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Second Chances @bex818
Chapter 1 EDITED

A/N: Hello to anyone reading this! I have been reading Fanfiction for about 7 years now and I thought I'd give it a shot! If you do read it please leave a review letting me know how I did. I'm really nervous about it because this is my first time writing anything so any feedback is welcome

I only have this chapter written but my break from college is just two weeks away and then I'll have all the time in the world to write. So if you enjoy please, please leave a review! I get all of my motivation from being under pressure so feel free to say whatever you'd like, but please, be nice about it

No one has pre read it or anything so please excuse the mistakes! I am looking for a beta so if anyone is interested just PM me

Anyway, enjoy!

Disclaimer: I do not own Twilight or anything related to Twilight, it all belongs to Stephanie Myers


May 2011, Forks, Washington

I stare at the positive pregnancy test in my shaking hands.

Numb. That's all I feel.


How is this possible? It was one time. One time with my longtime friend, Jacob Black.

I'm sixteen years old, the relationship was nothing serious, a way to get rid of my virginity before . . . before my father takes it from me. The beatings have never gone that far, but who knows? If he can beat his only daughter on a daily basis, then who's to say he won't start sneaking into my room at night? The beatings have been there for as long as I can remember. Hiding bruises, covering up cuts, that's normal for me. I could do it in my sleep, or, in some instances, with broken ribs from being pushed down the stairs one too many times. Of course, no one suspected anything, why would the Chief of Police beat his daughter? He was a man of the law, how could someone like that beat up their own child? Well, I knew how: guilt. He says that I am to blame for the death of my mother, and I am. If I hadn't been born then my mother would still be alive. How could I argue with that logic?

The slam of a door downstairs jolts me from my thoughts.

Oh no. He's home early.

Dinner isn't ready yet.

I look at the clock hanging in the bathroom, and I scramble to my feet, trying my best to cover the pregnancy test in the trash, before rushing downstairs. He wasn't early, I had been lost in thought over this for almost an hour! There was no way I wasn't going to get a beating for this.

"Isabella!" he bellows up the stairs, "Why is my dinner not prepared?"

"I am sorry, Father" I say, as I run down the stairs, into the kitchen, throwing my brown, hip length hair into a haphazard bun on top of my head, "I was doing my homework and lost track of time."

He looks up from his phone, sitting at the table, in his police uniform with his gun and nightstick still on his hip. "That's no excuse. Why do you need good grades if you are never going to amount to anything?" If he had his way, I would never go to school, but that would be suspicious.

I look down at the ground, wishing I hadn't put my hair up, to have something to hide behind, "I'm sorry. It won't happen again, Father."

He glowers at me before looking back down at his phone, "Now don't just stand there, Isabella. Do something with your useless existence, and make me my dinner." Under his breath he murmurs, "Your mother would've had dinner ready on time."

Teary eyed, because no matter how many times he rightfully blames me for my mother's death, it still hurts, I answer, "Yes father."

Reheating the steak and potatoes from last night as a quick fix, I get lost in my thoughts again. The first time I remember him actually being violent, and not just verbal, was when I was eight years old.

I slowly walk back from the bus stop, dreading having to ask daddy to drive me to school. The last time I had to ask he didn't give me food at home for a whole day! He said I had to learn time management, which I'm not completely sure what it is. I take a deep breath before opening the front door and walking into the living room. I just stand in the doorway, daddy ignoring me on the couch. "Daddy." I say, my voice just above a whisper

He looks up and gives me a dirty look, "I thought you went to school," he spat.

"Uhm, well, the thing is," I stumble over my words.

"Well spit it out, little girl" he grits out between his teeth, "I don't have all day."

"I-kinda-sorta-missed-the-bus." I rush out, my words meshing together. I wait for what seems like hours, but was really just a minute, as he just stares at me. "Can you, maybe, give me a ride to school, then?"

"I have work to get to," he starts, his face bright red, now, from anger, "and you expect me to take time out of my schedule to drive you to fucking school?" As he talks he stands up and starts stalking towards me. As he walks, I try to make myself as small as possible by backing up until my back almost hits the door knob. I stay silent, not knowing what to say, and afraid. "Well?" he asks. When I don't answer, he makes a disgusted noise as he reaches his hand back and back hands me so hard that I hit my back on the door knob from the force and then slide down the door, until I'm curled up in a ball on the floor. "You can go to school tomorrow, bitch." That's how the beatings started.

I feel the pain before I even registered that he had moved. Something, probably his nightstick, came down, hard, on my ribs, just under my breast from the side. "Isabella! My food is burning and you're just standing there, daydreaming! What is wrong with you, bitch?"

Clutching my side, I probably have a bruised rib again, I say "I am sorry, Father! I don't know what's wrong with me." I should not have said that, should not have said that.

"You don't know? You don't know? How about I remind you, bitch!" As soon as the last word was out of his mouth, he hit me over and over and over again with his nightstick. My arm, my ribs, over and over, my stomach. So many times that I end up on the floor curled up in the fetal position, trying to protect my stomach, my baby.

Nice work, you useless piece of shit, now you're gonna get the shit beat out of you. Why can't you just be better? No wonder your mom left, who would ever want you as a daughter?

Sometimes my inner voice could be harsh. I know he deserves a better daughter. I try and try, but I am never good enough, and I have accepted that I will never be loved.

He enjoys it when I cry out, so I try to stay silent, but every once in a while I let out a whimper, which spurs him on even more. When he is done with his nightstick, he throws it to the side and moves on to kicking me: in the face, in the back, my legs, my sides, anywhere he can reach.

With one final blow to the head, he knocks me out.


When I regain consciousness, it's dark outside. All of the lights are out in the house and I am still on the floor in the kitchen. I crawl over to the table and use one of the chairs to pull myself upright, cringing as something pulls on my back, and then I go into the living room. It's empty so I look out the window. The cruiser is gone.


I slowly make my way up the stairs, cringing and holding my sides the whole way up, to the one bathroom in the house. That's where my first aid kit is. I get to the bathroom, winded from the trek up the stairs, and look at myself in the mirror. My hair has partly come down from the bun I had it in earlier, so I take it down and fix it. Next, I look at the rest of my face.

There is a dark cloud already forming into a black eye around one of my lifeless, brown eyes. My cheeks are scattered with various bruises and cuts, and my pouty, full lips are dry and I have a cut that is starting to swell already, with some blood smeared down my chin. I take a washcloth and wipe it off before getting to work cleaning and inspecting the various bruises and cuts all over my face.

Usually, Father tends to stay away from my face, because it is harder to cover up, but I guess something else must have made him upset today.

Next, I check my ribs and see some bruising around them, but I don't think any of them are broken, probably just bruised, thank God. Last time Father broke them it took twice as long for them to heal because he knew they were broken and he made sure to hit me there the most. I use some Ace wrap to wrap around my body. As I am wrapping my back, I look in the mirror and groan. Mixed in with all of the old and new bruises, is a cut reaching from my hip all the way across my back at a diagonal until it stops just below my shoulder blade. That must have been what pulled at my back when I was standing up.

Sometimes, after I pass out, he likes to take his hunting knife and leave one, thin cut on some part of my body, to remind me that he controls me. This has been the longest one yet.

After I've finished taking care of my injuries, I go back downstairs and pick up the food and the broken plate that must have gotten knocked over during the struggle earlier, and throw them away, which takes twice as long as it normally would've because of all of my injuries.

When I get to my room, I change into sweatpants and an oversized t-shirt, from Goodwill, and carefully crawl into bed. It takes me a while to get into a comfortable position, because of the cut, and I eventually end up on my side, with my hand over my stomach.

Sighing, I think of everything that could go wrong with my baby. I know that if Father finds out, he'll try and beat it out of me. If he doesn't, then my baby will grow up like I did, and my baby hasn't done anything wrong yet, like I did. I would never wish the guilt and shame I feel everyday on my worst enemy. Running away isn't an option, I'm not allowed to have a job so I don't have any money except for the $30 Father gives me every Sunday for groceries. And I can't take the change because he make me give him the receipt every time and if even a penny is missing, I get a beating.

My eyes shoot open. The safe. Father has a safe in his bedroom, behind the picture of mom. I only know it's there because one time, a few months ago, he was getting out the grocery money and didn't realize that I had been upstairs getting a sweater.

I get out of bed as quickly as I can and race to his room, but not before making sure that his cruiser is still gone.

Typing in the passcode, knowing it's my mom's birthday, just like everything else, I bounce from foot to foot, looking over my shoulder. I'm usually not allowed in his room, aside from when I'm cleaning, and even then, Father is standing in the doorway the whole time.

Opening the safe, I see a stack of ten dollar bills, with that paper band around it reading $100 in bold, black lettering. There is another stack of twenties with the band reading $500. I grab both of them, and as I am sliding them out, a piece of paper falls from underneath them, to the floor. It's a letter.


I am sorry but I can't do this anymore. You cheated. I can't forgive you for that. I am moving back to Forks until Isabella is born and then you will never see me again. I can't believe you have a daughter, after we tried for years to have a baby! You just went and had one with someone else! Well you can have them as your family. You will never know Isabella, as long as I am around to do something about it.


Renee. As in my mother. And me. She was going to take me away from him!

I slowly back up and plop onto his bed. I have a sister. Maybe even more siblings. Who knows who this woman is?

There has to be more information in that safe, I think to myself.

I go back to the safe and dig around until I find a picture of my dad and another woman, one I don't recognize. On the back it reads 'Angela Weber, 1994, Seattle.'

Going to the computer in the spare bedroom, I look up Angela Weber in Seattle in 1994. When I find her, I nearly shout with joy. She lives in Chicago.


"Where to, Miss?" asks the sales ticket lady at the bus station.

"Chicago, please."

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