I've recently decided I want to try and conquer as many genres as I can in short stories while working on my main story Mahou Mafia Tutor. Coming to the King of Teenage Angst Twilight.

A simple friendship between two kind of messed up teens trying to make it along in the world.

1:32 a.m. Washington

She didn't want to do this, she really didn't. She had to something though.

Her dad was getting antsy and she'd already heard him speaking to her mother over the phone, it was only a matter of time before they tried to pack her up and send her back to Arizona, and failing that a "special camp" for people with "special problems".

A week, she had a week until he decided to pull the plug, a week to get 'close' to her and see if he could "fix" something.

He wouldn't, her father wasn't much of a talker, emotional or otherwise. The best he could do was interrogate with his cop voice, but he'd never used that with her; they'd never did much talking to each other anyway, they were cut from the same cloth, preferring to communicate with nods and grunts.

He'd said it to get her mother off his back, her mother who lived from one season to the next, her mother who'd never had her heartbroken and could hardly understand her own daughter despite living with her for nearly her entire life.

Her father was the one, who'd gotten his heart broken when they split, when she left, her father was the one who'd cried and cursed at the wind; had he gone through something like this and hoped she would make it through the way he had, she felt a small rush of affection for the awkward surly man.

She stared down at the ancient cord lined phone in front of her

She didn't want to do this, but she wanted to be sent away from Forks even less. She wouldn't be able to bear it. If she left now, away from where he had been, there'd be no proof he existed. That he had ever been real at all; he'd taken it all with him, pictures, letters, the odd clothing item, all of it, he took with them.

(Sometimes she thinks she'd gone crazy; that it was all in her head, and like a lonely child moving to a new home who'd invented the perfect family to make up for her own lackluster one, a perfect lover to accept and compliment her for all her inadequacies.)

But she can usually stop that line of thought before the hyperventilating starts by looking around and seeing all the people that remember him too.

If she leaves now she won't be able to do that, won't be able to confirm her very reality, and then... then they'll really have to have her put away.

This was the least intrusive option she could find on such short notice; it came to her by happenstance of fate (like he had) blown in on a flyer from another state entirely.

A website with a short survey and a description of services; something she could point out to her parents that she was getting help (help wasn't what she needed what she needed was) and didn't need to leave.

It was an answer to her prayers.

Teens Help Teens, a hotline for young people going through various problems that let them talk to each other instead of an adult, a first step before more serious therapy was needed.

She had filled out a small survey on her ancient computer and was given a number to call with a teen whose crazy apparently matched her crazy.

She'd been staring at the phone for over 40 minutes, having already procrastinated for a majority of the day; she didn't have the courage to make the call earlier during its cold light.

She didn't want to do this.

She did not want to bear her soul to anyone else, to pick at old (but not healed, never healing) wounds.

She didn't want to have some older man in a doctor's office in Phoenix talk at her while she tried not to have a break down in public either.

She picked up the phone.

She nearly hung up after the first two rings, got her nerve back by the third, prayed it was too late at night and that no one would answer by the fourth and had her hope dashed when it was answered midway through the fifth.

"Welcome to the depressed teens of America hotline, my names Danny and I'll be your mentor this fine night. To whom am I speaking?" said a cheerily sarcastic voice that only a teenager could master.

There was a long pause when she didn't answer, before Danny's voice appeared again, a touch softer and noticeably lacking sarcasm, "you don't have to tell me your real name if you don't want to", he crooned low and almost gentle, with a sympathy that said 'I know how you're feeling', "you don't even have to talk after you say a name, trust me I can speak for both of us... but I'd kinda like to have something to call you while I'm jabbering on."

Another pause long pause, the boy waited patiently.

"...Bella. My name is Bella"

Done. Short Chapters, I'll be trying to update at least once a day for awhile.