thinking I didn't want to risk fucking blindness by walking in on the Vegas tramp dry humping the sperm out of my father as I made my way to the front door.

But damn, risking bodily injury by scaling the trellis couldn't possibly be as painful as having to listen to their moans and groans reverberate through the ceiling, i.e. the third story's wood flooring.

Maybe my ear plugs could drain out Tanya's explicit mouth.

1:00 AM

I'd need ear plugs made out of fucking titanium to drown out the sound of Tanya's screaming. Jesus, at least the girl would have acting as a career to fall back on once my father divorced her pathetic ass. Even I couldn't make a fake orgasm sound so convincing. And trust me, I've faked my fair share of orgasms.

And just when you think your about to get some peace and quiet, you hear the quiet moans coming from a distance, and the bitches upstairs decide to hit it for round three.

3:30 AM

"Thank you, dad, for your horny late night escapades that led me to sleeping in an extra thirty minutes. How the hell am I supposed to function properly now?" I muttered to myself as I swung my long legs over the side of my bed and hobbled to the bathroom door.

Stubbing my toe in the process. Shit, you'd think someone suffering from such a grand superiority complex would be as graceful as a fucking Swan. Unluckily, that isn't so. At least not for me.

After fumbling around in the dark for a good minute in a half, I finally found the light switch and rubbed my eyes as the sudden brightness blinded my sight. Fucking A, why did I always have to look so shit-wrecked in the mornings?, I thought as I stared at my haggard reflection in the mirror above the sink.

My hair was matted and mussed up and it looked like I had been going at it with some horny bastard all night long. And it wasn't the type of sex hair that looked fuckgood in the morning, either. It was the kind that looked disgustingly greasy and oily - not to mention insanely tangled.

There was the outline of a pimple preparing to burst through my skin located directly on the center of my chin, and my breath smelled like boiled eggs and the shit sushi I ate last night.

At least my skin was shimmering with the early beginnings of a tan, thanks to the daily visits I had taken to the tanning salon in Port Angeles the past week. I was far from a Jessica Alba, but at least it was fucking something.

After tossing a hard glare at my reflection and brushing my teeth thoroughly for a timed five minutes, I turned on the shower head and prepared myself for my first day back to school. It was finally senior year, and I'd be damned if I looked like shit on one of the most important days of my life. Important because now I could finally take the art class I had been dying to take ever since I caught sight of the new art teacher last year. He had jet black hair and soulful blue eyes, and hotdamn, I could tell by the way he glided across the greens that he'd be a good fuck.

Unfortunately for me then, the class was only offered to seniors. But now I'm a senior. And I can finally have my chance at sitting in the front row, tits hanging out all over the place and the strategically placed blush all over my cheeks as I eyed him unabashedly.

The fact that I couldn't draw a straight line for shit didn't exactly come to mind as I registered myself for the class. That would all be handled in due time. Maybe he could give me private tutoring lessons.

My day dreams lasted for the remainder of my morning as I went through my typical early morning routines. Shaved legs? Check. Body washed with soap imported from Italy? Check. Pussy prim and proper thanks to yesterday's bikini wax? Check.

As the clock struck 4 AM I flicked on my ipod station and cornered my closet as the oh so appropriate lyrics of, I'm only happy when it rains, I'm only happy when its complicated, filled my ears. Fucking Fork's Academy and its fucking ugly ass dress code. Seriously, pleated skirts? That's just asking for horny teachers to hand over their licenses so that they can get a good fuck in with one of their underage students.

Sure, the skirts were supposed to come down to our knees, but who the fuck does the faculty think we are? Virgin Mary's? Fuck that shit, only the socially awkward outcasts wore their skirts at the full knee length. Well, the socially awkward and that one Scottish fucker that refused to wear anything but his kilt.

After a couple of minutes sifting through the uniforms lining one side of my walk in closet, I finally settled on my pleated mini with a fitted white polo and an over sized vest that had previously belonged to Jasper. After sliding on my Christian Louboutin, black leather boots and clasping my Tiffany's diamond and 18 karat white gold necklace around my neck, I felt perpetually better about my appearance.

Whoever said money couldn't buy happiness was full of shit, because as soon as I had added the 3,000 dollar plus amount of accessories to my outfit, my mood was effortlessly lifted. I even found myself fucking humming along to some Ryan Adams tune that was playing on my ipod as I all but skipped down the staircase to the kitchen, where the smell of bacon and eggs was wafting through the air.

Our chef, Leon, was hard at work, cursing under his breath in some unknown language to me as he eyed a burnt croissant distastefully. Fucking perfectionist.

I cleared my throat loudly, and he gave me his huge, eat shit grin, before plopping a big plate of calories galore onto the table in front of me. I eyed it with the same distaste that he had given the croissant just seconds ago, before shoving it away from my body and crossing my arms over my chest.

"You know I don't eat in the mornings. I either eat it and have to deal with seriously unflattering bloating all day or gag reflex the meal into the toilet three minutes after I consume it, and then I'll have to deal with barf breath all morning." Plastering on my own equally annoying eat shit grin, I quirked an eyebrow at Leon before adding, "So thanks, but no fucking thanks. I'll just take a water with lemon."

I couldn't decipher his words completely, but it sounded as if he had muttered something a long the lines of, "Bloody fucking Americans."

I purposefully avoided spouting out a thank you as he handed me my water, and after taking a sip of it, I made sure to accidentally spill it all over the five star breakfast he had whipped up for my father and the Tyrant Tanya. He looked like he was about to dive over the kitchen bar as I eyed the soaked food innocently, murmuring that "my father doesn't need all of that trans fat, anyhow," before skipping happily out of the kitchen and back towards my room.

An hour and a half later I was parked in front of the school, sitting the passenger seat of Jasper's Aston Martin; putting on the finishing touches of my "barely there" make up and running my fingers messily through my hair, giving it the perfect amount of sex appeal.

I had propped my long legs up on the dashboard, my barely there skirt unabashedly riding up and thus sharing with Jasper the knowledge that I was currently going commando. His hard on looked like it was about to rip the seams of his jeans, and if I were in a more generous mood I would of offered to help relieve some of that tension. But fuck it, because I was already late for my art class and I didn't want some fucking Jessica Stanley type getting my front class seat.

I quickly grabbed my Burberry bag and hightaled it out of the parket lot, sending a quick wave to Jasper, who had started to relieve in tension in his penis region before I had even stepped out of the vehicle.

It had started drizzling lazily, and I had to flee to hide beneath the overhangs to avoid the frizz effect the water had on my hair. Shit, just being this close to the rain was probably already sending my hair into hysterics. After running halfway across the campus, I finally slowed my pace a bit and flipped open my pocket mirror, fixing my hair and undoing another button on my polo so that my lacy blue bra was slightly visible. Perfect.

Shoving open the door, I smirked as the entire class of about thirteen students turned to see who the tardy party was, and continued my smirking as the seven male students obviously ogled my body. Two of the females even seemed to be eyeing me appreciatively, then again, that wasn't new. Lesbianism had popped up all over the place in Forks during the past year, probably due to the influx in steroid use among the male population of Fork's Academy and the shitty side effects it left on their packaging. Sometimes you just needed a womans touch.

"Mrs. Swan, are you just going to stand there all day or are you going to take your seat at the back of the class?" A shrill, annoying voice questioned me angrily. My eyes flashed to the front of the classroom, and widened as I took in the appearance Mrs. Wilson, the drama teacher with a huge ass, thanks to the box of Twinkies she consumed on a daily basis. What the fuck? Let me repeat, what the fuck?

Gritting my teeth, I plastered on my eat shit grin and shook my head, wondering how many times I would have to use that stupid mechanism today. "Sorry, Mrs. W, I guess I got caught up in admiring the handy-work of your double D's. Who was your surgeon? 'Cause that shit looks fucking unbelievable, and my step mom has been looking for a good plastic surgeon." Cue the sugary sweet smile met with the old hag's death glare. Fuck her if she thought my smile or innocent gaze would falter. My daddy owned this town and her huge fucking ass, and she knew it.

"Back of the class, Swan." I smiled again and skipped to the back of the class, making sure my skirt flashed up to reveal my perfectly sculpted ass as I passed by dorky Eric Yorkie's table. Have fun dealing with that hard on during class, Yorkshire. That's what you get for slipping me those ruffi's at McCarty's party last week.

Sighing as I plopped down at the only empty table at the very back of the class, I tossed my eraser at the back of Jessica Stanley's head and held back a snort as it got stuck somewhere in her huge ass perm.

"What?" She hissed at me over her shoulder, sending me a pathetic attempt at a death glare. I rolled my eyes at her. The girl all but kissed Lauren Mallory's ass, and ever since I had fucked Mallory's boyfriend Sophomore year, the two had had it out for me ever since. Seriously, its not my fault I was completely wasted and her boyfriend was a complete sleazebag. Fuck, he wasn't even that good.

"Where the fuck's the art teacher from last year?" This question caused a huge grin to spread across Stanley's face, and it was obvious that she was appeased to know something that I didn't. Shit, she was the biggest fucking gossip around and all but hid outside her classmates windows at night to get the latest ins and outs of peoples relationships; that's not exactly something to brag about.

"He got caught fucking Heather Berkett on one of the tables in here during open house Thursday night. And do you know what his pathetic excuse was? 'It was an art project! This so called prestigious academy has no appreciation for the fine arts, I tell you!' Fucking pussy, if you ask me." Fucking Stanley and her huge fucking mouth - I had already tuned out of the conversation as soon she had mentioned Heather and the tables. Shit, I was probably rubbing my elbows all over her fucking sperm.

I spent the next fifteen or so minutes tuning out Mrs. W's droning voice and losing myself in hateful thoughts towards all the dumbfuck Heather's of the world, until the sound of the door clattering open drew us both out of our reveries.

There, standing in the middle of the classroom, was a fucking Sex God.

Leather jacket that looked like it had by far surpassed its glory days of the early 80's.

Messy, perfect, sparkling sex hair that was the most gorgeous shade of bronze.

Bronze? Seriously? Who the fuck has bronze hair?

Sex God's, apparently.

And then, the most dazzling set of deep green eyes matched with the most fucking kissable lips I had ever seen.

Who the hell was this?

Who the hell cares?

I sure as hell didn't, at least until he raised his hand in a sort of half wave and let a small smirk grace his lips as he introduced himself as, "Edward Cullen," and I swear to God he was looking right at me. Or maybe he was looking at the breasts that were currently popping out of my top. Fuck, who cares? Because after having a silent conversation with the teacher, he was making his way towards my table, passing Stanley and her pathetic attempts to make her minimal B cups look larger, and then he was fucking sitting beside me.

And I was completely turned on by the smell of his leather jacket and shit, his fingers were long and coated in charcoal and so he just has to be an artist, and I had to push out thoughts of the magic his fingers could work because I had chosen the worst day to go commando and the smell of my wet pussy was about to start wafting out from underneath my skirt and it wasn't until the realization of who this was struck that I thought, hotdamn,

This was Edward fucking Cullen.

The preachers son.

The bible thumper.

The guy that was currently staring down at me with the oddest, sexiest look in his bright green eyes.

Goddamn it, this was going to be a long fucking year.

UP NEXT?! A LOOK INTO EDWARD AND ALICE'S FIRST DAY! Well, Edward's first day, which will give you a look into Alice and Carlisle and Esme! =D

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