Chapter One

A/N – First chapter! I have to warn you – strong language, abuse and such… just so you know!

This is the first time I have ever written, depressed, abusive scenes and characters or whatever so I would really appreciate it if you let me know how I did! Feel free to flame or point out mistakes and stuff D

This chapter is quite long (I think) but it contains some important details so bear with me if there isn't much of a plot yet….

DISCLAIMER – I am not Smeyer. I do not own the Twilight series. Obviously.

Thanks for reading! –K-

Chapter One

Jay POV

4.00pm.

My clammy hand lifted, unlocked the door, and I slipped inside. After locking the door I pressed my back up against it and hunched my shoulders, blinking furiously in vain to make my eyes adjust to the pitch black hallway. Not quick enough…

A slow, taunting snigger floated to me from the darkness. I froze.

"The whore returns… unfortunately. Tell me, you little wench – WHERE THE FUCK HAVE YOU BEEN?!" A strained beat of silence. I could see him now. I started trembling as his bloodshot eyes pierced my own.

"N – Nowhere Sir." I stuttered. I was right on time… what had I done wrong? I started gasping as the tears slipped down my face. "P-please, it's four o'clock. I am here. Don't hurt me, please". My hands clenched at my sides as his face turned red. I shrank further against the door, hoping I could just vanish.

"I will be the judge of the right time you useless bitch" he growled. "And don't ever, EVER talk to me again…"

My eyes widened involuntarily as he lifted his hand. Thwack! I crumpled to the floor, gasping as I cupped my cheek in my hand. I barely noticed as he poured the rest of his beer over me, felt numb as he stomped off to the flickering TV.

"Fuck off" he called over his shoulder. That was my cue. I grabbed my bag and fled upstairs to my room. Sobbing uncontrollably I found my torch and perched it on top of my dresser. Lights were not allowed in this house – too expensive. I stumbled to my mirror and studied my reflection.

Skinny, weak, bony. I often thought that with regular meals I could maybe have a nice figure, curvy and dainty. It wasn't going to happen. My hair hung to my waist - I loved my hair; loved how the loose, golden ringlets shone in the autumn sun, loved how my fringe hid my face. Wide, piercing green eyes stared back at me, hollow and dead. I was mildly surprised to see blood dripping off my porcelain, pointy chin and covering my cheek and hand. Not like it was a first but I needed to get it sorted. I ghosted into my bathroom – He never came upstairs for he had an en suite on the ground floor – and opened the cabinet. I pulled out the usual kit: TCP to stop infection, gauze bandages and medical tape. I had done this so many times it was automatic and within five minutes half my face was covered in white dressing. I fled back to my room.

I perched on my bed and automatically rubbed the inside of my left arm. The neat, horizontal scars there were comforting. The one thing I could control in my life. I had been cutting for two years now, since I was thirteen. I didn't see it as a big deal, simply my way of handling things: A way to override the uncontrollable emotional pain that haunted my life. I wasn't addicted or anything and I wasn't proud of it. But then again, what in my life was I proud of? Sighing I picked up the razor blade from my bedside table. I had several dotted around my room and the bathroom; I didn't need to hide them – He wouldn't care if I killed myself. So long as I made it look like a natural death.

The silver blade shone dully in the torchlight, I would have to buy some more – this one was covered in a thin layer of blood. I wrinkled my nose in distaste - very unhygienic – and then snorted at myself: Worrying about a bit of dried blood when seeing it run down my arm in torrents is okay? So messed up.

I started to pass the time by planning a shopping trip. I could skive school, fake a letter. Yer that would do. You are probably wondering how I can shop when we have no money to pay the electricity bill. Thing is, my mum wasn't stupid. Her parents were rich (probably why my father married her) and she was set to inherit a fortune. Three years prior to her death – when my father first started beating us and drinking – she saw I would need help and, not sure whether she would be there to provide it, she moved her small fortune (around 200,000) into a private account and gave me the card. I was only five at the time, but I was smart enough to keep it hidden from Him. As far as He knows, my grandparents took the fortune with them when they died. I was extremely lucky I had made it to 15 without him finding out. I shuddered. My life depended on it staying that way.

I glanced at my watch – 4.43pm. I stripped silently, changed into a baggy T-shirt and sweats and dove under the covers. This was my usual routine: go to bed at 5pm, wake up at 1am. Shower (He is always passed out in front of the TV) and be out the house by 2am. Wander the streets or climb on the roof, then at 7.30am set off for school. Back at exactly 4.00pm. That way it was, for Him, like I didn't exist for almost all of the day. The way he preferred it.

After wrapping myself up in the blankets I grab the torch and flicked off the light. My room was plunged into darkness and I let my eyes drift shut. The last thing I heard before I succumbed to sleep was the steady ticking of my bedroom clock, almost like a regular heartbeat. It made me feel slightly uneasy, but was forgotten as I fell unconscious.

I watched dejectedly as the cold water ran in rivulets down my arm. The shower stuttered pathetically and I hurriedly scrubbed shampoo and conditioner into my hair before the water ran out. I had taken of my dressings so my cheek stung from yesterday but I ignored it, used to the pain. With one final effort the shower shuddered and gave up – God knows how old it was. Heaving a dramatic sigh, I quickly toweled dry, changed and was just towel drying my hair when I thought I heard something.

Water dripped down my back as I stood stock still, listening. The stair creaked. I started to hyperventilate. It could only be Him, I knew that. But what was he doing up so early? And upstairs! My mind raced through all the horrifying possibilities as the bathroom handle turned. My heart skipped a beat. The door swung open.

I was frozen to the floor. My eyes, wide as saucers, found his face and I frowned slightly in confusion. He wasn't drunk and he had shaved. His clothes were clean and he carried a bag over his shoulder. Was he abandoning me? My heart painfully skipped several beats.

He eyed my dripping hair and smirked. I knew that look – it meant I was useless, a burden, pathetic – it cut to my core for I knew it was true.

"Pack your things Harpy" he sneered. "Have them in my car in ten minutes. Anything you don't want leave behind. On the kitchen counter is a load of crap for you. Any questions?"

Questions?! Hell yer…I took a deep breath praying he wouldn't hurt me this time. "Where are we going Sir?" I whispered. Was I missing something?

"Lease ran out on the house you idiot. We are moving to Forks, Washington. Our last name is now Bradson. We are not going anywhere". I bit my lip, confused and he waited for this information to sink in before delivering the last blow. His smirk grew on his ugly face. "I am driving there. I don't care how you get there. It would be better if you didn't. Now go pack a bloody bag - ten minutes or I thump you. Go." He turned and slouched off down the stairs.

My mind blanked for a minute – Forks? Was that even a real place? Is this some kind of a joke?! I was trying in vain to remember my geography lessons when his parting comment hit me – ten minutes… crap. I hurriedly threw my hair into a bun and scowled as I grabbed a suitcase. Only then did I notice the objects he had given me. A bottle of whisky and a lighter. I froze, dropping the shoes I was holding as I realized what this meant.

My first and only home. The only place I can ever remember my mother being. The only place that I had good memories, however few. This room, my safe haven for 15 years. And he wanted me to burn it out? I clenched my hands into fists and threw the lighter at the mirror. Like hell I would burn this house! I glared at the broken reflection and watched as a tiny piece of glass fell to the floor. Angry tears chased each other down my cheeks as I surveyed the damage.

My life was just like the mirror. Fragile, misleading. You only saw what you wanted to see. And now, just like the mirror, it was fracturing at the seams.

A/N – Okay so personally I don't like that ending but hey! Did you? Let me know! Thanks a bunch

K-