I chose a deserted part of the locker room to change into my tracksuit. The last thing I needed was people staring at the scars and bruises that covered my stomach. To people around me, I may have seemed like a healthy teenager, but underneath my clothes was a body riddled with scars. I remembered reading how warriors in the past were proud of their battle scars because it showed what a great fighter they were. Their bravery was marked by permanent blemishes that flawed their skin, worn like medals of honour. I failed to see mine as anything other than an unwanted reminder of the past. Instead of feeling proud, I was disgusted by my ugly scars.

The most prominent was a deep wound that ran at an angle from my right hip to the centre of my stomach, stopping just under my ribs. I had stitched the wound myself, using nothing but a sewing needle and black thread. It had been a butch job, but even if it had been safe to go to a hospital, how would I have explained the damage? Ireland had no dangerous wildlife. And what about the absence of a guardian?

I had been happy that it was healing well; the pain had dulled considerably over the short time since I obtained it, and these days I was finding it easier to move without pain, although the area was still very tender. However, my good progress was stalled the minute Edward knocked me out of my chair in English. It was becoming increasingly difficult to walk without wincing in pain, thus you could imagine the hurdle gym presented.

I was placed on a team with Mike Newton and soon found I had another admirer in a guy called Eric. Basketball was the worst sport to play because it really pulled at my stitches. Mike and Eric seemed to be in competition to see who could show off the most for my sake, and soon it became a war as to who could keep possession of the ball.

Jessica, the girl that had bombarded me with questions at the end of English, decided to pass me the ball. She had insisted on showing me to gym. Of course, I knew why she talked to me. I was the new shiny toy that everyone wanted, and by associating with me she got attention. As the ball flew through the air Eric stood in front of me to catch it. Unfortunately, Mike did, too. I watched in shock as they collided and lost balance.

As they fell, they took me down with them. Mike went crashing down into my wound. Pain instantly shot up through my side. It felt like I was being scorched with a poker. My breath hitched in my throat and my eyes went fuzzy. I could feel hot liquid flowing smoothly across my abdomen. Thankful for my black hoodie to disguise the blood, I got up slowly.

"Are you ok, Isolde? I'm so sorry," Mike said, rubbing his shoulder.

"Yeah, I'm fine," I replied, biting my lip to stop myself from screaming in agony.

"Sir, do you mind if I get a bit of air? I feel dizzy," I questioned Mr. Williams as he examined Mike's shoulder. I knew Mike was probably just looking for attention.

"Yes, sure, go ahead," Mr. Williams answered quickly, not even glancing up at me.

I made my way to the locker room and leaned against a locker as I looked down at my hoodie. A stain was starting to spread across the dark fabric. I lifted it slowly to inspect the damage. Blood was pouring out of the gash and all the stitches had been ripped open. The pain was getting worse. I needed a hospital; I would not be able to fix this myself. Grabbing the remainder of my clothes, I hobbled out of the changing rooms and out the door. The more I walked, the dizzier I felt as I was losing so much blood.

When I got to my car I collapsed into the driver's seat. Quickly starting the car, I made my way out onto the road. Black spots were beginning to blur my vision and the blood was now flowing down my legs. It was at least a twenty minute drive to the hospital and after only five, I knew I would not make it. I spotted a track leading into the forest to my right and pulled into it, driving far enough that the car wouldn't be visible from the road.

As pain engulfed me and weakness took over, I replayed happy moments of my life, things that should have been. As I finally let the darkness take over, my memories were of a crisp, snowy Christmas morning ten years previous as my brother and I opened presents, smiling and laughing with our proud parents.

Edwards P.O.V:

My last class of the day was agonisingly slow. I listened to my siblings' thoughts as they mulled over the mysterious Isolde Smith. We were all anxious to get her home and find out the depth of her knowledge about us.

When the bell rang, we rushed out of our classes and met at the front door. We hadn't bothered with a plan. If she knew anything about vampires, she would not even try and cause a scene.

I examined the crowd, looking for the dark curls that had been imprinted in the mind of every boy in our English class. It was not hard to examine the crowd leaving the school as they moved at their slow monotonous human rate. We all became more frustrated as the crowd thinned and still there was no sign of Isolde. When the last of the cars and trucks left the parking lot, we realised she had gotten away.

"I don't understand. She couldn't have gotten by us," Alice insisted, not amused.

"She must have left earlier, before school ended," Jasper muttered, angered by her escape.

"We're just going to have to track her," I said, already walking around trying to catch her scent. I started walking through the parking lot until I found it. Every scent was unique. Hers smelled like wild flowers and grass; it was soft and floral, yet untamed. Suddenly, it got stronger the closer I got to one of the empty parking spaces. When I looked at the ground, I could see small dull specks of blood on the ground.

"Her blood," I stated, surprised and instantly my siblings were at my side. The closer I got to the space the heavier the droplets became.

"She was bleeding," Alice mumbled, her face confused, like the rest of us.

"She obviously left in a car. We may just follow the scent," Rosalie spoke, angry at being evaded by a human.

We left the car behind and, checking there was no one watching, took off into the forest along the road following Isolde's scent. The scent grew stronger and stronger until we knew she was nearby. We crept towards a navy car parked along a hunting trail. The smell of blood was strong, but the funny thing was that it didn't smell like food. It wasn't even the slightest bit tempting. I scanned the others' heads and found that none of them were struggling with bloodlust.

I made my way to the door of the car where I could see Isolde unconscious sitting in the driver's seat. I cautiously opened the door and I could see the blood gushing down her clothes. I gently lifted her out of the seat and laid her on the ground.

"Leave her. Let her die. This way, we won't have to kill her ourselves," Rosalie hissed coldheartedly.

"Could you be any more heartless?" I shouted, anger engulfing my mind.

"We should bring her to Carlisle as planned," Alice suggested, unimpressed by Rosalie's idea.

As Alice called Carlisle to tell him about Isolde, I lifted her delicate, warm body into my arms, her blood soaking my sweater. No longer was she the tough hard girl from earlier. Now she was weak, fragile and helpless.

I ran at full speed through the forest, and relief ran through me as I reached the white mansion where Carlisle was waiting at the door. I laid Isolde down on the dining room table and thought how, in other circumstances, I would have found it almost humorous that it contained food for once.

Carlisle ripped Isolde's blood-stained black hoodie up the middle, revealing a thin, blood-saturated white top. Gingerly lifting the hem, he slowly revealed a deep long gash running from her hip to her ribs. Her flat stomach looked as if it was painted red, it was covered in so much blood. The wound was pumping crimson wine. We all stood around as Carlisle got the necessary tools. I couldn't understand how even Jasper, the one who suffered the most with his control, could watch the defenseless girl bleeding and did not feel the need to drain her.

Her blood smelled rich, pure, almost as if it was more concentrated than normal blood. It baffled us all, and yet when Carlisle tested it to see what blood he would require to replace what was lost, he found it to be O-negative.

The remains of black thread could be seen in the wound, proving that this was not a fresh laceration. It also was strange, because doctors had special thread for stitching. This, however, was clearly not a professional job. Why didn't she visit the doctor, or a hospital? What this girl's problem was, was that she was stubborn, but the main question in my mind was how it had happened. Carlisle removed the black thread, a frown creasing his forehead.

"This was not done by a doctor. She's lucky she didn't get an infection! There is something very peculiar about this child, how exactly do you get an injury as serious as this and not seek medical help?"

Carlisle proceeded to stitch the wound himself at vampire speed. His hand wove the skin back together until a criss-cross effect could be seen across her abdomen. It was fascinating to see him at work and, in less than two minutes, he was finished.

Esme then began to wash the blood off Isolde's stomach. She gasped at what the first few strokes of the warm sponge revealed. My family and I looked in horror at the young girl's midriff. It was not the milky white the rest of her skin was. Instead it was a mixture of purple and mustard yellow bruises. If that was not enough, scars also littered her belly. It looked as though someone had hacked at her with a knife. It was obvious that there was a lot more to the new girl than we first thought.

Past Memory:

The wind howled and the leaves swirled through the forest, a symphony of branches swinging in the harsh wind emulsified with distant screams. My heart offered the tempo for this sick concerto as its beating grew into a crescendo. I ran, stumbling through the thick undergrowth as it clawed at my ankles and calves, trying to prolong my search, trying to protect me from what was waiting. With what little hope this cruel life left me, I prayed that I wasn't too late. Adrenaline rushed through me, giving me the strength to keep running.

Breaking into a small opening in the deep vast forest, I reached the object of the weak gasps and whimpers. The mangled woman that met my eyes broke my heart and I dropped to my knees beside the quaking body. Lying on her back facing the starry sky, the faint moonlight illuminated where flesh had been ripped up, her arms like fault lines that had cracked apart. As my eyes swept her body, my stomach convulsed at the horror before me. All her long strong nails had been torn out, leaving bleeding flesh in its place, red and raw. She was missing the finger where her wedding band and engagement ring had once been. Her left leg was positioned at an unnatural angle, and her right leg at unusual angle too, except the bone had broken through her skin and was jutting out. The letters R.I.P had been carved into her left forearm. The elixir of life seemed to have seeped out from the numerous wounds that had been sliced into her milk white skin, forming a thin blanket over her, as if to tuck her into bed, preparing her for an eternal slumber.

Her chin length, brown hair was matted with blood and dirt. Puffy, blood-shot brown eyes were focused on my face as she puffed shallow breaths. The soft wrinkles that had started to become more prominent on her forehead as she aged were creased in pain. How I wished they were crinkled with laughter. Crawling out of her mouth was a thread of blood.

"Mum," I breathed.

"Isolde," her weak voice whispered. We stared into each other's eyes, tears leaking from our identical pools.

"I love you, Isolde, with all my heart. This is not your fault. I will always be with you, I have faith in you... he thinks you're in Donegal. Save yourself... I'm dying... please end... the pain."

I gripped her cold hand.

"I'm frightened. I can't live without you. I'm tired of running. I can't do it."

"Do it for me," she coughed as the blood in her throat gurgled.

He had tortured her to find me. My brave mother had protected me until the end as he sadistically killed her slowly. He had ensured she would die a slow death from her wounds. This was her dying wish, and if this was the only thing I could do for her, I would do it. I rummaged through my bag until I found a knife. I knew it wouldn't protect me from him, but I carried it because it made me feel safe regardless.

I clasped my shaking hand tighter around hers as tears fell heavily down my face. She smiled weakly up at me, and I bent over to kiss her soft cheek gently.

"I love you Isolde, I'll always be with you," she said.

"I'm sorry...please forgive me...I...I...I love you."

With that, she nodded her head and closed her eyes. My trembling hands lifted the knife, the sharp blade glittered and reflected the bright stars. Positioning it above her chest, I took a deep breath and closed my eyes. With a swift descent of my hand, I stabbed her through the heart. I howled in pain as I cradled her limp body in my arms. That night my mother, Caoimhe Smith, died, and she took my will to live with her. In the end, it was by my hands that my mother had died, and that is what made me, Isolde Smith the worst kind of killer.

"Cause I'm broken when I'm lonesome,
And I don't feel right,

when you're gone,

You've gone away,
You don't feel me here anymore."