The Twilight Saga

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This is a shortish story that I hope you'll like. It's kind of intense, just so you know. Tell me what you think.

My best friend in the whole wide world got me started on heroin when I was thirteen. I remember that birthday well, because it was the day my mom died in a car crash.
My best friend’s name is Andre, and he’s the best because it was him who helped me through the loss. Dad just sort of disappeared. I mean, he was around, just, not like a person is around. He stopped being...normal, I guess. He wallowed in this own misery, leaving me to work through my own alone.
Except I wasn’t alone, because Andre comforted me. He’d given me the little white bag of heroin, telling me his uncle had brought it back from Venezuela. I’d inhaled, and all my grief had faded away...
My hands were shaking as I struggled with the little bag in my hands now. Finally I got it open. I pressed it to my nose and breathed in, feeling the powder tickle my nostrils as it floated into my head...
The effect was pretty instantaneous. I felt energetic, on edge, and cheerful. All the things that made it easy for me to go to school.
Nobody gave me weird looks anymore; my behavior change was old news. Before heroin, I’d been a bit of a scary person. My muscles always tense, a violent look on my, I looked high. Of course.
I had no license, even though I was nearly seventeen. I’d flunked the driving test six times. Heroin and driving tests don’t mix.
I walked to school everyday. It took me ten minutes. A car honked as I crossed a road; I’d not been paying attention. Heroin does that, sometimes. I flipped off the driver.
“Diane,” my boyfriend, Caleb, said, greeting me as we met each other in front of the school.
“Caleb,” I whispered, pressing my lips to his cheek. I let my tongue slide out of my mouth and taste his skin before pulling away. I smiled playfully at him, and then hugged him.
He winced. I hugged him tighter.
There are two things that I love more than anything else in the world: the first is heroin. The second is hurting people. I know what you’re thinking—it’s sick, right? Yeah, yeah. But Caleb didn’t mind; he’d say something if he did, wouldn’t he?
I liked to hurt him. I like punching and bruising and pinching. Even now, my nails were digging into his upper arm, leaving tiny, brown spots. If you pulled his shirt up and looked at his stomach, you’d see a huge splotch of purple, made of many bruises that overlapped. I like to cause people physical pain.
I know exactly how long it takes before a teacher comes over to break up the hug or report me for PDA. Two seconds later, I pulled away, seeing a teacher turn around to look in our direction.
Something seemed off about Caleb today. Caleb is a quiet, caring guy. He’s also innocent, and selfless, and good. I haven’t had the heart to get him on heroin. But surely the guy deserves heroin? Shouldn’t good people get rewards?
Today, he seemed unhappy. Why?
The day passed in a blur, as it often does when I’m high. Before I knew it I was sitting at a lunch table, my foot hooked around Caleb’s, eating some god-awful food the cafeteria demons cooked up.
“D’you wanna go out Friday?” I asked Caleb. And then I had another thought. “Or we could stay inside.” I wiggled my eyebrows suggestively.
As a faint pink colored this “not until marriage” virgin’s face, I could guess he was thanking God that we were the only two at this table.
“C’mon, Caleb,” I whispered seductively. “There’s no way I’m getting married this year, and I’m not waiting forever, so...” I trailed off. It’s always kind of hard to talk when I need to inflict pain. Sometimes I get those kind of cravings—abuse cravings. To satisfy this one and to keep on topic, I pressed my hand into his bruised stomach.
He gritted his teeth against the pain and winced. I pulled my hand back, smiling widely.
“Diane, we need to talk.” Caleb said.
What the H**l. Had he been watching some crappy melodrama on TV?
“I can’t deal with this anymore, Diane,” Caleb said. He looked me in the eyes, and there was sadness there. I cringed. It reminded me of Andre, the day he’d told me he was moving cross country. “I can’t be in this relationship anymore,” Caleb continued. “I can’t watch you hurt yourself by being on drugs and be high all the time.”
What?!? I’d never told him I was on heroin!
“I’m sorry, Diane. I care about you a lot. Really. You might not believe it, but it’s true. But I...I can’t be apart of this anymore. I’m sorry.”
I stared at him, dumbstruck. “You’re...breaking up with me?” Caleb, the values guy, the caring, loving guy, was breaking up with me?
“I’m sorry, Diane. I’m really sorry.”
I was at a loss for words. Caleb waited for a response until the bell rang. And then he walked away.
He walked away from me.
He walked away.

Time passed. I turned seventeen. I got over Caleb. He was a softie. I needed someone stronger. Someone who wouldn’t be so whimpy over a couple of little bruises.
Things got worse. I needed someone to abuse. Bullying just didn’t satisfy my violent cravings. I couldn’t be me without the combination of heroin and abuse. But who could satisfy my needs?
“We have a new student today,” the math teacher, Mr. Brender, said in February.
My jaw dropped as the new student silently took his seat. He was absolutely gorgeous. Even three rows in front of me, I could tell his face was flawless; it was pale as snow. His hair was a deep, chocolate-like brown; short as it was, it flowed beautifully and shined. As class often does, it passed in a blur. But it was a different blur—I wasn’t simply floating around in the ecstasy of heroin; I was staring at the beautiful guy in the front row. He captivated me.
The bell rang, making me jump. I sped to the door, hoping to see the new guy’s face. Had Mr. Brender said his name? I couldn’t remember.
I did get to see his face as he packed up. His eyes were stunningly golden; they were breathtaking. His jaw was square and set in discomfort. There was something scary about him, as if he was dangerous.
I knew it. I knew that he was the guy who would satisfy my violence. I was already imagining what his lean, muscular arms would look like with bruises on them; purple would contrast with his white skin so strangely. So nicely.
“You’re new here, right?” I asked the student. Before he could answer, I said, “Hi, I’m Diane.”
“My name’s Jethro,” he replied.
I smiled. “What’s your next class? I can help you find it.”
“Science, room 110.”
“That’s my next class!” Perfect! I wondered how many classes we had together. How many classes could I inflict my violence on him? “C’mon, we can walk together.”
Jethro was a silent guy. Mysterious, quiet....oh, how TV melodrama! He was even tall—he fit the Tall-Dark-Mysterious criteria. That was hilarious. I giggled. Or maybe it was the heroin making me giggle.
I grabbed Jethro’s hand, entwining mine with his. He didn’t pull away; he didn’t react when I gasped at his cold, hard skin. It made me shiver, even though we were in the Very Cold Alaska.
It’d been too long since my days of abusing Caleb. I squeezed Jethro’s hand as hard as I could, letting my nails dig into his skin. He didn’t seem to mind at all; he didn’t react at all. Frustrated, I squeezed harder. Jethro looked at me. He smiled. The smile was tender, soft, but it was also mocking.
I was shocked. How could he be immune? How?
Behind my shock, I was starting to feel a little mad. I had to find away to inflict pain on him.
“Do you have any plans tonight?” I asked. “I could show you around town, so you could get to know the place.”
“Oh, er, thanks,” Jethro said, surprised by my forwardness. “Yeah, that would be nice, thank you.”
“It’s no trouble.” I gave him a flirty smile. “Just meet me at the main entrance after school, ‘kay?”

It was weird, but Jethro and I clicked like kindred spirits or something freaky like that. By the time we’d made it to the playground, we were like best friends. No, we were practically already together!
I leaned on his shoulder. He was flawless.
“So where are you from?” I asked.
“My family and I moved here from Juneau,” he answered.
“You moved here from the capital?” I clarified, stunned. Who’d go to a tiny place like this?
“We...prefer small places.”
“Oh. I guess that makes sense, then, to move here.” It didn’t actually make sense. Who likes small towns? “I like you, Jethro.”
Jethro was unsurprised at my forwardness this time. “I noticed,” he answered coolly. “I like you too.”
Good, then he would mind...
I punched him in the stomach. He didn’t gasp or stagger or even look surprised that I’d punched him.
Instead, I gasped. My knuckles screamed in protest. His stomach was hard.
Jethro smiled tenderly again. “Punch me all you like,” he whispered.
I took him up on that offer, alternating my fists as I tried to make my punches hurt him instead of me. I couldn’t he get hurt?! Tears leaked from my eyes—why? I didn’t cry. I was too old for crying. My punches came slower and slower, more desperate with each attempt. I was sobbing; I gave up on trying to hurt Jethro.
“It’s okay Diane,” Jethro whispered, pulling me into a hug. “I’m going to heal you.”

Note: In no way do I condone the use of drugs or abuse.
Here is the playlist for the story so far. These three songs pretty much introduce what condition Diane is in at the moment. Beneath the PlayList is the explanation for each song:

Get a playlist! Standalone player Get Ringtones
"Going Under" symbolizes Diane's reaction to losing her mom.
"Haunted" symbolizes Diane's state of mind in the beginning of the story.
"Tourniquet" symbolizes Diane's need to be saved.

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Omg plz u have 2 continue I been waitiin 4 dis story awhile I neee more more more lolx plz up date soon
amazingg!!!!!!!!!! post asap!!!!
AWWW oh-so sweet!!!! post more ASAP!!! (u 4got 2 tell me tat u posted again. =l )

When I woke up, my arm was freezing. Was Jethro holding my hand? I smiled, hope and expectation welling up. I opened my eyes, turning to the right. My vision was a little blurred by sleep, but I could tell by the dim colors and shapes that Jethro wasn’t next to me. Everything came into focus, along with disappointment and understanding. My arm wasn’t covered by the blankets. No wonder it was numbing. It had probably woken me up.
Of course Jethro wasn’t here. He’d left last night. After helping me cook up fish and rice for supper, that is. But I was alone, now; Dad would be at work. He worked a full week.
I showered and washed quickly. After that I hunted around for a sweater, but the only one I found was much too small. Just something else I only noticed after surfacing again. What else would I discover?
I pulled on a thick, knitted quilt, hugging it to my shoulders, instead. I recognized the blanket with a small shock—my grandmother had knitted this for me when I was ten.
I tried to make pancakes—try being the key word. While no actual flames erupted, the pancakes smoked. A lot. I poured a pitcher full of water over the disaster and threw away the ashes of the pancakes.
“In life, they had been but innocent pastries, an instant powder mix; they had not known that today would be the day they burned, instead of the day they would be eaten...” I said, muttering a eulogy for the pancakes.
After that, I settled for some cereal.
It wasn’t even seven when I walked back up stairs to my room. I really had no idea what to do today. I hadn’t made any plans, not even asking Jethro when he’d come by.
It was like he was answering my thoughts: Jethro was suddenly there, landing in front of the window that hadn’t been open a second ago.
For a split second, Jethro’s face was calm, casual. Then, as he realized I’d seen him jump through my window, his eyes widened and his body tensed in horror.
I, on the other hand, was frozen in shock. I hadn’t even managed to react enough to change my expression from bored to surprised. I just sat there.
Jethro was frozen too. He waited for me to say something.
Eventually, I managed to restart my body. My face rearranged itself to look shocked and confused, and my I found my voice.
“Jethro?” I said. “What are” I stared questioningly. There was silence for a minute
Jethro sighed in defeat, sinking into the bean bag chair next to the window. “I jumped through the window,” he muttered, offering an unhelpful explanation.
“I—gathered that... How did you jump that high, exactly?” I raised my eyebrows, wondering if Jethro was on steroids....
Jethro flinched. “I’m...sort of—stronger. Than other...people.”
“I figured that out, too.” Why was he avoiding my question? “Why are you so strong? It isn’t—you’re not—you wouldn’t... “ I flinched, nervous. I stared at the space above his head as I spoke my theory. “I mean, it’s a little—er—hypocritical, and, well, I know they make you strong—but that strong?”
Jethro glanced at me warily before staring pointedly at the wall. He knew what I was getting at. “It’s not drugs.”
I sighed in relief. “What, then?”
Jethro grimaced, and then he sighed, too. It was a reluctant sigh. “I’m afraid to tell you,” he mumbled.
He mumbled again. All I could catch was ‘like me anymore’.
“Like you anymore?” I echoed. I rolled my eyes. “Don’t be an idiot. After these past few days—after what’s happened—you think--?” I made a disgusted noise in the back of my throat. “How could I not like you? I owe you my life.” I blushed a little. Suddenly, my temper boiled as I remembered something else. “Or maybe you forgot the part where I love you?” I challenged. “Maybe you think that I don’t really love you enough to be capable of accepting that you’re a little—or a lot—different? Or maybe”—my voice was growing more acidic—“you thought I was lying. Maybe you think I don’t love you at all. Maybe you think I was just humoring--”
“Stop!” Jethro looked at me with imploring, anguished eyes.
I waited, eyebrows raised challengingly. My anger had not faded.
“I would never think that,” he vowed.
“Good,” I snapped. “Because you would wrong, and a moron.” I took a deep breath. “Whatever it is, I’ll handle it. No matter what it is, it won’t scare me off or any crap like that. Promise.”
He stared at the ceiling, his face tense with discomfort. He breathed in deeply without exhaling. And then he said one word: “vampire.”
I contemplated that for a long moment before deciding he wasn’t kidding. Even then, I said nothing.
Of all the possibilities! Mythology had been the farthest thing from my mind.
The word hadn’t quite registered all the way. I expected some sort of reasonable feeling. Fear. Disgust. Disbelief. Something that made sense. I searched for that, in vain. I found a little relief at having an answer after his evasions. But mostly, all I found happiness that Jethro was here...
Jethro looked at me then, nervously. “I don’t kill people,” he said. He sounded like he was trying to convince me not to be afraid; this contradicted with my own attempts at being afraid. “I—live off animals,” Jethro continued. “Drinking animals’ blood, I mean.”
I flinched mentally. “And that’s why you’re so strong? A vampire has—what, super strength?”
Well, that was that. I was one million percent insane, because I believed him. And because I could only find nonsense emotions. Some singular brain cell groaned, asking me if I really was going to believe this and stick around.
I nodded to that one brain cell, and then I crossed the room to him, sitting down on his lap. I wrapped my arms around him.
“I still love you,” I informed him casually.
“And here I thought you weren’t crazy,” Jethro whispered. I could hear the happiness (and relief) in his voice—
--And see it on his face as he lifted my head up to stare at me. A moment passed, and then he kissed me. It was a more passionate than yesterday’s kisses...
All too soon, it ended. No matter how perfect, there’s always an ending.
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wow!..... hope you sould post more....
i love your story
carry on soon please :)
ahhh!!!! it's soo good plz continue ASAP or i think i might go insane!! PPLLZZZZZZZZZZZ!!!!!!!!!!!


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