A/N: This definitely needs a content warning for abuse, violence, drug use, sex and just about everything else you can think of. I totally understand if that's not for you, but I just had to write Mobward after reading some of the awesome fics on here! I have written and edited about 90% of this story so uploads will be once a week, then twice a week once I've written the other 10%. It will have a HEA.

Just an update on Puzzlers in case any of my readers from there have come over: One of the reasons I was inspired to write it is because I was doing it whilst planning my own road trip across the US, and I do have a fair few chapters written that just need editing and uploading - the rest I was leaving until after the trip because I'd know it so much better. I'm actually supposed to be on the road trip right now, but obviously I'm not. I'm very lucky to still be healthy and safe, but selfishly I don't feel up to continuing it right now. It will be finished, I will go back to it, but right now I just won't be able to give it my all. On that note I just want to say stay home, stay safe, and look after yourselves.

Everything you recognised belongs to Stephenie Meyer, I'm just borrowing her characters to satiate my overactive imagination.

Apologise for the reeeeally long AN.

Chapter One

Breathe in, breathe out.

That's all I need to remember. Breathe. Simple, right?

But still I find my hand shaking as I lift it towards the door.

As my hand hovers there, I contemplate just using my key to get inside instead, but somehow it doesn't seem appropriate.

I know this house with the white washed walls and fancy trellis going down the side, I know this door with the splintered and peeling red paint and pane on the top left that's just slightly loose. I even know not to try the doorbell because no matter what, it never gets fixed - one of those things on a never ending to do list.

The potted petunias of purple, red and yellow on either side of the door are new though, and to be fair the whole pathway up to the house looks a lot cleaner and less overgrown than I remember from when I was 16.

Wow, it's been seven years.

Seven long years.

Fuck.

I lean my head against the cool glass, the light drizzle drifting down onto my now exposed neck and seeping through into my bones.

It's been a long few days. A greyhound from Chicago to Seattle spent mostly next to a man resembling a gargoyle with a belly housing more hair than what was on his head, protruding underneath his pit stained t-shirt, and an awful habit of eating the loudest possible food with his mouth gaping open.

Thankfully the rattly old coach from Seattle was a lot quieter, I even managed an hour of sleep - my first lot of sleep for three days - before it pulled up into the dreary old town of Forks.

All I want right now is to curl up in my tatty old bed and sleep for a thousand years. If I was lucky I'd even get a cup of Charlie's hot coco to help send me off.

Breathe, Bella. Breathe.

I move my face away from the now foggy glass and wonder what Charlie is doing right now. It's a little past eight so he's probably sat in front of the flatscreen with a TV dinner and a can of beer with no clue that his long lost daughter is right outside his front door.

My phone buzzes in my pocket, distracting me from the inner turmoil of how to get into my family home.

Where are ya babe? I'm worried

Wow, only took him three days to notice.

I slip my phone back into my jacket pocket, but as I do my wedding ring catches in the porch light.

It's not my original wedding ring, or even the one after that.

My original ring was a cheap plastic thing we won out of a claw machine at an arcade. We saw it as a sign and found ourselves at the courthouse the second our marriage permit came through. We were two teenagers madly in love with hardly a penny between us so my 'dress' was jeans and a t-shirt, the witness was some random woman we dragged in from the sidewalk with the bribe of a bloody mary, and our wedding photographer was me and my cell phone.

A couple years later he replaced it with an actual ring, a beautiful 18 carat white gold solitaire ring with a delicate little diamond in it. It was exactly what I wanted, simple yet elegant. I cried with happiness when he brought it home and gave it to me out of the blue one day. It wasn't our anniversary or anything, he just said I deserved it and I wasn't about to shoot a gift horse in the mouth. That was when we were at our happiest - we were starting to make a life for ourselves in Chicago - I was managing a small gift shop down by the river, and he was working in a bar downtown.

But last year I woke up one morning and I noticed my ring looked kind of… different. I couldn't quite put my finger on why or how, but the diamond seemed to be more dull and it had definitely lost it's sparkle. Kind of fitting, really.

A few days later I noticed a strange green dye on my skin all around the wedding ring, something that had never happened before. I brought it up to him but he told me I was being stupid, that all rings do that eventually, and then he left to go out drinking again.

I never brought it up to him again, and often wonder what happened to my ring. I'd love to see the smile on the lucky woman's face as her husband presents it to her on her wedding day, and the smug look on her husband's knowing he'd got such a perfect piece at a second hand price.

Husband.

After all this time it still feels weird saying that and I can't even explain why.

I hear some shuffling inside, probably Charlie on his way to the fridge for another can.

My phone starts to ring in my pocket and the shuffling inside stops - probably his god damn cop senses tingling.

For some reason it spooks me, and I find myself high tailing it down the path and away, phone still chirping away until it eventually rings off.

Courage officially now gone, I instead take a walk through town. It's surprising how little has changed - mad Mrs Kelly still runs the steakhouse, there's still a load of very obviously underage drinkers at o'Hanlons bar, and Jacob Black still runs the mechanic place on fifth street. A mechanics that is thankfully looking very closed and empty at present.

Ducking into a doorway to escape the rain that is only getting heavier, I pull my purse out to check on my financial situation. $230. Could be better, could be worse.

Three years ago we made the decision that I would quit my job. With only one of us working in the city, we could move to a cheaper area and get a car. The other could manage the house. Not that there was much of a house to manage - a one bed apartment with a pokey joined living/dining area can be made spotless with less than an hour of work a day. But without a car and none of my own money for public transport, it was hard to get back into the work force no matter how much I felt I wanted to. Whenever I brought it up with him, he'd simply tell me how lucky I was to be a kept woman and that I can go for a walk in the park if I felt bored. He even bought me a dog so I felt less out of place doing so.

God I miss that mutt. He was half dead when I got him, some sort of weird terrier mix with a scruffy grey coat pointing up in all directions, eyes that are always just slightly out of focus, and one ear that stands on end and one that flops down. He's my best friend, and I find myself talking to him on way too many occasions. That's what being lonely will do to you.

I pull my phone out just to see a picture of Harold and remind myself of his cuteness, only to see a string of texts lighting up my screen.

Where are you

Come back now

I know you got my money

Busted. He had no idea I knew about his secret hiding place underneath the third floorboard from the oven.

At this point not even I can remember how I found the thing.

Just as I'm deleting the messages from him, another one pops up.

I love you

Shit.

He is my husband. And life isn't so bad, right? I'm not in dead end Forks, we have a dog, we have a home, and I don't even have to work for any of it.

And he can be sweet sometimes - the other day he even did the dishes while I was out walking Harold. I didn't have to ask or anything.

Maybe it's just a rough patch, a bit of a long rough patch. Maybe we can go back to the way things were, when we were happy together and had all those big city dreams.

That's the thing with dreams, they never quite measure up in reality.

Maybe my hopes were too high, maybe that's the issue.

In my mind we'd have left Forks, roadtripped to Chicago, visited those small towns with diners you only see in movies along the way, we'd have started off small, then ended up in some pent house suite overlooking the skyline. I'd have finished school and gone on to be a lawyer or a detective or maybe even an interior designer, he'd be doing whatever the hell it was he'd wanted to do as a teen, and we'd be living the high life going to lavish cocktail parties while our perfect son and daughter went to the most expensive prep school in the state.

Maybe this is all my fucking fault.

I bring my fist to my mouth and bite down, squeezing my eyes as hard as I can to try and stop the sobs escaping.

I'm such a fucking idiot.

I'm the problem, not him.

With a heavy heart I make my way back to Forks bus station. I should have just enough money to get back to Chicago and I still have a bag of nuts in my backpack, that should get my through.

Weak.

Always weak.

But impulsive.

OoOoO

When I return, Chicago is just as rainy as Forks was and maybe even a few degrees colder, only now instead of the smell of fresh pine and grass filling the air, it's the smell of car exhausts and garbage. As the bus rolled through the city, it did look pretty with the lights twinkling through the smog, but Englewood ain't so pretty. But it's home.

Walking down the street I see his banged up Corola parked next to the chain link fence outside the five floor brown box building that I live in. I can hear police sirens in the distance and a gunshot off to the right - this is the life I have made for myself, the life I deserve.

I just wish he wasn't home.

As I get into the building with the magnolia, water stained walls and cracked cream floor, I walk past the lift that has been out of service since we moved in a few years back and instead take the stairs up to the third floor.

My feet feel like concrete blocks, my heart pounds in my chest, but I need to do this. I have no money and I'm starving. Plus I just want to sleep.

Again I find myself outside a red door, but this time there's no windows on it. Again I question - do I knock, or do I let myself in?

But that choice is taken away from me when the door that I was leaning against opens before me and I find myself tumbling into the apartment and landing flat on my ass. Fucking fantastic.

"Where have you been?" Mike yells, slamming the door against my foot until I quickly retract it. My last chance of freedom ebbing away with the click of the deadbolt.

Floundering to find words, I instead end up staring at him with my mouth just gaping like a fish.

"It's been a week god damn it!"

"Six days," I mumble, choosing to look at the dirt green carpet instead of his face.

I can hear him pace up and down the room, but I daren't look up at him. Like with a lion, he sees eye contact as a threat.

"Well?" he asks me in a quipped tone, "where were you?"

"Forks," I answer honestly, seeing no other option in the situation.

I try to pick myself up off the floor but he stops me, "off to see that Jacob Black were you? You fucking whore."

"No."

"So why the hell were you there if it wasn't spreading your legs for the first man you came across?"

"I-I didn't see anyone, I didn't speak to anyone. I just needed some space," again with the honesty, not that it ever gets my anywhere with this fucking guy if he already has it in his head what happened.

"Bullshit!" I look up with a start, his voice rattling the foundations of the building. He's livid, this never works out well for anyone involved. I can see the vein on his forehead pulse, his usually pale skin a vivid shade of scarlet, standing out against the sandy blonde hair that still makes him look like the innocent teen I fell in love with.

"I promise you," I beg as I crawl across and hug his legs, he tries to get out of my grasp but I don't let go as I grovel and cry and implore at his feet. I've learnt that this is the best way to deescalate and as humiliating as it is, sometimes self preservation is the only way to go.

He makes his way out of my grasp a little too roughly, in a way that will definitely leave a bruise on my chest in the morning. But that's my fault, I caged him in.

I sit back and curl my legs up to my chest, once again avoiding any form of eye contact with my husband.

"I'm going out," he tells me as he grabs his coat from atop the couch, "unfortunately for you I won't be gone for six days."

My heart sinks as the door slams and I'm left alone.

The second the door closes, Harold is at my side, wiggling his butt as his tail wags so fast I think it's going to come flying off, as he licks every inch of my tear stained face. He's sensible enough to know not to come close when Mike is in one of his moods.

"Hey boy," I whisper, my voice cracking. At least somebody in this world loves me.

Standing from the uncomfortable position on the floor, I make my way over to his food bowls, my tiny best friend jumping and yapping away at my side.

Of course they are both empty.

I first of all fill up his water bowl and place it back on the floor for him, then I go through our bare cupboards to find the dog biscuits.

Harold continues to wag his tail down beside me as he stuffs his face. Dogs are so easy to please - all they need is food, water, walks and love. If only men were that simple.

I can't help but smile through the tears as I look at him, never again will I even try to leave the little guy.

Leaning back on the kitchen counter, I take the chance to look around the room. It's clear as day that Mike hasn't lifted a finger since I left. Dirty dishes litter the floor and - yup - the kitchen counters too. The laundry basket is not only full but overflowing, how one man can go through so much clothes is beyond me.

I walk over to try and sort it out into lights and darks so I can take it down to the laundry room tomorrow and yup, as per usual about half of it is covered in blood. I always wonder whether it's his own or somebody else's, but I wouldn't dare ask him.

Just as I'm finishing the piles, the fucking lights go out. My body aches as I drag myself over to try and flip the switches, but there's no life in it. He's obviously not paid the bill again.

Welcome home, me.

You could have been all warm at Charlies, but instead you're here. And you deserve it.

"Come on," I call over to Harold before feeling my way into the bedroom. I'm too tired to even change, instead choosing to fall onto the mattress fully clothed with my little bud acting like my hot water bottle that gets me through these frigid Chicago winters.

I'm not sure how long I was asleep for - could have been minutes, could have been hours, but I awaken to the sound of something smashing just outside the bedroom door.

Fuck.

I huddle Harold closer into me, spooning him against my chest as I attempt to get as close as I can to the fetal position with him there.

It wasn't always like this, you know. We used to be carefree and happy, he used to tell me to sneak out of my Dad's house so we could meet at the park and spend our nights kissing and whispering sweet nothings to one another until we both fell asleep under the stars.

Mike finally finds his way into the bedroom, my entire body shakes, eyes darting around the darkness in fear. I can hear Harold whine, picking up on my fear.

But it wasn't always like this, he used to tell me to call in sick from work if he had the day off so we could spend our day eating pizza and having sex.

He thuds down onto the bed beside me, reaching across to Harold and pushing him out of the way, knowing better than to defend me he runs and cowers in the corner. I wrap my arms around my legs, knees to my chin, trying to make myself as small as possible as Mike leans over me, caging me in.

But it wasn't always like this, he used to surprise me with makeup so we could look like a power couple, then we'd take lazy walks along the river and drink coffee in expensive cafes along the way so he could show me off.

I can smell his rancid breath as his face comes closer to mine, a mix of alcohol and tobacco, and when he gets even closer I can see white, powdery residue just under his nostrils.

But it wasn't always like this. He used to help me understand my shortcomings so I could improve myself and save our marriage.

He tries to kiss me, but I turn my face so he ends up planting a kiss on my ear instead, making me shudder at the awful sensation.

"Not good enough for you now, hey? Not good enough now you've gone and fucked that Jacob Black," his words are slurred but the malice within them is still evident. By the time I've realised my mistake, it's already too late. I should've just let him kiss me, let him do whatever he wants with me, all in the name of self preservation. He always gets his own way anyway, but it's up to me whether I end up with black eyes and a broken nose or not.

But it wasn't always like this. Whenever we got into an argument, he used to bring me home presents the next day - flowers, chocolates, jewellery, you name it, he gifted it to me. He could never say sorry, but I knew that was his own little way of apologising.

He grabs my shoulders and turns me around, spittle hits my face as he yells and tells me I'm a whore this, fucking bitch that. He shakes me the entire time, I'm just glad it's against a mattress this time and not a wall.

"Why aren't you saying anything?" He yells, but I don't have the strength to respond.

Next comes the fists.

Red hot pain flashes through my cheeks, then my eyes, then my nose, then my lips. My vision becomes blurred with red as I finally manage to bring my arms up to cover my face.

But it wasn't always like this. At one point we were so in love that I cut contact with all my friends and family for him. It was us against the world.

No longer able to get to my face, he grabs my hair, jerking my neck back, but I'm a pro at keeping my face covered at this point.

Instead he manages to pull himself up, dragging me with him. I can feel the hairs snap and break off as I'm roughly yanked along.

He uses his phone flashlight to illuminate the room before throwing me out into the main room - hitting the back of my head on the door handle as he does so.

Wiping my eyes, I drag myself out into the middle of the room, knowing he'll soon be out to join me, but not knowing what the result of it will be.

I hear Harold yelp and whine and my heart stutters - he can do what he wants to me, but he can't touch the dog.

But it wasn't always like this. We both used to go to work, make an honest living, and I'd always make sure to have food on the table for him when he came home from his evening shift.

He soon joins me in the main room, placing his phone down on a side table with the light pointing up, Harold in his hand by the scruff of his neck.

"Please don't hurt him," I beg and beg and beg.

He laughs, but there's no humour there, "it's you or the dog."

"Me," I plead, even daring to crawl closer to him, "me, I choose me."

He pulls out a gun from down the back of his jeans and places it against Harold's head.

I scream out in anguish, my heart beating out of my chest.

I try to stand up but wobble on my feet, head spinning I run over to him but he pistol whips me across the face as soon as I'm close enough, causing me to fall against a table at a funny angle before tumbling to the floor.

But it wasn't always like this. We used to roadtrip to the coast a couple times a year, we'd spend our days sunbathing and playing catch in the sea. He'd always help me choose my swimwear as well, making sure I was well covered yet beautiful.

I knock the phone off the side during the commotion, causing the room to once again become cast in inky blackness. I fumble around for something, anything, that can help. He can hurt me, but he can't touch my dog.

I feel something cold and heavy on the floor and, grabbing it, I bravely stand once again and hit out in front of me with whatever power and energy I have left in my broken body.

I hear a heavy thud and then a yelp.

Standing there trembling, I can feel a wet nose against my fingertips as Harold jumps up and down beside me and nuzzles my fingertips.

But it wasn't always like this.

Or maybe it was.

Maybe I just ignored the signs.