This short story is the third installment of my new collection of drabbles/short stories called Workings of a Broken Soul. Each story will feature a different Twilight character during a time where they're in a particularly bad place or in the process of healing. Non will be very long. So, without further ado, I give you Bella from Charlie's P.O.V.!

Disclaimer: Everything recognizable belongs to Stephenie Meyer, and sadly, not me.

Destroy (Bella)

"Here Bells, why don't you open this one first?"

I held the brightly wrapped square in front of Bella's face, encouraging her with a nod to take the present. She just studied it, and then stared at me, and shook her head once to the right and once more to the left.

"No, thank you."

I sighed and drew the present back. I had hoped - maybe fruitlessly - that soon things could change: she would see the colourful festive decorations, the welcoming gifts under the tree, and she would snap out of whatever daze she was in. I just wanted my happy girl back, not this … zombie. I should not have been so surprised though; she'd always shown the same unease toward presents or any other type of attention in general before.

"Please take it," I tried again. Some distant emotion flashed in her eyes but before I could pay it off for a trick of the light, she snatched the present out of my hand and held it in her shaking fingers.

"Go on Honey," I whispered. Maybe this would be the moment she finally came back to me.

As if she thought it would bite her if she weren't careful enough, Bella leaned away from the silver wrapping paper, putting as much distance between herself and the offending object as was possible; dutifully, though, she ran her finger under the edge and broke the tape seal. She never took her eyes off her task as she held the present tenderly, taking too much care in not slicing herself, and showing distaste in every movement. Sadness welled up anew as I realised that the hatred wasn't for the present, no matter how much she didn't want it, but in herself; I couldn't understand.

She had gotten the present open now. I looked up eagerly to see her expression. I hadn't known what to give her, but I'd run into Mr Weber at the grocery store last week and he had mentioned a new CD that his own daughter, Bella's friend Angela, wanted for Christmas. I went out and bought the same one at once, hoping Bella had similar tastes in music to her friend.

But I didn't see joy or excitement or anything else that I was hoping to witness in her face. Her hands shook more violently than before and tears welled in her empty eyes. She looked sick. No! the desperate voice of my thoughts screamed. And then I felt the deepest anger I'd ever known. Here was one more item to add to the Never-Mention-to-Bella-Again list; that bastard hadn't even left her able to listen to music without her having to think about him.

And then, before I could stop her, she reeled her arm back over her head and flung the damn thing at the wall; the plastic jewel case had smashed soundly and we both flinched. Chips of paint had been scraped off of the wall. The CD slid down the wall to the floor. But I couldn't care less about that because now Bella jumped from her seat on the couch and flew up the stairs; her bedroom door slammed behind her and through it, I heard gut-wrenching sobs that tore through the otherwise silent house. Wiping my suddenly wet eyes dry on the back of my sleeve, I started to clean up the mess of mine and Bella's ruined Christmas.

I hadn't had to use my police gun in years, but if I ever crossed paths with that unfortunate boy again, let's just say that I would not hesitate to use him as target practice.

The End