(A/N- Second chapter up. Review :P)

I woke up to a fuzzy, but familiar room and a killer headache. My skull burned and felt bruised at the same time. I blinked and attempted to sit up, blinking several more times before a focused image came into my view.

I was in my bedroom, in my house, in Phoenix.

Shiiit. MotherFucker. Dammit.

No one was in the room, but I could hear conversation going on downstairs. I sat up straight and tried to remember what happened after I performed one of the worst drift stops in history. Ugh. I couldn't remember a thing.

There was an Advil and a glass of water on the bedside table and I winced in pain, as my head and neck protested as I moved to the side to get it. I swallowed it and put the glass back on the table, feeling exhausted by just that, but I sat up further and swung my legs out of the bed and stood up slowly.

Thankfully, my legs didn't give out under me, and I shuffled to the door, holding onto things to stop myself falling from the nausea and tiredness.

I got to the bathroom without an interrogation from Renee' or Phil, not that I expected much of one from them, because they were hardly educated enough in parenting to know what the hell to do with me. This was not the first time I had been brought home early in the morning by police, unconscious or conscious, and of all the times, my mother only bothered to ground me the first time. Even then, she hadn't enforced it when I went out and didn't obey her.

And Phil was more like a big brother, and he wasn't even my real dad. He was my stepdad, married to my mom a couple of years ago, was a minor league baseball player and had to travel a lot. My mom always went with him, leaving me and the house a couple hundred dollars. Phil was there when I got busted with a gun in my belt in school. He even showed me how to roll joints. Phil was pretty much awesome, except he didn't know how to treat me as a daughter, so he just didn't.

My father, my real father, was nonexistent. My mom apparently ran from him with me from a shitty little town called Forks when I about a year old. He clearly didn't care enough to attempt to get me back, or call or even goddamn send a card on my fucking birthday!

I turned on the bath tap and turned to look in the mirror, angry with myself for thinking about my stupid dad. There was a bruise above my left eye, which could be covered by my choppy bangs and a cut over my right eyebrow, probably caused by smashing my head into the windscreen.

"Shit" I groaned. The cut wasn't much, but it was definitely noticeable on my pale ivory skin.

Other than that, I looked pretty much like normal. My lip and eyebrow piercing were both still in place, and hadn't been ripped out by the crash. My black dyed hair was puffed in every direction, the blue and pink highlights a huge contrast to the darkness of my hair. I even checked for my tongue ring, making sure it was in place, although I'm sure I would know if it had been ripped out, it would hurt like a bitch.

I turned the tap off once the bath was full and eased myself into the hot water, feeling slightly better already. I rested my head on the edge of the bath and slowly, gently rinsed myself off, checking for any other bruises. I found nothing, I was mostly just sore.

After lying in the same position for about 25 minutes, I was starting to feel a little bit prune-ish, so I got out and wrapped myself in a towel, avoiding the mirror this time. I opened the door and peeked out, seeing no one, I did the risky run from the bathroom to the bedroom and sighed in relief once the door was closed, only to turn around and stare into the disappointed eyes of my mom.

I sighed, wishing this could be over and done with. Although she never punished me, I did always feel guilty when I looked at her afterwards because of the disappointed looks she gave me. She was stood looking at all the pictures on the walls. My bedroom walls were almost overflowing with pictures of me, my friends and my cars or posters of my favourite bands and concert tickets. She took time to study individual photos; ones she thought were worth her looking at. There was one of her and Phil and myself, at the local beach in Phoenix, the sun setting behind us, one of me and my father, the only one of the two of us. There was one of me and two of my friends Rachel and Rebecca, who originally lived in Forks, but had moved on with their lives.

She was silent while she looked at them, touching a photo once in a while, and I stood awkwardly behind her, trying to understand her gestures. Finally she spoke, but stayed looking at the pictures in front of her.

"Bella, Phil and I have been talking," She started out, seeming unsure of what she was about to say, and paused to collect her words before carrying on, "We've both decided you are going to go and live in Forks with your Dad."