Disclaimer: Stephenie Meyer owns Twilight.

Warning: bad language, sexual references, and underage drinking.

Please take the warning seriously. This story is almost a world away from the usual stories I post on here. I wasn't even going to put it up but it's been niggling at me ever since I started writing it. Let me know what you think and whether you want to read more :)

Inspiration: Pretty Girl (The Way) by Sugarcult

About three things I was absolutely positive. First, this cheap vodka tasted like paint stripper. Second, there was part of me — and I didn't know how potent that part might be — that wanted to give up on life. And third, I was unconditionally and irrevocably fucked.

That's some poetic English right there, Mr R would be proud. I hated that.

Something that I didn't hate: black coffee. I like black coffee. It's the colour of my eyes, the tone of my hair, and the best remedy for a hangover. It would be needed after this bender. The fact I'm underage doesn't mean a thing.

The near empty vodka bottle swung from my hand as I wobbled off my IKEA bed and made my way across the pitted wooden floors. One day, far in the past, those floors would have been a real feature for this apartment. Now, after too many parties, they were ruined. Their honey toned surface was all scratched and dimpled with the impressions of stiletto heels, stained by unknown substances that I hadn't cared enough to clean up. Those floors were a bit like me. I used to be quite the feature of my family, but too many parties later and I'm the cast out daughter living in the bottom flat of a dodgy old house in an even dodgier area.

Isn't life swell. I thought sardonically.

'Sardonically' that's a posh word, a by-product of my private school, suburban London, childhood. I learnt that word from him. My English teacher, otherwise referred to as Mr R. He used to walk down through the common room in his crisp white shirt, tight black trousers, and day old stubble. He was God to every girl in there. Except the lesbians that sat in the dark corner near the computers. Me and my—is friends the right word?—'friends' used to call him Willoughby, like that guy from Sense and Sensibility. He had the whole dark, wavy hair, and brown brooding, seductive eyes thing going on. They worked really well. As in so well he seduced me to the point that I was under his desk unzipping those tight trousers within moments of entering his classroom for detention. The detention he placed me in. The sly bastard. He liked the whole naughty school girl thing. So each week my skirts got shorter and my number of detentions rose. It was months of screwing around before anyone found out. My 'friends' soon turned on me. And voila, after a shit load of, well, shit. I sit here, expelled and ashamed with his stench all over me. No number of showers could get me clean.

I could have stopped it all. I could have said no to teacher. But he was so persuasive, so nice. Of course I've learnt now: what guy isn't nice to you when you've got his junk in your mouth and his balls in your hand.

As nice as he was at times, there were times he wasn't so nice. Times when I would want a little more than he was willing to give. See, I didn't realise it was only sex to him. Like all fifteen-year-olds I thought he actually liked me because he liked my kisses and gave me touches. Even when he called me a dumb bitch and shoved me away, I thought it was my fault, that somehow I'd angered him. It only got worse when everything was revealed. I was imagining freedom, a new life with him. Instead I got diddly squat. Except maybe more abuse, more apologies. In the end I ran off, aged just sixteen. I packed my bag and left. Haven't heard from him or my family since, and I'm glad for it.

The doorbell rings and I hurl the now empty vodka bottle in the overflowing bin. The doorbell rarely rings. I have no friends. Don't trust them not to stab me in the back like last time. I do however have people to party with—people to come round, fill my crappy apartment with music and smoke, drink themselves silly, and then bugger off home in the morning.

I burped before I wrenched the door open, revealing a postman with a parcel. He's tall, a few inches above my 5ft 10.

"Delivery for Miss Crowe." He offers me the rectangular package, but I don't take it. Instead I stare at him as if he has two heads, which to me is pretty much true. I hate being so wasted you see double.

I waver, clutching the door for a moment as I take in the guy's uniform. He looks official enough, although I don't like that judgement written on his face or the way his eyes wandered down to my breasts. If I want to wear a thin white vest then I will, doesn't give dicks the right to ogle. Even pretty dicks like this one.

"What the fuck do you want?" I spit and his green eyes look startled. He rattles something in his hands, oh right the parcel.

"Are you Miss Crowe?" he stutters, and I roll my eyes as I snatch the parcel from him. He tugs at his brown hair.

"Do I have to sign something?" he shakes his head in reply, so I shut the door in his face. The less time I spend with people the better.

When did I order something? I wonder as I rip through the brown paper. Rarely, was the answer, since my apartment alone has so few objects in it I could probably count them on my fingers. I didn't even contemplate that someone would buy me anything. I had no one who would even think about it. I doubt my work colleagues even knew where I lived. A bar isn't really the kind of place conducive for conversation.

As the paper falls away onto my floor I kick it across to where the bin is and stare at the box in my hands. It's long and thin. I give it a rattle and it sounds like it's holding pill packets, several of them. I flip off the lid and stare in at three rows of pills lined up in monthly cycles.

Since when did I start taking meds?

I take out the piece of paper lying there. All that wrapping for a lonely piece of paper and some pills. They blame cars for global warming, but it's that ridiculous packaging style right there that's killing this planet.

I snort as I flip the paper over, looking for some indication as to who had sent me the piece of crap. There was nothing but a set of instructions and a thick looking 'risks and symptoms' booklet.

I read the words that stand out. The name of the pills: Risperdal (antipsychotic)

To be taken once a day on a monthly cycle.

Side effects:

Drowsiness

Dizziness when changing positions

Blurred vision

Rapid heartbeat

Sensitivity to the sun

Skin rashes

Are you fucking with me? I scoff. What kind of messed up shit is this?

I examine the signature on the paper, running my fingers over the surface, but all I can feel is the slight imprint where the pen had hit the paper. It's pretty much just a scribble, something that looks like giant 'e' or possibly a really curly 'c'.

I even tried giving the thing a lick to see if that would reveal some information but all it did was remind me that I hadn't eaten today. It's amazing how alcohol can numb your appetite.

I wander over to the small kitchenette area and yank open one of the two cupboard doors. There's only a box of old cereal and a packet of digestives—because you have to have something to dunk in your coffee—so I take the cereal and trundle to the battered mattress on my bed. I don't have any milk, or proper bowls, so eating it dry from the box will have to do.

I thumb the box of meds again before I throw it on the floor and flick on the TV. The docs probably just sent it to the wrong person.

My eyes register the images on screen.

Twilight, my mind growls as an interviewer talks to the two leads. The guy is a girl's wet dream, but the girl looks like someone's stuck a finger up her arse. I'd probably look like her too if I had to work on that piece of shit. Practically the whole female population at my old school had obsessed over the book. Of course I was too busy sleeping with the teacher to really get into it. Then when the teacher fucking was finished I wasn't exactly in the mindset to read about some insipid girl falling for a fairy masquerading as a vampire. Unfortunately, there was only so much I could avoid by living in my hole. I know the basics of the story because you can't walk around London without having Twilight bombarding your eyes.

I snapped the TV onto a different channel and smiled as I watched One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest. That was a story, not one of these melodramatic romance pieces that were so sweet is made sugar seem sour.

Hours passed. It didn't take long for the alcohol to wear off, and I was left sleepy and achy as I stumbled to the bathroom. I had to clean my teeth, get the acrid taste of stale booze off my tongue, it would just be worse in the morning.

Once I was done I dived onto my bed, snatched the box of pills off the floor and smirked as I reread the medication instructions.

It was probably some mistake made with the address. I'd never touched pills, didn't like the powdery texture and the whole unknown thing that came with taking them. Plus I was pretty sure antipsychotics were for crazy people, and I wasn't crazy.

"We've had enough, Ilsa! Your mother and I can't cope with this anymore. Not if you're set on continuing this behaviour!"

I watched with blurry drunk eyes as my father turned red in the face, that vein in his temple pulsing. One of these days he's going to have a heart attack. I should be worried about that, but we've drifted too far apart for me to care.

"You say you don't care, baby, but we care. We're so close to losing you. Sometimes it's like you're already gone. You could have died tonight, Ilsa Baby. And I don't think I could face..." Mother stops short of finishing. I should care that I've hurt her but I can't find it in me to follow convention. I'm numb, or maybe I'm just all too aware of how she dismissed me when I tried to talk to her about Mr R. He was what had lead to the crash that happened tonight. He made me do it. He forced me to run, to try and escape this hell.

"We've decided, Ilsa. You're going. Tonight. You're leaving,"Dad orders.

I can't remember protesting, I mustn't have done because I'm not sitting at home anymore, instead I'm walking with my bag in my hand and my eyes on a polished grey floor. With each step I become aware of the people building in number around me, the hustle and bustle, and the electronic flight calls echoing around me.

I lift my eyes and see a pair of black shoes. They lead on to navy trousers and further up to a navy jacket. It's all blurry but I can hear my name being called and it sounds like it's coming from this navy figure. It's him I'm meant to go with, somehow I just know.

We walk and as we do we are transported seamlessly into a car that's driving quickly on a tarmac road, splashing up mist from the rain covered road. Trees line either side, more trees than I've ever seen and through them I see something. It's a streak of colour, fleeting and blurred but it's there for a moment before a voice murmurs my name and my attention is distracted, drawn to a little white house.

I look down at my suitcase which has appeared at my side now that I'm standing. Or now that I've found myself to be standing. Each phase is disconnected but somehow seems to flow effortlessly, like a treadmill of moments.

As I stare at the suitcase I know my life is within it, every memory, achievement, relationship, and enemy. I can't help but think that really there's not much there. A whole life in a suitcase and yet there's not much to show for it.

My vision darkens as I continue to focus on the suitcase, the realisation sinking deep as a sleeping mind awakens, or a different conscience is put to bed. Either way I'm here and not there, whether that place may be.

I stretched my body out, my mind clearing from what seemed like a distant thought or possibly a whole string of consciousness that had just been cut short. Either way it felt like I hadn't slept all night, like my mind had been working overtime.

I snuggle back into my bed and try to forget about the alertness in my mind.

"Ilsa, breakfast's ready!" I froze at the sound of a man's gruff voice ringing through my apartment. My heart rate picked up a notch as I heard footsteps coming across the next room and towards my bed.

I peeked out from under my covers just as the door swung open and a man with brown hair and an empty vodka bottle stood in front of me. I recognised the vodka bottle. I didn't recognise the man. And I certainly didn't see why he was looking at with such disappointment, such anger. Then again by the look of the official uniform it's possible he's come to arrest me for underage drinking. Then again I didn't think they did house arrests for that kind of thing...

"Ilsa, you have to get up, you have somewhere to be. And this—" he pointed to the bottle "—this has to stop. You're life is changing, Miss Crowe, whether you like it or not." The malice was surprising if not scary. It didn't sound right on his tongue, as if he wasn't one for such strong words, if any at all.

I shook as he stared at me. He couldn't be real. I had to still be dreaming I thought as I ducked under the covers, my body shaking.

I didn't know him, I had never met him, and I didn't understand.

As each footstep sounded towards my bed I felt my breath hitch and my palms begin to sweat.

The covers started to shift and I gripped tightly as the sensation moved closer to the top.

I whimpered until the touch reached my shoulder.

"Get off me!" I screeched, throwing the covers off me to see that the man was gone, out of sight. Even the footsteps I thought to be his were in fact the noises of the people upstairs.

"It was just a dream you silly mare. Still dozing," I muttered as I lifted myself to sit up in bed, the world swaying a bit. "Maybe still drunk too."

With stiff joints I moved to the bathroom, pulling the light chain to make the fluorescent bulb flicker to life over the mirror.

Without properly looking in the mirror I leant over the sink and ran the cold water, splashing it on my face. Some people found warm water the best way to wake them up, but for me it was the sharp thwack of the cold against my heated skin. As I raised my head to wipe the smudged mascara from my face I noticed the pill box in the bin beside the sink.

That wasn't where I left you... I pondered as I picked up the box and peered inside. Half the pills were missing, the latest gap dating back to a couple days ago. I wandered back into my bedroom and picked up the new pill box from the floor where I'd left it last night. They were identical if you ignored the wear and tear on the opening of the old box.

Maybe someone left them after that party. They can't be mine. I'd remember something like this. Antipsychotics are for crazy people. I'm not crazy. I snorted and moved to throw the boxes in the bin in the bathroom before starting the shower running, as hot as it'll go.

The steam starts to build in the bathroom while I straighten out my bed covers. The sheet below needed washing and the pillows were still crumpled but at least that was all hidden away under the cover. All normal on the surface when there was chaos below.

I grab a towel from the cupboard in the bathroom and hang it over the bathroom door before easing myself into the shower. The water hits my skin like a wave washing over me. The heat seeps down into my bones, warming me through, awakening my senses to the slight burning sensation which makes my skin turn a rosy shade of pink. I wet my hair and play with the ends as it looks almost black against my skin. I follow the routine of lather rinse repeat until I'm squeaky clean.

You'll never be clean. Always dirty, tainted, ruined...I frown at my inner thoughts, the whispers that taunt me so often. With them comes that male voice, You're life is changing, Miss Bell, whether you like it or not. I was certain he was just a figment of my imagination, just like all the others had been. The spiteful voices that used to spit insults at me. Yet he had seemed so real, or at least his words at hit harder than the whispers ever had. I couldn't understand why but part of me thought maybe it was because he had said what was always buried deep in my mind. My life had to change, it couldn't stay this way, yet I couldn't find the motivation in me to make it change. I just stayed locked in this state of mind because it was comfortable, easy even in all it's misery.

With a sigh I turn my face to the water and close my eyes against the flow before turning the water off.

I opened my eyes and frowned as I looked at the view in front of me. There's no more grimy grey tile, instead it's pearly white and there's a bottle of men's shower gel beside me on a little shelf.

I peered out of the shower, grabbing the now blue towel from the hook on the door rather than the white towel I had flung over the door before. My fingers fumbled with the extra soft fabric, I didn't own towels like these. This wasn't my house.

I blinked hard, expecting it to be a strange daydream like the man had been but when I reopened them I was still there, in that strange bathroom with the strange towel.

I stepped out of the shower and wrapped the towel around me tightly. All the while my heart beat pounded against my chest.

"This is fucked up. Seriously fucked up." I mumbled as I studied the room around me. I don't want to leave because God knows what was on the other side of the door.

A knock sounds against the wooden door and I stare at it with wide eyes as I clutch the towel tighter.

"Ilsa?" a cautious voice mumbled through the door and I think automatically of the gruff brown haired man from earlier.

"Ilsa, I'm off to work soon and, uh, I just wanted to make sure you're OK. You've been in there a while." Silence as I continued to stand there in shock.

"Ilsa, I know you're probably mad, about earlier, I didn't mean to...to be so angry. Especially since we've only just met. So, anyway, I'm, uh, I'm sorry." He mumbled. There was more quiet before he called my name again, a little panic rising in his mellow voice.

To my horror the door handle rattled as he called again and I leapt forward, bracing myself against the door. "I'm fine. Just go away. OK? Just go to work, or leave, or, you know, just go." I scrabbled with the words just like I did with the towel. It's hard trying to keep a towel in place and stop a crazy figment of your imagination from barging in and seeing you half dressed.

"Right, course, well, I'll, uh, see you later." There was a pause and I waited to hear the footsteps.

"I really am sorry, Ilsa," he said quietly and for some reason I feel like opening the door to properly see the man who seemed so concerned about me. He was a stranger, a weird hallucination, yet I felt like I knew him or at least recognised some part of him.

The footsteps I'd been waiting for finally disappeared down the stairs and I stood with baited breath until the front door banged shut.

I walked to mirror and swiped across it to clear the steam, but as my hand passed over the surface and wiped away the fog the room around me wiped away too. It revealed my same old bathroom, and me standing in my same old towel.

I stood there for a moment, my expression frozen in shock as I stared at my reflection.

My eyes seemed glassy and my skin paler than usual from the sick confusion brewing inside. Something was wrong, so very very wrong.