AN: Hey, guys! This is my first fanfiction. It takes place in an alternative universe, and it's basically about Renesmee changing her life for the better, in a way. Reviews are greatly appreciated, so don't hesitate to leave one! Enjoy
DISCLAIMER: As much as I'd love to own Edward Cullen (wink wink), I don't. Stephenie Meyer does, along with everything else Twilight-related.
I hate many things in life. I hate when my food touches. I hate when there's no chocolate milk left in the cafeteria. I hate when there's nothing on TV. But the one thing I hate the most is the sound of slammed doors.
Unfortunately, this is the one I have to deal with the most. The worst part about slammed doors is that you never get used to it. There's just so much that's said with the harsh contact of the door to the wall. It's like a slap in the face, only in my opinion, it hurts ten times worse.
I can't figure out what's worse, being in pain or seeing someone you love in pain. I think that seeing someone you love in pain is much worse. That, or the feeling that there's absolutely nothing you can do about it that comes along with the territory. You can just watch them scream, cry, drown into the deep, dark ocean that's their life, and it's taking you under.
"Nessie?" My mother peers into my room. Her voice is shaky, a little quiet, like it always is after a nasty blowout. I roll over in my bed to face the doorway. In the dim light of the hallway, I can see she's a wreck. Her hair resembles a haystack, her clothes are hanging off her, and she's slouched over gently. I can faintly smell the rotten alcohol seeping off her skin, the smell that I've grown to loathe.
I answer her by moving over a few inches in my small twin bed. She hobbles over to me and lifts the duvet. I watch her collapse into the small space beside me. I can't hear her, but I can feel the bed lightly shake as her chest unevenly rises. She's crying again. I feel a lump rising in my throat, but I swallow it down. I can't be the weak one at a time like this. I reach for her hand, but when I touch it, she flinches. That's when she looks up and I see how badly off she truly is. Her eyes are rimmed with thousands of tiny blood red veins and are weighed down with dark black-blue bags. However, it's not what's on the outside that hurts. It's what I can see from the inside, the soul that the eyes show. My mother, my hero, the single person I could always count on to endure anything, has been beaten to a pulp. Her heart has been hammered down so many times that there's barely anything left. Her soul has been shattered into a million pieces, far too many to try to pick up. Despite myself, I feel a single tear roll down my face. My mother sits up, and I sit up with her. She's bawling now, and I can't help but tuck my face into her chest and cry with her. It can't be like this. It shouldn't be like this. But it is like this, and there's nothing I can do about it.
As far back as I can remember, my house has been a war zone. I never grew up with the sound of music, or the feeling of warm hugs. I grew up with the sound of smashed bottles and the feeling of tears rolling down my face. I never sat with my family at night and watched a movie, like other families did. I stayed upstairs, tucked away in my room while my parents argued downstairs. I'd hear streams of profanities; thuds against walls, and the initial door slamming that followed every argument. Sometimes, my dad would wake me up in the middle of the night to say good-bye for a few weeks. Other times, like tonight, my mother would wake me up and crawl into bed with me. I never was quite sure if she was comforting me or if she was trying to make herself feel better. Sometimes we would talk. Sometimes we would lay in silence. Sometimes she would collapse into my bed. Sometimes she would pass out before she even reached the bed. And sometimes, the worst times, she cried. I hated it when she cried. I hated seeing her in pain, but I've never really known anything else. You know, I don't think I've ever seen my mother happy. Indifferent, maybe. But happy? Now that I think of it, I don't think I've ever seen my dad happy, either. They're not happy. I'm reminded of this fact every morning that I go down to breakfast. The first thing I see when I walk into the kitchen is my dad to take a swig of his whiskey to get through the day. After he takes his "daily dose," as he calls it, he kisses me on the forehead and walks back upstairs to his room. I used to hate the feeling I'd get after he left. It was the feeling of abandonment, of being forgotten. After a while, it became routine. I'll never really get used to it, but I deal.
I deal. That's the whole definition of my situation. I detest living in the toxic wasteland I call home, but I deal. I can't stand being weak while my mother's the one fighting, but I'm dealing.
"Nessie," my mother mutters, "listen to me." Her words are slurred, and her voice sounds scratchy, but I give her my undivided attention. "Someday, things will be better for you. I pray to God that things will be better."
The words echoed around my head for a while. "I pray to God things will get better." I pray that every day too, Mom, but He never listens.
World War 3
When I wake the next day, the sun is already seeping through the curtains next to my bed. I squint my eyes and roll over to find no one. The space that was occupied by my mother last night is now just a trace of wrinkled sheets. I sigh and roll on my back. It's a Saturday, my least favorite day of the week. Saturday night fights are always the worst. They're usually the only violent fights of the week. This might be because my parents spend the whole day together, a feat for both of them. They usually don't come into contact with each other, but they're in the same breathing space. That's enough.
I don't want to get out of bed. I don't want to face another day in this hellhole in stuck in, but I really have no other choice.
Completely dreading the next twelve hours or so, I push the duvet off me and drag myself to the mirror on top of my dresser. I don't look as bad as my mother, but I don't look like a bouquet of roses. My long, brown curly hair feels…damp. I guess we did a lot of crying last night. My eyes are still red around the edges. Should I do something about this? It won't matter if I don't. I simply wipe them with my fist and walk to my doorway. From my doorway, I can see into my parents' room. My dad is sprawled out on the bed. It looks like he had another restless night. His shirt is twisted around his torso and the blankets are in a pile next to the bed. I sigh and make my way to his room. When I get there, I plop myself on the bed next to him. He breathes heavily and asks, "Ness, is that you?"
I'm slightly tempted to say, "Who else would it be?" but we both know who else it would be, who it should be. Instead, I reply, "Yeah, Dad. I'm here."
His sleep-lidded eyes slowly open to meet mine and a smile creeps at the corners of his thin lips. Honestly, it makes my entire day to see at least a trace of a smile. I can't do anything but beam back at him and enjoy the almost picture-perfect moment while it lasts.
"What time is it?" He asks me groggily. I glance at the analog clock sitting on the antique nightstand next to the bed and say, "10:17."
I know we're thinking the same thing. We're thinking that my mother's up. We're thinking that she's sitting downstairs. We're wondering how she's going to react to him this morning. It's different every morning. She's either mad at him or indifferent. She's never happy to see him. Ever. It's not like he's thrilled to see her either, though.
"How bad was it last night?" He asks me in a solemn voice. It's hard to read his expression. I can tell he's trying to conceal some sort of emotion, but what, I'm not sure.
"Feel my hair," I say. He reaches out and twists an already twisted curl in his coarse, large fingers. He sighs, but doesn't let go of my hair. We lay there in silence, him running his fingers through a tendril of my hair, me thinking of what my mother would do if she walked into the room. The fighting would probably start earlier than 8 tonight, and it would be over me. Those are the worst kind of fights.
"I'm hungry," I lie as I sit up in bed. My dad props himself up on his elbow.
"Do you want me to make you anything?" He asks me.
"I'm sure my mother has something made downstairs," I answer. The silence that follows is awkward. He knows that he can't eat breakfast with me while my mother's around. I can tell this displeases him. It gives me a little bit of comfort that he cares, though.
"Um, I'll see you later," I say after a few moments as I stand up and walk to the doorway.
"Ness?" He calls after me as I'm halfway out the door. I spin on my heel and see him completely sitting up now.
"I'm sorry," he whispers.
