Here we go. Part two of I Write Sins Not Tragedies. This story is really going to start rocking and rolling soon, I promise.

Honorable Mention to Bloodredeclipse. I really love those reviews you faithfully give me!

Disclaimer-Twilight belongs to Stephenie Meyer, not Spack272.

I boarded the plane slowly and surely. My face was red, my hair a mess. I knew I looked horrible, but didn't care, for once. I couldn't believe what had happened. The rain was mixing with my tears and my cheeks and eyes were red. My face felt hot. This is me, Bella Swan, on the first Thursday of April 2005.

You may not get this, but tragedy seems to follow me everywhere. When I was very young, not even five, my parents divorced. My brother and I moved to Phoenix to live near my Grandma with my Mom. Dad stayed in Forks.

When I was ten, my Grandma died. She was one of my best friends and role models, always understanding my predicament exactly and having the best advice to solve it. I missed her horribly, still do. It's been too long since I've seen her, and now I'm wondering if I shouldn't shorten the time between us meeting again.

Then…at age thirteen. My older brother Blake, my caretaker and best friend, my Mr. Mom and main source of protection, committed suicide. He drove his beater off a cliff, and the car blew up once hitting the sharp rocks at the bottom, then sunk in the water. I entered a brief comatose state, then woke up in the hospital and had no memory of him at all. I was suffering from extreme amnesia, I was told.

I still can't fully remember him and don't know if what I remember is real memory or things that I've heard so often they seem real. I can picture his warm eyes, soft hair, gentle expressions, all of it, but I don't know if its from pictures and videos or memory that I know his profile so well.

Now, back to the present. That was almost four years ago, and I still don't know if I should feel pain or regret or what not. I do know, however, that a new rip has been torn in my heart and I can't possibly take much more.

Three days ago, my mom went to the store, simple and easy. Whatever. Grocery shopping, right? Everyone's mom does it, right? So my mom went out to the closest Super Center to grab some stuff to fill out cupboards. She never came back. I don't mean that like she ran away or went missing, I mean she was hit by a drunk Mack driver head on when chatting in the parking lot with a cart-boy. The boy was also hit, a boy named Travis, about 19 years old. I wonder if my mom was talking to him because she was just like that, or if it was because he reminded her of Blake. I'll never know.

She and the boy were killed on impact. Seventeen carts and four cars were smashed and totaled before the driver skidded to a stop. He stumbled out of the truck and passed out at the scene of the crime. Next thing I know, the police are at the table, sipping cold coffee and munching stale oreos while explaining yet another tragedy to me. This seems to be the story of my life, does it not?

I don't quite know why this black cloud of despair and pain seems to follow me, just that it does. I'm not sure what I could have possibly done to deserve any of this, maybe I was a really bad person in a past life, maybe God just has a mean streak. Maybe I'll never know.

I drift back to the present, staring out the window as clouds whir past. I closed the shade on the window then, turning my face down and curling up in a ball with the scratchy blanket. Tears soaked it soon and sobs wracked my body. Why did it have to happen to her? Why did it have to happen to Blake? Why did it have to happen to my Grandmother? I just didn't understand. I probably never would, and I think that was alright with me.