Note: A story about growing, finding and reaching beyond. Told in a nonlinear narrative with alternate chapters in past and present. (It will have short chapters and will be updated daily because it's been pre-written)

Readers: Viewer discretion is advised. The story is rated M. A big and final warning. Contains dark themes.

Disclaimer: I do not own Twilight. It is owned by Stephenie Meyer, and not part of my intellectual property. There is no financial gain made from this nor will any be sought. This is for entertainment purposes only. This is a fictional story about fictional representations of real people. Intertextuality is used to express cloaked feelings in this story. They will be credited at the end of the chapter.

Message To Bears - Find Our Way Home


"I am no bird; and no net ensnares me: I am a free human being with an independent will."

― Charlotte Brontë

1. The Present

If anyone had asked Renee what hope entailed, a few years ago, she would have described the miniature tendrils of a plant seeking sunlight in its crowded enclosure. She would have brought up the idea of outwitting fate and its peculiar irony. She would have laughed and stated that hope was in everybody- flowing in the undercurrent of bloodstreams. She would have bravely captured the expression of hope, declaring that she embodied it as much as the next person.

But hope was much more complex than that.

It hid within individuals- beating in their chests with a thundering sensation, especially for those who needed it urgently. It hid itself behind the charades of the most average faces, camouflaging with ordinary's finest. It was a ghostly presence behind the masquerade masks, slithering through the glitter and feathers. It avoided the clattering high-heels that danced on the polished timber and the loudest of drunk arguments. It survived in its indiscernible grandeur, invisible to the naked eye.

No one knew they needed hope until hope was summoned in the light of adversity. When everything was perfect, hope was ignored like a set of forgotten keys on the kitchen counter. Hope would be stored in suffocation, hiding in a menagerie that would only be appreciated when the right time was warranted.

But hope was important... the raw, naked truth of hope was crucial to every human being at some point in their thread of existence. A wish, a dream, a salvation- it was. It called out to the bravest warriors and the weakest hearts. It nurtured the bitterness of loss and cooed at the confused.

So when Renee sat back in her plastic chair, watching the steam of her coffee vanish into a hypnotizing transparency, she knew she could feel hope in every part of her body. It was the calcium in her bones and the blood vessels in her body. She needed hope to tell a story that surpassed the gloomy bags under her eyes and the inadequacy she felt as a mother. She needed it more than it would ever need her. With every trip to the mainland of her worries, she tried to replenish her deteriorating supply.

Renee listened to the deafening silence of the house which stood in its shabby glory of blue carpet and faulty light bulbs. After Charlie, her husband, had passed away, all she had left was her unborn daughter. There was no one but the nurses next to her during the posthumous birth. And although she could have given her daughter a metronymic last name, she chose to keep her late husband's surname.

Bella Swan had been seven pounds when she'd entered the world with shrill cries that signified a new chapter in Renee's lonely life. She remembered not knowing how to feed the newborn and occasionally being overwhelmed with her responsibilities. Her hands had been young and tender once, inexperienced with hard work, as a wedding ring smiled at those who glanced. But with a new baby, she'd worked hard whilst the elderly woman next door kindly looked after Bella.

Renee smiled sadly, reminiscing about a bubbly child who had excelled in all of her school activities. Bella's strawberry blonde hair, which eventually darkened as she aged, had glistened in the sun as she would cry, "Mama! Look I'm flying!"

The swings were always Bella's favorite when they visited the playground. She was closer to her curiosities as she flew into the sky, mimicking the flight of a dove. She'd constantly ask her mother why her father was never around to which Renee would reply with appropriate honesty- as trust, to them, was timeless.

"Is he in heaven now?" a Bella with darker hair would ask, scrunching up her nose.

"Yes, baby," Renee would reply, kissing her daughter on the forehead. "Now, are you brave enough to sleep alone, tonight?"

Often, they'd cuddle with each other- mother and daughter, with love caressing their relaxed limbs. As Bella got older, Renee also had to deal with the mood-swings of a teenager. She knew it was the hormones acting up but sometimes, when she sat on the slopes of parenthood, she felt as if she couldn't see the beacon on the lighthouse.

She was a single mom. She only had one chance at life. And she did it all for her baby girl.

"Will you always be here for me, Mama?" a fifteen-year-old Bella had asked, pushing away her brown curls.

"Always, baby," she had replied. "You're my best friend, after all."

As Renee stared into the coffee that resembled the eyes of her daughter, she realized it had cooled down significantly. She quickly walked over to the sink, pouring the pain of her current reality down the drain.

She wasn't a coffee drinker. She simply desired the return of normalcy in her life. In her daughter's life. But each day seemed to add onto the plateau of her graph, daring her to give up. But she couldn't; she'd only leave her daughter behind.

So she asked herself. Again and again. What was hope? It was intangible yet undeniably palpable, pulling and pushing the troubled in a whirlpool that could only go up or down. Everyone prayed for the better result- to stay afloat and just be- but not everything was fair in life's thrilling adventures. Events extended throughout the infinite bookshelves of past and present. To have one's tale published as a notion of success, hope would have to be there, holding hands with the strong.

It was the survivors who could fill the empty pages with an ink that curved into a story.




A/N: I know, it's not even the end of January yet and I'm already spewing out more stuff. I've made a banner- linked on my profile. Sometimes, there are multiple updates but other times, it's just one chapter. Also, it might be a slow burn... for patience. I promise to update my other stuff, at some point! Love you all!