A/N:

Chapter: Welcome to my Own Personal Hell or Welcome to the part where I make small talk With Charlie Swan

Dedicated to: booklover51089. Thanks for caring even though I don't deserve it.

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Society often forgives the criminal; it never forgives the dreamer. ~Oscar Wilde

Esme had assembled an extremely severe training program for anyone wishing to join, or being forced into, her organization. First, she whispers of fine musings and great power into the next victim to her conformity. When he's reeled in, Esme makes promises she in truth couldn't be bothered to keep. These marvels buzz around the victim's head, tempting him into submissive. He agrees to Esme's demands and she in return makes the victim feel special, wanted. Then she throws him into a relegation that he's unlikely to survive.

I was residing with Esme somewhere in the Midwest United States barely three months after my parents' deaths. I was changed after the trauma, no longer myself. I lost all significance of what was once "Bella", even the promise of who I might have been. My thoughts were constantly filled with violence, anger, vengeance; all things too inappropriate to surge through a five year old mind. I wanted to kill, to destroy, for I have seen what that entailed.

Mommy once told me to treat others as I would like to be treated. I applied that saying to the killers. Who but me had the authority to treat them to their rightful fates? No one else survived that horrible night to see exactly what they had done, but me. When I found them I would be the one cutting out the entrails and stuffing them back down the owner's throats. I would show the killers what it feels like to be on the receiving end of lethal anguish.

These thoughts were at the forefront of my mind as, smiling, I ripped the limbs from a doll I found in Esme's house. I snapped a plastic arm in half and bent the neck to unnatural angles until it popped off. I scratched at the material with stubby, bitten nails until gashes formed. This was how Esme found me that day. I didn't even look up as she approached; I had grown used to the sound of clinking heels announcing her attendance.

Esme had recently made a habit of walking into whichever room I was in, staring at me for a while, and then leaving. That day was different. She stayed longer and just before she turned to leave, displayed my forbidden fruit, my desire. I dropped the distorted doll and stared up in hunger.

So I said, "How?" Esme smiled her creepy smile. It should have scared me, made me turn and run the other way and never look back, but my sight was obscured by the prospects of the suggestion. The witch crouched down in front of me and stared with her golden eyes.

"It's very simple Bella, I'll give you what you want, no problem. All you have to do," she poked the tip of my nose with a gloved finger. I batted it away angrily. Her smile faltered and she flexed her hand before placing it on her lap and continuing.

"All you have to do is be my daughter," her lips turned upward once more, displaying her perfect white, flossed teeth. My brow furrowed in confusion.

"But, I can't," I proclaimed with a small child's one track mind, "that would make you my mommy but I already had a mommy and can't have another one." Esme's eyes widened briefly showing less than a second of doubt before they returned to their normal, soulless, yellow selves.

"But you can, I'll be your new mommy," she cooed in a baby voice that I felt insulted my intelligence, but I kept calm anyway; as calm as I could manage.

I let out a frustrated sigh before I commenced to explain, "You can't be mommy. A baby comes out of her mommy's tummy. I came out of my mommy's tummy not yours." I felt proud as I displayed the information daddy presented to me when I asked him where babies came from. I assumed Esme's disability to discern my point was derived from a lack of knowledge on the subject. I didn't expect her reaction.

Esme's teeth clenched, her lower lip trembled slightly and her eyes burned with anger. She stood up, towering over me, glaring down with hatred. I was truly scared for my life. I suddenly remembered something mommy said once; I wished she were here so I could tell her I understood. If looks could kill…well, I thought, I would be seeing mommy soon anyway.

Esme turned her back to me. I hoped she would leave. Instead, she addressed me in an ice cold voice, "Bella, if you won't be my daughter I won't help you kill your parent's murderers."

Her words echoed through the brightly lit, white room. I remained quiet, torn. I didn't know what I should do. My entire being was against my decision and I couldn't bring myself to say it. I could hear Esme's agitated breathing.

"Alright then, good bye Bella," she said with a formality. Her heeled boots clanked away and I realized what she meant, that her words held a double meaning. Once you're in this world, there is no way out. If you try to run, it will find you. There was no escape but one. It was to do or die. I certainly couldn't avenge my mommy if I were dead.

"Wait," I whispered, "Wait!" I scampered up and Esme stopped. Even though I couldn't see her face, I could see the agitation melt away, replaced by something much, much darker.

"Fine, okay, I'll do it," I told her, defeated. I felt tears well up but wouldn't let them fall. Esme turned her head and raised one eyebrow. The smile was back. With that, she walked off.

"But I'll always know who my real mommy is, Esme!" I yelled after her. I scurried away and huddled in a corner. That was the first time I've ever stood up to any adult, let along a wholly dangerous one. That was also the first time I've called my witch captor "Esme". It was also the first time I began to think of mommy as Renee.

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In Charlie's cruiser, I didn't need to pee anymore. He kept shooting suspicious glances in my direction.

"Got something to say?" I dared. He turned back to the road sheepishly. I shifted a bit in my seat to get more comfortable.

We had officially reached Forks, Washington according to a sign that whizzed by earlier. Forks had virtually no defining characteristics apart from the rest of the Olympic Peninsula. We were still surrounded by green, still enveloped in sheets of rain and dark clouds. I rested my forehead on the cool car window, watching the occasional house or thrift store flash by.

I could still feel Charlie's gaze shifting toward me but I shrugged it off, preferring to just stare blankly at the passing trees rather than acknowledge it. I could hear rain splashing on the roof of the car, the old tires squelching through puddles of mud. The windshield wipers squeaked against the glass, thunked at the lowest point of the circuit, and squeaked back up repeatedly, monotonously.

Thunk.

Squ-eeeak…

Splash.

Thunk.

Squ-eeeak…

"Here we are," Charlie announced, pulling into a dirt driveway, "it isn't much but it's home." He parked beside a rusty red pick-up truck.

"Looks like it can sustain life, so it's good enough for me," I shrugged off his comment. I grabbed my backpack from where it rested between my legs as Charlie cut the ignition. We got out of the car and into the rain which by now slowed from a downpour to a drizzle. I would be lying if I said the ominous feel of Forks didn't get to me. Each drop of rain on my face felt like a dagger, cold and untrusting. The dark skies were unsure whether they were to protect me or smother me. The depths of the surrounding forests reached out, wanting to greet me, or perhaps engulf me and eradicate the newest threat to the steady balance of life they have been maintaining for centuries.

Charlie looked nervous. He fumbled with his keys, muttering quick apologies at me. It didn't escape my notice how his hand shook slightly just before he firmly grasped the doorknob. There was a second of hesitation before he opened the door and we entered his house. As the chief gave the grand tour, my mind was creating blueprints of my most recent abode.

The house was roughly a thousand square feet, two bedrooms, one bath and two stories high. There was a small, square entrance way with a few hooks for hanging coats and a few pairs of shoes lining the wall. Immediately in front was a stairway. To the left was a living room complete with a few empty bottles of beer, a well used couch facing a bulky television, and knick-knacks in desperate need of a good dusting. Just beyond that lay a small kitchen. The refrigerator contained enough fish that, if rationed properly, could potentially sustain an average family of four for a year. Some more bottles of beer were stored there along with a quarter gallon of expired milk and an empty ketchup container. An insignificant, rarely used, and might I add suspiciously drafty, dining room branched off from the kitchen.

I suspected that the old staircase could hold no more than the weight of one person at a time. However, it remained fairly stable while I ascended. The first door I came across on the upper level lead to the restroom, which was directly beside the linen closet. On the opposite side was Charlie's bedroom and my room branched off slightly from the main hallway.

"It's purple, I hope you don't mind," Charlie apologized when he showed me my room. It was the size of half my old apartment. The walls were painted lilac and the curtains, sheets and pillows were all differing shades of violet.

"Thank you, Swan," I addressed him in a detached voice. I would have liked to show my appreciation for all he has done, and all he had yet to go through by taking in a lunatic criminal, but I was so far gone I didn't know how. Charlie huffed in response, shuffled from foot to foot and left. I walked into the room, locked the door and went straight to work.

I checked the closet first. It was empty except for a unisex raincoat neatly folded in a corner. Then under the bed, between the sheets and the mattress were apparently safe. There was an ancient, hulking computer on the desk which I immediately unplugged. It wouldn't be of any use to me either way. I searched behind the desk for any holes, or abnormalities and found none. I quickly opened the drawers of the cabinet beside the bed; nothing. I crawled around the floor, picking at the wooden boards but none of them came loose.

I unzipped the front pocket of my backpack and took out a metal transmission receptor to locate and disconnect any unnecessary broadcasts that come my way. I turned it on and waved it around the room, satisfied when it showed no significant source of electromagnetic activity nearby. Esme had me acquire one of those after my almost being chipped in Italy the previous year--because mistakes were unacceptable.

The deep purple curtains were thick and closed. I shook them a bit and no dust came out. Either Charlie cleaned the room for this special occasion or someone recently inhabited here. I pulled back one side of the fabric and was met by the sight of an old window. It probably hadn't been opened in years. I furrowed my brows at the tree just outside the glass. It would be dreadfully simple to climb. I made a mental note to keep the curtains and the window shut for the duration of my stay. Perhaps even go as far as to nail it shut.

Nonetheless, I officially declared the area secure in my head.

I dug back into my bag to take out some more of my things. I placed a switchblade under the bed's pillow, a medium sized ax under the bed and a dirty-bomb in the closet. I took out my other pair of sweats and shirt and placed them over the explosive. Finally, I pushed the backpack under the bed and looked around the room satisfied. It looked just as it was before I moved in.

After one more apprehensive glance, I went downstairs to Charlie.

"So, do you have any money?" I asked bluntly. Charlie froze. He was watching a baseball game on the television. He turned to me.

"Um, I…what for?" He mumbled.

"I need cash for groceries," I answered. I thought I could show my thanks to the Chief by providing him with decent meals every once in a while, but the money I had with me was not meant for inconsequential things like food while I was comfortably in hiding. Charlie obviously relaxed.

"Oh, well there's the money on top of the fridge," he gestured toward the kitchen. True to his word, there was a jar filled with bills labeled "Food Money" in its specified vicinity. I wasn't surprised to see it practically full.

"Wait," Charlie stood up and held out a key ring, "I want you to have this. It's for the truck outside. I mean, you don't have a car and well, it's a way to get where you need to be--"

"Swan," I cut him off in the middle of what was sure to be a long, rambling speech on the necessity transport in suburban society, "this is unnecessary." I glared him down even though another part of me screamed for me to take what I could; it's not every day someone will hand over something of so valuable, so willingly. I licked my lips and grabbed it out of his hands. I tossed the keys back and forth a few times and Charlie smiled.

"My friend Billy, from the reservation, gave this to me for free. Since he lost his legs, it isn't much use to him," he explained. I smirked and turned to leave. A thought suddenly came to Charlie.

"You do have a license? Right?" His police training and the unspoken rules he obliged to with me clashed.

"It's fake, but I can drive," I smirked. Charlie looked conflicted and was about to say something but I left before he had the chance. I walked once around the truck, admiring its strength. It was so old, but managed to survive all these years and serve its master; continue doing what it was meant to do.

I jumped into the driver's side and caressed the wheel. There was a faint smell of cigars, leather, air freshener, and cologne lingering in the air. It smelled like the sit-downs Esme had with her employees. Just before someone got shot, all of your senses would rise to the sky and you could smell the room like it was all under your nose. Then, the rust and salt smell of blood and the stale stench of death would clog your nostrils. It was a comforting smell, like home.

I stuffed the key into the ignition and turned. The engine sputtered and wheezed to a start. The wheel and seat beneath me vibrated from the force. I pulled out of the driveway. I was not exactly sure where I was going, but I figured in such a small town, everything must be just off the main road.

I found a convenience store called Newton's. The name was vaguely familiar. Perhaps a Newton works for Esme, I thought. I could ask Charlie. A bored teenager with too many piercings chomped gum at the cash register. She had short, black hair and a vacant expression. Of course, it was Sunday. Her friends were probably out having a great time and she was stuck at work. She looked me up and down scornfully when I came up to her with groceries. The girl beeped them up and dismissed me with an indifferent "have a nice day". I just maintained my expressionless mask and nodded in response.

From the corner of my eye I saw her take out a phone and start punching in characters. I stiffened and sped up my pace. I was disgusted with myself, reduced to such pathetic measures. I was too suspicious of everyone and everything. This time should be spent relaxing, I told myself, not suspecting adolescents of illicit activity beyond their mental capacities.

I hauled the bag of merchandise into the passenger seat of my truck with a huff. The rain started up again. I realized, too late, that I should keep an umbrella, or at least a jacket, with me at all times in this climate. Catching a cold would suck some major ass with my lifestyle.

Charlie stayed right where I left him, eyes glued to the television as an over-excited balding man gestured wildly across the screen. After quickly observing for abnormalities, I slipped past him into the kitchen with my (legally) acquired produce. With the rations I had at hand, I decided to make some Linguine a la Volterra; a delicious dish which, unlike revenge, is best served warm and made with love--as Marcus told me. I heard Charlie stiffen in the other room, the unmistakable sound of a gun's safety unlatching reached my ears. I kept at my work, stirring the boiling pot of spaghetti with one hand and reaching for my own gun with the other.

Without looking back I could tell it was Charlie rushing into the kitchen. I heard him breathe a sigh of relief and put down the weapon.

"Bella, I err…wasn't expecting you, I was um…sorry," he mumbled.

"As the chief of police your senses should be alert at all times, Swan. I wasn't even trying to be discreet. If I were an enemy you would be in some deep shit right about now," I cocked my eyebrow at him. I could tell I hurt his manly pride.

Charlie puffed out his chest and began, "Now wait a minute. That may not necessarily be the…" I pulled out my gun and placed it against his temple with the fluid motions of many years' practice. My face held absolutely no humor. Charlie gulped; his Adam's apple bobbing in his throat.

"…and just like that," I whispered, "You're dead." I whipped the semi-auto back into the holster hidden under my sweatshirt. I turned and dimmed down the burner's flame. I could feel Charlie standing behind me uncomfortably. We stayed silent as I bustled around the kitchen.

"So," the chief harrumphed, "what is that you're making?" I smiled.

"I learned it while I was in Italy last year," I gave him a glance. Charlie looked politely interested.

"Wow. You've probably been around the world, huh? I've never been further east than Albuquerque," he continued the small talk.

"Well, I don't really get much time for sight-seeing. Whenever I go anywhere it's on business," I left it at that as I shook out the pasta into a drainer. Stream rose up, clouding the room before dispersing. I separated the spaghetti onto two plates and splattered on the special sauce mix that added "voila to Volterra" (another quote from Marcus, I swear). I handed one to Charlie, along with a fork, and we shuffled into the living room. A look of pleasant surprise crossed his features as Swan took the first, albeit hesitant, bite.

"It's delicious Bella," he complimented. A heat I usually only experienced in the midst of exhaustion rose up to my cheeks. I was appalled at myself. Charlie inhaled a few more mouthfuls, "Who did you say taught you how to make this?"

None of your freaking business, that's who, I replied in my head. After a second's thought, I decided it would be more beneficial to scare him a bit. Let him know I wasn't to be messed with.

"Have you heard of the Volturi?" I asked sweetly. Swan stopped stuffing his face and gulped.

"That uh, Italian mafia?" His eyes got round. He knew where this was heading. My smile put shame to the Cheshire cat.

"That's the one," Oh granny, what big teeth I have. Intimidation: I knew it down to a science. This, I was good at. It was my zone. I calmly twirled the long strands of red pasta around my fork. It wasn't that I had anything against Swan; I just needed to feel comfortable. This day was so out of whack I literally needed some normalcy.

Charlie's eyes glimmered with fright, confusion and then hopelessness. I sighed and wiped at invisible sauce on the corner of my mouth with my sleeve. I blamed my newfound softness on the crazy day. Pathetic excuse, but I bought it.

"I didn't add in the rat poison though," I mumbled. He breathed out in relief.

"I'm sorry I shouldn't have jumped to conclusions like that," Swan's brow furrowed. We didn't say another word to each other for the rest of the evening.

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My surroundings were too unfamiliar. It made me jumpy, extra sensitive. As I lay in bed that night, every drop of rain that hit the roof was like a grenade exploding in my head. The sound of trees swaying in the wind was the feds, finally caught up to me. The blade under my pillow cut into my head. I wanted some quiet. I wanted some peace. I wanted to be able to rest easy again. I wanted to individually welcome every son of a bitch who helped mess up my life into the pits of my own personal hell. I wanted my mommy.

Just before I succumbed to unconsciousness I mused, as always, on what it would be like if I simply didn't wake up. The smallest smile graced my lips as thunder rumbled in the distance.

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Right…well…what do I have to say for myself? Absolutely nothing. I have no excuse. I was just being my lazy old self. This chapter is not beta'ed because I felt I kept you waiting long enough—if anyone is still there. Review? Maybe…? Possibly….?

MSFYS: Where is a toilet when you need one?