Name: Cassandra Madison

Age: 15 (Dec 17. 1990)

Gender: Female

Appearance: Cassie is about 5 foot 6, with long, scruffy black hair and dark blue eyes. Her features are sharp and defined, with an angular face and long legs.

Disclaimer: All of the characters you recognize belong to Stephanie Meyer. My OC's are a figment of my imagination, as everything that happens to them. I do not deal with abuse nor do I know anyone that does. I do not support it, I do not understand why people feel the need to do so.

A/N: To anyone who has read this story before, this is a fresh, new version of the first chapter! I will be going through all my old writing and updating and refreshing it! My writers block is still very present, but I am doing my best to keep going! A lot of things will need to be changed in order to fit my new plot ideas and some chapters may be taken down and replaced with completley, unrelated ones! To any new readers, I recommend not getting atached on how this story is now, I did forget quite a few of key elements when writing. But now, I'm on top of everything! Enjoy!

My life, since I was the age of five, hasn't gone off very well. My Mother- Caroline, had an odd, early mid-life crisis and up and left one day. Being 5, I did not totally understand what was going on. Just one day after school I got home and mom was gone.

Never coming back.

My Father, didn't take it very well. We moved out of the suburbs, to the city. To a small two bedroom apartment. I had to switch schools, leaving any friends I had. He didn't get a job for four months, and we almost got kicked out.

I was little, and was still very confused at why mom was never home and never called. Dad had been very on edge since the day she was gone, and I had taken note to tread lightly around him. But I was curious, and mucked up the courage to ask him why she was gone.

"Daddy, where has Mommy gone?" I asked, standing next to his chair. He smelled of beer and smoke.

"She left."

"I know that, but where to?"

"Away."

"Why?" I pestered, determined to get a real answer out of him.

"I don't fucking know, maybe she didn't love you anymore." He said, getting annoyed with my constant questioning.

"What did I do?" I was getting a little emotional. "Mommy has to love us."

"Well she DOESN'T ANYMORE." He yelled, standing up so fast the chair was pushed back.

"Maybe if you didn't talk so much, she would've stayed. She got so annoyed with your voice, she left." He shouted at me, grabbing my arm.

"Daddy! That hurts!" I cried, trying to wiggle away. "Let go!" Tears streamed down my face, raining down onto my shirt.

"Oh shut up, you whiny, selfish child. Go to your room and don't leave." He tossed me down the hall like a rag doll, and I got up and ran to my room, hiding in my closet for hours.

That was when the abuse started. I didn't know why, but something had changed in his head. He snapped.

"I never wanted you." He would say. "It's not my problem your mom left me with you." It was like I was a burden to him, using up all the oxygen in the room.

But now, he was sucking the life out of me.

My teachers never seemed suspicious of anything. I was a clumsy child, and any bruise that wasn't hidden under clothing could be passed on as an accident at recess.

When I started Middle School, the abuse grew increasingly more hurtful. His sour, cruel comments became more violent, and his hand got heavier, and harder.

His common phrases were 'Ugly Bitch' and 'Ungrateful Ass.'

I was young and impressionable, finally starting to realize the severity of my situation. I stopped thinking that this was how all families were, and began to learn that it was actual abuse.

That made me even more afraid that people were going to find out.

By seventh grade, I became even more careful with what I said, and then stopped saying anything at all.

I hid behind sweatshirts and jeans, wearing my hair down to hide any hand shaped bruises on the back of my neck from being grabbed, and avoided contact with anyone.

The loud hallways got more and more intimidating, most days I hid in the bathrooms or behind the school, where other kids that couldn't be bothered to go to class stayed.

"Whats up with you?" Some boy asked me one day, standing much too close for my comfort.

I tensed up, shying away.

"Not one to talk, huh? That's cool with me. I see you around, we live in the same apartment."

My heart began to race at a mile a minute, making my hands tremble. I started to scratch my arm, thats what I usually do when I get nervous and panicky. Both of my arms had long, red welts from constant scratching and some were scabbed over.

"You know, you really shouldn't do that, it looks like it's bad for your skin."

I glared at him, hands shaking and temper flaring. I was not in the mood for sarcasm.

"You know, you really should fuck off." I snapped, surprising the both of us.

I stood up, stomping off to find a quiet place to calm myself.

A few weeks after that had happened, Dad, who now demanded me to call him by his real name, Andrew, began to invite his sleazy friends over every night for poker. The house would fill with cigar smoke and shouting. My anxiety levels were now through the roof.

"Kid!" He would yell down the hall. "Get more beer from the fridge!" I hadn't been called by my name for two years.

I stayed quiet, following orders and doing anything he wanted me to do. By now, the abuse had gotten even more violent. On accident he had hit me in the face as I attempted to duck away from his fist.

"It's all your fault! If anyone asks, you fell." He had yelled, throwing an ice pack at me. And that's exactly what I told anyone that asked.

In September, one of my teachers from last year reported me to the office. I had begun to panic, thinking they had found out and were going to call home. I thought about skipping class.

Turns out, they wanted me to start seeing the Guidance Counselor. I never defied any of my teachers wishes. I had been broken down and reformed to follow everyone blindly.

So everyday during lunch, I went to see Zach Durant, the weirdest and most eccentric man I had ever met. He greatly enjoyed reading and drawing, pulling me into those worlds with him.

At first, I was terrified of him. But he slowly earned my trust, and I finally had someone to lean on.

He got me to open up a tiny bit, pulled me out of my shell with kindness and careful words.

But I never spoke to him about my father or the abuse. I would never tell anyone about that.

Instead, I told him about my favorite book genres and any upcoming homework assignments I had to do. My dog, a red and white pitbull named Rebel, came up in conversation sometimes. We would talk for hours, and I would look forward to telling him some things. But my anxiety still got in the way of alot.

I still wouldn't speak up in class, or talk to anyone other than him. I was afraid, even then.

Even though Zach tried his best, he couldn't fix me. I was broken beyond repair. Too many years of abuse and pain, nothing could wipe that clean from me. Away from the shelter of the quiet Guidance Office, I was still an emotionless, empty shell.