Oh, wow. This is going to be my first multi-chaptered story. Ominous and fear-inspiring. Ooooh.

Sorry I haven't written anything in the last little while, if any of you out there even care. I've entered a writing competition. I have to write a 240 page book, that's actually good, by the end of November, early December. If I win this competition (which I doubt I will) my novel is published.

Oh, snaps, eh?

Anyways, this story is being written with the permission of one Bellgren, who wanted to see her ideas written by others.

Now, please review, for not only my, (since it makes me very happy and alleviates my stress **I now look at you meaningfully. Yes, you. Remember, I know where you live…** but also review for Bellgren, and praise her creative genious, or for knowing what she wants… take your pick.

Oh, and by the way, rated M for safety… I'm paranoid, and use cussing often. Forgive my impudence.

And here… we… go.


Chapter One: A 1 On the Jukebox.

POV: Kevin Harrison.

"Good God, Molly, that smells absolutely fantastic." My arms wrap around my wife, the palms rubbing against the rough material of her heavily starched apron, stained with the many years of cooking Molly had behind her.

"It's your favorite, of course it smells good." She stirs the scrambled eggs within the pan with the wooden spoon she held within her calloused hands.

"Mmm. It's a shame that William isn't here."

"I swear, you passed your voracious appetite on to the boy. Why else would he eat as much as he does?"

"He's a growing boy, Molly."

"A growing boy indeed. I could understand that, if he didn't scarf back fifteen pancakes at breakfast last week."

"He's active, let him eat as he pleases."

"Your call. I don't envy Karen, thought. She's going to have her hands full with all those boys sleeping over at her house. She'll never fill William's stomach, poor woman." Molly smiles to herself, the corner of her mouth quirking upwards. "Sit down. The eggs are ready, the toast is up, and the bacon's on the table."

"Thanking you very much, Adorable." I invoke her old pet name, one that I hadn't called her in quite some time.

"I don't deserve that name, not after the last twenty pounds or so."

"It's called baby weight, Adorable." I take her hand in mine, smiling encouragingly. "And you look fantastic."

"Flatterer." She chides, but, nonetheless, brings my hand to her lips, and gives my fingers a light kiss, before placing my hand back down on the table.

In the momentary silence, I can hear the radio on the kitchen counter faintly produce the words, "Number one on today's jukebox, from talented singer Alanis Morissette," before Molly asks me "Do you want the morning paper?"

"I would love to have the morning paper." I say. "Please."

Molly unties her apron, and walking into the relatively small front hallway, opens the front closet door, and hangs the apron up within it.

Upon closing the closet door, she opens the green front door, and bends down to pick up the paper, previously wedged between metal and wood.

"Well, if I had known it was there, I would have gotten it myself!" I object, frowning.

"Oh, pish posh. What's an extra few steps in the morning, hmm?" My hands barely reach up in time to catch the newspaper she had flung at my face. My hands still in the air, I tilt my head to the side, to stare her dead in the eyes. I quirk an eyebrow, and she smirks at me lovingly.

She then sits down in the chair opposite mine, and with a wave of her hand, commands, "Dig in."

"I thought you'd never get to that." I immediately fork a heaping spoonful of egg into my awaiting and salivating mouth. Mid chew, I tear the elastic off the newspaper, discard it on the floor, which earns me a withering look from Molly, before opening it to the front page.

The boldly printed words The Forks Editorial, in elegant type, is scrawled at the top of the page.

It is not that mundane thing which catches my eye, however. Instead, my eye is drawn to the caption Nightmare on Ninth Street.

My mouth goes dry. Ninth street. Good god, no, hopefully to God, no….

"What's wrong, Kevin?"

I hold up a finger, gesturing for Molly to hold her thoughts for a moment. My eyes move downwards, to continue reading the article.

It seemed as though it would be a night like any other. The weather was exceptionally beautiful for dreary yet welcoming Forks, Washington yesterday. So, of course, it goes without saying that no one could have ever guessed the terrible massacre that was to occur late last night.

Widow Mrs. Bryson of Ninth Street awoke late last night- one in the morning, to be precise – to the terrifying sound of a gun shot, from her neighbors house. Concerned, she immediately phoned the police, who arrived on seen instantaneously.

They broke in to the Swan residence, fully prepared for the worst. But even that wasn't enough to steel them from the horror that awaited them within the Swan residence.

Upon breaking into the house, police officers Sam Littrel and David White, along with their team, discovered – continued on page 7.

"Shit, shit, shit." I nearly shred the newspaper in my hands to bits, trying to reach the last bit of the article. Revolted anticipation bubbled like a horrid disease in my chest, pressing my heart, up and up, into my throat.

I continue reading the article, upon reaching page 7.

Carnage the likes of which Forks has never seen, in all its long years. The hallway was a mess; furniture, shoes, and coats littering the ground, signifying that a struggle had occurred in that room.

But it wasn't that that alerted the police that something was very wrong. No, it was the stench of decay and rot, metallic, and bile-raising, the smell of carnage one only expects to find on the battle field.

The living room was much like a war zone. Chief Charlie Swan, off duty for the week, and his wife, Renee Swan, lay in pools of their own blood. Red covered the walls in lengthy spatters, the once light yellow a stain of gore.

They were not rushed to hospital. They were proclaimed dead upon the sight of the incident.

"Oh, my God, shit, shit, no, please, no…"

"Kevin, please what's wrong?"

"Charlie's dead." My words are nothing but an insubstantial whisper.

Molly, however, hears them.

Her glass drops to the floor, shattering upon impact, cranberry juice creeping along the linoleum floor, slow and sticky.

Just like blood.

Molly is immediately at my side, her arms wrapped around me, whether for my comfort or her own, I am unable to discern, nor do I care.

Her words are forced, tight and flooded with unshed tears. "How?"

"I… I don't know." I look at the newspaper, clutched so tightly in my hand my knuckles slowly grew whiter and whiter, the skin taut over creaking knuckles.

I want to know what happened. But I don't want to know.

I look down at the article once more.

Both of them had received a remarkable amount of injuries, sustained by several different injuries. Cuts along their faces were the work of machetes; several crushing blows to the arms and legs suggest a blunt object, yet to be discerned. The weapon of death, however, was a semi-automatic handgun, the shot of which being the one that had awoken Mrs. Bryson. This was proved by the type of bullet found within a wall in the living room, a misfired shot.

There is no word yet on who is behind this heinous crime. Robbery was not the motive, as nothing is missing from the house. Renee Swan showed no signs of rape, leaving that out as a possible motive as well. Many debate that it may have been an attack fueled by Chief Swan's gang hunting in Seattle last year, after he the apprehended the notorious Newborn Gang, much to the appreciation of Seattle police.

There is but a singular witness to this crime, and that is young Isabella Marie Swan, the daughter of Charlie and Renee. She is currently under urgent care at Forks hospital, and is unable to give any information, in such a state of emotional trauma, that she is unable to speak, or respond to any human in any way.

This is to only be expected, of course, as she was witness to the murder of her parents. This police know for certain, as they found her cowering underneath the dining room table, which is adjoined to the living room. She was hidden from her parents murderers by a long table cloth. They couldn't see her, but she could see them, their every move, every sin.

All of Forks' and Seattle's police efforts are being put into this case already, as a tribute to the best Chief of Police our town has ever known, and his loving wife.

It is uncertain as to whether or not Isabella will ever recover from the disastrous event. Already plans are being made should she be unable to recover. Talk is being made of sending her to the best Mental Infirmary in the United States, Chicago's Twilight Sanitarium.

More to be written as soon as further evidence is revealed.

"Oh my God, poor Bella." 'Poor' came nowhere near to covering it. I don't think that there is a word powerful enough to accurately describe Bella's situation.

She was always such a reclusive girl. Shy, but astoundingly gorgeous and kind. She had such a hard time relating to kids, being as mature as she is.

"Oh, I'm so sorry, Kevin. I know Charlie was a good friend of yours." Molly's tears roll down her rounded cheeks, falling onto my clothing-shielded shoulder.

"Don't apologize to me." I say mutedly. "Say sorry to Bella. She saw it all."

Molly's hands fly upwards to cover her mouth, her eyes wide with shocked horror.

"Oh my God, no, no. Not her."

I cover my face with my hands, dropping the newspaper, which falls onto my lap. "They think she's gone barmy."

"Who wouldn't, after seeing that?" Molly's eyes suddenly steel over with rage. "Who did this? Who the fuck did this? I'm going to tear them to bloody pieces."

"They don't know." I murmur, wiping away a tear of my own with my left hand. "They suspect it may have been a member of the Newborn Gang in Seattle."

"Why did attack them? Charlie's brought down plenty of other gangs! The La Push Guardians, the Ancients, from Italy, and countless others. He's a world-renowned gang catcher. It's what he does-" She pauses to swallow. "Did best."

"I don't know Molly." I pull at my hair, grasping the roots. "Oh, God."

"How will we tell William? He had the largest crush on Bella." Molly shakes her head.

We look at each other. And that, I think, is when it really hit us, the full implications of the situation.

We both break into sobs, mine quiet and partially reserved, Molly's heavy and tearing.

We didn't know how long it would take for the town to recover from this. Charlie and his wife were greatly loved.

The even greater question was this, however.

What impressions would this leave on fifteen-year-old Bella?

Okay, so that's chapter one. Hallelujah and all that jazz. So, review, if you think Edward is yummy, or an aggravatingly self-pitying pubescent, Bella is a heroine of perfection, or an intolerable whining brat.

Honestly, I cam work with it either way. I'm just trying to encompass every twilight fan. Especially those who only read the books for the villains. I know that's what I felt like, after reading the series for the fourth time …. (I think Laurent is yummy…)

So, anyways, review, please. The more reviews, the faster the chapters come.