Hi! Dark Blossems here! Yeah, this is my first story and I really have no idea where I'm going to take this ^-^'. I would super appreciate if you tell me what you think and what you want to happen! I'll do my best to improvise!

Please go easy on me! This is the first time sharing any of my work!

Disclaimer: I do not own Twilight or any of the original characters.

Warning: This story contains references to child abuse, drugs, drinking, violence and strong language.

Italics = thoughts

Chapter 1:

The Letters

1 more hour, tops. I promised myself.

I was sat on a stool in the 3rd seedy bar tonight. My birth mother was sat in a booth about 5 meters away drunk out of her mind arching her breasts into some guys face who's hand was thrust up her skirt. It was safe to say the view was no better than my patients; they were practically fucking in plain sight. I turned back to the bar when I saw my 'mothers' hand creeping toward the zipper of the trampy cunts trousers.

I thought I was going to throw up, and I hadn't even had a drop of drink. I never did, we'd needed the money to much.

I ran a hand through my crimson tresses, for once unhidden by a hood in the terribly lit bar and sighed as they fell back in front of my face limply and in need of a good wash. I thumbed the edge of the cigarette pack in my pocket longingly. It was pure fucking agony to be watching every damn second on the clock moving in a slow hypnotic circle. But I didn't have much longer to wait. Soon I would be 'free' as they say.

That wasn't really the right word for me though. You could say I was 'free' now. My own mom was less than cheap I'll tell you that. But mine was a different brand of freedom. I didn't go to school, we couldn't afford it. I had to work 3 jobs just so we a decent amount of food to eat. I didn't have a curfew, I didn't need to have one, I went home when Katniss, my mother, needed dragging back.

Which didn't look like long now. I thought. I had lost count on how many glasses she'd knocked back. I didn't try to limit her, I'd get a slap if I did, and I needed her stone dead asleep to make this as smooth as possible.

I was running away.

I'd been planning it for months, ever since I'd found the letters.

I clutched my paper treasures berried deep in one of my pockets. I remembered the day so clearly. It had literally been the happiest day in my life.

The only day I knew I would treasure forever. And it was all thanks to drink, cigarettes, and pure luck.

*Flash Back*

I'd just carried a smashed mass of singing drunkard, otherwise known as my biological mother, up 5 flights of stairs and into a the dingy flat that we'd been living in for two weeks. It was 3 in the morning, I was exhausted and unlucky for us; I'd passed the landlady coming up here… I doubted we'd have a roof much longer. In short; slapping the shit out of my overbearingly masochistic/sadistic mother and ditching her in the stairwell was becoming a more and more attractive option.

One thing good about being constantly broke and having the next thing up from dirt was locks. You had no need for them. Since all our belongings were pretty much hauled up from the scrap heap anyway no one would actually go to the trouble of nicking our stuff. So I only had to take my hand away from the mom whore long enough to open the door and didn't have the trouble of juggling singing drunk-slut and keys. I kicked the door wide open. I shivered as a gust of cold air bit my cheeks, the cardboard taped over the broken widow did little to keep the cruel night air out.

I dumped her on a second-hand couch that had been left here to rot by whoever. I didn't care right now. It was a couch, 5 up from cold hard concrete floor if you asked me. I stretched and longed to slump over and just catch some Z's. An intoxicated mother was annoying to deal with. A hung over and hungry mother was much worse. I filled a glass of water and handed her without even looking up, she took it. It'd been the arrangement of things so long even off her rocker she knew the routine.

I busied myself making me and her some sandwiches from some wafer thin chicken I found in the fridge and minutes later she started bawling her eyes out. I just rolled my eyes and carried on like normal. This seamed to be our only mother-daughter routine. She'd get drunk (or high) be really happy, then, the moment she got home she'd start bawling her fucking eyes out. And tomorrow she'd likely be pissed or drinking even more cheep shit to get rid of the hang over. I really couldn't give a shit about her ramblings anymore. I didn't even bother to look like I was paying attention, I didn't need too, she wouldn't remember anything tomorrow anyway. But tonight wasn't her usual drunken whimpering and wining. No. Lord have mercy on me; she started talking about my non-existent father!

I think I might have stopped breathing, I was light headed. Never in my 15 years of being her genetic slave had I ever heard her even mention my biological father. And the one time I had asked I'd had to go to A and E. She'd chucked me down a flight of stairs and I'd broken my arm. Sure taught me to keep my trap shut. And now of all times, when I want more than anything to slip to snooze land for a couple hours, she opens her big flapper and cries like she just lost her whole effing world. I couldn't move for a minute when she mentioned him. It was just too fucking unbelievable. I wasn't sure if I wanted her to shut up or spill the beans. I'd be lying if I said I wasn't curious about this man I'd never met. And so many questions that had floated about unanswered for 15 years were bubbling to the surface.

My mom never spoke about him. So, ignoring my fatigue and instead of just waiting for her to pass out like was the norm, I sat next to her shoved the chicken sandwich into her hand and listened to what the mom-whore had to say.

Mostly she just cried and moaned about how much she missed him. But now and then I picked up on the occasional fact. He had dark hair. He had tan skin. His eyes were lighter than mine. He ate loads but never put on weight. It was almost enough to make me smile, but the expression felt alien and uncomfortable, so I just listened. It was my equivalent to a bed time story; knights in shining armour, adventures and romance.

A fantasy.

I wished very much I could have stepped into her story. Her slurred drunken words swallowed me whole.

"He was such a beautiful man, loved me more than the worlds. And he had such an unusual eye colour! Purple! Like amethysts! Goodness knows where you got that aaaawful waterfall of blood though. It makes you look you tipped a bucket of blood all over your head!"

Ouch. That might have stung if she hadn't been referring to my bright red hair as a waterfall of blood since before I could remember. I was not a carrot top. If anything, I was a big ripe tomato top. I'm assuming my mother ran away before she found out she was pregnant, because from the sound of this fantasy father he wouldn't be the kind to let her do this to herself. Some shit my mother had pumped into herself while I suffered silently in her womb had turned my hair red, not ginger or natural sexy red but bright, when-the-sun-catches-it-it-looks-like-it's-on-fire blood red. Talk about standing out. It was annoying as fuck, cause whenever it did catch the light it drew a lot of attention. Hence the love I held for baggy hoodies with huge hoods.

Even though I knew the likelihood of this person actually existing and not just being some random delusion of my mom whore's, it was very much to my chagrin when she started to ramble on about packs and 'betraying her'. I just wanted to shake her and yell at her to stop rambling about dogs and tell me more about my dad! I really had to wonder if my mom had completely lost it sometimes. The things she came out with made it seem impossible for her not to be insane.

So many unanswered questions. Was I conceived in love or drunkenness? Did you really care or was he just the next best shag? Dose he know about me? Dose he care? Where is he now? Why did you or he leave?

I let my disappointment go though. I didn't have much happening for me and I wasn't going to pine after some fantasy father to help me. Not being able to go to school and learn something that might actually help me make something of myself and barely scraping a living out of my jobs was annoying enough. And I was only 15 so I couldn't get a place of my own, otherwise I would be long gone, years gone believe me. (I know what you're thinking, 'just lie about your age!' But seriously, I was 5ft 3. No one was gonna' believe me if I said I was over 16.)

When she finally passed out I just left her on the sofa. There wasn't much else to do. No bed to put her in. The 'apartment' we had was more of a room with an attached kitchen a bathroom and a closet I'd never opened. My legs started to cramp and I stood up, fatigue forgotten, and leaned stock still against the built-in kitchen counter.

As much as I didn't want to think about him, my fantasy father kept crashing back into my thoughts. And I couldn't help but notice that, even if it was all made up, he really did sound like a nice guy. My mom was usually most truthful (sometimes delusional) when bonehead drunk, that's the only reason I ever valued listening to her in this state, and why I was always careful picking apart fact from fiction.

But suddenly it was like this whole other part on my life had been revealed before my eyes; one I didn't realise had been hidden until tonight. My hands trembled as the shock kicked in, I realised just how bloody much I wanted to meat this man. The man I was meant to call dad. The man I'd never been bothered about until this exact moment.

I needed a cigarette.

I fumbled with the packet and it took way longer than normal to find my lighter. I grunted in annoyance when the only thing my close to a flame my lighter made was pathetic sparks. My temper got the best of me and I threw the thing at the wall making a decent sized dent on the white wash plaster and a crack in the cheap green plastic. Clear fluid leaked out and dripped on the multiple stained carpet. Fuck it all, I grabbed mom whore's purse (I'm kinda surprised she managed to keep a hold of it) my trembling was getting worse though, all I managed to do was open the zip before my grip slackened and the purse slipped from my hands.

Frustration ripped through my chest and my whole body began to shake. I was torn between wanting to burst into tears and shaking my mother wake and beating the alcohol out of her.

I watch it fall, it was like it happened in slow motion. Paper fell out of the purse and spilled all over the floor. The distraction stopped my shaking instantly. Why was she carrying around paper? I bent over to examine one of them. They were envelopes. I shuffled through the purse, there was a whole flippin' load of them. I remembered something she told me as we left. 'Viv' baby, remind me through out the trash tonight will ya'? I have some crap that's been building up for ages and I want to get rid of them cause there cluttering up my bag.'

I'd dismissed it before. I'd just looked at her weirdly and nodded assuming she was trying to set me up for one of her sick games. She never took out trash. (unless she was referring to me) And I'd been kicked out in the cold more times than I cared to remember.

All of the envelopes looked unopened. Some were yellowing slightly. My chest clenched tightly, and there was a sour taste in my mouth. I flipped one of them over and stared at the name for what seemed like hours.

Vivian Evergreen

My name. My breath caught and the shaking in my hands returned slightly.

I flipped another over.

It was the same name, in the same hand writing.

I scooped up the lot and checked every address.

Every last stinking one of those letters was addressed to me.

Who had been writing to me? Who was my mother trying to keep me away from?

My gaze sauntered over to Katniss's unconscious state.

No… Surly not. It couldn't be… But…

I stared at where my mother had collapsed on the sofa, her almost hysterical wails ringing in my ears. I felt dizzy. Light headed. I wanted to throw up.

I ripped open one of the letters completely ignoring the contents and just stared at those 5 words written at the end that changed my life. It didn't matter I could barely pass for literate. It didn't matter I'd learnt to read by spelling out the names of liquor brands. Those 5 words still changed my life.

Your father,

Allen Theodore Evergreen

Well… Fuck.

X The Letters X

The next day, I didn't know what to do with myself. Last night was like a dream, I would have thought so if it weren't for the wad of paper envelopes I had hidden in various places on my person.

I couldn't bring myself to open any of the letters. The one I had opened I'd carefully sealed back up for fear of losing it.

I wasn't sure how I was meant to react to knowing my father had tried (and failed) to make contact with me for so many years. Should I jump for joy? Be pissed he didn't try to look for me? Or maybe he had tried to look for me but we'd moved around so much he couldn't find me in time before we'd already moved on.

In the end all I could do was nothing. For the next few days I was just off.

The lights were on but nobody's home.

I wasn't my usual sarcastic, dry humoured self. Instead of a mask of boredom, annoyance and snarky arrogance I was quiet, empty and lost in thought.

My mom noticed nothing.

There you go! The first chapter! Please tell me what you think!