A/N: Hello to anyone who stumbles upon this for their first time. I've decided to post this here as a disclaimer and a welcome/warning to any who are interested in this wacky fan fiction of mine. First and foremost, it was my first, so it's pretty choppy and rough in a lot of areas. I'll admit that now, and I realize that may turn off new readers, but I wanted to be honest. It's not a perfect story. Far from it. :P It was, however, a learning experience for me as a writer, and I'd like to think that my work has improved a great deal since I finished this very long tale.

I'll say this now: there's a lot of filler, a lot of fluff and, despite being rated M in the past, there is no sex scene involved. Many readers were disappointed, but I didn't want to rush into that sort of thing for a first story. Regardless. Many have enjoyed it despite it's flaws, and I'm grateful to them for it. So if you're here for the first time, I'm happy to have you and I hope you enjoy what you read. If not, that's perfectly fine. There are many other great Bellice stories out there.

So without further ado (and please ignore my dumb author's notes, I don't know what I was doing with those aside from being random), I give you my first ever written fan fiction (Twilight, romance, femslash and finished work). Enjoy.

One last thing: Stephenie Meyer owns Twilight and all its characters. I own my characters and my ideas only.

Prologue: Hopeless

I don't remember how long I've been running for. If I thought on it, I probably could, but I can't. I can't think. I don't have time to think. I just have to keep moving. Even though I know it's hopeless. It won't matter how far I go. The hunters will catch me. They always do.

No matter what I do or where I go, I always fail. I'm not fast enough. I'm not strong enough. I cannot win, yet I still keep trying.

Why? Why do I drive myself knowing there is no hope? I don't understand it. Every time I try to stop, my heart aches. It isn't a physical ache, but a mental, emotional one. I feel like my heart is telling me that I haven't reached my destination, even though I've been on the move for months.

Each time I sleep—sometimes it's at night, sometimes by day, I don't sleep for very long—I have the same dream. The dream is of me running, of course, but it isn't me running away from anything. No. I'm running towards something. I'm running towards a voice calling my name, telling me that I'm almost there. The voice is musical and full of love and hope, calling to me.

Sometimes I think my subconscious is mocking me.

Still. Maybe I'm suicidal. Maybe I'm just stupid. But deep down, somewhere, there is a part of me that believes me heart is pulling me to the owner of that heavenly voice, which my subconscious has labeled my savior. I don't believe it. I can't be saved. I'm doomed to die one way or the other.

As I race against time, my mind swarms with questions that may never be answered, dreams that have been thrown into the wind and worries about the things to come.

I do not know what lies ahead for me. I dare not try to hope for the best, knowing that hoping will only bring disappointment and the reality of my situation crashing down on me. So what can I do, if not hope? I don't know.

I do, however, know one thing.

There is no hope for Isabella Marie Swan.