Hi!

Here is a little story I wrote for the TricksandTreatsandMore contest.

Thanks for reading and I hope you enjoy!

Thanks to Fran for Beta-ing.

S. Meyer owns all things Twilight

BPOV

I was twelve years old when I realized my mother was crazy, and by my fifteenth birthday, I became convinced I was too. But it wasn't until I met Edward that I began to accept who I was, and because of him, I finally started living the life I deserved.

Raised in an upper-middle-class home where the neighborhoods were new, and the carpets were plush, my most significant decision was choosing the wallpaper for my bedroom. My father, who worked in real estate, was gone by the time I left for school in the morning, and when he'd return in the evening, we would have a quick meal, followed by him pouring his favorite cocktail. He'd plop down in front of the TV, and I would snuggle into his side, happy and content to spend time with him. To this day, whenever I smell Drambuie, it conjures all my happiest memories of dad.

We became a tragic cliche when he left our family for his receptionist, and after the divorce, my mother went on a bender—but not with alcohol. Her coping mechanism was metaphysical, and our home quickly became a revolving door of psychic mediums and spiritual advisors as she tried to find herself and figure out where she went wrong in the marriage. Obsessed with every new-age guru she encountered; I never knew who might be in the house when I came home in the afternoon. One summer Hare Krishnas even camped out in our living room.

They were lovely.

Everyone knew Mom was crazy, and this fact was never more evident than when she told us she saw Jesus in the backyard.

It was just after my father left, and as she tells it, she was at the kitchen sink, lost in despair, when suddenly, a sense of calm came over her. Raising her head and looking out the window, that's when she saw him; Jesus Christ was standing next to our swing set.

We weren't even practicing Catholics.

Predictably, 'Jesus in the window' began trending in our household. My younger sister Alice initiated it, and it soon became our catchphrase, our own Saturday Night Live skit, an inside joke, and my poor mother never lived it down.

While my sisters and I are very different, we do possess some of the traditionally assigned birth-order roles. Rose, the oldest, is studious and self-sufficient. She excels at everything and is the personification of perfection. She went to college, married a doctor, and had three children.

"It's my sole mission in life to be the complete opposite of mom, Bella."

By all accounts, she was succeeding beautifully.

Alice, the youngest, is the quintessential wild child. The baby of the family, my parents were too exhausted to take her to task for anything, and she took advantage, constantly pushing their limits. Boisterous and loud, often obnoxious at times, Alice has always been a free spirit. To her credit, she has been able to channel most of her excess energy into her artwork. She is creative and gifted in ways I will never be, and although never officially diagnosed, her struggles with mental illness and drug abuse have taken a toll on us.

Broken promises, hurt feelings, and unsuccessful interventions have left us all extremely weary.

I am the middle child, the Jan Brady of the trifecta, and while not as noble as Rose, I'm not as fucked up as Alice. Sandwiched in the middle, I was nothing if not practical. But all that changed when I turned fifteen and began experiencing some unexplainable things myself.

~!~

It all started with my best friend, Jake.

We were thirteen when he transferred to my school from Colorado, and we hit it off immediately. We've always been there for one another, from my father's unexpected death to Jake's coming out, and although he has loving and supportive parents of his own, he has been obsessed with my mother since the day he met her.

Nevertheless, if there had been an award for being the worst at psychic abilities, Renee Swan would have won it. Even after all those years of searching for answers and sightings of robed prophets, it turned out that she wasn't any closer to enlightenment than when she started. She didn't have second sight or clairvoyance, and as far as I could tell, she never even seemed to master the art of meditation. But none of that deterred Jake. He'd come over after school, and my mother would be all too eager to give him a tarot card reading or try to see his aura, hoping to hone what she thought was her budding craft.

I stayed silent, mostly because I already knew what his aura looked like. My mother said it was green, but of course, she was wrong.

It was gold.

It freaked me out when I started seeing light around people. The first time it happened, I was sitting at the kitchen table doing homework. Alice walked in to get something to eat and banged around in her usual chaotic manner. Becoming increasingly frustrated with the racket, I raised my head to tell her to knock it off but abruptly stopped, incapable of uttering a word as I looked at her.

An azure-colored light rose from the top of her head and stretched to the ceiling while it moved along with her as she opened and closed cabinets and rattled silverware in the drawer. I never said a word to anyone about it. I didn't tell Jake, and I certainly didn't tell my mother, convinced I was either crazy or had a brain tumor. By the time I turned sixteen, not only did I see light around people, but I had also begun to know details about them that weren't always pleasant.

Most of the time, they were frightening.

I spent an entire day on one occasion watching a black mist surround one of my classmates, and it was terrifying. I could feel the darkness and pain that boy was experiencing, and I didn't know what to do about it. What if he decided to hurt himself or someone else? What if something terrible happened? Should I tell someone? How would I do that? I couldn't just accuse people of things they hadn't done or might never do.

"What's going on with you today anyway?" Jake asked while lying stretched out on my bed, reading a magazine.

"You're a million miles away."

I bit my lip in indecision as I turned from the window I had been looking out, unsure if I wanted to tell him.

"What?" he asked, narrowing his eyes. "What aren't you telling me?"

I shrugged my shoulders, but he wasn't having it. "Girl, spill … now."

I opened my mouth, shut it, and then opened it again before letting it all tumble out. I knew if I didn't tell somebody, I really would go crazy.