A/N: I have continued to change this prologue, I'm not entirely sure why, but you don't need to worry because the general gist of it is still there. Lia, (the OC in this story) has a very tough point of view, which is often difficult to read and almost confusing. This is done on purpose, excuse the horrible lack of punctuation. I warn you, I am diverging into a topic that is not pretty, and will turn a lot of readers off. Truly, I'm amazed at the amount of positive responses I've gotten while writing about such an unpopular type of pairing, on top of such a dark theme.

Disclaimer: Stephenie Meyer is the rightful owner of Twilight and it's characters.


"Well liars they leave a guilty trail.
Well let me tell you, I've been lying for fucking years.
Disregarding that I've created these monsters
that are on both of my sides, So I wipe the blood from both of their eyes."

-Weight of the World, Blue October

She left. There was no getting around to it. Nothing I could do.

But there was one thing I was sure of - I would never let myself get the way I had been when I left her. As much as it would hurt, I wouldn't let myself wallow in my misery; I wouldn't drag my family down with me.

Jasper knew, of course he did, that my facade was just that, a facade. Even the greatest liars couldn't lie to themselves. He understood Bella was – is - my everything. And the pain of her leaving me was excruciating, threatening to swallow me whole. I could ignore it, doesn't mean I couldn't feel it. And, God. How I felt it. It was in every step, every fake smile, every word. It wrapped around me, suffocating me from the inside. I was sure that soon enough I was going to buckle from the pain. There was only so much one could feel. And it was only a matter of time before I completely broke down. Not today, Edward, not to your family.

My family were the only thing that kept me going. I would have gone to Italy long before now where it not for them. I always knew she would leave me. I had thought I prepared myself enough. I never though it would hurt like this. I had never felt so alone, so truly alone. An unwanted creature, I would roam my entire existence, alone. He promised her the world, whereas I could promise her nothing. A dead heart wasn't enough. And it shouldn't have been, because she deserved everything and more. Bella, Bella, Bella…the most beautiful thing on the universe, her name describing her perfectly. But I wasn't perfect, I was a jealous, selfish, fool.

If only he were someone, anyone else, besides that dirty, immature, mongrel.

"Edward?"

It was Alice, her thoughts soft, caring. Infuriating. She, along with everyone else besides Rosalie, was treading on ice with me lately. They were careful not to "upset me" as they tried their best to hide in their thoughts. Such wasted efforts. I knew they were only trying to help; they loved me, after all.

"Your helping Carlisle today at The Center in Edmonds, remember?"

How could I forget being around a passel of humans with mental problems. I truly was a masochist. The center was called "A Place of Hope", but I don't think I've ever been anywhere more depressing. A graveyard seemed like a sunny day at the beach compared to that institution. Filled with thoughts of hopelessness, it was just the kind of place someone like me would belong.

With a slight sigh, I grabbed the keys to my Volvo and prepared for my ten-minute drive up to the gates of hell

"It really is a good thing you're helping those poor girls. "I'm so proud of you." Esme beamed at me from the doorway, cautionary warm smile in place.

"Yeah, I'm glad you decided to go," Alice spoke tentatively, but with a genuine smile nonetheless. There are so many people you can help, just think of how good you'll feel when you know you're changing someone's life for the better, someone in particular.

A low growl was the only warning, she dropped it. I turned towards Esme. I knew she was worried.

With a shrug and an awkward smile forming on my mouth, I muttered, "Thanks, mom. I could fake it for her. If for anyone, I could fake it for my dear mother, Esme.

The drive was unsurprisingly short, and in a few minutes I was standing in front of A Place of Hope itself. I snickered, thinking of how Jasper couldn't step two feet toward this building—the depression and suicidal thoughts oozed throughout. The emotions were so anguished I could feel them. I felt pity for Carlisle, pity for him thinking he could ever help these people. These people were beyond help. He didn't hear their thoughts, couldn't see the pain behind their existence.

Dozens of thoughts screamed into my ears, only one meaning; pain.

I need my fix, I need it now. No you don't, yes you do, you'll die... just this once, no more, you can't even if you wanted to, you can check out if you want, you can go get your fix right now, you're of age, you can leave, you won't die, you need this, you'll die without it.

Things would be so much better if you were dead, and you know it. Your family doesn't love you-never did-can you even remember the last time they visited? Take them out of their misery. It's not like anyone would miss you.

They're stuffing me like a turkey for thanksgiving, no amount of exercise will take away my thighs. Gross ugly, fat bitch.

Nothing works…nothingeverworks…they can't see anymore, they don't know what it feels like.

I grimaced at their thoughts, their laments reflecting my despair. I belonged here. A lost soul searching for death, weary of the trials life had put before me.


Mommy had tried to fix this before, she really had. Or maybe she didn't. She took me to the doctors, experiment at will, she said. The therapist told me there was a little demon in my head, a worm trying to eat my brain cells. A little devil that told me I wasn't skinny enough, or good enough, or pretty enough, or smart enough. She told me that this little demon was lying and that there was nothing wrong with me.

But she had no idea.

It was because I was what they called a "perfectionist." I woke up at 5:30 every morning, did 400 crunches, 60 minutes of cardio, and then took a shower. I ate 150 calories before I went to school. I ate another 150 calories before my ballet classes, starting at 3:00 sharp. At 6:00 p.m, rehearsals started until 8:00, dinner was 100 calories in the dining hall, followed by bed time.

In=450 calories Out=2,300

I loved numbers. I loved the control they gave me. My schedule was important because if my schedule got messed up then I freaked out. I freaked out because my control was gone. Did they not understand? Did they not see? I needed this. This was all I had.

They would always ask me "why?" they would always wonder why I didn't just stop. Problem was that I couldn't and I didn't even want to. But I never answered, I just shrugged or ignored them but I never told them the truth. I didn't tell them that I couldn't because I felt like digging into my bone marrow and scraping off the excess so that I could get thinner, that I wanted to cut out all my fat and my heart and my lungs so that maybe I could wake up from this nightmare. I didn't tell them that for just once, I wished I could go to bed without hearing voices in my head, screaming that I was ugly and weak and fat and stupid and a bitch and a whore, pounding over and over again.

I forgot to eat because it helped, for a little while. It made something count, it made something mine. Daddy had wanted a rocket scientist, not a dancer. Mommy wanted me to be pretty and fit. Aunt Rose wanted me to work harder so that I could follow in her family ruled my thoughts, my actions, my knowledge and my appearance. But I controlled my body.

I put what I want in it, or what I didn't want in it. And no one could take that away from me, not the doctors or the nurses or the therapists or my family. It was mine, the only thing that was mine. I went all the way down... down, down, down. Tiny paper doll, made of bones and skin and 89 pounds that weighed too much. But no one else saw that, no one else saw the fat and the grease and the disgusting. They saw a bone frame wired on porcelain skin, daylight shining through the space between her thighs.

Anorexia was an ugly word for someone with ugly insides. It was a word that meant selfish and cruel and stupid. It was a word that didn't scare me because that wasn't me. I wasn't thin enough to be anorexic.


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