So, this a fanfic I wrote for the book Twilight. It's set during early 1900's, 1901 to be exact. Edward doesn't come into the story until way later. It's in Bella's point of view. Hope you like it. Critiques are welcomed!
Chapter 1
Remembering
“Goodbye, Bella. See you tomorrow night.” I stepped out into the cold November night. “Goodbye,” I called back. It was midnight, and I was sneaking back home. See, I snuck away to go to a feminist meeting. I live with my father and am not allowed out of the house. If he ever found out that I sneak out at night, he would be furious. He would probably beat me, like all the other women are when we get into “trouble”.
I walked down the deserted street, glancing over my shoulder to make sure no one was following me. Women don’t have many rights these days, and I wanted to change this. That’s why I go to feminist meetings in the middle of the night. Yes, it is dangerous for us women, but it’s worth it.
I’m eighteen and should be able to fend for myself, but I’m supposed to get married first. Great, another man to beat the crap out of me.
My mother was killed by my father. She had been out late one night with her friends, they were feminists too. She didn’t think my father would be awake. When she walked in the door, my father was sitting in a chair, staring at my mother with a furious glare.
When she saw him, she shrieked with fright. I was eight at the time, and had poked my head downstairs to see what the noise was. My father was slowly walking to my mother. Almost, as if in slow motion, his fist came in contact with my mother’s face. I could hear a crunch and she cried out in pain, but my father didn’t seem to notice.
He continued to pound my mother with punches, screaming out, “Why do you disobey me,” over and over again. After a few minutes of blows to the chest, arms, and face, my mother crumpled to the ground. Blood stained my mother’s dress and covered her whole body.
As she lay on the ground being kicked by my father, she whispered, “Bella, I love you.” I barely heard the whisper, but those words are still with me today. After she said that, she took one final, shaky breath and closed her eyes.
As I watched this, tears ran down my cheeks. When my mother took her last breath, my father laughed at her. The laugh was evil, dripping with pure hatred. I gasped and my father turned to face me. “Get upstairs, you little brat.” My eyes widened in terror and I shot up. I peeked at my mother one last time and scrambled up the stairs.
While I was walking down the street remembering my mother’s last words, tears formed on my eyes. I blinked furiously, trying to be brave. I was fighting for women’s rights because of my mother. She had died fighting for it and I won’t let anyone get me down. Not my own father, not anyone.
I continued down the street, back straight, chin up, feeling proud of my
mother.
I would win this fight against men, I would.
you shouldn't use "my mother" every sentence. Maybe you should add her name, or use more pronouns. But "my mother" is just a bit repetative. The same with "my father", too.
Your writing style is, contrary to what 