Disclaimer: I don't own these characters, I just play with them. This story is rated M, and is not suitable for younger readers. Story contains violence, coarse language and sexual "situations". Please do not read if any of these things offends you.

Note: [Beta'ed by: Project Team Beta ]

Chapter 1- Envious

Isabella Swan POV - Four days before the accident

Hiding out in the girls' bathroom during gym had become one of my daily rituals. I wouldn't be surprised if Coach Hunter thought that I was dead or that I changed schools, since I hadn't made it to gym for almost three months now.

I really wished she was right, though.

I splashed my face with cold water and stared at my taunting reflection in the mirror. My brown hair was sticking to the water on my face, and I looked like a complete mess. My reflection stared back at me with condescending eyes and I had to look away. Wasn't it enough that I had to endure those looks from the rest of the student body? Why did I have to look at myself the same way?

I should treat myself with more respect. I deserved better. If I didn't treat myself better, then who would? I had no friends and no one who really cared about me.

People say that often but, those who do are not truly alone. They have a few acquaintances to smile with while walking through the halls of their schools, or maybe a sibling to relate to. In my case, though, it's true. I really have no friends. I am an only child. But I can honestly say that that doesn't bother me. I don't mind having no friends. Having friends means you are setting yourself up to get hurt. Trust me when I say that I have gone through enough betrayal and pain to last a lifetime. I know better than to try getting to know people since everyone thinks I'm crazy, anyway. I couldn't even count on my family to be there for me. They still blamed me for what had happened…

I shook those thoughts away. It was definitely not the time to think about that right now.

The door to the bathroom swung open, and Tanya Denali walked in with Jessica Stanley and Lauren Mallory hot on her heels. I don't think I've ever seen Tanya without Jessica or Lauren standing behind her like a couple of pathetic cheerleading bodyguards. I suppressed a scoff as all three of them turn to glare at me.

"Excuse me, but this bathroom is for normal people. The mentally unstable pee behind the gym," Tanya said to me in a sickly sweet voice. Jessica and Lauren giggled and I stared at them, my eyes expressing no emotion whatsoever. I had this look down pat and memorized by now. I couldn't let them get to me. I couldn't let any of them get to me.

"Then what the hell are you doing here?" I asked, veering my gaze away from her and her posse.

Tanya looked confused for a moment. I guess it took her a second longer than it should have before she understood what I said. I resisted the urge to roll my eyes. How was it even possible to be so dense?

"Freak," she spat when she couldn't come up with a good enough comeback, before storming into one of the stalls.

I grabbed a paper towel from the dispenser and patted my face dry. Lauren and Jessica were watching my every move through the mirror. I glared back at them, but they didn't even flinch. I threw the paper towel in the trash and left the bathroom.

The hallways were empty – apart from the occasional outcast like me, who roamed the halls when the rest of the school was busy in class.

I walked up the stairs to the second floor and steered my feet towards the closed-off wing. Nobody ever went there. That was the reason why I loved it so much.

I slipped under the caution tape that marked the restricted area and walked over to the abandoned music room. The door opened with a loud creak and I tried my best to close it silently behind me before making my way over to the grand piano, which was covered with a dusty white sheet. My steps echoed through the big, empty room. The piano was the only thing in the room. The seat was as dusty as the white sheet was, as were the floor and the rest of the room.

Everything was so dirty, but that was to be expected considering how long it had been since anyone, other than me, had been up here.

This wing had been closed off for almost a year now. It was first closed down due to renovations. But I guess the school couldn't afford to finish them, because the contractors only stayed for a week. Ever since then the wing had been a restricted area and classes were no longer scheduled there, because of the danger from construction.

The danger of the room is one of the main reasons I kept coming back. Each time, I hoped that something would happen to me, but each time I left the room disappointed. Nothing ever happened.

I looked down at my hands in my lap and tugged at my sleeve to make sure that my scars weren't exposed. I didn't feel ashamed about them; I just didn't want people to know about them. That would only fuel the fire, the taunting.

Don't go getting the wrong idea about me: I'm not a cutter. I just have scars – a lot of them. And it's not my fault they are there. I didn't put them there. Someone else did. And the scars are one of the reasons why I refuse to go to gym. If I did, people would be bound to take notice of them, and they would never let me forget it. That was something I tried to do twenty-four seven. I want to stop thinking about it! An impossible goal, for sure. But I had to at least try, because it was the only thing keeping me sane, while the whole school made me out to be insane.

I squeezed my eyes shut and rubbed the heels of my hands against my eyes.

Three months had passed, but I could still hear the screaming. Every time I closed my eyes, I would see his murderous gaze and my dreams were forever haunted by the memory. There was no way for me to get over this. The mental pain was slowly driving me insane and killing my will to live.

The physical pain I could handle. My wounds had been serious, but I didn't complain. With my wounds, I could see what hurt me. Plus, after a couple of months, the wounds had turned into pink scars. I was no longer broken. My body was fixed, but the wounds in my mind and in my heart would never heal. They would never diminish into pink scars.

Three months - and the pain was just as excruciating now as it had been back then. That would never change.

Why didn't I die that night?

I stood up and walked over to one of the dusty windows and jumped up to sit on its ledge. The window faced the parking lot where my big red truck stood out like a big red zit would stand out on a super model's pristine, pore-free forehead. It was bigger and older than any other car on the parking lot – and not to mention it was loud. People always stared at me when I came a-clunkin' to school every morning.

But I wasn't sure whether that was because of the loud roar of the engine, or the fact that I was a loser in their eyes, and they needed to put me down before starting their day.

A shiny, silver Volvo caught my eye. It was moving fluidly down the parking lot, before parking in the Principal's assigned spot. I raised an eyebrow at the sight, since I knew that that particular car didn't belong to the Principal. It belonged to none other than Edward Cullen.

I watched him as he climbed out of the car and slammed the door shut, before pushing a button on his keys, pointing it towards the car. The lights flashed, indicating he had locked the car, and he walked off with his hands in his pockets. He slouched his shoulders, like he always did. I don't think I'd ever seen him walk with his back straight. He slouched and kept his eyes down, not meeting anyone's glance, as if he was trying to hide. This was pretty odd, seeing as everyone knew who he was and everyone looked up to him. The guys wanted to be him, and the girls wanted to be with him. You know the type. Yet, still, he always walked like he didn't want any of it. It was as if he just didn't want people to see him, or notice him.

Even more ironic, he was the sluttiest guy I have ever encountered. He had slept with the entire female population of the school. Actually, I wouldn't be surprised if he slept with a few of the guys too when he was getting short on girls. I was definitely not one of the girls he had slept with, though. I was still as virginal as the day God had created me.

I remember once, last spring, when I thought he had tried to flirt with me.

I was sitting in the library, during study hall, when he walked up to me. He stood across the table and leaned down on his arms as his eyes focused all his power on me.

"Isabella Swan…," he said with a husky voice. "You're looking pretty today."

I blushed and looked down, embarrassed. I was not used to getting compliments from guys, or talking to guys at all for that matter. Getting a compliment from Edward Cullen was like being told by Simon Cowell that you were good at singing. Both situations were equally rare, and equally amazing.

"Thanks," I muttered. He chuckled.

"So what are you studying, pretty Bella?" he asked. I could still feel his eyes on me.

"Advanced algebra…," I replied quietly, without looking at him. Why did he even bother asking? My algebra books were the only ones on the table in front of me and I was busy scribbling down equations and answers in my notebook.

"Oh, really? I was too, but I don't understand question four… do you?" He asked innocently.

I nodded weakly; I didn't have any trouble with AP algebra. Math was a cakewalk for me.

He leaned in closer towards me, over the table, and I could feel his breath on my face.

"Mind helping a guy out?" he breathed, still with that husky tone.

I glanced up and my breath caught in my throat as his beautiful emerald eyes stared back at me, barely inches from my face. I bit my lip and pushed my notebook to him.

"I… I– I solved it by using the method on page sixty five…," I stuttered nervously and pointed to the page without breaking the lock with his eyes.

He smirked and leaned back before snatching the notebook. He looked at the page and nodded, seemingly content.

"Thanks," he said, ripping the page out and throwing the notebook back down on the table, walking off without a second glance. I flushed as I reached for my notebook and frowned when I noticed that he had managed to get away with the whole assignment, while it had taken me over an hour to solve the problems. I was forced to do it again.

I shook my head at the memory. I had been so naïve back then. How could I have possibly thought that Edward Cullen would ever consider me pretty? Or that he would ever bother flirting with me in the first place unless he had something to gain from it? I was not pretty. My appearance was plain. Everything about me was either plain or broken. I had been naïve and I had let him get away with stealing my homework. Because of him, I had gotten in trouble for not managing to finish the homework again. Of course I got in trouble for not completing the assignment, while Edward got an A on his homework… or should I say my homework?

I jumped back down on the floor and the dust whirled around my feet. Some of it came up to my face and I sneezed, the sound echoing through the almost empty room.

I walked back to the piano and pulled back the sheet, exposing a part of the piano in the process. I wanted to admire the beautiful, black piano. The finish was still smooth and shiny. It was a pity that no one ever got to use it anymore. I had often wondered why it had never been brought down to the new music room next to the cafeteria. Instead, they had just brought the guitars and drums, along with the smaller woodwind and percussion instruments. Maybe the grand piano was simply too big and heavy to move. It wasn't worth the effort since they had planned on getting the music room back up here when the renovations were finished, anyway.

As if that were ever going to happen.

I put the sheet back, sheathing the piano back into hiding.

It was at times like this that I really wished that I had any musical talent whatsoever. It could really benefit in getting my emotions out in the form of music. It would be such a beautiful way of expressing myself; as opposed to writing countless pages of worthless days in my journals about how bad I have felt recently and how I have been wishing for the relief of death.

It wasn't like I could go to a therapist and talk about what happened. I wasn't allowed to talk about what happened at all– not with anyone. Not even with the people involved. Well, it wasn't like I could talk to them, anyway…

Instead, I had to live in a lie and pretend it never happened. If someone asked about it, I was to give them the lousy cover-up story. The same one we gave the hospital when they took care of my wounds.

A cover-up story that made me responsible for everything that had happened.

I absentmindedly pulled up my sleeve and was about to scratch my arm, but when my fingers touched the scars, I flinched and looked down. I stared at the scars like it was the first time I'd ever seen them and felt sick to my stomach. They disgusted me, but no more than the person who inflicted them did.

The bell rang, signaling that it was time for lunch.

I left the music room, and walked back down stairs. I reached my locker and grabbed my lunch bag, making my way outside and sitting down under the tree where I usually ate lunch whenever the weather was nice enough. It was kind of odd sitting outside and eating when it was already November, especially since this was Forks. Having any kind of good weather this late in the year was pretty miraculous. Though it was a little chilly, it was possible to eat outside as long as I had my jacket on.

"Haha, look, there's Isabella who never had a fella'!" someone called out.

"When are you gonna become a Swan? Aren't you tired of being an ugly duckling yet, Swan?" someone else called out. The laugher ensued as it always did.

I tried to ignore the remarks, but felt my cheeks flush crimson anyway. I was used to their nasty comments, but that didn't mean that it had become any easier to hear it over the last few months.

I nibbled at my homemade chicken sandwich and tried to force the food down my throat. My body was resisting. It didn't want the food, but I kept pushing it down, anyway, fighting the urge to spit it all out. I took a bigger bite and I guess I forced it down too quickly because it got stuck in my throat and I began to choke.

Perfect.

I would have rolled my eyes at myself for being so stupid, but the big lump of sandwich wedged in my throat kept me from thinking about anything but the need to get air into my lungs. I coughed violently and crossed hands at my throat– the universal sign for choking. I wasn't getting any air and my eyes were watering.

I looked around as I stood up, hoping that someone would notice me and help me. I realized that they were all already looking at me. But no one was coming to help me. Instead, they were standing around and laughing at me.

They were laughing and pointing as I was slowly choking to death.

Maybe that was a good thing? Death by sandwich. Perhaps it wasn't the most ideal way to go, but beggars can't be choosers, right?

"Dear God! Are you guys insane! Somebody help her!" a tinkling voice shouted… finally.

It wasn't hard to recognize that bell-like voice. There was only one person who sounded like a fairy in our school. That would be Alice Brandon, a tiny pixie-looking girl with short black hair, who was always dressed in designer clothes. Even in gym.

She ran over to me and I wanted to roll my eyes, but I was afraid that they'd roll all the way back.

Cue the irony; the only person willing to help me was the only person who couldn't. There was no chance in hell that tiny Alice, who was barely five foot tall, would be able to help me.

But I had been proven wrong before, and this was no exception.

Alice wrapped her seemingly tiny arms around my waist from behind, clasped her hands together right under my ribs, and pressed hard. It didn't take more than one push for me to cough up the soggy piece of my sandwich that had been caught in my throat. I spat it out onto the ground as soon as it was freed from the confines of my throat.

I coughed a few times, feeling relieved that the obstruction was gone and I could take a few deep breaths. She let go of me and walked around so she was standing in front of me.

"You alright, Isabella?" she asked, putting a hand on my shoulder. I smiled meekly.

"I'm fine, thanks," I replied with a scratchy voice.

She smiled at me softly. "Anytime," she remarked casually, before scampering off.

People were still looking at me. Some were still laughing their asses off at my expense. My face was burning in embarrassment as I quickly gathered my things and walked off towards school.

I spent the remainder of lunch locked in one of the stalls of the girls' bathroom. I took extremely small bites of my sandwich, paranoid that I would end up choking again. Alice probably wouldn't be there next time to save me if it happened again.

The good thing was that I could now cross that off my list of possible ways to die. Choking was obviously not an option; it was too uncomfortable and unsettling.

Death by sandwich? No thank you.

I parked my truck outside our house and noticed that the police cruiser was parked by the curb as per usual when my dad was home. I guess he was home. I really wasn't in the mood to see or talk to him– especially after the day I'd had.

I walked inside, not bothering to call out 'hello' since the loud rumble from my truck engine already alerted anyone within a ten mile radius to my presence.

Dad came out from the kitchen; he was still dressed in his chief uniform, with his gun in the holster on his belt.

"Your mom called," he announced casually, as if it meant absolutely nothing.

I flinched at the mere mention of her.

"She wants you to call her back," he clarified when I didn't answer.

"Oh, yeah! That is exactly what I want to do. Let's go call up Mother Dearest and see how she's been! " I retorted sarcastically, as I started towards the stairs.

"She's your mother," he replied sternly. "And she wants you to call her; you need to speak with her."

"I'm not gonna call her and I wish she would stop asking me to!" I muttered angrily as I stomped my way up the stairs and towards my bedroom. I would be the epitome of teen angst right about now.

I slammed the door behind me, making the thin walls quiver. I dropped my bag on the floor and threw myself on my bed.

I hated my mother and I hated my father for nagging me about calling her.

Another teenage cliché, I'm sure. Was there any teenager out there who hadn't uttered those precise words at some point? But even if they did, I had my doubts about whether or not it was earned. My hatred of my mother was well earned– and she knew that too. That's why it pissed me off that she wouldn't let me be.

It had only been three months. Did she really think I was going to get over it so quickly? Did she really think that I was going to actually forgive her?

There was no way that would ever happen.