Welcome to Unique, my newest story, and my first BellaXEdward story (excepting a few oneshots I've written about them). Hopefully, you will all enjoy this story. Thank you for reading, and I love reviews. Here is the first chapter. By the way, Bella will be slightly OOC, hence that I am going to give her a little spine and be a little less self-sacrificing, and, of course, an extraordinary ability.
Most parents, through the course of their career as parents, tell their son or daughter that they are unique, special, you could say. My mother was no exception to this, but what she didn't realize or guess was just how unique, or unusual I really was. Neither did I—until I entered kindergarten and learned to read.
Little five-year old me, complete with pigtails, waddling into my kindergarten class one morning, asking my teacher why she had the numbers "09312025" across her forehead. I was so proud of it too; I thought she would be delighted that I could read my numbers so well, and had noticed the numbers across her forehead. But she was confused. She insisted that she had no numbers on her forehead, and even checked in a mirror. By that point, I had started to cry, believing that she was being especially mean to me. I eventually let the subject drop, for I was entirely mortified at having her tell me over and over that I was wrong, that I was mistaken, even when I could see, plain as day, the numbers printed across her forehead like a tattoo.
In first grade, I made the same mistake with my first grade teacher and a girl in my class. Both of them were bewildered, telling me that they had no such numbers across their heads. But both of them did, and the numbers were different from each other, and everyone else had them, too. Everyone else, including my mother, including my neighbor's son. I could even see numbers across my own forehead if I looked in the mirror, and no one else knew what they were or what I was even talking about.
My first grade teacher told my mother that I was desperately seeking attention, and that I should quit with the numbers business. On the way home, my mother told me that I needed to stop making it up, and I, sobbing, had told her emphatically over and over again that I wasn't making them up.
It took a few more incidents like that for me to realize that I shouldn't tell anyone—that they wouldn't understand, that they would be unkind to me because of it. But the damage was already done—no one would sit with me at lunch, or work with me in class. They would ridicule me, calling me the 'numbers freak,' or some similar insulting nickname. My mother, after realizing how miserable I was, let me change schools, and I was much happier after; I didn't dare mention the numbers on everyone's foreheads at the new school.
It wasn't until seventh grade that I figured out what the numbers were, what they meant. My grandfather had visited my mother and me for my birthday, and, as with everyone else, he had numbers across his forehead that read "09162004." I, of course, didn't mention them to him, and didn't even worry about it until three days later. My mother received a call from the hospital that my grandfather had died of a heart attack. I was saddened, but didn't realize what it meant at first. Eventually, I noticed that the numbers I remembered being across his forehead were like a date. 09 referring to the month, the ninth month of the year, September, 16 referring to the day in the month, and 2004 referring to the year. It completely freaked me out when I realized that the day he died was September 16, 2004.
At first I labeled it as a coincidence. But then I realized how absurd that was—what were the odds that a person just happens to see numbers that no one else does, and the numbers on her grandfather happen to be his day of death? From then on, I feared them. But at the same time, I learned from them. The numbers would change—I had seen them change before. In freshman year of high school, one of my friends had tried smoking, and her DOD (date of death) changed to twenty years earlier than it had been. I could only assume that this was from an addiction to nicotine, and that she would get lung cancer or something. I didn't mention it to her—how could I? But I was right about the addiction, and maybe I was right about the cancer.
When I was seventeen, my father came down for Christmas (my parents divorced before I was born), which was unusual; I normally would go to visit him. But for his own reasons, he came all the way down the Phoenix, Arizona from his lonely solitude up in Forks, Washington, for Christmas. Immediately, I was concerned for him; the numbers on his head implied a death only a year or two away. I was instantaneously determined to change it—to do something that would put his death off a few years. The instant I considered moving to Forks, Washington, the numbers changed to some day fifteen years later than the previous one. It was soon settled between my parents that I would move to Forks to live with my dad.
I didn't think about how much I would miss Arizona, my mom, and the few friends that I had, although they weren't very close to me. When someone's life was in question, such things seem very petty and trivial. And so, the week or so before I would have started my senior year of high school, I packed every belonging I had and was off a few days later on a plane.
After getting off the plane, the first thing I saw was my father waiting at the gate, looking gruff, which was his equivalent to affection. He opened up his arms and I ran into them, relieved to be off the plane and the uncomfortable seats.
"Hey, Bells," he said, releasing me from his embrace. I didn't protest—neither of us really were the kind to hug for hours in an empty airport.
"Hey, Dad." I almost called him Charlie, but I was thankful I didn't—somehow I didn't think that would sit over well with him. Subtly, I checked the numbers on his head, relieved that they still remained in the not soon future.
We talked little as we walked to the luggage carousel and waited for my bags to be unloaded from the plane. Charlie wasn't a very talkative person, and I had little to say to him anyways. After getting my four bags, he lead me outside to where his car was parked. The difference between the blazing heat of late August in Phoenix and the cool, overcast 70 degrees in Forks was stark, but I made no comment on it. I suppressed a groan when I saw that he had driven his police cruiser—he was chief of police in Forks, head of a division of about five or six policemen. He helped me get my bags into the trunk, and even held my door open for me when I slid into the passenger seat, muttering a quiet 'thank you.'
As he pulled out of the airport parking lot, he said, "I've got a surprise for you, Bells, back at the house." I scowled—I disliked surprises, especially if they were expensive ones. I'd rather have someone flat-out tell me what they were going to give me, rather than leave me to guess.
"What is it?" I demanded instantly, watching the annoyingly green landscape flash by as he drove well under the speed limit—probably to set a good example for me.
"It's a surprise," he repeated, emphasizing the 'surprise' part of it as if I were incapable of comprehending it if he didn't. I sighed, giving up on the matter, instead drumming my fingers on the armrest of the seat in an unsteady rhythm; I had never been good at keeping a steady beat, hence the reason why I couldn't play a musical instrument, although I envied those who could.
Forests surrounded the road—not the beautiful, four-seasons forests that you see on postcards from the East Coast, or the lush, tropical jungles that you see on postcards from South America. The trees in Forks were very green from the fact that it rained practically every day: the exact opposite of Phoenix. The undergrowth was thick and leafy—as if plants here magically didn't need sunlight to grow. Everything was green here, and I half-expected the sky to be green as well. About an hour of driving through forest after forest, with no sign of actual civilization, we finally reached a small, broken-down sign that read, 'Welcome to Forks. Population 3,781." Well, actually it would be 3, 782 after I moved there.
After the sign we passed by a couple stores—a small cinema, a few gas stations, grocery stores, an auto repair shop, and a couple others as well as many neighborhoods. Finally, Charlie made a left hand turn into a neighborhood, and proceeded down a street to the final house—a two story, white house with a brick chimney and blue windowsills. I recognized it as his house from the previous summers and Christmases I had spent in it. Sitting on the driveway was something new: a red, rusty Chevy pickup truck that had to be from the 70's or late 60's. It appeared to be in decent condition, if you exclude the rusty paint job, and had no extraordinarily large dents or at least none noticeable from a distance. Charlie pulled into the driveway beside the truck—it was quite a squeeze to fit—and opened his door, stepping out into the cool August air. I followed suite, eyeing the truck, wondering if it was the surprise.
"Surprise, Bells," my father said, tossing me a pair of keys which I failed to catch and had to retrieve off the concrete.
After knowing it was mine, I once again regarded the truck, looking at it from a new perspective. It probably wouldn't go that fast, but I had never been a fan of fast things, anyways. I was pretty sure it would be sturdy; if it was half as sturdy as it looked, a tank couldn't take that thing out. After my second inspection, I felt satisfied with the truck, and turned to face Charlie, saying, "It's great. Thanks, Dad." I was careful not to overdo the thank you's; that was another thing he wasn't big on.
He smiled, pleased by my acceptance of it. "No problem, kiddo." He popped open the trunk and grabbed two of my larger bags, leaving me to carry in the other three—a small purse from the plane, a backpack, and a roller suitcase. I did, closing the trunk with my elbow, and followed him into the house. It hadn't changed much since my last visit. Maybe he had moved a few chairs or gotten a new picture, but the yellow cupboards were the same, the curtains covering the window were unchanged, as were the couch and TV in the living room, the pictures of me adorning practically every wall, and the small dining room table that was partially visible from the front door were also all untouched since my last visit.
Charlie helped me carry my things up the stairs, and then, after a short, unnecessary tour of my bedroom, left the room to go downstairs and catch up on some sports pre-season report. I was glad for it—I enjoyed the peace and quiet as I unpacked my things, putting them into drawers. The next day, I would start school—Forks High started earlier than my Phoenix school did. It was a week or so into the school year, but I wasn't worried. I could easily catch up, after all. Academics were the one thing I was honestly good at—sports and any artistic activity were not up my ally.
I wasn't sure if I would make friends quickly here. My mother had assured me that I would, but that was her job as a parent, and, therefore, I didn't really count her opinion. They would all think me normal, and I could humor myself and agree with them. But, sadly, none of them could really know the truth about me, and I felt myself longing for a friend who I could actually confide in and not be labeled a liar or freak.
So what do you think? Hopefully, you guys like it. Edward will make an appearance in the next chapter, in the famous cafeteria scene, well, my version of it at least. Thanks for reading. :) Please review and have a wonderful day.