Disclaimer: The events that take place in this
are very adult. If you're under sixteen, I'd suggest turning back now.
There is drug use, mentions of rape, and an attempted suicide.
You've been warned.
I'd also like to add that the POV's change quite often.
I do not claim to own Twilight.
Those rights belong to Stephenie Meyer.
The outside of the club looks rustic and charming—a medium sized building with walls built of weathered brown wood, coated with gloss. The signs draw you in with cloud blue neon lights, flashing seductively. Within those walls, though, are women who work for their money and lose their dignity.
She's brunette, her hair long and curled innocently. Big brown eyes stare at you as long bare legs and stiletto feet wrap around a steel pole with determination. The music is risqué and her clothes are nothing but scraps. Her cheeks are painted with a rosy red and clashing against her ivory skin. She's pasted on fake eyelashes and thick eyeliner—giving her a lioness look.
She knows how to work the stage, keeping the rowdy crowds attention on all the right body parts with fluttering hands and lustful smiles.
But behind her mask of confidence lies a girl with broken parts scattered throughout her, littered with scars and track marks. She's nothing like the young hopeful teenager she used to be. When her parents were alive and her body wasn't tainted.
The hospital is alive with doctors, nurses, and patients. He's keeping a strong face, but his hands are beginning to shake. Letting a red-haired nurse know he was going on a quick break, he pulls the bent and torn pack of cigarettes from his white coat and steps outside into the warm, humid Seattle air.
He's desperate as he pulls a cigarette out with trembling fingers and struggles with his lighter. When the tip lights—bright with red and yellow embers—he inhales with vigor, sighing in relief as the taste of tobacco and nicotine taint his lips and tongue. Smoke moves fluidly into his lungs, before he releases it into the dark air.
He can hear the sirens surrounding him as ambulances arrive, bringing broken people in need of his healing hands. He can feel the pressure weighing down on him, heavy on his chest without a release in sight.
Pulling his phone from his pocket, he dials a number by memory, holding the small device up to his ear and inhaling another drag from the only vice he allows himself to give into.
Her voice on the other end calms him—chasing the darkness away that haunts him every day. She's bubbly and consoling, talking his ear off as he finishes off his cigarette and tells her he loves her.
A woman who gave him a family he thought he had lost long ago.
Still, the memories haunt him.
Her heels click as she leaves the stage, looking over her shoulder for one last connection with the crowd. Her eyes lock on a pair of familiar icy blue eyes—stealing her breath and crushing her chest. That night she lost everything flashes through her mind, devastating memories poisoning it.
Her stomach twists as she feels phantom hands breaking her, stealing her away. Running for the bathroom as fast as she can in her heels, her body collapses over porcelain and she gags, losing herself all over again.
Tears flood her eyes, ruining her perfectly composed make-up and releasing her eyelashes from their glued hold. The sobs follow, reminding her of the long walk home with torn clothing and angry red fingerprints marking her body.
She's dirty and worthless; he'd said so that night. She'd never be anything but a whore, he'd growled as he stole her soul.
Wiping a hand across her mouth, she pulls herself up and collects her things in a cloud of emptiness. She's walking, driving, and parking on auto-pilot. Her bright brown eyes are dead, looking but not seeing. The stairs don't trouble her tonight; they can't keep her from her decision.
Her phone rings inside her bag, unnecessary and easily forgotten.
Entering her apartment, she drops her bag on the floor and heads straight for the pot on the kitchen counter. Sticking her hand inside, she pulls out her vice. The needles are sterile, the drugs are good, and she's got experience.
But none of that matters tonight.
He's traveling white hallways, caged inside of white walls. His shoes squeak as he enters a room with a teal curtain, and settling his eyes on a small blond boy with tears spilling down his cheeks. It's all practiced now—the procedure is the same. He asks a few questions, eyes compassionate and brilliantly green. He's always been overly helpful, eager to please those around him—hopeful that maybe one day it'll change things.
The boy's mother is sobbing in the corner, blaming herself for her child's adventure. He had climbed a tree and lost his footing, landing on his right arm.
He's quick to send the boy and his mother off to the x-ray technician, sighing in defeat as they disappear. The bone is most likely broken, and it'll take a few weeks before their health care gets the boy a cast.
A blond woman flies up stairs, near-violet eyes wide with panic. She can sense the unease in the air as she reaches her best friends apartment and uses the spare key under her welcome mat. Flinging the door open, her eyes snap to the brunette as she lay in the middle of her living room eerily still. With a startled gasp, the blond rushes to her side and jerks her hands over her body, leaning down to listen for a heart beat and sobbing as she finds it barely beating.
Adrenaline surges through her as she cradles her best friend's broken body into her arms and runs from the room—leaving behind used needles and empty vials. Slamming the front door with her foot, she's running, and jumping into her car after settling the brunette in beside her.
It's a blur as she makes the short trip to the hospital, pulling the ghost of her best friend from the passenger seat and rushing into the emergency room. Her eyes are flooded with tears, her hearts beating too fast.
She can't keep the scream of desperation from clawing it way through her throat and passed her lips.
He's approaching the ER when a blood curdling scream alerts him, quickening his steps and throwing himself through the double doors. A blond woman trembles as she holds a pale and unconsciousness brunette in her arms. He's startled by the scene, but the blond is sobbing and struggling to stay on her feet, screaming for help with heart clenching desperation.
He's by her side and taking the girl without a second thought, yelling for more bodies. Her pulse is weak, her breathing even weaker. She's placed into a hospital bed and rushed into the back. He's taking her vitals and listing off everything, yelling for someone to get information from the blond.
As they settle her bed near machines, the woman's heart rate drops and she stops breathing.
With practiced composure, he begins chest compressions and mouth to mouth.
He can feel the desperation clawing at him as he repeatedly presses down with all of his weight and hopes her lungs respond.
Nurses are yelling and hands are touching and pulling at her limbs. When he feels her take a breath around his lips, he pulls away with a shock and nearly sobs in relief. He needs to save her, needs to give himself hope.
She's so broken, lying on the white bed, with dirty clothes and track marks. He can see fresh scars and old ones, criss crossing under fresh-cut marks.
The red-headed nurse gives him her information as they work to slip a needle into her vein and allow the IV and medication to counteract what she's done. Her mouth and nose are covered with a clear mask that gives her constant oxygen.
With exhausted stares, they watch as the heart monitor beeps to a weak heart beat.
"Her names Isabella Swan, she's twenty-one, around a hundred and ten. Her friend says it was a heroin overdose, which I assume Dr. Cullen figured out on his own." There's pride in the nurses voice, but it's eclipsed by sadness.
They're weary, staring down at a broken girl who turned to a deadly drug to escape.
Staring at the machine as it continued to register her beating heart; he drew in a deep breath and reached forward to close his hand around one of hers.
He saved her life tonight. But he couldn't shake the feeling that she might have saved his.
Every break, every burn, every toss, every turn, every sin,
Everything you've learned it's all programmed, all programmed
Every break, every burn, every toss, every turn, every sin,
Everything we've learned it's all programmed, all programmed
When you hit the ground,
It's hard to get to heaven when you're born hell bound
When you shoot across the sky like a broken arrow
It's so hard to keep yourself on the straight and narrow
When you shoot across the sky like a broken arrow
You fall off course,
Yeah when you hit the ground
It's hard to get to heaven when your falling hell bound;
"Broken Arrow" by The Script
Author's Note: The song at the end was my inspiration for this. It actually gave me this, and a plot outline for a *possible* multi-chaptered story. I hope no one hates me for what took place, but the characters that talk for me are sometimes twisted and messed up. This was a snarl of wild vines that have knotted and need some clipping. This one-shot has not been seen by a beta. I apologize for any grammar mistakes.