Hey guys, it's your friendly neighborhood Macho Man! This story is being rewritten. If this is the first time you are opening this story to this particular message, then you haven't read the old chapters, and may disregard this message for the most part. For those of you who have read the old chapters, I have so far received positive feedback upon using these new ones verses the old ones. The chapters have pretty much the main same ideas to them but try not to skim through, though. The chapters are much more detailed, containing even more wonderfully confusing aspects of the "mystery" surrounding Bella.

I would like to add a DISCLAIMER (this is exiting; I've never actually made one before but feel that it's needed).

DISCLAIMER: I know very little to absolutely nothing about criminals and weapons and killing and stuff like that. What is written pertaining to the subject is either an educated fictional guess on my part, absolutely false, googled, or not included. If you are a criminal mastermind or mafia/gang leader (…..) and the facts bother you or offend you in any way, please (don't hunt me down and hurt me first off…) PM me or something and you can inform me on the ways of the truly criminally insane. Also, I am not Stephenie Meyer, the author of Twilight. Nor do I have her fascination for the word "inconspicuously". ;)

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"To perceive is to suffer." ~Aristotle

Many people have spent their whole lives contemplating the concept of death. Some have even gone as far as to appoint numerous deities of various sensibilities depicting their elusive fixation. The Grim Reaper, Angels of Death, ghosts, animals imbued in heaps of personification, and even sketchy prophecies predicting the twilight of one's time are all prime examples of humanity's vain efforts of shedding light on the unknown frontier. The ironic fact is, these people waste their own lives chasing after a notion that if unraveled would do little more than quell their cowardice of leaving the world they hold dear and the fear of being left existing as little more than a rotting carcass under the feet of disregarding generations.

No one wants to be forgotten.

I stare in the face of death almost daily. So much so, it has ceased to be a novelty for me years ago--back when the only villains in a child's life should have been words on a printed page, able to be confined tightly within the inescapable covers of a storybook. However, every time, I couldn't help but wonder at how easily the string of life could be cut short; how fragile a human life truly is. At times, it still frightens me the sheer amount of power that one being can hold over another.

My eyes were hazed with adrenaline, my body pounded with the all-too-familiar rush before the kill. Those who crossed my path rarely made it out alive, mostly because those who did were lowlifes worse than I was. They deserved termination. Blood boiled through my veins, both spurring me on and reminding me of my own vulnerabilities.

I was backed against a building's wall in a stereotypical dark alley with five men stalking towards me. All of them were at least twice my size, I estimated. One had the silhouette of a gun strapped to his midsection. The one in front was huge--obviously all muscle, strutting forward with malicious intent evident in each step. There was a scrawny guy to his left lithely tagging along. The last two in the back were of similar statures and possibly armed. I braced myself.

"Hello gentlemen, might I ask what brings you to this part of Bronx at this late hour?" I asked in an uncharacteristically confident voice. I was in full work mode, no longer myself.

"We could ask you the same thing," the big guy leered, "bad things happen to little ladies like yourself 'round here." His buddies chortled in agreement. I smirked. The night was dark, but the hearts the people in the alley were impossibly darker.

"Whatever do you mean?" My voice rose up a few octaves sarcastically. They laughed again. Each mind was stringing together wicked imaginings. I could almost feel the emotional tension within our posse. Perhaps someone was thinking what he'd to with me, another plotting the best way to kill his way to the top, yet another suspicious of why that prostitute always leaves behind a single wilted rose petal. When the water is murky, there is no way to tell what lies beneath the surface.

"Alright, here's the deal. Come quietly, it won't be too bad," he cooed, amused.

"If I refuse…" I kept up my innocent façade, knowing they were in too deep to notice.

"Well, more fun for us then. Your loss, little lady," I could just make out his wink in the darkness. I sighed in faux exasperation and pretended to examine my nails.

"Well, I'm going to have to refuse on both your proposals, although they are tempting," I smiled as the guy signaled to the scrawny henchman on his left with the twitch of a finger. They were so predictable.

The scrawny guy rushed at me and at the last minute I raised a fist to collide with his face. I heard the satisfying crunch just before he kneeled over in pain. Immediately the one with the gun took it out and aimed at me. This was too easy. I raised my arms in mock defeat.

"Now then, let's all play nice here," the boss's voice oozed with malice.

"I don't play nice," I growled menacingly. As I recognized the signal to fire, I grabbed Scrawny from beside me and threw him in my place just as the gun shot rang out. I heard the wet sound of impact and the thud of a limp body falling to the ground. I deftly slipped a knife from my belt and threw it with extreme concentration at the gunman's hand before the attackers managed to process what had occurred. My aim rang true and met its mark. Gunman's agony packed voice cracked with profanities and the gun itself was discarded into a wall with a reverberating clang.

"Fucker," the big man cursed and fumbled out his own handgun. I ran, knocked it out of his hands and hit his head with the barrel end. The two guys from the back of the crew took this moment to advance on me. I back kicked one crony in his thigh as I took out another one of my knives to slash at the other crony's arm, attempting to penetrate to the muscle. By this time, the Big Guy's momentary daze wore off. With a blinding speed I made two opposite slashes on his neck that began to bleed profusely, buying me more time as he desperately clutched at the wounds.

Through my peripherals I noticed the Gunman virtuously endeavor the pain in his arm to try and help his pals, only to trip over Scrawny's, in all probability, dead body and fall flat on his face. The boss was looking slightly disoriented from loss of blood and the blow to the head but was stubbornly refusing to lose so easily.

The man whose shin I kicked made a grab for me so I lodged my knife into his neck, chocking his groans in blood. I took out two more knives from my belt and slashed at his legs in quick succession, rendering him immobile, before turning and stabbing his friend between the ribs in the same movement. Both fell to the ground like sacks of potatoes.

Before I knew it, it was just me and Big Guy. He was staring in disbelief and awe as the blood pounded through his neck with every rushed heartbeat. His face was gradually turning paler and his lips were tinged blue. With a shudder he fell to his knees in defeat. I picked up his handgun from beside him and he looked at me with pleading eyes.

"P…please…" he whispered. Blood bubbled from between his lips and continued to ebb away through his neck. Big Guy's eyes were bloodshot.

"Lay down," I whispered and gave him a small smile. He did so.

"How long have you been doing this?" I asked while checking the gun for ammunition.

"Seven…years," he gurgled painfully, almost silently.

"You've had a good run, my friend. You'll make a fine addition to the ranks of hell's demons," I told him softly. I meant what I said in the nicest way possible. A soft chuckle that resembled a wheeze ran from his lips and the bit of life within him twinkled through his eyes.

"This won't hurt," I whispered and shot through his temple. He died immediately. With a sigh I got up and swept my pants of any loose dirt. I looked around to assess my damage.

Gunman was shivering profusely on top of Scrawny's dead body. I hastily shot at the back of his skull and his movements ceased. I went up to him grabbed hold of the knife wedged in his wrist. I braced my leg on his back and the blade slid out in a chorus of grotesque squelching noises. I wiped some of the blood off on his shirt. I left the knives that were lodged in the lungs and the neck of the two cronies that presented themselves in the back of the group. I placed a gun in Boss's hand and one in Gunman's. I positioned the knife from Gunman's wrist in Scrawny's limp hand. After surveying my work to make sure I left no evidence behind I turned and walked off.

I slipped out of the alley and effortlessly blended in with the many other pedestrians waltzing through the streets of New York. Once again, I turned back into the unassuming stranger no one bothers to take a second glance at. I made it to the metro at a brisk walk and was back in Manhattan before anyone in Bronx even questioned where their infamous gang leader went off to.

My apartment was Downtown. It was a sorry little studio with years of water damage and the landlord even warned me that it was the scene of a murder. After flashing my fake ID, I told her I'd take it. I paid my rent for the first year up front with illegally acquired cash and stocked it up with the few belongings I possessed.

I took two steps at a time to the fifth floor. I fumbled through my pockets for the key and after a few minutes managed to cram it in the lock. I turned the knob and pushed the door open with my shoulder. It took a while for it to budge. Humidity made the door stick.

I slammed and locked the sticky door behind me; the day's events finally catching up to me in a wave of pure exhaustion. I flipped the light switch and the single bulb hanging off the ceiling by a wire flickered for a while before casting a hazy orange glow to the bulk of my place. I threw my jacket on the floor, ready to pass out on the pull-out couch that served as my bed. Then, I was assaulted by the last voice I wanted to hear.

"Good evening, Bella," the sound was a razor that cut through the borders of my sanity as it always has. I wanted to cry, hyperventilate, scream, kick, anything. My breath shuttered painfully in my chest as I resumed physical control.

My breath shuttered painfully in my chest as I attempted to regain control. The tears were flowing without a pause down my face, dribbling down my chin and wetting the gag stuffed uncomfortably in my mouth. My hands were tied behind me, the restraints biting at my wrists. My legs were strapped to the chair's legs by layers of rope. By now, I have given up hope that struggling will save me. So I sat there, waiting.

I knew my face must have been blotchy from crying and fear, my eyes reduced to puffed up redness. I have to be brave, I told myself. I had to be brave, but it was so hard. I turned my head up slightly and was met by the sight of my parents' mangled bodies. Bile rose up in my throat and wet the back of the cloth gagging me. I looked away again shamefully. I couldn't even look into my own mother's face; the thought hit me like a brick to the temple.

I must have sat there for just over half an hour, though it felt like days in my five year old mind. The back of my neck was sticky with sweat and my long brown hair was sticking to my face in wet clumps. I sniffed back the drip falling from my nose and simply waited. I learned later that night in Phoenix, Arizona was particularly hot, almost 100 degrees Fahrenheit. Despite the fact, I was shivering uncontrollably from cold.

I don't know what I was waiting for. Perhaps I was waiting for the police to come get me and take me to Nana's. Maybe I was anticipating that at any moment my mommy and daddy would pop off of the ground looking good as new and kiss my tears away. I certainly hoped so. Nothing could have prepared me for what was to happen next.

I jumped involuntarily as I heard the front door break down from where I was tied up in the kitchen. I heard shuffling footsteps and mutterings approaching. Somewhere in the back of my mind, I knew all hope was lost for me, but I still wished with all my might that it was the police.

"Take a good look, Newton. This is only the beginning," a pleasantly feminine voice with a razor sharp edge pierced it's way through my clouded mind. It was the first time I heard her voice; the voice that haunts my being to this day.

I looked down, naively reasoning that if I stay silent and still enough, they wouldn't notice I was there. I looked down and watched as a pair of black, heeled boots clicked past me towards my parents. The lady kneeled down and I examined her from the back.

She was wearing all black and had hair like caramel and old movies. A gloved finger reached out to my mother's mangled body and wiped off some blood. She brought it to her face and sniffed.

"Drugged," she stated. I didn't know what that meant. When the lady stood up she seemed fifty feet tall. She still hadn't turned around, opting for examining her bloodied finger.

"But Renee was one of the best! I don't believe she would have allowed herself to be drugged and…" a male voice rebuked, almost as if he were trying to convince himself.

"Newton," the lady interrupted, "the death of the Dwyers can't be dwelled upon. As you may have noticed, there are more pressing matters at hand," the dark clad lady's voice reverberated through my ears. She turned around and I shut my eyes as tight as I could. My breathing became quicker and I felt lightheaded.

"Hello," a wash of pure mint breath blew into my face, burning my nose. I opened my eyes and found myself staring into two identical yellow orbs. My gag was pulled out roughly by someone behind me. A cool object pressed against my hand briefly before my wrists were freed from their bonds. I brought my small hands together and rubbed at the deep red imprints.

"What's wrong with your eyes?" I blurted out, my curiosity overpowering my fright. The ropes around my legs came loose and I kicked them away. The lady smiled widely like the people from the toothpaste commercials. I remember thinking that she must have flossed often. Mommy told me that people who flossed had white teeth, which never really made sense to me but I never questioned it.

"Birth defect," she answered simply in her unique voice.

"What…is mommy going to be okay?" I licked my lips nervously. She opened her mouth a bit as if to answer. I noticed that her face was very pale and pretty like the girls in mommy's magazines, but her eyes were very creepy. The irises had a washed out gold look that was almost sickly, yet captivating. The lady seemed to decide against what she was going to say.

"How would you like to live with me, Isabella?" she smiled kindly. I didn't want to, but it didn't seem as if I had any choice. Mommy told me never to talk to strangers, let alone go live with them. I had a feeling this woman was dangerous.

"Bella," I whispered, defeated.

"What?" she urged.

"I prefer," I gulped, "to be called…Bella." The lady gave another toothy smile.

"Perfect."

"Esme," I acknowledged her coolly. I forced my memories to the back of my mind before they could get the better of me. I cursed my weakness.

Esme was leaning against a wall only a few feet away from me. Her eyes seemed to glow in the dim luminosity.

"Now, Bella is that any way to greet your mother? We haven't seen each other for over a year already," she came forward and enveloped me in a hug. I was stiff as a board. This was all just a grotesque façade. I knew that now. Esme was just checking that I didn't have any hidden weapons on me.

"Uh-uh, Bella," she pulled back with a Cheshire grin. I blanked. This couldn't be good.

She rubbed at the collar of my shirt, "You have evidence on you, clumsy girl." I pulled out from her grasp and looked down. There was a spot of blood on my shirt just above my collar bone. I looked back at Esme, my brows furrowed angrily.

"What do you want Esme?" I all but growled. She looked appalled.

"Oh Bella, my darling! I just wanted to see you, my daughter," she placed a hand on the chest of her spotless navy blue turtleneck.

"But now that you happened to mention it…" she examined her nails half heartedly and smirked my way. My eyes were slits of disapproval.

"If you're going to be cryptic just get the fuck out of my apartment Esme," I hissed. She looked around.

"This shack barely deserves to be called an apartment. Plus, you're underage, so it's barely even illegally yours. You know, my offer still stands. You should let us take care of you. Stick closer with our people and you'll be living much more comfortably," she looked at me from under her lashes. I knew Esme wanted me to rebuke and argue like I've always done, but I wouldn't let her win. I kept up my expressionless mask. She spoke again after a few seconds of my glaring.

"Fine," she muttered between her teeth and her motherly masquerade was over. She stared me down with her yellow eyes.

"The Feds are on our tails again. We're all relocating and this includes you. On that couch you'll find all you need to know to get you out of state and quietly on to your new identity. As of tomorrow, you are Bella Swan. Your parents are divorced and you wanted your mother to have time alone with her new husband, so you valiantly frolicked off to live with your daddy. Understood?" With that, Esme threw her dark jacket over her shoulder and departed.

I was left, silently fuming under the flickering light of the single light bulb. I marched further into the room and none too gently ripped the manila envelope from my couch. I quickly leafed through the contents seeing the usual fake IDs, paperwork and a hefty wad of Benjamins. There was a plane ticket scheduled for the next morning at ten to Forks, Washington.

I dunked down the glass of water sitting nearby, the liquid soothing the dry parch in my throat, and examined the final paper in the heap. It was a note:

Dearest Bella,

BURN THIS AFTER READING

Stick to the story. Charlie Swan is the chief of police, you are to be his daughter. Never volunteer information. Don't miss your flight. Follow standard modus operandi. Lay low and no killing. Keep an eye out.

Love, mother

P.S. You are enrolled in Forks High School. Do not kill any of the students.

I huffed indignantly. Esme was sending me off to school. She's never done that before. I taught myself basically all I had to know academically and the witch knew that. I pondered on the letter while grabbing at a box of matches from somewhere nearby. My head was spinning a bit, but I brushed it off as mild fatigue.

She seemed to accentuate the fact I wasn't to kill, I decided. Usually, it didn't matter to her so much as long as I wasn't messy and destroyed all evidence. She also told me to lay low. This all suggested we were in more jeopardy than Esme let on.

What bothered me was to "keep an eye out". For what? A pulsing ache hit my temple and my eyes felt sticky and had a hard time staying open. Was there another reason Esme was sending me to Washington, not just to wait out whatever this threat was? I seriously doubted it was the FBI. Esme never made too big a deal out of them.

I made my way groggily over to the second room in the whole apartment: the bathroom. I propped open the grimy toilet seat and let the letter float down into the bowl. I lit a match and dropped it in as well. I watched the paper burn for a while, inhaling the thick scent of smolder, mixed with the smell of cool linoleum and toilet water. The flame ate up the note bit by bit, first charring the edges to a rich brown then turning them to ash.

Sometimes, I felt like that piece of paper. Slowly scorching from inside out, as if every life I took added to the power of the flame eating away at my life. I flushed the remnants, suddenly disgusted and unable to take anymore.

I vigorously rubbed at my eyes, trying to keep sleep at bay at least until I made it to the couch. I flopped down, not bothering to take my clothes off. I dove into unconsciousness just before my head reached the lumpy, scratched up cot which I hailed as my bed.

I was well aware that my life was messed up. I was mentally scarred and unstable. My physical being was covered in disfigurements, indications of my survival throughout the years. It was crazy, but in the end, it was how I chose to live. My name was originally Isabella Marie Dwyer. I have grown infamous amongst the underground, silently prowling, doing Esme's dirty work. The toughest bastards on this planet have learned to fear me; the greatest minds learned to be wary of me.

I have been all around the world, have witnessed some of the greatest gifts this life has to offer. I have seen the true nature of humanity in the rawest form of evil. Some refuse to acknowledge me out of fright to the point that my name is a curse to be muttered, I a myth to be dreaded, until I allow my presence to be known. I am a danger because I see through the pretty illusions other's fall for. I am a threat because I have absolutely nothing to lose.

My story is not for the fainthearted. Neither is it advisable for any of those who deem harsh judgment upon the misunderstood. Be aware that though I may not be anywhere near perfect, none of us are. Everyone has secrets. Everyone has a clandestine place where they are not what they seem. There are many out there that won't ever understand why I chose to live the way I have; how I could possibly give up my own identity and life for a dismal cause when I lost all hope.

The minute I woke up tomorrow, I would become Isabella Swan.

For those who wish to continue, welcome to my world.

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It's me again! Here to say that I would really appreciate some feedback. I understand that if you have reviewed to "chapter 1" before you can't do it again, but I would be extremely grateful if one of my original reviewers would take a few minutes to tell me if they enjoyed the new version of this chapter through a PM. I won't be offended if you don't though.

And NEW readers! (You are here…aren't you…?) If you review, I will give you a "Get out of Jail Free" card as an honorary icon of your joining my asylum!

Macho Soup for your Soul (MSFYS): If the square root of negative one is an imaginary number, and that multiplied by itself is negative one, and a negative times a negative is a positive….does that mean when three imaginary cookies multiply, they will become one real cookie? Concentrate…concentrate…