Hi (: Okay, I'll just wish you all Merry Christmas (I know it's waaay too late for that, but still) and HAPPY NEW YEAR! :D

Warnings: Mentions of violence, sex - though nothing lemony - and then this chapter is really sad :'(
Rating: It's still rated M, for violence and abuse

DISCLAIMER: S Meyer owns everything Twilight. Damn it all to hell... -.- ;)

Chapter 3

Song: Celine Dion - All By Myself

Bella POV

My dad went missing when I was only about 2 weeks old. My grandmother died when I was about 2 weeks old. Meaning my Father went missing the day after my grandmother died.

I only had one clear memory of my Father. I had seen paintings of him and my Mother together, but I had only one clear memory of him. My Mother told me it was the first sight I ever had, the sight of my Father smiling down at me. The first time I opened my eyes, he was there. It was surprising how I could remember it, but it was so clear in my head, that it was like it was burned into my mind.

I had opened my eyes and seen the warm, smiling, happy face in front of me. He had warm hazel eyes high cheekbones, soft, full red lips and a straight nose. He had very blond hair that surrounded the top of his head in soft curls.

He was very handsome, my Father. He radiated brightness, happiness and safety. His face was open and warm, not one trace of hostility or anger. His hazel eyes shone with love, and as a big smile spread on his face, I immediately smiled myself. That's where I can't remember anymore. Just that picture of my Father. I had dim memories of him too, but that one stuck with me.

When I was 2 weeks old my Grandmother died, of some kind of disease. She must have hid it, because when my Mother would speak of it, she never mentioned they knew anything about her illness. I only had one memory of my Grandmother as well. Her facial expression was surprised but filled with happiness and joy. That was the first time she saw me. She had dark brown hair that waved just past her shoulders in big, soft curls. I guess I know where I had my curls from.

She had hazel eyes, just a shade darker than my Fathers. Her eyes were big and soft, but they had hardness to them, an edge of something. Her cheekbones were placed a little higher than normal, and her red lips were full and smiling. She was very beautiful to say the least. Her eyebrows were perfected, and even though it wasn't normal to be plucking your eyebrows in the 1600's, she did. And she was a lovely person, according to my Mother. I had always been raised to look carefully at every person I met, to memorize them, so I wouldn't have to be impolite if I ever met them again. Impolite as in: "Have I seen you before? Sorry what was your name again?"

It came in handy. I was also raised to be polite and caring. I never got everything I asked for, I wasn't spoiled.

When I would ask my Mother what my Father had been like she would always say: "Oh darling. He would have treated you like a princess, spoiled you rotten and given you everything you ever asked for, without thinking twice about it. He would go to the end of the world for you, and through fire and ice to help you. He was loving, caring, sweet and a perfect gentleman. He was perfect." The first couple of times she would cry softly when I asked her. But when I apologized to her, she said I needed to know, because only through her, could I know my Father, the half of me. My Mother was a strict person, but I loved her all the same.

She never married another man after my Father had gone missing, and she always put my needs before hers.

When I was 2 weeks and 1 day old, my Father went missing.

My Mother cried for weeks. He never came back.

When I was 2 years old, my Mother's parents died of the same lung disease.

The clearest memory, I have of them were the first time I met them. My Grandmother had light blond hair with natural honey highlights in. She had big, bright blue eyes and a strict yet sweet face. The edge there was to her facial expression seemed to melt the first time she saw me. When I would visit them, they would always correct me if I ever did anything wrong, and then treat me just the way my Mother did it. I never got too much, but I was spoiled more by them than by my Mother. Not that I minded not getting too much. Surprises weren't my thing, and I didn't like unnecessary gifts. That meant they spent money on me, when they should be spending them on themselves. But I was raised to be polite, and I always accepted my presents- even if it took them a few tries to get me to agree first.

My Grandfather had tougher looks, and his eyes were small and wary. He had been in the army for many years, and suspected many things. He was also a fun character once you got under the tough skin of his. He had black hair with a black mustache, and his green eyes sparkled in the first memory I had of him. But then they died and I never got to see them again. My Mother cried a long time again.

I learned how to walk when I was about 9 months old. Early age I know, but my Mother became too weak to carry me around all the time. So I learned how to walk. I learned how to speak somewhat properly when I was about 1½ years old. I spoke my first word on my 1st birthday. Ironic isn't it? It went really fast; I spoke my first word, and 6 months later I was somewhat intelligent to listen to. Somewhat.

When I was 5 years old, my Grandfather died.

I have more clear memories of my Grandfather. The first one was always the clearest; all the first impressions of people I met were. That helped me to recognize them later on.

My Grandfather was a tall and lean man; he had blond hair and strict features. His blonde hair was more like a dirty-blond than my Fathers almost silver hair. My Father looked somewhat like his Father. He had the same hairline, lips, and the same straight nose. But my Father's features were softer and warmer. My Grandfather was a very strict man; he was a priest and his religion was as important as his family.

His eyes sparkled, but there was a kind of hard edge to it. Like he had seen too much in this life but still managed to stay happy.

He was very angry when my Father went missing. Not with my Father, but with the Vampires he was sure had taken him and eaten him. I rolled my eyes at it then.

My Grandfather had not much information of history other than what his religion told him. If he knew more about history, he would have known my Father would have been drank.

My Grandfather had dark blue eyes, and they were very pretty. When he was happy that is. When he was mad it was like watching an ocean going wild in a storm. brought me up in his own manner. But he never slapped me. Not once. He believed it was wrong to hit children. And even more wrong to hit women. And I was a small woman, which only strengthened his belief. I loved him dearly, but when he was mad, he was a little frightening. But he couldn't stay mad at me for long, and he was rarely mad at me because of the way I was raised. To be polite and never do anything wrong. Papa wouldn't approve. When my Mother would speak of my Father to me, she referred to him as 'Papa'. That was what she had always wanted me to call him. So I did.

My Grandfather died in a terrible fire. The fire caught outside the office in the church. I believe someone started it. He was locked inside and we were never able to bury him. My Mother and I cried a long time. I was old and developed enough to understand what was going on.

When I was 13 years old my Mother died.

I had never experienced pain as cruciate as that. I was devastated for weeks. I cried a few days, constantly, but after my tears, I only wandered around inside the house. I could cook and take care of myself, so I didn't starve or caught a disease. I have never actually caught anything. Only minor colds. And once a flu. Nothing serious. Though, you could die of Flu in the 1600's. But I was taken great care of by my Mother and Grandfather.

My first memory of my Mother was a little while after the birth. Or so she told me.

After my Father had washed me off, he carried me to her, where she lay on the bed panting and mending from the hard birth. It was a miracle she was able to go outside the same day. Not many could pull that off. But my Mother was one of the strongest persons I have ever met. She had long mahogany hair and deep chocolate brown eyes. Her face was stunning; it was heartshaped, she had high cheekbones, her lips were slightly uneven- the upper lip a bit fuller than the lower. Her nose was straight and perfectly proportioned. She smiled brightly down at me in the first memory. No, beamed is more like it. I looked a lot like her. I had long brown hair that waved down my back in soft curls. Just like her and my Grandmother. I had her eyes, though mine were duller than hers. My eyes were bigger than normal standard and they were framed with lashes that were darker than my hair. I had her lips too, but my nose, cheekbones, hairline and eyeshape was from my Father.

She died of a heart-attack. As the time went by, and she got older she became weaker. Not from starvation or dirtiness in the house. No she became weaker when my Father wasn't there to help her. She became depressed. I watched my Mother die, at the age of 13. I wasn't mad at my Father; I could never dream of it. I was sad that I had lost him and wouldn't ever see him again. And then when I was 13, my Mother died and I was all alone in the world. But I didn't feel sorry for me, more for my Mother. She was 34 years old when she died.

When I was 13 years old, I was adopted by my Mother's brother. My uncle.

It had only been a few months after my Mother died that my uncle, James, and his wife Amalia, adopted me. My first impression of them were falseness.

They fakedbeing broken when my Mother died. My uncle had dull brown hair that was slightly dirty. It hung to his shoulders and gave him a slightly frightening look. His eyes were near black, and held no warmth in them. They glinted dangerously. He had sharp features and observing eyes. He definitely wasn't pretty. Average would be a good word to describe him. Average with a hint of danger. His nose was slightly twisted; it looked like it had broken and was healed without being put in place.

His smile was a tight line on his face that looked more like a smirk. I was instantly afraid of him, but I never showed it. My Mother always told me: "Do never show any sign of discomfort or fear, Isabella. That will only bring trouble to your life. It will convince people that you are an easy victim and you are not." My Mother was a very clever woman. How she could possibly be related to my uncle was beyond my understanding. Where she was beautiful and radiated warmth and happiness, my uncle was average and radiated jealousy and danger. No happiness, no warmth. Coldness and danger.

Amalia was almost the opposite of James in looks. Her hair was dirty blond and her eyes piercing blue. But the piercing-ness wasn't a good thing. She was cunning. I didn't like her. She was more like an ice-queen. No motherly bone in her body. Her face was tight and wrinkled up everytime she saw me. They only adopted me for their reputation. They lived more north than we did, but they still had a reputation there. They were the "good people" in their area. Not likely. Amalia was dangerous as well, fast as a snake. Her hands were like snakes themselves; they could be at her sides one moment, and before you knew it, they could have slapped your cheek the next.

When I got to their house I saw how dirty and messy it was. It was disgusting. I had not been there an hour before I was slapped across the cheek and yelled at for not starting cleaning immediately. I was their personal slave after that. I hated it. I was dirty, nearly didn't get any food at all, I had to listen to their disgusting conversations. And at night I had to listen to their surprisingly active sex-life. It was disgusting, I was 13 and I had to listen to their moaning and screams.

Even when they fought they would have sex at night. If they were still mad or not. Amalia was as craving as James was. They were disgusting to listen to. I tried tuning them out, but it was difficult when they screamed like that. Well when Amalia screamed and James yelled. The memories of the time there were only bad. I only smiled forced smiles while staying there. I cried every night, hoping my sobs would tune out the screaming and yelling. Not likely.

Sorry it's a little short :S But I hope you liked it anyway, because this story means a lot to me. It took me ages to write it, because everything had to be perfect you know? If you don't like it, that's fine, I'll never force you to read it... Like I actually could *rolls eyes* But I'd appreciate it if you would take the time to review, but oh well ;)

- Lu