My cat was in heat.

I had recently been placed under the dreaded curse of continuous inconvenience, and the demon cats excessive meowing and nudging and need for attention was tragically predictable. It was nearing four in the morning, and this cat had no intention of letting me sleep, an inconvenience cherry on the inconvenience sunday.

The poor cat. She just wanted to get laid.

However, this did not excuse her from waking me from the first good night's sleep I've had in months. I looked down at her from my warm, comfortable bed. In the dark of the night, I could only see her bright green eyes, but I could definitely hear her claws scratch up the floor's surface. She needed catnip.

My bare feet hitting the cold wooden floor was all I needed to be wide awake . Selena rubbed her head against my ankles as I made my way towards the mason jar full of cat weed I kept for emergencies. Emergencies consisting of Selena's separation anxiety, meeting strangers, and wanting to have a cat orgy.

"You're gonna drive me crazy, you demon," I whispered, placing a bud on the ground for her. She nuzzled my leg.

Admittedly, I was grateful for the wakeup call. Back home further south, I spent most nights awake, wandering around the city, occupying skateparks. Ever since we moved over to Washington, I had been doomed to long exhaustive days of unpacking, meeting strangers, and finding therapists. Days left me drained and unable to explore the life around me.

Guess I had to thank the horny cat.

Hastily throwing on a dirty sweatshirt and old sneakers, I stumbled out of my room and down the stairs, not caring about the noise. My parents were dead asleep, I could hear from their viscous snores that ripped through the house.

I stepped out the front door and felt the temperature drop significantly. I guess my dads didn't wanna give up warm California summers. I could understand why. Washington was cold, foggy, and deprived on any sunlight. I loved it.

Although it was the dead of night, I could tell there was a thick fog that settled over the town. I enjoyed this type of weather more than any other kind. The sun could be nasty, and, despite the chill that went down my spine, I felt at ease for the first time in months.

Moving here included a lot of firsts.

The grass was dewy, and the bottom of my sweatpants soaked up the moisture. I had lived in a city my whole life, and I was never able to experience any sort of nature like this, like it was my home.

The road I lived on was a dirt one, which to be honest I was surprised wasn't turned into mud at that point. To the right, the road continued, and I knew that if I followed it far enough I would end up in the center of town. To the left, the road winded, and I had no idea where it may end.

In the past, I've been critiqued as pretentious, egotistical, and cliche, all of which were a reflection of my personality and artistic nature. With that in mind, I suppose it made sense that I was drawn to the path of uncertainty. The Robert Frost in me tugged on my heartstrings towards the left. The Charles Bukowski in me called me an idiot and told me to go inside. But I guess I was always more of a romantic than a cynic.

Or even a realist.

In actuality, my city-dwelling self had never stopped to consider the very real possibility there might be a wild animal with the potential to hurt me out there. I had believed for the majority of my life that the only danger to me was men on the streets. "Be afraid of the one in suits the most," my dad had once told me, "because they're the hardest to get in court." My other dad promptly whacked his arm after he said that, but it was true enough to be said.

There was something to be said for how peaceful, albeit freezing, it was here in La Push, Washington. I found myself walking with my hands in my pockets and head tilted back to stare at the night sky. It's a view I never had back home; the stars were bright enough to make out constellations and the trees wrapped around the sky like a picture frame.

For a fleeting second, I missed my friends. I was glad to be out of the sweaty hell hole that was San Diego, but I missed the carefree attitude of the girls that made my life enjoyable, and I wished they were here to enjoy the sky with me. They'd pass around a bottle and then I'd have to get their drunk asses home, but it would be worth it to hear them drunkenly giggle.

The thing was, I was grateful to be out of California, and there would be few things I would miss. My friends there were real friends. They were crude and honest and fun and had the confidence I've always wanted. I'm poetic enough to see them when I look to the moon.

In many legends and mythology, the goddess of the moon was a powerful solitary being, who stood as a strong guardian. I saw that goddess in my friends.

I tried to be poetic. I stopped still in the middle of this dirt road and let me head fall back behind my shoulders. I closed my eyes. I tried to sense the environment around me. My hair fell off my shoulders and down my back. I felt the wind on my skin. It was cold, like cold metal against my exposed skin. I inhaled, wanted to fill my lungs with the rustic smell of trees and the nearby ocean. I was expecting that, but instead I inhaled the strong scent of sugar. It was strong and almost unbearably sweet.

Tingles shot up my spine as it curled inward on instinct, telling me there was something behind me. I tensed, shooting my head back up. There was no sound but the wind rustling through the trees. Slowly, I turned my head, anticipating exactly what I saw. A man, about fifty feet back, legs spread in a fighting stance. A silhouette. A threat.

I whipped my head back around and cursed myself for leaving my knife at home. I looked to the ground, hoping for a rock or something I could bang his head if he attacked, which looked likely. I was panicking. Quick flashes of what he might do to me ran through my head like a twisted game of Would You Rather: Predator Edition. But then I heard it, a large thud, like an unstoppable force hitting an immovable object.

Hesitant, I turned to see him. But he was gone, disappeared into the night. There was no trace of him. I inhaled, the scent was gone. Instead, it was replaced with the rustic smell, which was stronger than I expected. Frantically, I searched for any sign he might have been there. My feet carried me in the direction where he once stood, but there was nothing. No footprints in the dirt, no rustles in the trees. He vanished.

And yet, I was stuck with the feeling I was not alone the entire walk home.

The next morning I was woken up by the smell of bacon and the sizzle of the pan. My stomach rumbled at the smell and drew me towards the kitchen, though my eyes still wanted to stay glued shut.

The con of having a one story house: you can smell everything.

"Mornin' sleeping beauty," my dad said to me as he manned the stove. Though his words sounded calm he looked as if he was desperately trying to avoid the burning grease popping off the pan.

"Mornin' dad. Where's Baba?" I asked, stealing a piece of cooked bacon off the counter.

To people who don't have to gay fathers, differentiating between 'dad' and 'dad' might seem confusing and difficult. To me, it was simple, my white dad was 'Dad' and my Arab dad was Baba. It was the beauty of being raised in two cultures: two different words for 'dad' and I didn't have to resort to 'daddy.'

"He went out to work. We both decided we've had enough time to settle in, and so we're going to start living again," he smiled at me, "which means it's time for you to enroll for classes."

I sneered. "Sounds gross. Can't I just drop out of high school and become a stripper? I'm eighteen you know."

"How are you gonna settle down and marry a nice man or lady if you're a stripper?"

"Isn't that how you met Baba?"

My father gasped and light whipped my arm with a dish towel. "Alexandra! I swear, why can't you be like other girls and be too disgusted to say that?"

"Haven't you heard Dad? I'm not like other girls." My father rolled his eyes at my deep rooted ironic humor, knowing I've made that joke at least twenty times since we moved to La Push. "Anyways, I don't wanna go to college, so I don't need high school." My dad raised a bushy eyebrow at me. "You don't need a diploma to open a bookstore."

"No one's gonna rent a store to a girl who has no high school diploma or any basic knowledge of running a business. Besides, school's fun. I mean, not for me. I was bullied for being gay. For you it's fun."

He slid the rest of the bacon off the pan and onto the plate. Turning off the stove, he faced me. "Or, at least, it'll be better here than in San Diego."

It was my turn to roll my eyes. "Everything's better here than in San Diego." I finished off my strip of bacon. "I'm gonna go finish unpacking my clothes."

His hazel eyes widened. "You haven't finished unpacking?"

"I like, clothes, Dad. Sue me."

In actuality, I just wanted to retreat to my room, play loud music, and contemplate whether or not I almost died last night.

yah hunty i know the chapter's boring but i wrote this when i was bored as a sort of introduction so ¯\_(ツ)_/¯. takes place post breaking dawn. flame me if u want i don't really care this is just for fun lol