"In The Dark" Contest
Pen Name: shinethroughthedarkness
Title: Our Sleeping Torture
Summary: Edward and Bella both suffer from violent hallucinations. This shared torture brings them together.
Word Count: 8,223
For Rules and Other Submissions, please visit: http://www(DOT)fanfiction(D0T)net/u/2003775/
Author's Note: This is my entry to the "In The Dark" Contest, hosted by Bronze and Leon. Love it or hate it, but by all means, review it.
Disclaimer: I wish I may, I wish I might, have this wish to own Twilight. *glances around* Nope, no luck.
EPOV
There I was, hanging from the old wooden beams, my wrists tied with rope. I couldn't remember what I'd done to deserve this, but it seemed like everyone else could. Their eyes all seemed to spit fire at me, but they weren't the eyes of the evil. Not eyes from hell. They were the eyes of typical people, infuriated and appalled at whatever it is I'd done, whatever crime was so repulsive.
At first I only saw the men, the strong ones who looked as if they could do the most damage. Then my eyes started to focus on individuals, on the faces of women and children. Each pair of eyes was just as full of fire as the very first pair I'd seen. The fury showed just as clearly on the faces of children, just two or three years old as it did on the middle aged men and their wives.
What had I done? I felt ashamed, but I wasn't sure why. The crowd- men, women, and children alike- started to form a line in front of me. Before the shame could overwhelm me, it was suddenly replaced with fear.
The first man in the line was simple. He had a short, clean cut hairstyle, deep brown eyes, and a crooked nose that looked as if it had once been broken, but never set correctly. He locked his fierce glare with my apologetic and terrified eyes. I felt a fear pulse through me that was more than I'd ever experienced. He picked up a small knife that was setting on a stool beside where I hanged by my wrists. Without hesitation or remorse, he sliced into the skin of my forearm.
It wasn't a deep wound, but it would have required stitches if I was to be treated. Something told me that I was not. I did my best not to react, but failed. I winced and let out a small moan of pain. It was not the worst pain I'd ever felt, but I'd never imagined experiencing that kind of hostility. The blood dripped from the fresh cut in my arm, down my wrist, my hand, and onto the concrete beneath me.
The next person in line was a young girl. She couldn't have been older than eight years old, but her eyes held the fury of a woman who had experienced much more pain than anyone her age ought to have experienced. Did I cause this pain? Before I could ponder my question further, the young girl, with her blonde, curly hair and plump rosy cheeks, picked up the knife and rammed it into my calf. She did this just like the man preceding her, without hesitation or remorse.
The pain was unbearable. I flinched involuntarily and almost kicked this deranged young one. She was not fazed. She simply set the knife back down on the stool for the next person in line. This wound was deep. The blood ran from my calf much more quickly than the cut on my arm.
The next woman was young, but not near as young as the curly haired little girl. This woman was probably in her early twenties. She was not pretty, but she wasn't ugly either. Her auburn hair was knotted at her neck into a chaotic mess of a bun. Her blue eyes, easily the most beautiful part of her, were just as angry as the first two. I cringed before she even picked up the knife. She was indifferent to this reaction; they all were.
No one cared if this hurt me or if this made me sorry. This was about something else. Revenge? What had I done? This woman picked up the knife, and slit a long line across my stomach. Blood poured out. I couldn't breathe properly. In, then out, i- i- i- in, then out.
My name is Edward. I would tell you that I am a normal teenager, a normal person, just like you, but that would be a lie. You see, when I close my eyes at night, I go to Hell. Then, when I wake up in the morning, I return to your world.
I do not want to inflict my pain on you. I do not want the images that are burnt into my mind forever to haunt you the way they haunt me. So I'll warn you now, hesitate before you read this. There is a happy ending, but every night up to then is a morbid tragedy.
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Edward stared at the computer screen, the blinking cursor taunting him, daring him to reveal more. Just that little piece had taken him four days. Upon proof reading it, he was left unsatisfied. It didn't begin to express the emotions that flickered through him. But how could it? And did he even want it to? No, he decided. He'd written down more than enough, too much. His therapist, Dr. Runnels, had suggested that he jot down his dreams at their first meeting. He had politely declined the suggestion, not wanting to have to live in them more than he was already forced to.
But now, since the flashbacks started, brief images of the dreams disrupting his vision anytime someone raised their voice at or around him, he was willing to try anything. He couldn't help but feel guilty for this, exposing poor Dr. Runnels to something that was so tortuous for him. But he was a therapist. Surely he'd helped people who had witnessed murders, or even committed them. Not just whiney guys with overactive, twisted imaginations.
Rolling his eyes at himself, Edward moved his mouse along the pad, so that his cursor now hovered over the print icon. He clicked before he could change his mind. The mechanic sounds of his printer had never seemed so ominous, although they faintly reminded him of last week, when he printed of the five page essay he'd written in less than half an hour. Stupid, senseless... scary.
Only this was magnified. This was far more haunting than the sloppily thrown together essay. This wasn't some meaningless grade that would be printed on his grade report. This was his life, his death.
Once the document had finished printing, Edward hastily shoved the paper in his black messenger bag, not caring whether or not it got wrinkled. He just couldn't bring himself to care. It was bad, wrinkled or not.
As he stood up, smoothing the wrinkles in his dress pants and walking out his bedroom door and into the family living room, Edward let his mind wander to when the dreams had just begun. It was two years ago. The dream he'd typed up for Dr. Runnels had been the first of a long series of haunting dreams Edward had experienced. He could still recall the panic he felt when he woke up, gasping for breath. It was obvious he hadn't been breathing after his "death" in the dream.
Running his fingers through his hair, Edward tried to keep the images from flooding into his brain. Instead, he tried to focus on the words he had just typed, just the letters and spaces - no images. No images, no images, no images, he chanted to himself. But it was futile. He sunk to the floor, unable to focus on what was around him. He couldn't see his mother, Esme, walking toward him, her face reflecting the pain that showed in his own. He couldn't see his father, Carlisle, looking at him skeptically, one eyebrow raised.
Carlisle wasn't heartless. He loved his son. In fact, he was the most compassionate person Edward had ever known. However, when the sleep study tests came back, Carlisle couldn't help but be a little disbelieving. The results said that Edward didn't dream. No rapid eye movement, or REM, whatsoever. In fact, he had only been asleep for twenty-five percent of the test. Even though, the test administrators could affirm that Edward had tossed and turned, even occasionally letting out a scream, throughout the night, none of the test results supported the theory that these were nightmares.
Had the patient not been his son, Carlisle would have immediately concluded that this was a common case of attention-seeking. Faking it. But this was Edward, and he was ninety-nine percent sure Edward would never fake it. But that one percent wondered.
"Edward!" Carlisle shouted, in an earnest attempt to pull Edward from his flashback. "Edward!"
"Carlisle, leave the poor boy alone!" Esme defended, nervous for Edward's well being, as always.
"He's got to snap out of it, Es," Carlisle countered. "Edward, snap out of it, son!"
But the yelling only made matters worse. To Edward, the words were muffled. They were just loud, anxious background noises. They just frightened him more, and heightened the quality of his flashback. He could now see the young child walking toward him, all the facial features coming into view. He shook violently on the cold, grey carpet.
"So much for writing it down helping," he muttered to himself, still shaking.
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BPOV
For some reason, I was not afraid of him. His silver hooded cloak was not menacing to me. He approached me with a sort of confident certainty. He knew me, though I did not know him. When he spoke, his voice was deep and resounding, like the cello in an orchestra.
"Come with me," he said, reaching toward me with his long arm. His fingernails were long and silver, like his cloak. They appeared to be almost metallic. "I'll take you to where you need to be."
I followed, unthinkingly. He led me through a narrow hall in the dim moonlight. I tried, but could not remember why this place seemed so familiar. I just couldn't place it. Perhaps wherever he was taking me would jog my memory.
After two minutes of silently leading, he turned to face me. For the first time, I caught a glimpse of his eyes, which had before been hidden under the hood of his cloak. His eyes were blood red. But they were serene and contented, not at all angry. I felt my stomach tremble a bit at the realization that I was following a complete stranger to an unknown location.
"Who are you?" I choked out after a few seconds. "Do I know you?"
"I am the one you have been waiting for," he said plainly.
Just like that, I knew what he was talking about. I had been waiting for someone, for something. I knew that something was coming; I was just unsure of what it was. And here I stood, about to find out.
"Now," he started, "I am not malicious, and I do not hate you." He took a step closer. "These are simply the consequences for your actions. You knew that they would come."
I nodded.
"Do not run. Please, just lay down here." He pointed to a table in the center of a dark room he had led me to. "Try to stay still." His eyes were still serene. His voice was steady and sure.
"I- I'm not sure I understand."
"You will," he said.
I obeyed, and lay down on the table. It was cold and hard, and that, too, felt familiar to me. I let my muscles relax, which was oddly easy to do, considering my situation.
"Let's begin," he said. "This should be easy enough."
He pulled the sleeves of his cloak up to his elbows, revealing strong, muscular forearms. There was nothing familiar about these arms. I had never seen this man before. His long, metallic fingernails tapped on the table beside me. He did not seem to be tapping impatiently, but out of boredom.
"Let me assure you," he said in his soothing, deep voice, "this is what is best."
"Is there another way?" I asked, not quite sure where these words were coming from. I had no idea what I was saying; the words just came.
"I'm afraid not," he said, and he did not seem apologetic or cruel- just serene.
Then he slowly lifted his hands to the collar of my blue, button-down blouse. He started to unfasten the top button, and my face must have been startled, because he held up a finger to indicate that I should be patient if I wanted to understand. He continued unfastening the buttons until my shirt lay open. He did this clinically, like a doctor. There was no sign of interest or anticipation in his actions. His expression stayed serene.
He lifted his hand and placed it on the center of my chest, just barely off to the left. His metallic fingernails were sharp, like knives. I could feel their gentle caress cutting into my skin. I looked down to see what he was doing, and froze.
He dug his claws into me with concentrated precision. The pain was dulled by my shock. Strangely, I was not at all shocked by what he was doing, simply by the way he was so powerfully able to do it. Those metallic claws penetrated my skin without effort, then the bone of my ribs in that same effortless way. Blood spilled all over my chest, my stomach, my neck, my face.
His nails dug deeper and deeper, until finally they gripped around my heart. In a sudden jolt, he lifted his hand once more. This time, in his hand I saw briefly my blood, broken pieces of my ribs, and there- in this stranger's hand, was my heart.
"I only did to you what you have done to them," he said, but his voice felt like a distant memory as I slipped away- as I died.
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Bella woke up the same way she usually did. She was gasping for air. Her chest hurt from when she'd stopped breathing in her sleep. Apparently when she died in my dream, she stopped breathing. That's what her mom, Renee, told her after witnessing it once.
This morning her chest hurt more than usual. It must have been because of the nature of the dream, she thought- getting my heart ripped from my chest and all. What she found strangest was that she could feel it. She felt the pain in her dream. It wasn't like a distant, foggy memory or a story in the far-off distance. It was real. And it hurt.
She got up from my bed, stumbling over dirty laundry and books on her way to the door. Before the dreams started, she was cleaner, never really organized, but cleaner. Her breath still ragged from her dream, if you could even give that experience such a name, she eventually made it to the clock mounted on the wall in the hallway. 4:29, the clock said.
"Good enough for me," she muttered to herself. She had gone to bed at 2:30. Almost two hours, she thought. That's an improvement.
She made her way to the kitchen, pulled a green plastic cup from the dishwasher and filled it with water from the faucet. She needed to get the taste of blood out of her mouth. It was making her stomach churn. She assumed she must have bitten her tongue while she was sleeping. She brought the glass up to her mouth, but glanced down just in time to notice bits of old milk floating at the top of it.
Dishwasher's dirty, she thought dryly. She couldn't bring myself to care that she was about to ingest old, dried up milk, something that would have appalled her just a year before. She just dumped the water out in the sink, deciding to skip the water altogether. She'd deal with the nausea. It wasn't worth her frustration.
She slumped down into the black computer chair, staring at the blank monitor in front of her. Rubbing her eyes with one hand, the other shook the mouse on its mouse pad to wake the computer from its sleep. Stupid computer. It gets to sleep.
Before the nightmares had started, Bella didn't care much for sleep. She stayed up late every night, finding her reading far more important than rest. "Sleep is boring," she used to tell Renee. "I'll sleep when I'm dead."
But now, every time I sleep, I die. Ironic.
She knew that her lack of sleep was obvious to everyone around her. She had dark circles under her now glassy eyes. She couldn't focus. She would drift into unconsciousness at the most inopportune moments. She didn't mind that so much- the naps. What she did mind was when those naps would turn to nightmares. She minded when she was in the middle of class, trying to pay attention to the teacher's lecture, drifted off to sleep, had a nightmare, and woke up to see herself surrounded by twenty concerned faces. Not to mention the ones who looked at her like she'd gone mad. She minded when their closeness reminded her of her torturer. She minded when she cried.
But they were just dreams. She was so sure she could deal with dreams. She though she could ignore them until they went away. Or she could write everything down in her leather bound journal so her subconscious wasn't harboring any extra information that could haunt her when she slept. She could. She had. And none of it worked.
Next on Renee's Fix-Bella agenda was a visit with a counselor. That's what Bella was thinking about while she logged onto online instant messaging. She wasn't thinking about what she was going to wear that day, although that's what she would have told you if you'd asked. She was thinking about whether or not the counselor would deem her crazy. She didn't feel crazy. She felt guilty. She felt guilty for making everyone's lives more complicated.
After realizing no one was online, not that she had many friends to choose from, she went on with getting ready. Bella dressed simply. She threw on a pair of comfortable blue jeans and a plain red t-shirt. Pulled her mop of brown hair up into a bun and walked back into her room. Still, no one else in the house was awake- not Renee or her fiance Phil. She decided to read a book. After scanning through the pile she had on her desk, each book stacked lazily on top of another, she settled on one and curled up on the twin-sized bed, careful to remain sitting up straight so she wouldn't fall back asleep.
Reading seemed to be the closest Bella came to rest anymore. Even in the small amount of sleep she did manage, she never woke up feeling refreshed. She always felt afraid and hurt- physically and emotionally. If anything, sleep seemed to wear her out more than rejuvenate her.
She'd tried to just stop sleeping for a while. It worked fairly well, but after a few days, her body would shut down without permission- those little naps. She'd since discovered that if she forced herself to get some sleep during the night, she could keep the daytime naps to a minimum. It was worth it, so she was back to her sad attempts at traditional sleep schedules.
After three hours of reading, she started to hear people moving about in the house. She reluctantly left her time of rest and walked into the living room.
"You just getting up?" Renee asked, sounding hopeful.
"Correct you are," Bella lied skillfully. She made sure to smile excitedly so the lie was convincing.
"Oh, good," she sighed. "Any dreams?"
What a ridiculous question. There were always dreams. They were always bad. And she always died. But, she couldn't bring herself to be angry with her mom for asking. She was just trying to be nice, to show her concern.
"Yeah, but they weren't too bad," she lied again. The lies were coming easier now. Bella's mind was easily distracted in her sleep deprived state. She started to wonder if she would lie to her counselor or if she would tell him the truth. She only lied to her family and friends to placate them – to keep them from worrying. She reasoned she could probably tell her counselor the truth because he or she would have no reason to care. Maybe if I told someone, other than my journal, the whole truth, they'd be able to help.
Wishful thinking.
She tossed that thought aside and went about her day in a normal, teenage fashion. She ignored the concerned glances and all too sincere sounding how are yous, doing her best to disregard the eye rolls from those who thought she was just seeking attention when attention was the last thing she wanted, and just tried to get through the day in one piece. Really, the days weren't too bad for Bella, even with all of this added stress and pity. They were still much easier than the nights.
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EPOV
Slice after tiny slice, the man painted my body red with the blood of my superficial wounds. I glanced down, trying to take an inventory of how many cuts he'd made. I could see thirty-seven on my right arm, twenty-four on my left. The cuts weren't deep, his knife just barely penetrating through my pale white skin, which seemed to be growing whiter with each drop of blood that dripped from the cuts.
The man, dressed in a grey, tailored business suit, seemed out of place as he held the cerated blade to the skin of my left forearm once more. His hair laid perfectly on his head, not one piece amiss. His blue eyes turned purple, seemingly tainted by the red, reflecting my wounded body. Still, he looked more suited to be sitting in a comfortable leather chair behind a large mahogany desk, typing up some important business report. I held tightly to those thoughts, thoughts of my violent companion pounding on a keyboard, as he sliced my arm once more.
Neither of us had yet spoken, myself because I could think of nothing appropriate to say. Words like "stop" and "please, don't" were at the forefront of my mind, but seemed implied and therefore unnecessary to be spoken aloud. So I just laid there, held down by metal cuffs at my neck, wrists and ankles, waiting anxiously for him to explain himself and hoping desperately that he would.
After ten or twelve more cuts were made in my left arm, the man moved on to my legs. Since I was wearing my black gym shorts, he didn't have to bother with rolling up my pants. He simply started making quick little cuts up the front, then the sides of my calf. The sharp sting of the crisp air on my open cuts faded, evolving into a dull ache, apart from the initial sting of each new swipe of his blade.
It became tolerable until I grew almost completely numb to the pain he continued to inflict. As the blood continued to leave my body, my mind seemed to travel with it. By the time he'd finished with both legs and moved up to my face, I simply stared up at him, no longer twitching or wriggling. I felt the blood drip from my forehead, down my eyebrow, just missing my open eye, then onto my cheek bone, where it remained. The blood from my next cut didn't miss my eye, however. It dripped directly into it, blurring my vision.
Cut after cut, drop after drop, the blood continued to fill my eyes. At some point, he stopped, though I couldn't tell you when and I most certainly couldn't have told you why. He just stopped. Soon the blurriness was lifted, leaving me with the ability to see quite clearly. And as I looked into his eyes, I saw something that frightened me to the core, much more than the cuts, the pain. I saw my eyes reflected in his. They were just the same.
Red, tainted by the blood.
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Edward sat up straight in his bed, gasping for air, though he wasn't sure if he had died in that dream at all. In fact, he was fairly sure he hadn't. And although he wanted to consider that an improvement, he felt even worse than usual. Scanning his room, he saw Carlisle sitting in the corner, watching him from a reading chair placed there. Carlisle awkwardly cleared his throat and stood as Edward tried desperately to regain control of his breathing.
"You alright, son?" Carlisle asked, sounding more like himself than he had since the 'nightmares' began. Compassionate.
"Yeah," Edward croaked, wiping the sweat from his forehead and trying to force a smile. "What's up, Dad?"
"I have a friend in Seattle who specializes in hallucinations," he started slowly, gaging his son's reaction to the word. When he saw no negative reaction, he continued. "He'd like for you to spend a week or two up there to run a few different tests and monitor your episodes."
Edward cringed at the way Carlisle said episodes, but nodded anyway. "Alright, if that's what we need to do, then I'll do it."
Carlisle nodded, clapping Edward on the shoulder, then turning to leave his bedroom.
"Hey, Dad?" Edward called.
"Hmm?"
"I'm really sorry, for everything."
"Me too, son," Carlisle replied seriously. "Me too."
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BPOV
"Smile pretty. You're on stage," he told me. He was probably six feet tall, short dark hair, dark eyes, and bright white teeth. His smile made me wince. "Now, what will your audience think of you with a face like that? That won't do. Smile!"
"Where am I?" I asked, my voice shaking.
"I already told you that, Isabella. You're on stage. I thought you loved it here." He made a face of mock confusion, then shook his head slowly. "The show is starting, so you'd best get in character."
"What is this? Who are you?" My voice cracked, and my panic was obvious.
"This is your life- your show. I am whoever I pretend to be while I'm on this stage, just like you," he explained while moving closer to my side. "You know this, Isabella."
"How do you know my name?" I questioned suspiciously.
"Darling, everyone knows your name. No one knows you, of course. But everyone knows your name," he answered in a voice that I thought was supposed to be kind. Instead, it only terrified me more.
"Let's begin. Our audience is waiting," he continued. "Are you ready?"
"I don't think so," I answered. "I still don't know what I'm doing."
"Improvise," he said, and this time his voice was impatient. His face was cold.
He pulled me forward just a couple of steps, then suddenly I was under a bright white spotlight. I could just barely make out the figures of what seemed to be thousands of people in theater seats before me. The man I'd been speaking with before stepped in front of me and another, more subtle spotlight followed his figure as it crossed the stage.
"Welcome!" he started. "Tonight's show is one we've all seen hundreds of times." His booming voice was excited and enthusiastic. "However, tonight we have something special- a new ending!"
The room filled with whispers that made a collective buzzing noise. After a few moments, the man bowed and started back toward me. The buzzing quieted abruptly. All eyes were glued on me. I didn't know my lines. Improvise, he said? I didn't even know what play we were doing.
"Hello?" I meant for it to come out confident, but it sounded like a question. The man smiled, and it was menacing again.
"Hello, Isabella," he replied. Isabella? He used my real name. Why would he use my real name if we were putting on a show? Perhaps it was a coincidence and the character I was playing was also named Isabella. Unlikely.
"How are you?" I asked. It came out just above a whisper.
"I'm quite fine, actually. And how are you, my darling?" he replied with an arrogant grin.
"Miserable." I answered honestly.
"Miserable? Want to learn to be fine like me?" He leaned in closer, so our faces were only a few inches apart. Something about this new, close proximity made me want to run away. Really, I'd wanted to run away all along. But now I couldn't. My legs were frozen.
"Uh…" That's all that would come out.
"Uh?" he smiled. "The solution is simple. Fake it."
Oh.
Fake it. That shouldn't be too hard. That's what I do. I fake happy.
"Yes, sir," I smiled, suddenly confident.
"You're a brilliant actress," he said.
"Shall we ponder my brilliance or move on to a more productive kind of conversation, dear sir?" I replied coyly.
Apparently he didn't like that.
"Shut up."
He grabbed my jaw and pulled it toward his face. At first I thought he was going to kiss me, but I was wrong. He spit in my face. The crowd erupted into applause at his action.
"What- What did I do wrong?" I stuttered.
"You faked it," he replied simply.
Then he smiled as he slid a long, sharp blade across my throat. I didn't see it coming at all. The bright lights had me somewhat blinded. All I saw was the shiny reflection of light off the blade and my bright red blood as it squirted onto his shirt.
I felt no pain or fear. I felt no remorse for the loss of my life. In fact, I felt happy. As I faded into oblivion, I realized why. I faked it.
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Bella had no idea what to expect. She brought her tattered journal along, thinking it could be a resource, a way to tell her new counselor about her dreams without having to actually tell her. She hadn't thought of the possibility that the counselor might ask her to read a passage aloud.
But she did it. She read it aloud and tried not to let the words penetrate her heart. Just dialogue, she had chanted to herself. Just words on a page.
Now, after making it through the entire passage, Bella was scared, her hands trembling from where they laid her lap.
"Seattle," Dr. Alice Brandon said decidedly, setting her pen neatly between her tiny ear and her spiked black hair.
Bella's brow furrowed in confusion. "What about Seattle?" Her biological father, Charlie, lived near there, but she hardly spoke to him. As a matter of fact, she hadn't seen him in over two years. She couldn't see how it was relevant to her dreams.
"There's a colleague of mine in Seattle that is doing a very specialized study," the petite woman explained slowly, her wind chime voice making it easy for Bella to pay attention, despite her sleep deprived state. "Now, I know it may seem a bit rash for me to suggest shipping you off, away from your friends and family, after just an hour long meeting, but my instincts are rarely wrong."
...away from your friends and family. The words played themselves over and over in Bella's head, like a happy song she hadn't heard in years. She tried not to smile, but just couldn't keep the edges of her lips from turning upward.
"I trust you," she said confidently, even though it was a lie. She didn't trust her, but she didn't care. If she was going to suggest that Bella leave all of her friends and family, leave them free from the worry and burden that she'd become to them, then she'd do whatever the bizzare, pixie doctor said. "Char- my dad lives in Washington, anyway."
"Oh, delightful!" Dr. Brandon replied, seeming relieved at Bella's easy agreement. "I'm just positive this will be the solution."
"I'm up for anything," Bella sighed, "especially if that anything is in Seattle." She mumbled the last bit quietly to herself.
"Good. I'll just get the paperwork then, for your parents to sign."
"Can I ask why you're so sure this place will make me better?" Bella asked hesitantly, afraid of the hope that might come with the answer.
"Sure thing," Dr. Brandon winked. "There's a young man involved in the study up there who seems to have your exact symptoms, although his seem to have progressed a bit more."
"You mean-," Bella choked. "You mean someone else is going through this, too?" Just thinking of someone else experiencing dreams like hers, thoughts like hers, made her want to cry. No one should have to deal with that- no one else.
She wanted to meet this person, to hug them. She wanted to hold them while they cried, because she knew they'd need to cry. As she processed Dr. Brandon's words, something dawned on her.
"What do you mean progressed a bit more?" she asked tentatively.
"Well, his symptoms are a bit more severe. For the sake of the study, it's probably best that I not tell you anymore. I hope you can understand."
Bella nodded, still at a loss for words. For the first time in a long time, she felt connected to the world, just knowing there was someone else out there who was going through the same things. She didn't feel happy, or even content. She didn't feel safe or secure. But at least now she didn't feel so...
Alone.
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JPOV
Dr. Japser Whitlock read through the files on his desk for the fourteenth time, comparing and contrasting the details. His friend and colleague, Alice Brandon, had just sent him Isabella Swan's file that afternoon, but he was already obsessed. Despite his speciality being in hallucinations, he'd never seen a case like hers, until two days prior.
Edward Cullen, son of Jasper's dear friend and mentor, Carlisle Cullen, had almost the exact same symptoms. He hadn't told Carlisle, but had it not been his son, he probably would have written it off as a case of attention-seeking and sent him off to a more traditional counselor. However, the concern in Carlisle's eyes when they'd met for coffee had told him that it was worth his efforts to look further into it.
Initially, he'd planned to just tack Edward on to the tail end of a hallucination study he was currently starting, but now that he'd received Isabella's file, it just didn't seem like enough. Something was happening to these poor, seemingly demented kids, and although Jasper tried not to, it was as if he could feel their pain seeping into his own body from the files before him.
He had to help them. It was his job. But more than that, it was his passion. He stuck the files into his desk drawer, willing them out of his mind. He tried to focus on what he'd eat tonight. Maybe some Tex-Mex, he thought. And though his mind had moved on, he could still feel the file, along with the pain it contained, pulsing from his desk.
He stood up, resolved to call it a night, but even more resolved to figure out this case, to take away their sleeping torture.
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EPOV
I felt the rage course through my veins. I could smell the blood coursing through theirs - blood yet to be spilled. Glancing around at the crowd standing before me, I could see an array of people. Men, women, children- all of them standing there, looking at me as if I were some sort of a disease.
I supposed I was a disease, raw and dangerous. So, I pulled the long, grey sleeves of my robe further up my arms, so they were held behind my elbows, freeing my hands for more important tasks. I ran a hand through my hair and took a deep breath, letting all of the muscles in my body relax.
Then I pounced.
A teenager was first to go, someone probably just a year or two younger than myself. I slid my fingernails across her tanned neck, watching in morbid fascination as the blood spilled down her yellow blouse. Once the blood started to seep out of her mouth, giving way to the sound of the girl gurgling and choking on her own blood, I dropped her beneath me.
The next was a bigger man, taller and much better built than me. I smiled at him, taunting him, daring him to challenge me. But he didn't. He cowered in fear, leaving me repulsed and appalled at his cowardice as I ripped out his eyes and shoved them into his mouth, veiny connectors seeping out of the hollows in his skull. After hearing enough of his muffled screams, having seen enough of his jaw chewing down on his eyes in his panic, I grabbed his head, jerking it to the side. The popping noise his neck made as it broke in my arms was satisfying.
Next was a child, no- a baby. Still not old enough to speak or walk, this blonde haired, blue eyed little boy stared up at me, crying and wailing in terror. I tried to care, tried to show mercy, but there was none left. There was no heart to keep me from killing blindly, no soul to make me question my decisions. There was only a body, fierce and out of control. So I killed him.
I slaughtered the child, and all the others after him, one by one. I killed thirty-three people with my bare hands, either with the slice of my sharp nails, a twist of my flexed arms, or even the bite of my teeth, sliding into the jugular vein in their neck.
All of them, dead.
No regret, no fear, no guilt. Only blood.
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"No!" Edward screamed, waking up from his dream with a start. "No! No!"
"Edward, honey, what's wrong?" his mother, Esme, called from the hall, wasting no time in rushing to his room.
"I killed them," he answered her in a whisper. "I killed all of them."
"What on earth are you talking about, Edward?" Esme demanded, slightly panicked.
"Mom, I killed them all!" Edward shouted. "I killed babies, Mom! Babies! What kind of a monster kills babies?"
"Oh, Edward," Esme crooned, sitting at the edge of her only son's bed, pulling him into her arms. "Edward, it was just a dream."
"No, no, no," Edward chanted under his breath. "No, no, no, no, no..."
Esme thought quickly of something she could say to break her son out of his post-nightmare trance. "Dr. Whitlock called this morning," she began. "He said there's a girl from Arizona who shares the same symptoms- you know, the nightmares." She pushed the stray hair out of her son's eyes as he looked up at her quizzically. "She's going to be involved in the study with you in Seattle."
A million questions shot into Edward's mind simultaneously. He struggled in silence for a minute or two, debating on which one to voice. Finally, one came out of his mouth without his permission. "What's her name?"
"Her name?" Edward nodded. "Um, I believe he said her name is Isabella."
"Isabella," Edward whispered, tears filling his eyes. "I'm so, so sorry."
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BPOV
People surrounded me on all sides, uniformed men dressed in matching white suits, each one as stunningly gorgeous as the next. They wore matching white fedoras and perfectly shined, scuff-free white shoes. I smiled, preparing for them to break out in some sort of song and dance routine. I loved that stuff.
The music never came.
One by one, they took a step closer to me, filling the gaps in the once wide circle. I stood frozen, still debating on whether this was some sort of theatrical prank that would air later this week on MTV or if I ought to be scared that a group of ten men were trapping me.
Before my mind could compute how to respond, I no longer had a choice. There was no hole in their circle, no escape route. I stood there, frozen in my inability to think, still overwhelmed by the beauty of the dashing men around me.
One man stepped forward, leaving an opening in the circle I noted immediately, though it was quickly closed before I could act upon it. The man inched his way closer to me, until he was standing a mere three inches away. I could feel his hot breath on my face.
Suddenly, his once beautiful face changed before my eyes. Wounds appeared all over his face, open and raw and seemingly infected. Blood stained his once pure white suit at his knees and his biceps.
I took a step backward, shocked at what I was seeing, but he stopped me by taking hold of my wrist. Almost instantly, the wounds began to heal, restoring his face and body to the way they once were, unmarred and beautiful.
Then I felt it. My wounds matched his. Where his wounds once were, now were mine. I shrieked in fear, a high-pitched squeal that made the man jump back from me and shove another man in my direction.
Now, I could see his wounds, too. A missing right eye, a bloodied lip, a bone sticking out of the elbow of his suit jacket- all wounds that were once his, soon became mine as he grabbed hold of my shoulders.
I glanced down at the floor beneath me, with my one remaining eye, trying not to look at the next man as he approached, trying not to see what pains would inflict me next. But there, at my feet, was a pool of dark red blood. And just as I felt a gaping hole grow in my stomach and the flesh on my left foot withering away, the smell of rust and copper pulled my mind from consciousness and into a welcome, black oblivion.
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Bella sucked in a deep breath, like she always when she awoke. She gagged on the blood in her throat, the taste of it sickening her as she swallowed it back down.
"Seattle," she said aloud. She stretched out her limbs, making sure she hadn't hurt herself too badly while she was writhing around. Her muscles were sore and achy, but no serious damage had been done, so she stumbled out of bed and on with her day. Today was the day she'd fly to Washington. Her father, Charlie, was supposed to pick her up at the airport and drive her to the test center, where she'd be spending at least the next two weeks, according to Dr. Brandon. She'd told Bella she'd be under the care of a Dr. Jasper Whitlock, "a real looker" as Dr. Brandon had called him. That had made Bella blush profusely and awkwardly try to steer the subject back to a more professional, clinical state.
After a quick shower and a bit of facial moisturizer, Bella threw on a pair of comfortable jeans and a roomy, but deceivingly formal looking navy blue blouse. Good enough to meet another doctor, Bella thought.
She drug her suitcase behind her, her muscles still too weak to lift it, into the living room, where she'd wait at the door for Phil to take her to the airport. Renee had wanted to be the one to take her, but Bella had politely declined, saying that goodbyes with her mother at the airport would have been too emotional. The truth was she was worried that waiting on her mom to get ready in the morning would make her miss her flight. She assumed Phil had figured out as much, as he winked when he told her that he'd love to drive her.
An hour and a half later, after a quick side hug with Phil and an hour of staring at the wall, waiting for her flight number to be called, Bella boarded the plane. When the bleach blonde and orange skinned flight attendant asked her if she'd like anything to drink, she'd quickly asked for a Red Bull, determined not to fall asleep on this flight. She wasn't sure she could take another nightmare before meeting the new doctor.
She wasn't sure she could take another nightmare, period.
Once her Red Bull had arrived, she handed the attendant seven dollars, and a polite thank-you, before opening the preparation letter from Dr. Brandon, reading through it for the fifth time.
-
Bella-
Don't freak out, okay? I know all of the thoughts in your mind are a lot for you to handle. You're so strong, but it's time to get past this. Dr. Whitlock is one of the smartest people I know. He's determined and compassionate; he won't give up on you, no matter what. The young man I mentioned during our session, with the similar symptoms, will have arrived an hour before you. His name is Edward, by the way. He's close to your age, so it shouldn't be too awkward. I have a feeling you'll get along great.
Just call if you need anything. Don't worry about the time. Business hours no longer apply. Anytime, seriously, Bella.
Your counselor and friend,
Alice Brandon
-
It was odd for Bella to think about Dr. Brandon as her friend, despite her bouncy friendliness and obviously casual demeanor with her as a patient. After years of being accident prone, doctors had become rather fiendish is Bella's mind, so to think of someone with that title as a friend was certainly a challenge. But she programmed her number into her cell phone anyway, knowing she'd never call.
Edward, Bella thought. What an odd name. Classic, though, in a turn of the century sort of way...
She shook her head, confused by the random nature of her thoughts, and went back to rereading Dr. Brandon's note, her eyes always pausing a bit longer over his name. She said a silent prayer, hoping that someone up there would hear her, and asked that his pain might not be so bad as hers. She'd never wanted anything more.
Author's Note: Well, that's the beginning. I know, it's a shame they've yet to interact, but they needed to be presented as individuals first, and I didn't want to cheapen that. I'm too invested in this story already not to continue it, so I can guarantee you there will be more. If you loved it, go vote for it. If you hated it, go vote for someone else. Either way, review, please.