A/N: Hey guys! This is my first time sharing my writing in a while, and the first time on this site. So be gentle! This intro gives you some insight into my version of Bella. Make sure to leave reviews and tell me what you think! Constructive criticism is more than welcome.

Disclaimer: I unfortunately do not own Twilight or any of its characters. Everything is property of the genius that is Stephenie Meyer.

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Another night, another 5 grand in my bank account.

I sighed as I stepped out of the hotel doors and the cool air hit my face, chasing away the last of my numbness. I quickly lit a cigarette and took a long drag. Every Wednesday night at 11 o'clock sharp, I would meet "Henry Doran" at the same exact hotel in Manhattan, in the same exact penthouse suite. And every Thursday morning, after our business was done, he would collapse and cry in my arms and tell me he was sorry, he didn't know what was wrong with him, he shouldn't be doing this, and he loved his wife and kids. I would rub his back and offer him some detached words of comfort, and when he would stop his hysterics long enough to pay me, I'd make my escape. And then the next week, the cycle repeated itself.

"Mr. Henry Doran" was the only regular client I had, whom I met with on a weekly basis. He was a really nice man, in his early forties, wealthy and moderately attractive: a bank executive, with a sex addiction that came complete with a terribly guilty conscience. The rest of my clients were usually one-shot deals. Some of them would set up dates with me once in a while, sometimes as their escort to parties or galas, sometimes just for sex. Either way, it was all business to me.

I dropped the butt of my cigarette to the ground and snubbed it out with the toe of my stiletto. The underground subway station was dirty and grimy and had this inexplicable stale smell that could only be New York. Wind blew the smell, and my hair, in a swift wave across my face as the train pulled up to the platform. I tucked it back behind my ears and stepped through the doors, thankful that there was a seat available. I was beat to shit. By the time the train pulled up to my station, I thought I would collapse in a heap right there on the grubby Brooklyn platform. I pulled myself from my seat, and up the stairs to the street. The sky was still dark, but I could see faint traces of the pinkish orange light of the October sunrise trying to break through the horizon. I glanced at the watch on my wrist as I walked. 5:38 AM. The sun wouldn't rise for at least another hour and a half. And fuck, I was tired. At least it was only two short blocks from the station to my apartment building.

I had been living in the same apartment since I first came to New York, three years ago when I turned eighteen, and I absolutely loved it. The heavy wooden front doors that I always needed two hands to pull open, the commercial red carpet in the off-white hallways that always smelled faintly of carpet shampoo and cigarettes, the stainless steel elevators, and the black metal staircase that people rarely used; it all felt like home to me. Brooklyn was home. From the bustling city, the perpetual traffic, the scorching summers and icy winters, it was a strange sort of comfort to know that everything around me was just as chaotic as the shit that went on in my head. In all my life, this was the only real home I'd ever known.

The elevator chimed and let me off into the hallway of the fourth floor. As I was walking toward the door of my apartment, a man came around the corner whistling cheerily and sporting a beaming smile that I had to return, despite my haggard state. Frankie was one of the tenants on my floor, and he was one of the nicest men I'd ever met in my life. He was in his late fifties, short, with a spare tire and thinning silver-gray hair. When I first moved in here, Frankie kind of took on the role of surrogate father to me. I was only eighteen, and he worried about me being so young and on my own in the big city. He would stop by my apartment everyday to see how I was holding up, and even insisted on bringing me dinner every evening. After a few weeks of this, I invited him over and made dinner for him so that he could rest assured I was capable of cooking and wouldn't be living off of fast food and takeout, or "the artery clogging shit trap they call food" as he referred to it. And after he checked my trashcan to make sure I wasn't trying to fool him with takeout, he was satisfied that I could take care of myself. We still had dinner once in a while, though, and I made sure to see him a few times a week, even if just in passing in the hallway.

"Good morning, Isabella." He chimed in his pleasantly husky, heavy Brooklyn accent. I'd told him to call me Bella a million times, but he never would. So I just let it go.

"Morning Frankie."

"Another late night?"

I sighed wearily. "When isn't it?"

"I don't know how you do it every night. I guess you young people have the stamina to stay up so late, huh?"

"Oh, stop it. You know you're still a spring chicken." I shook my head. "I swear, you just say things like that to fish for compliments."

He chuckled softly and pressed the button for the elevator. "I take em' where I can get em'. Now, you get in there and get some rest before I have to make you up a bed right here in the hallway. By the looks of you, I'd say you're going to pass out in about three seconds."

"I'd say you're right." I smiled and pulled my key out of my purse. "Have a good day, Frankie."

"Have a good sleep, Isabella." The elevator chimed just then, and he gave me a short wave before he disappeared behind its doors. I sighed and pushed through my front door, locking the deadbolt and chain lock behind me. The first thing I noticed in the darkness of my cozy studio apartment was the red light blinking on my kitchen counter. I started walking toward the kitchen when I felt silky fur rubbing against my legs. I leaned down and picked up my cat, cradling him against my chest as I walked. He rested his paws on my chest and licked my chin. His tongue was like sandpaper.

"Hey, Little P. Did you miss mommy?" I switched on the lights over the center island and went to the phone base. One new voice message. "Who Ieft us a message, huh, pretty boy?" I cooed to my cat, and he purred as I stroked his back. I pressed the button on the answering machine.

"You have one new voice message. First message sent today at 1:43 AM: "Bella, it's your mother. Why don't you ever pick up the fucking phone? You think you'd call the woman who gave birth to you once in a while." There was a muted crashing noise in the background, and then her slurring voice was away from the phone. "Shit, Phil. Fuck. Just clean it up. We'll order pizza or something." Her voice came back directly into the receiver. "Anyways, call me when you get this, okay? You better call me. It's important. Bye."

I snorted quietly and pressed the delete button without hesitation. There goes my good mood, I thought. No fucking way was I calling her back. I talked to her a few times a year, on holidays and shit like that, but that was it. That was enough for me. Whenever she called me, just like this time no doubt, she would want something from me; particularly to borrow money. And I just couldn't. I wouldn't give her money so her and her asshole of a husband could go get hammered or stoned or whatever the fuck it was they did these days. I left to get away from that. I wanted nothing to do with it anymore.

Growing up, I spent my time split between two places, and two completely different parenting styles. If you could call my mother a fucking parent. I primarily lived in Phoenix with the alcoholic mess that was my mother Renee, and for a month out of every summer I spent my time in the podunk town of Forks, Washington with my father Charlie, or as he was known around town, Police Chief Swan. When I was in Forks, Charlie would drag me to all sorts of cliché kid shit, like the zoo, the circus, carnivals, and fishing trips. It was his idea of bonding, and hell if I didn't love every minute that I spent with my father. Bonding between Renee and I consisted of me carrying her to her bed when she had a few too many, and wiping puke off her face. And it only got worse when she married that prick Phil, and he introduced drugs into her life. I hated the fact that I never got to be a child at home; I had to be the adult, taking care of my mother's sloppy ass, since as long as I could remember. My dad made sure that I had some glimmer of childhood innocence in my life, tainted as I already was.

I sighed out loud, long and heavy. Every time she fucking called, it forced these memories to the forefront of my mind. All I had wanted three minutes ago was to fall into my bed and pass out, but now, I grabbed the bottle of vodka from the back of my freezer and poured a generous amount down my throat, preparing for the wallowing. I didn't have the patience to pull out a glass. A few tears fell from my eyes as I thought of my father.

I missed Charlie more than anything in the world. My visits with him as a child were the only reprieve I had from the sick twisted nightmare that had been my life. He was my only comfort in the entire world, and he was taken from me. Five months before Charlie died, he filed for sole custody of me. And won. I was elated when I found out that I got to live with him, that for the first time in my short life, I could be carefree and happy. I had a chance at some semblance of a normal upbringing. I barked out a bitter laugh and took another long swig from the cold bottle. The fucking irony. True to the fucked up form of my life, my dad died two weeks before I was supposed to move in with him permanently. I was seven years old.

I completely shut down emotionally after that. Being so close to freedom and my father, only to have it snatched away so violently from my reach, had made me all but catatonic. Instead of trying to fight it, I welcomed it; even taught myself how to bring on the coldness, so that I couldn't be hurt anymore. Anytime I felt the anger, pain, abandonment, or loneliness creeping up on me, I would grab hold of my numbness and let it consume me. I got so good at it that sometimes, I could block out entire days and never remember anything that happened during them. It was the only way I survived.

After my father's death, I made the decisions that ultimately led me to where I am today. I promised myself that as soon as I turned eighteen, I would be free. And from then on, every single dime that I received, whether it be from birthdays, or Christmas, or allowances, went into a coffee can under my bed. When I turned thirteen, one of my friend's got me a job waiting tables at her family's diner in downtown Phoenix, and I worked there until I gave my two weeks notice, two weeks before my eighteenth birthday. Charlie left everything he had to me. In his will, he specifically noted that the house should be sold, and every penny from that sale, his pension, and his bank account, should be put into a trust fund that I couldn't touch until I was eighteen. I suspected that it was a rigorous attempt on his part to keep my mother's money-grubbing hands off of what was rightfully mine. So, between everything I had saved up, and everything I had inherited, I was well set up to start my new life. I packed up all my shit, bought a one-way ticket to New York City, and in the early morning hours on September 13, I said my final goodbye to my mom and her asshole husband. I left that shitty house in a yellow cab, with close to $10,000 in my wallet, more in the bank, and never looked back.

I pulled myself out of my bitter memories, willing myself not to think about the past anymore. It always made me oddly queasy and I got the urge to hurl things at my wall. And I was entirely too tired to clean up any kind of mess right now. Instead, I took another big gulp of vodka and put the bottle back into the freezer. Immediately, I stripped off my clothes and jumped into the shower. The hot water was calming and soothing, and the ethereal steam combined with the liquor flowing through my system lulled me back into exhaustion. I turned off the water and wrung out my soaking hair, slipped into a t-shirt and boy shorts, pulled my dark curtains over the window, and, at last, at last, climbed into bed. Paul Jr. was already curled up on the pillow beside the one I slept on. I had tried buying him one of those little cat beds, but he refused to sleep anywhere but right beside me. So I gave in, of course. I was a sucker for that cat. I kissed him on top of his little orange head, and pulled the covers over me. I was asleep as soon as my head hit the pillow.