Growing up my family has had a consist love of 1970's chevy trucks. Before I popped up they were the babies of the family, one indulgence my parents were more than happy to splurge on. My mother's current mode of transport was a 1970 Chevy CST/ 10 pickup and I must admit nothing beats a Swan family road trip to where ever she feels like in the moment. Whether that be the furthest beach she can find from this dreary town or an unforeseen concert that we just have to experience. They represent Swans better than anything other symbol, sturdy, resilient and above all loyal. I guess this confirms I'm a traitor to my name. A strong, loving name I don't deserve to carry. Nowadays names still hold a heavy impression in a first meeting, much like your appearance. If you're a descendant of a seasoned name you're automatically gifted a respect that others would have to gain through years of strenuous graft. There's no time to dwell on that sudden realisation as the boisterous truck alerts the car lot full of gossip hungry students to my unruly arrival.

Everyone bares witness as Swan clumsily manoeuvres her elderly truck into the lonely space reserved for Fork's resident reject. The parking space couldn't of benefitted me further. It defends Mom's truck from the unpredictable weather under shelter from the towering sky high trees and located at the closest exit from the lot it serves for a clean get away. By now I'm certain the devils are aware of my entry into their domain. As soon as I ventured across the safety of the border I entered their territory. Now vulnerable to their strikes my walls return to their rightful place caging me from the fierce outside world. My senses are on overdrive, I've got to keep my wits about me, one slip is all it takes to amp up my inevitable onslaught. I'm all but drowning in the suspense, I know they adore holding this power over my head. In the past I've spent countless hours and unimaginable minutes stuck on why they would want to treat another human being like this. The answer: there is not a plausible warrant I can even comprehend. Call me close minded yet I can't muse an upbringing where their actions are considered acceptable in any way, shape or form.

From what I hear they live extremely comfortable lives. All adopted by Mr and Mrs Cullen, a wealthy surgen who's renowned for his professionalism and grace, and his stay at home wife Esme, a force to be reckoned with when hosting a charity gala. Esme had invited my parents and I previously to one of her legendary princess gown and monkey suit events. However having to conversate with pretentious arrogant philanthropists who believe the people whose lives were saved with their undeserved money should kiss the ground they walk on, did not sit well with any of us. We politely declined stating that we had a prior engagement involving a roaring campfire and endless amounts of reminiscing about the unforgettable adventures we'd been on. Soon after we were greeted with an increased quantity of inquisitive stares, I imagine the population of Forks didn't take too kindly to the new folks denying the notorious Cullens their every wish.

Abruptly the atmosphere evolves into a sense of deadly expectation with a whisper of fearful exhilaration for the events about to unfold. Footsteps with such synchronisation they would rival a highly disciplined marching army, stride in my unfortunate direction. All hope for a reasonable last few days of existence is diminished in this very second. Without a shadow of a doubt I trust the brutes have chosen today's itinerary of which venomous deeds they will force me to bear. I'm aware that I say I have chosen to take my life however is it really a choice if there aren't any other available options?

"Only two minutes to first bell Swan, you're late." I keep my surprise at being knocked out of my hazy daydream hidden. It's at this moment that prying herd of eager students ,keen to get the first scoop of what the freak is going to be put through today, make themselves known. I reason that each show needs its audience. The golden haired she devil takes the initiative to begin today's assassination of any existing optimism. "Oh don't be too hard on her. The brainless bitch probably chained herself to some tree in a protest and couldn't escape." Her derogatory words are rewarded with a wave of snide giggles then hushed laughter as a new attacker proceeds to belittle me. "Well Rose, we all know that chaining herself to a living thing is the only way she could get it to stick around." A chorus of loud obnoxious snorts echo around the packed car lot in reply.

Even from the beginning of my torment I always wondered how such cruel, harsh words could surge from such devastatingly handsome beings. It is just wrong to vandalise their external ethereal beauty with the rage that obviously boiled inside. I can only compare it to angels doing the work of the devil. Their magnificence out shown by the underlying evil from within.

My mind endeavours to ignore their childish insults, at least until I can wallow in solitude and isolation without a single witness to my pitiful misery. On the other hand my body betrays me instantaneously. It welcomes defeat in the form of sinking shoulders no physical defence left to demolish, head tilted toward the dull ground and thick curtains of hair cover my pathetic face in a bid to conceal the building up of my useless tears. They knew I cried, I'm not sure if I should be pleased or angered that my tear streaked face made no difference to further nor end their tirades. "I don't know Edward with all that hippie shit she practices, who knows, she may have some kind of curse that forces people to stay around her." As I formerly mentioned the Cullens although witty and charming weren't the sharpest tools in the box. Though that doesn't mean it pains me any less. It's saddening that all Alice's endless enthusiasm and energy are used as weapons rather than for something with a more positive effect.

"Makes sense why the maggot's insane parents stick around!" Words like those only reinforced the harmful doubts that are already infecting my poisoned brain. A negative mind will never give a positive life, a statement I try to uphold, however it is easier said than done. Well now they've all said their piece hopefully they'll retain the rest of their barbaric entertainment for later. Ideally when I've had a chance to liberate the crippling emotions that wound me from the inside.

As per usual the Cullens are flanked by their wannabe second in command, Lauren Mallory and Jessica Stanley. Strangely enough I felt no ill will toward these girls, they are succumbing to the natural human urge to be accepted. They had actually been surprisingly welcoming during my first few hours at Forks High, of course that was before I was deemed unworthy of any respect. The Cullens didn't have to beg for attention or the admiration people seemed to ooze in their presence. They know their value and so does anyone who has come into contact with them. Not just anyone could afford the luxury of their company which meant everyone craved it. This partly why I don't hold the other students liable for what they do, they can either conform to the Cullens or become a misfit in the public eye. Rejection is one of the biggest (if not the biggest) fear as humans we have. Facing rejection from loved ones, society or even our own minds. If we don't mirror the image we create of how one should behave, dress, speak or feel we reject any hope of having a future until it is corrected.

I see Rosalie go to take an additional stab at me, her petite mouth curved into a sinister smirk with her painted lips slighty parted making way for another offensive comment her despicable mind generated. If I only had one opportunity to speak as an equal with Rosalie I would say 'Be sure to taste your words before you spit them at me'. Not that I believe it may make a difference. She is the epitome of confidence, when she struts into a room she demands attention, it's impossible not to be spellbound by her splendour. She is set in her stubborn ways and to modify them would be no task for the fainthearted.

My luck takes a turn for the best as I'm saved by the screeching ring of the historic school bell. My relief is shortlived, Rosalie will not be pleased her mocking of me was interupted, furthermore this means she will proceed to invent an even more ghastly punishment as a result. This seems like a reoccurring theme nowadays my happiness being momentary. As though they rehearsed it, the Culllens all pivot in perfect formation on the heels of no doubt designer shoes and what can only be described as catwalk over to the worn out entrance of the school, fracturing the border of disappointed spectators as they go. The crowd left hungry for more drama swiftly disperses, trailing in the wake of their leaders.

I debate whether to retreat into the security of the tempting truck. It's unique alluring aroma of Mom's homemade rose petal perfume exquisitely blended with Dad's musky oak wood scent are almost enough to brainwash me into thinking it would be a fine solution to cower in the backseat all day. I used to pride myself on my independence, now look at me, I can't even make it through one day of school without mewling like an abandoned kitten. My Dad always had this talent of being able to match a person's personality with that of an animal. My Mom apparently had a spirit of an excitable squirrel. She had a need to prepare for all uncertain events, she was nimble, agile and equipped to make friends at any time. The exact opposite of Dad. As for me I was likened to a wolf cub. Thrived in a pack of close trusted loved ones, not quite ready to leave the den and sometimes overestimates her strength by taking on more than she can chew. Of course that rings true now more than ever.

With that in mind I force back the enticing image of being curled up in the plush backseat blankets and instead make my way into the building of my nightmares. Someone up there may be looking out for me, the Culllens and I didn't have a single class together other than gym which regularly skipped out on with the approval of my parents who didn't find it a necessity (especially my Mother). I assume that all my test scores are reiterated back to them if they are running low on reasons to fuel their hatred.

As much as I'd like to spend my last few days on earth not giving a damn what the Cullens do to me, I can't. My brain seems to be rewired to try and calculate their next steps, where I can stow away at lunch to avoid an unfortunate run in or what lesson they have last so a can estimate how much time I have for a getaway. My wellbeing now revolves around the emotions and whereabouts of five different people who utterly detest me. My good days and bad days are centred and rely on whether my tormentors have discovered anymore justification to why I don't deserve to be on this planet and in their almighty presence.

It's a depressing day when you come to the realisation that you'd rather surrender the company of your loved ones forever than suffer through another day with the people whose ambitions are to make your life a living hell