Disclaimer: I make no monies from Stephanie Meyers' series or characters. I just kidnap them and make them do naughty things.
A big thanks to the awesome betas over at Project Team Beta, Victorylayne and HolletLA.
Prologue
All my life I've been searching for something
Something never comes, never leads to nothing
Nothing satisfies, but I'm getting close
Closer to the prize at the end of the rope
All night long I dream of the day
When it comes around, and it's taken away
Leaves me with the feeling that I fear the most
Feel it come to life when I see your ghost.
All My Life – Foo Fighters
"Ahem…"
Dr. Michael Newton, a young UW graduate in his fifth year at the Adult Psychiatry Clinic, takes a moment to clear his throat before beginning his notes.
"Today is Friday, June 17th. His tone is flat and emotionless as he recites the day's specifics. "It is…" Breathing heavily through his nose, he pauses to look at his watch. "2:00pm."
Flipping a notebook open, the young doctor scans the file that is resting on his knee while rubbing his chin absently with his finger. "So, Edward..."
He moves the small recorder away from his mouth and places it gently on the coffee table that sits between him and his most difficult patient. "How have you been?"
The thoughtful psychiatrist always opens with the same question. In general, he finds that his patients appreciate the consistency.
"Just peachy, Doc. And you?" Edward's response is no different, nor the way he reclines lazily in the oversized winged-back chair.
"I've been well. Took the family to visit my mother in Indiana."
Edward can feel Dr. Newton's eyes boring into him, and doesn't miss the "mother" reference that was cleverly slipped into the conversation. Before ending the session last week, a suggestion had been made by the doctor that Edward call his mother, to whom he hasn't spoken in three years.
He didn't.
Edward smirks and looks down at the coffee table that sits in front of him, nodding his head in recognition. "Subtle."
The doctor ignores Mr. Cullen's sarcasm, seeing it as just another defense mechanism used to avoid and deflect. Crossing his right leg over his left, he sighs. "I take it you didn't call her."
Edward shakes his head, only minutely, before answering. "Come on, let's face it. She doesn't want to hear from me. It would be a waste of cell phone minutes."
Dr. Newton — clearly tired of hearing the same excuse over and over again — scratches his head with the end of his pen and huffs. Instead of dropping the subject, he tries again, using a different approach.
"Don't you think she'd like to know how you are…that you've started playing again?" The clever doctor smiles and raises an eye to his patient. He knows that if anything has gotten Edward's attention, this has.
A few months ago, after starting his sessions at the Clinic, Edward offhandedly announced that he had gotten his old Stratocaster out of storage and was writing music again. Dr Newton hadn't missed the smile his patient attempted to hold back at the mention of his guitar, but kept silent, knowing he would bring it up again in his own time. Later that same month Edward mentioned casually that, along with the calluses, he had finally worked up the nerve to audition for a spot at the bar where he works. It was just last week, after being asked about his weekend plans, that Edward finally admitted to getting the opening spot at the bar, playing some of his original music and opening up for some pretty big local bands.
"I sling beers for a few hours, mostly on autopilot, until the noise and crowd gets to be too much. Then I get to drown it all out. As soon as I get up on that stage, everything falls quiet. It's just me and my guitar. Everything else just…fades away."
Dr. Newton studies him, waiting for the intended reaction. Finally Edward's eyes look up from their focal point on the floor and hesitantly focus in on him.
Now that he has got his patient's attention, he asks, "Does she even know you're in Nashville?"
Edward's eyes fall back to the floor.
"Okay, let's say for the sake of argument, that you're wrong. What if she does want to hear from you? What if she's waiting by the phone every night, praying that you call? What then?"
Edward chuckles lightly under his breath. "I see what you're trying to do here, Doc, but let's be realistic."
"Yes, let's. I think it's about time you fill me in on why you insist on distancing yourself from your family. So, you think you're a disappointment. So what? We've all disappointed our parents at some point, but they get over it. You're going to have to give me more of a reason than that."
With a sudden lurch forward, Edward is sitting on the edge of his seat, his upper body leaning over the narrow coffee table that separates the two.
"I don't think, Mike! I know!" His nostrils flare and his jaw tenses, reminding the doctor of just how unstable the mentally ill can be.
"I was — am — a constant disappointment. You see how miserable I am as an adult. You can only imagine how fucking bad it was when I was living at home."
Suddenly, his features soften. Edward looks away as his memories take him back to age sixteen.
"Nothing, and I mean nothing, made me happy. I tried it all: drinking, drugs, sex. You name it; I did it. Fuck all that teen angst bullshit you hear parents whining about in your little group sessions. That was nothing compared to my hell."
Edward's head shakes slowly from side to side. "And my poor mother… she thought she could fix me. But what she didn't know was that I was beyond broken." He closes his mouth as he swallows thickly. "I was... shattered."
When Edward's eyes focus once again, Dr. Newton watches as his face twists with incredulity. "Can you even imagine what that did to her? I made my mother feel like a failure, because she couldn't fill the emptiness I felt, that fucking bitch of a hole that's been there my whole goddamn life. I love my mother, and I miss her, but I'm not about to move back in her life with my suitcase of shit just so that I can feel better. Don't ask me to do that! I won't!" His voice sounds so desperate; the doctor is almost remorseful for asking such a thing.
"Okay, Edward, okay." As stubborn as he is, the good doctor knows when to back down from a fight. With little hesitation, he decides that this conversation is better left for later.
"Look, I know this is hard for you, but I'm just trying to understand. I want to help you, but you have to let me." He waits for a response from his restless patient, taking note of how maniacally he pulls at his hair, taking clumps of auburn out at a time.
Edward doesn't reply, but stiffly nods his head and sits back in his chair.
Scratching his manicured nails up and down the stubble on his cheek, Dr. Newton looks at his watch and tentatively moves on to the next question.
"How have you been sleeping?"
Edward leans back in the chair, his hands gripping its broad arms. "Truth? Like shit."
"How many hours?"
At their last session, Edward admitted to only getting twenty to twenty-five hours of sleep per week, so Dr. Newton knows better than to be hopeful.
With a shrug of his shoulders, he mumbles, "'Bout the same."
The doctor doesn't seem surprised by this, or the dark circles and bloodshot eyes that have become more prominent since he last saw him. In the last few months, Edward has been diagnosed with insomnia… amongst other things.
"So, what do you do at night when you can't sleep?"
A wicked smile pulls at Edward's lips, while the question elicits memories from the night before.
"Fuck until I pass out," he answers, laughing under his breath.
Edward likes to make the straight-laced doctor squirm by using words like "fuck", even though they're not necessary. Last week he used the word "pussy" just to see how red Dr. Newton's ears could get.
Unlike his patient, the doctor doesn't appreciate the verbiage, and decides to make his patient squirm instead.
"Really? And does that stop the dreams?"
Dr. Newton braces himself for the reaction he is likely to get, but there is none — no sudden outburst or sound whatsoever. It is as if the question itself has rendered Edward completely paralyzed and unable to breathe.
"Edward?"
After a moment, his patient answers with a quick shake of his head.
"Are they the same?" Dr. Newton asks pensively, regretful for the way he introduced such a touchy subject.
Edward nods once.
"Let's talk about it."
This statement gets the reaction the doctor has been waiting for, and he flinches slightly at its volume. "I have! Every time my ass is in this goddamn chair!" Edward's fist slams down on the arm of the chair, unleashing his frustration against its stiff leather.
This sudden outburst causes the first notes of the session to be jotted hurriedly on the yellow college-ruled paper.
Increase of manic episodes — Current medication ineffective — Possible candidate for Lithium treatment.
After scribbling down the fragmented sentences, Dr. Newton tries again.
"I understand your frustration, Edward, but no one said this would be easy. Now, tell me again… and start from the beginning."
Thanks for coming along on the ride! I promise not to disappoint : )
P.S. Reviews make me type faster.