Diamond in the Rough- Chapter 1
A/N: This story is based on true events, as is my previous story- Rescue Me. This one, however, is more creative, and will stray from the original to incorporate the elements of Twilight into it, such as vampires. The broad events are real, and everything that happens to our little Bella is true also- as sad as this is.
This story is still in the planning stages for the most part, and I have a chapter outline written. As of now, there will be 3-4 parts to this, all published as separate stories. As of now, Part 1 is completely planned and simply waiting to be written. The outline has 47 chapters outlined and I'm aiming for 2000-3000 words per chapter, but this is all subject to change, so keep that in mind as you read.
Each "part" will be a new age in her life. Part 1, she's 6. Part 2 will be probably 10-11, part 3 about 15 and part 4, 17-18, if all goes as planned.
And lastly, I'd like to dedicate this chapter to Impossible-Twins. Their reviewing has been phenomenal and I thank you for the dedication and time you put into those. Each chapter will be dedicated to my favourite reviewer(s) from the previous chapter!
"I have to be careful." I thought to myself as I took the pitcher of milk out of the fridge. It was almost empty, so there was no reason for me to spill it, but if I did, Daddy would be very mad at me and it would hurt. I knew he hated when I did something wrong so I tried to be as good as I could be, no matter what mean things he said to me. Luckily, I made it over to the table, where my cup was, without spilling or dropping anything. I was a clumsy person, and this was an accomplishment for me. Daddy was still watching TV, not knowing I was in the kitchen stealing his milk. I knew stealing was bad, but I was very thirsty and I knew if I asked him he'd get mad at me and send me to bed without anything to drink, so I was doing it myself.
I poured the milk carefully and quietly, making sure he was still watching TV. I knew how to get around him when the ball game was on, and as long as I made no noise, he didn't care what I did. He'd never notice that one measly glass of milk was missing as long as I was secretive about it.
It all changed when I walked towards the fridge, and as usual, I tripped over nothing at all. The milk pitcher and cup in my hands clattered to floor with enough noise to scare an lion and I fell with it. I landed with a bang, which made Daddy start to yell mean things from the couch. I felt fear rising as I heard him coming closer and closer, looking to see what I'd done this time.
"For fuck's sake Isabella!" he screeched when he came in and saw what I'd done. Tears came, knowing he had been drinking his awful beer again. Beer made him hurtful and angry and now, he had a reason to be. I cried and scrambled to my feet as he marched over, stepping over the mess on the floor.
I was terrified as Daddy grabbed me by the hair and forced me to look at him. I forced myself not to cry out, knowing he'd be madder and do it harder. He always did that, no matter how much I struggled, so I kept silent.
"What the fuck are you doing with the milk?" he asked in a dangerous voice. He sounded calm, but I knew better than to think he was. His breath, so close to my nose, smelled of beer and cigarettes, and I wanted to hurl.
"I'm sorry!" I cried sadly, making him scowl. He stared at me and tossed me aside with a slap from his open hand. My cheek stung and I felt hot tears fall. I didn't know why he was so mean sometimes, but I knew I had to clean my mess.
"Stupid little shit." He snapped at me, coming closer. He moved me with his foot, making me sore as he went to the drawer and threw some paper towel at me. It hit me in the head and I scrambled to clean what I had dropped, trying not to make him madder. Maybe he would be nicer today and not yell anymore.
"Stay the fuck out of the fridge!" he yelled. Nope. Not nice today. As if he just realized I had been snooping in his fridge, he came and hit me again, making me fall. He was so much bigger than me, and I knew he could hurt me badly, as he'd done before. Or even worse than that was his closet… I hated that closet. When I fell over from his slap, he got angrier and yanked me up again by the arm, hard.
"Ouch Daddy!" I cried, trying to get him to let me go. He snarled and slapped me.
"What did I tell you about calling me that!?" he roared, looking like a killer I'd seen on a TV show one time after he went to bed. His eyes were angry and droopy at the same time and his teeth were showing, like a dog who wanted to hurt the mailman on TV. I whimpered, knowing he didn't like to be called daddy. I didn't call him anything usually, but when I did, it was daddy. That's who he was, so that's what I called him. I had called him Charlie once and that made him even angrier than "daddy".
"Don't call me that and pick up your fucking mess!" he screeched angrily, tossing me back at the milk. I watched in shock and fear as he walked out into the living room to finish the ball game. I immediately mopped up the big mess I'd made in the kitchen, being sure not to make any noise and to stop crying. Daddy hated it when I cried, and he called me names for it.
When the milk was cleaned up, I stood in the kitchen, not knowing what to do. If I went into the living room, he'd hit me again. If I went upstairs, he'd come find me and call me lazy. If I stood here, he'd call me stupid and send me upstairs. I didn't know where he wanted me to go, so I cried again, knowing there was nothing I could do to make him happier. I wished daddy was happier than he was now. I hated when he hit and yelled because he was mad at me.
"Are you done yet!?" he hollered from the living room. I took that as my cue to find him and I scrambled into the living room and nodded fearfully at him. He grunted and glanced at me, seeing the tears.
"Oh, for fuck's sake." He spat. "Stop crying." He ordered, looking disgusted. I sniffed and forced the tears back, feeling my arms and cheek burning from his mean ways. I hated daddy's hurtfulness. My not crying didn't last long at all and before I knew it, they were falling again. I wiped them on my sleeve, hoping he wouldn't see, but my efforts were wasted when he turned and looked at me fully. He was scowling and mad again.
"Do you want to go in the closet?" he threatened. I couldn't help the loud wail that escaped me, and it made him stand up. He grabbed me angrily by the arm and marched me up the stairs. He brought me to my room with the broken door and tossed me inside, shutting the door as best he could.
"If you want to cry like a baby, you can stay away from me." He said simply. I heard him shoving a chair under the knob so I couldn't escape the room until he let me out. I cried loudly, feeling scared to be locked in. I didn't like being locked in a room because I knew when daddy locked the doors, he was more hurtful than usual.
"Shut up!" he screamed from downstairs when my crying got louder and louder. I cried loudly into my pillow instead, muffling the sound.
Why did daddy hate me so much? I didn't know, and that made me sad, knowing that he was mad at me all the time. Had I done something wrong? Daddy often told me it was because of me that mommy died, and no one could be happy if she wasn't here. I never knew my mommy, but I always wondered if daddy was always mad at her too, or if he was nicer. Daddy told me he loved mommy, and if I wasn't here, she would be. I always felt bad, knowing I made mommy go away, but I didn't know how I did that. Daddy had taken me to her grave once, and I didn't see her there. He told me she was dead, but I didn't know what that was. Would she come back from dead? I didn't think so, and that's why daddy was sad and angry all the time. If I would have let mommy be not dead, then she would be here, daddy would be happy, and he wouldn't hurt me like he did. It was my fault that daddy hit and yelled, and I felt bad for making him so sad and upset.
I was stuck in my room all day with nothing to do but crying. I heard daddy banging around downstairs often, but he never came up or yelled again, so I felt better. My cheek hurt a lot from his hard slap, but I wouldn't cry for that. I couldn't. I needed to be a good girl and not cry all the time if I wanted to make him happier. Daddy didn't come up, and before long, night time came, bringing sleep with it.