DISCLAIMER: CHARACTERS SADLY DO NOT BELONG TO ME, BUT TO THE VERY TALENTED AND AMAZING STEPHENIE MEYER.

Please review and I'll have the next chapter up Tuesday. I'll have a schedule going by then. C:

EDWARD'S POV

Prologue

"Edward?! Come on out, buddy! I'm not gonna hurt you!" At the sound of my father's rough voice, I scurried farther back into the corner of my closet. I grabbed clothes off the hangers and draped them over me, trying to hide myself as his footsteps got closer to my bedroom.

"Edward, honey, please! Just leave him alone! He had to get ready!" Tears stung my eyes at the sound of my mother's fearful voice.

I could picture the tears falling down her face as she gripped at my father's arm, trying to stop him.

My own warm tears streamed down my face as I heard skin meeting skin. It made my stomach muscles tighten to know that dad slaps mom. It makes it even worse when I try to sleep at night, and I can hear the things he does to her...

I slapped a hand over my mouth as my bedroom door burst open. It was hard to breathe under all the clothes, but I managed to keep quiet. I squeezed my eyes shut while my body trembled in fear. I tried to be as still as a statue.

"Edward? Come on, you have to be in here. I stripped the rest of the house looking for you," his quiet, but rough voice says. He always did that when he's trying to find me. He'll try to make his voice gentle. The smoking he does doesn't help in the matter.

I ground my teeth together and pressed my back to the wall even more. I opened my eyes to complete darkness. It was starting to become difficult to breathe under all the heavy material.

"Edward...You're really starting to piss me off now," he said louder. My ears were ringing after he was done raising his voice. My heart hammered in my chest. I wouldn't be surprised if he could hear it from on the other side of the closet door.

At nine years old, I still couldn't fight back. You'd think I would have told somebody by now. You'd think I would have run away or even hit my father back.

Sure, I've thought about it.

I'm smart enough not to act on those thoughts, though.

I was scared stiff as my closet door moved. It creaked as he swung it open with a sharp laugh. I was petrified as I stopped breathing.

I prayed to God that he wouldn't look under the pile of clothes.

Please don't...

I cried out as his hand came shooting under the pile and grabbed my ankle. The breath was taken from me as he dragged me out of the closet on my back. He dropped my leg roughly and walked over to my door, flicking the light on.

I looked up at my father with blurry eyes. I hate how I just saw myself. Same jaw, same high cheekbones, same messy hair. It was little comfort that I had my mother's emerald-green eyes and bronze hair.

"All right, you little shit. Why didn't you have my coffee ready this morning? Huh? I would have beat you this morning, but I had to get to work. I got time now," he says lowly, menacing.

I didn't make his coffee because I was busy getting ready for school and packing my lunch. I didn't want to be late for school.

It angers and frustrates me. I could tell him exactly why, but he would still beat on me.

He loves beating on me...and other things that no father should ever do to their son.

Ever.

"I had to get ready for school," I mutter. The beating won't be as bad as long as I answer him. The suspense of waiting to get hit, kicked, or thrown is the worst as I listen to my blood rush in my ears. My heart pounds, attempting to jump right out of my chest.

"Oh..." He walked closer. I curled my hands into fists and prevented myself from moving or cringing away as he crouched down in front of me.

"Does it look like I fucking care?!" He bellowed in my face. Speckles of spit hit my face as his red face comes closer to my pale face. The veins in his neck protruded out. The one in his forehead seemed like it was going to blow.

I kept my lips pressed together as the fear slithered through my body like an unwanted snake.

"So god damn useless," he moans. My eyes flicker over to the door by themselves as my mom comes into the room slowly. Tentatively. Her eyes were swollen and red. Her left cheek had a pink handprint plastered to the skin. The tears came faster.

I should have expected it as my father's large hand connected with my cheek. I fell back from my knees, and my head bounced off the carpeted floor.

The sharp pain that stung my cheek took away the pain that throbbed at the back of my head.

"Edward, please stop this," my mother begged dad. It made my stomach churn when I heard my father's name.

My name.

"Elizabeth, get the hell out of here. I'll deal with you later," he grumbled as he gripped the front of my shirt and hauled me up onto my feet. My black t-shirt was stretched when he let go. My heart dropped when she backed out of the room.

"I'm so sorry, sweetheart," she mouthed to me. My eyes closed in disappointment.

I hunched over with a grunt as his tight fist sunk into my stomach. I fell to my knees, gasping desperately for air. He's punched me in the stomach many times, and I know I'll get my breath back. It still scares me, though. Not being able to breath. I always think I'll die because I can't get the air back into my frantic lungs.

I fall to my side, clutching my stomach with my hands.

I feel deliverance when the air rushes into my lungs like a river. It's like having a glass of ice-cold water after being out in the scorching sun all day.

I hit my fist against the carpet in annoyance at myself. At my father.

At life.

My eyes snap open, and my breathing is labored as I look around my darkened room. The moonlight coming in from my window is my only light source. I sit up and switch my lamp on.

I grip my hair in my hands and fight back the tears. Even thinking about going back to sleep makes my pulse race.

I looked around the room once again, making sure I wasn't in the other room. The room that holds all those memories.

"I hate you so much," I whisper harshly into the now stuffy air. No one can hear the words I uttered.

I wish my father could hear them, though.