A/N: Hello again. It's been a week and I'm back with the second chapter, as promised. I want to thank those of you who have 'followed' my story. It means a lot.

Just a quick note, in case anyone was wondering, the dates are added to help you follow the story as days, and occasionally weeks will pass by rather quickly.

Disclaimer: I own nothing except the plot!

I'll Always Find Peace In The Meadow

Chapter Two: 'The chain with the key' (Bella POV)

Monday 10 April 2017

The blaring of my alarm pulls me from my slumber suddenly. My eyes snap open and I groan quietly. A new day. A new week. I hate waking up. Sleep is so peaceful, so restful. I could sleep all day and night, and be the happiest person alive. No, that's not exactly true. If I could sleep in my meadow safely, surrounded by books and an endless supply of empty journals ready to be filled, with music playing, and perhaps a grand piano somewhere close by, then I'd be the happiest person alive.

I reach above my head and to the left, where my alarm clock is still droning out an incessant ringing. I turn it off and freeze, listening for any sound outside of my room. I hate my alarm because it's so loud. I need a new one. It's woken Renee on several occasions in the past, all of which didn't end with the best result for me. I'm surprised she hasn't come in here and disposed of it herself, to be honest.

My arm is still elevated in the air, and the heavy throb that pulses through my upper arm suddenly reminds me of my newest shiner. I pull my arm back to my side instantly, wincing as I recall what happened yesterday. With me leaving the television on after dozing off on Saturday evening, and then with what happened yesterday, it's safe to say my weekend wasn't all that great...

Flashback - Sunday 9 April 2017 [Yesterday]

Sunday is meant to be a day of rest. People sleep in 'till late morning, maybe even early afternoon. They have a lazy day in their pyjamas, eat brunch instead of breakfast and most will have a roast dinner with their families in the afternoon. That's the way I imagine other people spending their Sunday.

I, however, am up and out of bed by 8:00AM. I'd much rather sleep in longer, feeling exhausted, but for some reason my mother likes getting up earlier on a Sunday than she does on a Saturday. She's usually out of bed by 9:00AM on a Sunday, 9:30AM at the latest, depending on when she smells the bacon and sausages cooking. She likes to have a full English breakfast, again, on Sundays. It has to be on the table by the time she's down stairs.

It takes me about 40 minutes to make this breakfast. When I first started making it, I messed up badly. I burnt the bacon to a crisp, which Renee hates, popped the yolk on her eggs, and managed to serve the beans cold. All these problems, and more, continued for my first five or so tries at it. I was thirteen then.

Fortunately, Renee never asked for a full cooked breakfast such as these when I first started cooking, at age eleven. She only expected bacon and eggs with some toast back then.

The demand for full breakfasts every weekend was introduced when over three years ago, on my thirteenth birthday, she left a small piece of paper on one of my bookshelves - knowing I go to them often - with the link to a site housing the recipe written on it and three words: 'Saturdays and Sundays'. I got the hint loud and clear.

My father was useless in the kitchen a majority of the time. But one thing he was good at, besides preparing a freshly caught fish to be cooked, was making a mean full English breakfast. It's Renee's favourite because of him.

As I transfer the cooked sausages to a hot plate for now and start cutting the fat off the edge of the slices of bacon, I worry about what kind of mood she'll be in today. With the mood she went to bed in last night after finding me asleep with the television still on, I have a feeling she won't be very happy with me today. The same thoughts and questions are running through my mind: how unhappy will she be with me?

I have no clue.

I'm just placing her plate onto the breakfast table, which is by the kitchen window, when Renee steps into the room and plops herself onto a chair. She immediately tucks in, stuffing her face with food. I try not to grimace at the sight as I place her steaming cup of coffee in front of her. She doesn't have the most pleasant eating habits for a grown woman.

I can feel her eyes on me as I turn away from her and head to the cereal cupboard. I quickly make myself a bowl and sit down opposite her, keeping my eyes locked on my breakfast. I have the first spoonful close to my open mouth when Renee speaks up for the first time. "I'd savor that if I were you," she begins around a mouthful of food, causing me to raise my gaze to hers, "'cause it's all you're getting today."

My eyes widen, my hand lowering the spoon to rest agaisnt the edge of the bowl as I stare at her, dumbfounded. "Don't look at me like that," she warns me sternly. "You need to be punished for last night. Leaving the television on when sleeping is something you know not to do. I hate wasting money, you know this. And electricity costs money, Isabella."

I feel my shoulders slump as she explains. No more food today? I look down at my small bowl of Frosted Flakes and I want to kick myself for not making a bigger bowl. Crap! I sigh as quietly as I can, and begin lifting the spoonful to my mouth again. It barely touches my lips before I'm stopped again, this time by the CLANG of metal cutlery hitting the table.

I drop my spoon out of fright. It lands with a small splash in my bowl. When I look up, Renee is glaring at me, her chest rising and falling aggressively with her suddenly heavy breathing. "Isabella, can you please tell me why I have no tomatoes with my breakfast?" She speaks in a menacingly calm voice, her teeth gritted together. It's scarier than when she shouts at me.

My eyes flash to her plate and all the colour drains from my face when I see I have forgotten the tomatoes. Shit! Renee always has two grilled tomatoes with her full English breakfast. I was so hung up on how angry she might be with me when she finally came down this morning, that I was too distracted to focus on what I was doing.

"I-I'm sorry! I'll make them now. I'm s-so sorry!" I stutter out, my whole body shaking as I go to stand. Her shriek of anger halts me just as I raise myself from my chair.

"You stupid stupid girl! Why do you always mess things up? Is it so hard to remember eight simple ingredients? You're useless!"

I wince at her insults. "I'm really sorry. I can make them for you now," I say desperately as I stand to my full height.

"SIT. DOWN!" My butt hits the chair as soon as she barks her order at me. "I don't want to hear one more apology from you. It seems all you ever do is apologise to me, and to be quite frank Isabella, it's getting on my last fucking nerve! Why can't you go one day without screwing something up?" My eyes are clenched shut while I try to hold in my tears. "I don't want you to make me some now. They should have been on my plate the first fucking time it was placed down in front of me. Now my breakfast is ruined, thanks to you!"

I can sense her eyes on me. I can sense she's not finished reprimanding me, too. I open my eyes and look across the table at her. I was right. Her eyes are narrowed into thin slits, her focus firmly on me. As soon as my eyes meet hers, she continues speaking. "So you know what?" she whispers across the table darkly. There's a pause. In the same hair-raising whisper, she says, "You ruined my breakfast, I'll ruin yours."

In a sudden flash of movement, she swipes my bowl off of the kitchen table. I watch, stunned. It's like it all happens in slow motion. I watch as my breakfast, my only source of food for the day, flies through the air and falls to the floor, the ceramic bowl smashing into tiny pieces while milk and sugar-coated corn flakes spills everywhere.

I gape, horrified. Out the corner of my eye I can see Renee. She's back to eating her breakfast like nothing has happened. I turn to look at her fully. I gulp once before speaking up, my voice quivering. "C-can I-"

"If you ask me for another bowl of cereal, you'll regret it," she interrupts me, pointing her knife at me casually without raising her eyes to mine. I shut my mouth immediately. I was going to ask for another bowl of cereal, seeing as that's all I was allowed today, but it's obvious the answer will be 'no'.

I didn't even get one mouthful of the cereal though.

I sit in silence as she finishes off her plate of food, my eyes in my lap as I pick at one of my finger nails. It needs filing. I hear a contented sigh sometime later and look up to see one of my mother's rare smiles. Nothing about it is warm and comforting. "You may leave the table and clean this all up now, Isabella." She places her hands on her full stomach and leans back in her chair, preparing to watch me while I clean.

Once everything is spotless - once the floor has been mopped, the pieces of broken bowl all picked up and binned, once the room is back to its former state - my mother stands from her chair. She speaks as she walks to the kitchen door slowly, "I'm going to watch some TV and look over an email I got from work." She stops by the door and turns to me. "I'd like a bottle of wine. Red, if we have any in." I sigh loudly as I turn to the cupboard that's behind me, where I know one bottle of red wine is stored.

In three long and loud strides, Renee is close behind me. She grasps my upper arm tightly and spins me to face her. "Did you just sigh at me?" she shouts in my face, drops of spit landing on my skin.

I try to move back a bit, but her grip on my arm doesn't let up. "Answer me!" she bellows. I shake my head back and forth with such force that my brain feels a little funny afterwards. She steps forward, urging me to step backwards. Taking slow, menacing steps, she forces me back until I'm pressed up agaisnt the wall by the kitchen table. "Do not lie to me," she whispers, her hot breath blowing across my face. "I'll ask again. Did. You. Sigh?"

"I-I..." I stutter, struggling to find my words. And then, it's like a floodgate is opened. All the words come rushing out at once. "I d-did sigh but not at you. I only sighed because the cleaning has tired me. But I promise I d-didn't sigh at you. I would n-never. That would be rude. I see why you'd think that, though, so if it appeared that way then I-I'm sorry. I really am... so... sorry." I trail off when I see the anger in her eyes ignite further at my words, though for the life of me I can't fathom why.

She's silent and still for a second before her hand releases my arm. "What did you just say?" Her voice is quiet, and I don't know how to interpret it.

"I said I did sigh but n-not at you," I repeat. She shakes her head.

"No. Not that part. At the end of your pathetic plea of innocence, what did you say?"

I gulp once more as I think back over my words. Uh-oh. "I s-said I'm s-sorry?" She inhales sharply, her eyes wideneing a fraction. I'm so focused on her face that I don't see her raise her arm until it's too late.

"I' HIT "Don't" HIT "Want" HIT To" HIT "Hear" HIT "Sorry!" HIT. With every word she pounds her fist into the top of my left arm. I cower into the table beside me as much as I can, having no place to go because she backed me into a wall. Her breathing is the heaviest it has ever been when she pulls away, opening and closing the hand she used to beat my arm.

My tears fall like a monsoon from my eyes, my sobs aching in my chest, but not as much as the ache in my left arm. It hangs at my side limply, immovable.

Ignoring my cries, which I am trying - in vain - to subdue, Renee says, "Now, I want my bottle of wine brought to me without the sighs or any other rude gestures, comments or remarks you have for me. Understood?"

I nod silently, my eyes trained on the floor. I don't look up as she turns away, walking out of the room. I squeeze my eyes shut tightly, hoping to force the last few tears out. After some moments I give to myself in attempt to calm down, I go about doing as Renee asked. I fetch her a bottle of wine and a glass, trying hard to ignore the agonising throbbing pain in the top of my left arm.

When I take the wine and empty glass to her, I hide the consuming feeling of my heart breaking in two when I am greeted with her loud laughter as she speaks to one of her friends on her phone, acting like she didn't just pound her daughter's arm in a fit of rage because I merely apologised for sighing.

With no acknowledgement from her but a lazy wave of the hand in dismissal, I leave to put a cold compress to my bright red and slightly swollen left arm for a while, taking the time do some homework - thank God I'm right handed - before braving through the pain to do my Sunday chores.

End of Flashback

My chores were almost impossible to do yesterday with my arm in such a state, but I managed. Somehow. Sunday is laundry day, so I had a lot of lifting clothes, towels, etc, into the washing machine and out of the washing machine and then into the dryer and out of the dryer. By the end of it all, my arm was so sore I could barely move it. I took something to ease the pain, strapped an ice pack to my arm and forced myself through the process of making Renee dinner and then, afterwards, cleaned the kitchen. I went to bed early and slept through the night, only waking once or twice when I'd subconsciously rolled over to my left side, onto my newly injured arm, and caused myself more pain.

I slowly sit up, rubbing at my heavy eyes with my right hand. My left lies motionless in my lap. I'm too scared to move that arm at all after feeling the pain simply turning my alarm clock off put me in... and I have to make it through a day of school. Great!

I sigh as I push the covers off of me and turn to place my feet on the cold hard floor. I take a sip of water from the glass I brought up to bed with me last night, before stretching across my body with my right arm to open the drawer of the nightstand that's to my left.

I smile involuntarily when I wrap my hands around the two items sitting at the top of the drawer on a pile of bookmarks. I pull them out, instantly feeling relaxed when the familiar feeling of cold metal touches my skin.

I'm not your average sixteen-year-old girl. I'm not into the whole face full of make-up, hair highlighted and styled this way and that. I don't care about the latest fashion and what the Kardashians are wearing this week or whatever. And I'm not bothered about wearing much jewelery either. Sure, I have my ears pierced, but I only wear anything in them every now and then. I don't wear bracelets or rings. And I sure as hell don't have my nose pierced, or my belly button.

I do, however, wear two specific necklaces. I wear the same two everyday. I don't put them on to add to an outfit, or for people to see. In fact, I keep them hidden under the clothes I wear, with only the tops of the chains showing if my clothes don't cover them completely. I almost always have them on - the only times I'm without them is when I sleep and when I bathe.

One is a heart shaped locket, holding dearly cherished photos inside. It has a chain that allows the locket to fall a few inches below my collar bone. It is never my intention to hide this necklace from the world. Some days, depending on what I wear, it is on display, and I don't mind that.

The other, however, needs to remain unseen, which is why it's chain is much longer. Hanging on the chain is a key. It sits agaisnt my sternum, meaning that it is always hidden. It has to be this way. No one can see the key. Though, the only person I'm really worried about seeing it is Renee. She would ask questions... and she'd see right through the lies that I'd have to tell.

The chain with the key is long enough that I can put it on without unclasping it. Unfortunately, the locket has to be unclasped for me to put it on. I grit my teeth and lift my arms to fasten it at the back of my neck, clenching my eyes tightly when the pain attacks my arm. I had to go through the same ordeal before bed last night, when taking the locket off for the night. As the intense pain radiates through my arm, I really wish I'd just left them on last night to sleep in.

I place both necklaces under the t-shirt I wore to bed, more out of habit than necessity, and stand. I move to my window, and sigh in relief when I see that Renee has already left. Her car has gone from the driveway. We do have a garage, but my dad's blue 1964 Chevy pick-up truck occupies that. Ever since he d... since then, my mother hasn't removed it from the garage, not that I want her to. He always promised it to me when I'm eventually able to drive. I can only hope that my mother allows him to keep his promise, and let's me have it once I get my license.

Renee doesn't expect breakfast to be made for her on weekdays - thank God! She is usually gone before I wake up, seeing as she has to drive to Port Angeles, the nearest city to Forks, where she works as a receptionist at a law firm.

Knowing that she's not here, I feel safe to do the thing I do every time I get physically hurt by her. There is no way I'd do it with her in the house. Too risky!

To the left of my window, which gives me an obstructed view of our street (thanks to a large tree planted directly outside it), are my bookshelves. Underneath them is a large dark Jacobean wooden chest, with an antique style padlock. This is what the key that hangs around my neck is for.

I drop to my knees in front of the chest, and after removing the key from around my neck, I unlock it. I struggle to lift the heavy lid with just my right arm - though this isn't the first time I've had to do so - but I manage in the end.

This chest has been in my possession for most of my life. My parents bought it for me when I was an infant, to be used as a toy chest. As I grew out of those toys, they let me keep it, telling me to use it for whatever I want. It's always had a padlock, and it's always had a key. When I started hiding certain items inside of it, I locked it up and told my mother that I'd lost the key (when really I'd hidden it in one of the boxes underneath my bed-the ones I store Nana Swan's journals in-for the time being, knowing she'd never need to go into them). I earned a bruise to the back of my thighs for that lie, but I accepted it with surprising ease, knowing that she'd believed me.

Locked safely inside, with only me knowledgeable of them, are my most treasured and important belongings.

Stacked in the left side of the chest is my completed journals, ones that I've filled over the years. Some, the ones from eight or nine years ago, show their age and abuse with their curled edges and slightly discoloured pages from times I'd devastatingly spilt some kind of liquid or food on them.

One of my dad's old jerseys, along with a pile of photographs I've been meaning to put into an official album, are close to the journals. The photos are of a happier time; when my father was still here and my mother was... well when she was my mother; the woman I try desperately to remember.

Some of the money I earn from my part-time job is also stored in this chest. I don't keep all I earn from my job in here, otherwise I'd have none that was quickly accessible. I take a small amount out of my monthly payments and stash it away, slowly accumulating a larger amount. It's in a small blue cash box.

I initially sought out my job at Forks' Bookstore when I saw an ad on YouTube one evening before bed while I was having a little rest after doing my chores. The ad caught my attention immediately. It was for a special phone accessory, one that has become rather handy over the last few years.

You see, the weeks leading up to the night I saw the ad, I had been contemplating ways to cover my back, so to speak. I'd had a bad few weeks with my mother. She'd lashed out at me for no particular reason several times, and I was sporting more bruises on my body than I ever had at one time. I was becoming fed up with doing nothing about it, so, when I saw this ad, I thought it was the perfect thing for me. Feeling fearful every second I stood in front of her, I asked Renee if I could get a job. I was thirteen then, and a few people at school in my class had gotten part-time jobs to earn some cash for themselves.

She didn't like the idea at first, but once she realised it meant she no longer had to buy me clothes as I grew out of them or books I wanted (things I hadn't considered before asking her of this), she agreed almost too eagerly. I spent the following week thinking about where in Forks I could go to, and my mind only settled on one place - Forks' Bookstore.

Main Street sits in the very center of Forks. All the small local businesses - a grocers, a post office, a candy store, a charity shop, a diner, a pub, a video store, a barbers/hair salon and a few more line Main Street on either side of the road. Forks' Bookstore is amongst these few businesses.

It's owned and run by Angela Weber, the thirty-two year old daughter of the pastor at Forks' Church, Frank Weber. Angela used the large sum of money she recieved in the will of her late grandfather, when she was twenty-four, to open up the bookstore. The store opened up when I was eight years old, and it was a place I visited as often as I was allowed. My father used to take me weekly, to browse the books and add some to my ever-expanding "to be read" list, and every two weeks (sometimes three, depending on the weight of his wallet) he bought me a book to add to my shelves - the odd time he bought me two.

After he passed, the regular visits became less regular, and once my chores were introduced the visits almost ceased to exist completely. After that, I only went to the store when I had the chance - on days it was raining and I couldn't go to my meadow, for example.

Angela had worked on her own in the store since its opening, so I was apprehensive about my asking for a job actually being accepted. But to my joyous surprise, Angela took me on immediately. My hours have always been the same - one hour after school on Mondays and Fridays, two hours after school on Tuesdays, Wednesdays and Thursdays, and a few hours the odd Sunday she needs me. These are hours I agreed on, as did my mother once I'd moved my chore schedule around a bit to fit it all in. The store gets a good stream of customers, probably because it's the only place to buy books (except for the second-hand ones at the charity shop) in our little town, so Angela doesn't pay me too bad. That, and I'm her only employee.

It took me a few weeks to save up enough money to buy the special phone accessory I'd seen on the ad, as well as the add-ons it would need. I had my purchases delivered to the house with no worries of my mother finding out about it because I was the one that had to check the mail box every day. It arrived just over a month after I got my job.

It's a polaroid phone case, made by a company called Prynt. It attaches to a smart phone like any other phone case, but it prints out photos taken with the device instantly, like a polaroid camera. Luckily for me, Renee had bought me a smart phone when my chores began and my curfew was officially introduced, so she could keep tabs on me and could easily get in touch with me whenever she needed to.

Once the phone case arrived, along with the pack of print sheet refills I'd bought for when the ones originally provided with the case ran out, I decided to stick with my job. I'd need some way to pay for more refills once I ran out of print sheets, and besides, I like my job. It involves one of my favourite things in the whole world: books!

I use the polaroid phone case to document the injuries I recieve from Renee. After gaining a bruise or a scratch or some other visible mark, I wait until it's completely safe, until she is out of the house, and then I take a picture of that injury. The phone case is brilliant because it prints the photo immediately, and I can delete the evidence from my phone's gallery so Renee never finds out. I store all of the printed photos of my injuries and punishments from over the years in shoeboxes, which sit at the back of the locked chest in my room.

I keep the phone case in the chest, too, hidden away. A standard digital camera I bought from the charity shop here in Forks also lives in this chest. I bought it after my mother confiscated my phone a few months after I bought the polaroid case. Without my cell phone, that case was useless. I had no way during the two days I went without my phone to take photographic evidence of the black and blue ribs I recieved. I took photos of them once my phone was returned to me, but by then the initial painful looking bruising had died down some. The digital camera is merely there as a back up, just in case my phone is confiscated again and I can't use the polaroid phone case.

Logging my injuries and punishments has become part of my routine. As soon as the coast is clear - which is usually when Renee is out of the house, or I am absolutely certain she won't be entering my room - I come to this chest under my bookshelves, unlock it, and do the following:

1. I take a photo using my phone and the polaroid phone case of my newly acquired injury.

2. Once the photo has printed, I turn it over and on the back, using one of the many ballpoint pens I keep a stock of in the chest, I write the date the photo was taken, the date the punishment happened, and the location of that injury on my body.

3. In one of my log books, which I also keep in the chest, I document what happened for me to recieve the injury pictured in more detail. For each entry in the log books, I start by writing the date the entry is being written. Underneath that, I write the date I recieved the injury, as well as where and what it is exactly. I then write a summary of how I came to get that injury.

The log books are simple notepads I buy for cheap from the local post office on Main Street. They aren't the fancy, more expensive, notebooks I use for my journalling. The log books are kept on the far right side of the chest, as far from my journals as possible. My journals represent something that I love to do, while the log books represent something I hate doing. They have to be kept as far apart as the storage chest allows, for my peace of mind if nothing else.

I don't want to be doing this: the logging. I hate it. To be honest, I'm not entirely sure why I follow these steps, why I go through the torture and misery of reliving the abuse from my mother. It's not like I plan to tell anyone about what I endure at home. It's not as if I'm going to show anyone the evidence I keep locked away in the Jacobean wooden chest in the corner of my bedroom.

I'm a Sophomore in High School. I only have two and a bit more years of this left. I only have to endure it all for that much longer. I've managed the past five and half years, so what's a little over two more going to matter?

That's it. Just two and a bit years to go and then I can leave for college. I can get away from this town, from this house... and from my mother.

That is my ultimate goal - to leave!

Though I'm sure I'll return sometime... maybe. My meadow would be the only thing to entice me back here. That and the connection to my father and grandparents that this town holds.

Sometimes I think that doing all of this - the taking pictures, the logging - is a waste of time. Who else will ever know about it?

But then I think about the possibility of Renee taking her punishments too far one day. One day, her anger may pique beyond redemption, and she may seriously harm me - more so than she does already. One day she may take things to another level, and I may have no choice but to confide in someone.

But for now, and hopefully forever, the evidence is just a back up. I'll never use it. I don't think Renee will take things that far. She's already harsh enough with me... and she has her reasons.

No one else will know about what goes on within the walls of this house unless it is absolutely necessary. No one else can know, unless it's the last possible route for me to go down. No one can ever find out, because then they would find out why I endure what I do. They'd find out Renee's reasons, and I can't let that happen. I can't deal with people knowing that I am the reason... that it was me who caused all of this mess.

That it was me... I caused the death of one of Forks' beloved police officers, Charlie Swan.

The man my mother loved more than anything and anyone.

My father.

~I*A*F*P*I*T*M~

I step out of the bath tub after my shower, grabbing a towel from the rack beside it. I wrap it around myself, using slow movements so I don't cause myself any unnecessary pain. I walk over to the sink, and stand in front of the mirror that's on the cabinet door above it for a second, just looking at my reflection.

I look horrible. My skin is paler than usual. Pale and colourless. My boring brown eyes have dark rings under them, revealing my exhaustion. I don't just look horrible; I look ill. My limp brown hair, which is closer to black right now due to the water, is plastered to my damp skin. I sigh, before beginning my morning ritual of getting ready for school.

My attempt to dry my hair is half-hearted. It takes me much longer than usual, with my arm being this way, but I get it dry enough to be acceptable. It's only slightly damp now. After finishing everything I need to do in the bathroom, I walk past the staircase and to my bedroom, which is at the front of the house.

I go to my closet, which is behind my bedroom door, and pick out my clothes for the day. It doesn't take me long. I'm not one to care about the latest fashion trends. I simply choose the first things I see that are acceptable. It's starting to get warmer now that we're in spring, but I can't wear anything short sleeved without revealing the ugly bruise on my left arm.

I looked at it in the bathroom mirror before I got in the shower. It's a mess. There's a large dark purple blotch on the top of my arm. It covers a majority of the outer side of my arm, due to the repetitive blows Renee gave it. It's tender to touch and aches with every attempt I make to lift my arm. There's no way I can leave it uncovered.

I pull out a long sleeved, blue and green plaid button-down shirt and a pair of black zip pocket leggings. After putting them on, I grab my green Converse high tops and quickly slip them onto my feet, doing a half-ass job of the laces in a rush.

Most of the shoes in my closet are Converse. I have them in many colours, so I'm never without a pair to wear. There are some I rarely wear, the ones that don't go with most clothing that I own. There is one pair that's never even been out of the box. I bought them to simply say, "Yep, I own that colour". On the other hand, the ones I wear the most are starting to show their use. Especially my black pair. The white soles and toe caps aren't exactly white anymore, and they are so scuffed that the marks almost appear to be part of an intended pattern on the shoes.

I don't want to part with any of them, however. I've been collecting Converse shoes since my feet stopped growing almost two years ago. I've acquired a fair amount of pairs and just thinking about throwing any of them away is heartbreaking for me. And besides, seeing the designer-clothed rich kids at school turn their noses up whenever I wear the worn out pairs is priceless. I love their disapproval. Knowing that I get under their skin so much has become the norm for me, and it provides me with a bit of weekly entertainment.

I check the time, cursing when I see I should be leaving any minute now. I rush to the wooden chest of drawers that stand beside my desk, close to my window, and snatch my sorry excuse for a makeup bag off the top. I'd bet most of the girls at school spend at least half an hour on their faces each morning, making sure every blemish is covered with concealer and their eyebrows are perfectly shaped. I, on the other hand, spend a couple of minutes hiding the darkness that shadows my eyes, enough to hide the exhaustion from my appearance. No one asks questions if there are no signs. I also use makeup to hide the dusting of freckles on my nose, which I get from my dad. They used to be considered cute, but I've grown to hate them... and I'm not the only one.

I dig around in the bag, which is more of a pencil case than a makeup bag to be honest, and use the small mirror that stands on top of my drawers to apply the makeup. I shove it all into the bag once I'm done, knocking the small mirror over in the process. I'm rushing around like a mad woman, checking I have everything I need in my school bag, before I race down the stairs. My hand is on the handle of the front door when my stomach growls and I freeze. Shit. Breakfast.

I haven't eaten anything since my one slice of burnt, cold pizza on Saturday night. "Shit," I whisper aloud, dropping my bag from my right shoulder before speed walking into the kitchen. I slam cupboard door after cupboard door, knowing I don't have time to make myself anything. Not even a bowl of cereal. I freeze when I find my mother's breakfast bars in one of the top cupboards. They're hers. I'm not allowed them, she says.

I start tapping my foot impatiently as I try to come to a decision. There are three left. Maybe she won't notice?

Oh, who am I kidding. It's Renee. She'll definitely notice.

But I have no other options.

With a sigh, I make the decision. One I'll probably regret later. I grab a breakfast bar and briskly walk to the door, pick up my bag and exit the house.

I rush to finish the breakfast bar, wishing I could savour the taste of food for the first time in over twenty-four hours, as I lock up and run down to my bike.

A couple of minutes later, I am leaving my street and on my way to school. The pull and ache in my arm as I hold on to the handlebars is excruciating.

I can't wait until I can drive.

A/N: Please please leave a review! Tell me what you think of this so far.

Next chapter will be up in a week. It will be a long one and Edward makes his debut! I'm excited for next Monday so I can upload it! This waiting a week thing is going to be torture.

Thanks for reading. See in a week!