OOC: This is the longest post I have written in a year :| 2000+ and I am SO sorry. I just couldn't get Bella to shut up.


The crunch beneath shoes on gravel, the distant call of animals; it is all so very vivid. I can practically smell the blossoming garden my mother planted every year. No, I can see it. She is there, beautiful... breathtakingly so. Long waves of brown hair caress her shoulders, a slight wave curling around her oval face. Big green eyes flash up at me with excitement as she welcomes me. As I approach I watch her hair slowly grey, and I cannot help but let the discomfort show on my face.

"Mom?" My voice is so foreign, but I feel my lips move. It isn't me, but my little sister speaking. No... she isn't little. I watch as my mother shrivels into this unfamiliar elder lady and another beautiful, uncanny older version of my sister coax her into sitting on a wooden chair. My heart lurches as I watch hair slowly thin from my mother's once full set of locks.

My sister. My God she is gorgeous.

She isn't beautiful in the same way I am; she is more so. Her blue eyes pop so intensely people tend to look away as if to not be blinded. Her black eyelashes thickly curve into a C shape as if God himself had hand crafted a personal mascara wand for herself. Her skin is tanned this summer, an olive-y/brown colour that makes me feel like she has travelled lately.

And then I remember it is only 1950 right nowâ€"wherever I amâ€"and we couldn't afford travelling.

My eyes gloss as I inhale the reality of what is going on. It is just a dream, a beautiful vivid dream. I know what my mom looks like because I attended her funeral from the security of a tree. I know what my sister looks like because I too watched her cry into some strange man's arm while they lowered mother into the ground. I know why father is absent, because he is dead. And I know that in five seconds, I will wake up. What a cruel trick to play.

I don't wake up in time to avoid the snarling cackle of giggle fits that erupt in my right ear. I don't come to in time to avoid the intoxicating appearances of the demons themselves. I try gasping for air but nothing comesâ€"do I know how to breathe?

Three... Two... One...

I sit up in a pool of my sweat. My heart is pounding so heavily I start feeling light headed. I try to coach myself, tell myself to inhale, exhale, and then repeat. My hair is in a tangled knot above my head. I feel myself pale, which makes me want to huddle in a ball and not open the curtains. After nightmares I always act like the sun will burn me. Like, if I open the window, whatever is outside will take that as an invitation in. I cannot invite them in though, not this time. Not now. Please, no.

My room isn't helping my claustrophobia either. It is small, and quaint; good enough for a single woman with no real suitcase. The kitchen is nestled to my right, a white granite counter looking rather empty. A small black coffee maker is nestled in the corner of the counter, crowded with cupboards and drawers and a small flowerpot. The flowers are dead because I told room service not to disturb me, and I didn't think enough to water them myself. Once lively blue flowers are now crumpled up into a dead mess, shriveling into a small miniature sizeâ€"that is when I think; like my mother.

Sometimes I do this. I coach myself to get started, which is probably why I am a single woman. I tell myself that I am strong enough to put on clothes. I demand myself to walk seven steps (exactly seven) to the kitchen. I instruct myself that the damn coffee won't cook itself. My hands shake and shiver and my arm stiffens as if to say Are you really sure you want to do this? All this today? but my mind growls and barks until my body reluctantly gives in. And this is how I start my day.

I know I said sometimes, but lately sometimes has meant always.

One time I had to coach myself to breath. I was lying on the cold black pavement holding my breath because dogs were looking for me. They had hounds on the hunt for my flesh. These demons aren't dumb, they make it so their dog's teeth will only latch onto my skin and not actually kill me. They make it so I am suffocated beneath their grasp only to know I will be dragged back to my demise. I am lying on the cold pavement literally not breathing when I hear the familiar whistleâ€"I hear their sharp claws tick against the cement floor as they do as they're told. And then, for some reason, I didn't breath.

I could die hereâ€"I had thoughtâ€"it won't be hard. Someone will find me in a couple months, most likely buried beneath the snow. They will say I was homeless and froze, despite my fashionable outfit. I am sure police wouldn't pry into a Jane Doe; their efforts would be a lost cause anyways, since over one hundred years had passed since my real records had been written down. Did they still have that, or was it lost at war?

Ding, my brain snarls at my hands to fetch the warm coffee. Black, thick liquid empties into my mug and steam rolls off the surface. My black painted fingernails wrap around the cup as if it is holy waterâ€"my savior. Drink the coffee, Bella. Fucking drink it you coward. You need it today. You need energy.

My body listens.

The sun is deceiving today. I walk out in my long black trench coat, disregarding how warm outside looks when I know deep down it is most likely below 40 degrees Farenheight. Today my mind decided that black leather pants with a nice detail on the back calves would be appropriate. Beneath my black trench coat I had on a nice red blouse that hung lower than most shirts but I wasn't entirely sure who would see that today. Where would I go now?

It isn't like I have been here long. I have been here long enough to know some of the maids, a lot of the desk clerks, and one manager of the hotel I am staying at. Eventually I plan to move, but not yet. It is hard to hunker down when you aren't sure how "hot" on the trail your hunters are. I know about the bar downtown, and the burlesque (which I am sort of wanting to apply for but I don't really know what to do), but other than that I am a blank slate. So what now?

I smell ocean but I try not to get too wrapped up in the idea of going on a boat. It has been years since I have travelled on a ship and my heart longs to be back out on the sea. I pass a large sign that directs travelers to Noah's Ark even though my heart is just dying to go. That is the problem with me, I find. My head is always in the game, always hunting, always thinking. My heart is a lost puppy, constantly enticed by bright lights and pretty noises. A constant war goes along inside me while I try to remain oblivious up front. Somehow, someday, they will compromise and a whole new life will be laid out for me. Until then, I have arguments like this to tolerate.

I feel shivers trace up my spin as finally both armies within me realize that the West side isn't so beautiful. Bright lights don't invite me in and popular music is pretty much dead here.

I jump into a store because I hear rustling down the ally. My knuckles are white as they grip onto the door handle still, as if the demons themselves have finally uncovered me. Impossible, I haven't left one trail.

A thick smell of cigarette smoke wafts into my nostrils and I let out a discreet cough. I have my habitsâ€"only whiskey will understandâ€"but smoking had never been my go to fix. I bite my nails when I become nervous, I seek out a bottle of Whiskey (or anything "smooth") when I get to stressing, I tend to bite my lip when I concentrate too hard; smoking had just never made the cut. Odd though that it hadn't considering I had grown through ("up" since I am immortal doesn't really work) the smoking era. I guess we all had our dirty secrets.

I lift my nail up to nibble at the corner; men made me nervous.

I linger in the store a very long time. Hours. My arrival had gone unnoticed thus far and I couldn't complain. I was scared to walk home to my hotel now, the black blanket of night practically a party invitation for anything devilish. I could be just fine if I lay down in the corner behind the guns. My mind contemplates it but my heart simply won't have it. A Smith never sleeps on the floor; you're a lady.

I am caught up in looking at the guns when I hear the soft step of somebody approaching from the back. I stiffen; my heart goes back to that invigorating pump and my face pales. I am strong, regardless of how I feel inside. On the outside despite my lack of colour my face is stone. My eyes are narrowed, my jaw set, my arms crossed firmly. I am incredibly small, but my stern expression gives me that extra bit of confidence that I need. And then I remind myself I am a guest here, and he is a salesman, and he needs me.

Well, actually, I need him unless I feel like getting murdered and skinned tonight.

I turn around to face him. My brownish/blonde hair waves about my face messily and my brown eyes set on him. My lips are parted just slightly in an inquiring look however my jaw remains firm. "Hello," I am able to muster out just barely.

He isn't tall compared to others but to me he is. His hair is a dark brown and his eyes are a creamy icy blue that reminds me of my sister's. I get lost in themâ€"just slightlyâ€"then look away almost instantly. I felt like everyone else, not wanting to get lost in that sea of blue, carried away on the clouds and forget to actually speak. I cannot help but adjust myself self-consciously even though I myself have looks going for me as well. Small, petite, skinny, but my sister had always been the model.

I was your average farm girl. At school I would get love notes, but nothing compared to my little sister Esmeralda. Boys swooned for her beautiful blonde hair that fell in perfect straight strands. I always had messy-wavy hair that kept me distracted all throughout class. The Smith girls we were calledâ€"even though I was well aware I was the athletic, pretty one while Esmy was the tall model who wasn't called anything less than beautiful and luxurious.

He doesn't see me, and no wonder because I am hidden behind stacks of ammo and targets. My voice rises just slightly, "hello?" even though I watch him flick off his open sign. I let out a deep exhale with a slight prayer beneath it as if to say Lord, please don't let him kick me out into the night life.

He seems caught up with someone so my eyes trail to his gaze expecting a woman to be on the other side when I see a familiar man. They look alike (just slightly) and it makes me wonder but I don't question. The man who seems more in charge handles the sword like a gladiator, effortlessly swinging it with the twist of his wrist. I glance around momentarily, latching my hand around a carved silver handle before mimicking his action. The sword sort of glides aroundâ€"I make it look more heavy.

"Now will you notice me?" But perhaps, this whole time, he did.