until dawn (marcus and bella )

i dont own this story

~Prologue~

I'm not a heroine. I'm not the main character of a perfect fairy tale, or the girl who everyone admires for her strength. I'm not brave, or drop-dead gorgeous or graceful. I don't have a cunning wit or genius level intelligence. I'm just a girl who got caught up in a nightmare and was desperately trying to keep afloat of the despair. I am weak, but I can't be anyone but myself and all the faults that come with that. I've tried being someone else before but it just makes the outcome worse in the end.

I would later discover that the self-built walls that kept others at arm length from me would be to both my detriment and my benefit. The fact that my emotions and opinions do war within my mind without the sign of a ripple hinting what is going on beneath the calm façade on my face. That human instinct only gets you so far and then you just have to take a leap of faith and pray you'll make it. That independence isn't all that important in the long run, and that sometimes if you can make it to the end of the day with most of your morals intact, you've done well, even if everything else seems to suggest otherwise.

My name is Isabella Swan, and I'm just trying to make it to the next dawn.

Chapter 1

BPOV

My hands shake as I swallow yet another Xanax, praying this dose would get me through the next few hours. I had felt the tentative grip I had on reality begin to slip as from the corner of my eye one of the men leaving had reminded me of Charlie in his gestures and posture. While at work I know I can't risk slipping into that dark place of my mind. The sneer of one of my fellow co-workers doesn't help my anxiety any before I shove my prescription bottle back in my ragged backpack in the employee storage area. Taking a deep breath I force myself to go back out into the crowded Italian Bistro that I work at.

It is a popular place, favoured by many business men from the nearby office buildings. I haven't worked here for long (anxiety attacks and relapses at the last six places I'd worked meant that it was difficult to keep a job for any reasonable stretch of time). The pay was crap, but the tips were decent in this part of town and the bistro was almost always busy which meant no lag time that I could drift away in.

Picking up my orders I weave around the bustling café and silently deposit the specialty coffee drinks with the food to those who had been waiting. After fifteen minutes the tense, stressed, self-hatred and paranoia I felt since the reminder of my father starts to ease letting me know the Xanax has kicked in. If I could just avoid touching or being touched too much until the end of my shift I might actually be able to focus enough to work on paying my bills and cleaning my grungy apartment a little before falling into the not-so-peaceful oblivion known as sleep. Sometimes I just can't decide whether my nightmares or the vivid twists my imagination come up with are worse.

The little bell over the entrance tinkles merrily letting us staff know yet more people have entered. I turn to look accidently getting my shin hit with a chair that has been left out in the walkway for my trouble. Gasping quietly I rub it quick before straightening again. It really is a good thing the uniforms here include long pants as due to my innate clumsiness I'm always sporting a small collection of bruises and cuts on my fair skin.

"Isabella! Table seven, hurry up!" one of the other girls hiss at me. I don't bother to reply (not that she waited for one), instead I just orient myself towards the designated table.

Getting there in relatively good time I quickly glance out of the corner of my eye to see that it is-yet again- a table full of businessmen. Without looking at any of them I begin my spiel.