Disclaimer: All rights go to the amazing Stephenie Meyer. I own nothing.

Life sucks.

Like, no really, it sucks.

You know all those t-shirts that they sell at places like Hot Topic? The ones that say things like "I Hate My Life" or "Just Kill Me Now Cuz I Don't Really Give a F### Anymore"? Yeah, those angsty bitches got nothing on me.

I'm the fucking queen of that shit.

See, I'm a relatively happy person. Or at least I'd like to think that I would be a relatively happy person. You know, if things weren't the way they were (or are.) Maybe if I wasn't the way I am, then things would be, well, better?

Okay, confusing I know, but that's not even half of it.

I have a curse.

Alright, maybe some would call it a gift, or superpower or whatever. Thing is, those people don't know what the fuck they're talking about. They are all completely normal (unlike me) and so are extremely lucky (unlike me.) All I have ever wanted is to fit in, but knowing me, I fit into the crowd by not fitting in at all. Because there's always someone who doesn't fit in. That's what makes it the crowd. There wouldn't be an in if there was no out. Got it?

Oh and lucky me! I got to balance out the fucking social system by being the freak! Or weirdo, social pariah, stranger, etc: just plain strange, yet plain at the same time. What poor person could fit into that unlucky paradox of epically suckish proportions? Why me, Bella Swan, of course!

Yeah, fuck you universe. You're not as funny as you would like to think.

So my gift or lack thereof, is what I would like to blame for my life of misery.

See, I really do have an unnatural gift. It's not something I make up to get attention or anything, it's real. Like real real. The thing is, I can "read minds" when I make physical contact with people.

Now isn't that just awesome?! Yeah, uh-huh, I don't think so.

Whenever I see people's thoughts it's um, well not always pleasant. At least not for me. You know that feeling you get when you're on a rollercoaster? Or that feeling you get when you hear nails scratching on a chalkboard? How about that rush of adrenaline right before you fall on your face?

Yeah I know those feelings too.

Every thought in the mind is dominated by some kind of emotion: love, frustration, hate, boredom, fear, excitement, jealousy, etc. And each and every one of those thoughts has a sensation behind it. When I accidentally brush a hand and the person to whom that hand belongs to is feeling jealousy, I feel like I'm crunching on sour socks. If they are hating or angry or feel a type of fury, I taste metal, and can almost feel a gun barrel stuffed down my pie-hole. Sadness? Yeah there's a shadow on the world and everything tints blue; kind of like drowning. Fun. Happiness? Especially when the person is shitting rainbows? Yeah it's like getting high.

Too bad nobody around here is ever happy.

The list goes on and on. My favorite is the whole attraction/lust thing. It's like an electric shock. And if it's really strong, I feel like I have this little fire burning inside me, all cozy and warm and hot. God I love heat.

But that's not all of it. I can hear what they are thinking, as of that moment. Now if you're a teenager, you can imagine just what these jack offs are thinking about.

Holy shit, that chick has one niiiice rack. I'd like to hit that.

Oh my holy mother fucking shit! I can't believe he looked at me! He like totally totally looked at me!

Wow that teacher is like, so manly. I wonder if I do him a little-um-favor-

God I can't believe he thinks we should tell my parents- I don't exactly want to tell them their son is dating another guy.

This is a slightly disturbing overview of what I hear on a daily basis. Basically, I try to avoid touching people, but that's kind of hard in a school of 10,000 when trying to get to my locker in the 4-feet-across hallway.

Just fantastic.

So yeah, there it is. Now you may be thinking "Poor Bella, this super cool person with this stupid disability; it's just wrong." Although most of you are probably thinking something along the lines of "So what you big baby? Get the fuck over it."

Yeah just don't let me touch your hand, cuz then I'd know you were thinking that. And then I'd have to punch your face in.

But really, this is a lot worse than you would ever know. Like in that one song.. what's it called again? Oh yeah, 'Dashboard.'

Okay so there is this really great song, the afore mentioned 'Dashboard', that really gets the gist of my feelings.

Could've been should've been worse than you would ever know.

Taha. Gotta love anything by a band called Modest Mouse.

Back to the point, it is worse than you, a normal person, would ever know. Imagine feeling like a gun is being stuffed down your throat, sensation of hatred, while at the same time knowing that someone is feeling like that about you.

It sucks when people hate me.

People in general do not like me for some reason. I guess their instincts are telling them that I'm just weird, not normal, and. And people really do not like other people who are different. I mean, all those grade school teachers who tell you to just be you, to have some individuality and not follow the crowd? THEY LIE. If you are individual, that just means you are alone and isolated. On a stupid little island called Society Hates Me. And then you get to hang out with the other SHM club members, right?

Nope. Society won't let that happen. Because if you make friends with the other friendless, then nobody is friendless. And that is just not acceptable. So if you want to survive, making friends with the other losers is a big no-no. Your only chance is to build a raft of conformity, drown your abnormality in the ocean, and get ready to blend in. Fun, I know.

Now if you are on the SHM Island, like me, get off. Save yourself, do a bunker; look out for numero uno until you get to the mainland. That's the best advice I can give you. Because, unlike me, you are probably completely normal with a few social inadequacies.

But if, like me, you have some superpower that makes it absolutely impossible to follow the flock, you have two options: accept it and try and move on, or just give up and drown yourself in the bathtub with your rubber ducky.

I value life so I choose acceptance.

Taha, I crack myself up sometimes.

See, the thing is, I'm a chickenshit. I would love to not exist, but I am too scared to take that risk. Really, I've thought about suicide many times before. I mean, Renee probably wouldn't mind. She may be my biological mother, but that is where her maternal side ends. But I'm not even going to get into that shit with you right now. Renee is a whole other world of fucked uppedness.

It makes me sad to even think that school and the world in general has brought me to the point of not really caring whether or not I live. I mean, even when I was a little kid, I didn't have any friends. Nobody liked me, or approached me. They acted like I didn't exist and still do. Although there is a mean comment thrown in here and there.

Loser. Freak. Abomination. You don't belong here. Leave us alone.

Each and every word is like a knife to the heart. I used to cry alone at night when I was a little kid. But nobody heard me, and if they did, they didn't care.

So I built my armor. I avoided people and their nasty thoughts. And when I did touch someone, I'd flinch away at the dislike I knew they felt for me.

The disgust they held in their eyes and thoughts.

It kills me to know that I wouldn't mind being killed. It hurts to know that nobody else can see that I'm a person with feelings and thoughts and opinions and-

A soul.

So when Renee called me down (first time she'd talked to me in a week) to the living room, I slouched as I walked. I avoided eye contact, skin contact, so I could avoid her disgusted thoughts.

She is not my daughter.

"Isabella! Look at least a little less pathetic!" Of course mother, but you know that's not possible.

She glared, she sighed, and then she sat down and glared again.

"I don't know what to do with you, Isabella. I really don't know." The tone of her voice made me look up.

She looked almost apologetic.

Oh shit.

Maybe she's going to tell me that she hired a sharpshooter and that he's here to kill me and burn the corpse. I mean Renee is never apologetic.

My shit just got more fucked up from that point.

"So I'm sending you to live with your father, Charlie. He- uh, he misses you?" Nice one, Ma. Just let that question dangle in the way that you know destroys me. Make it a question not because you don't know if he misses me, but because you don't know how he could miss me. Thanks for that.

"So you're flight is tomorrow. Pack your bags and drive yourself over in the morning. All the details and your passport are here," she handed me a brown envelope, "Bye."

Then she walked out the door, probably to go visit her flavor of the month, Phil.

Then I was crying.

I never cry. Not anymore, but this was a special occasion. I mean, I was leaving the only place I could ever slightly consider home, familiar. I was going to see a father that I'd only met at least five times in my whole seventeen years of life. I was going to hell named after utensils, a.k.a. Forks.

My mother didn't even say she loved me, didn't even look back even though she would probably never see me again. It took all of 25 seconds to say goodbye, probably forever.

I mean, who are we kidding? I won't ever come back here, and she'll probably never come visit me. But the main reason why I was crying wasn't any of that. It was because Renee had accidentally brushed my hand on the way out. It was because she was the one to flinch away, not me.

And it was because, in that one moment, it was the first time I'd ever heard her think my name and feel happy at the same time:

Isabella's leaving. Finally.

Radiance.

Then I laughed. You know why? Because I had one phrase going over and over in my mind, the one thing that summed up my existence right then and there. Such a simple little sentence.

Life sucks.

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