Disclaimer: Sadly I don't own anything Twilight. It all belongs to the wonderful Stephenie Meyer!
Summary: Edward has just moved from Chicago to Forks with his parents, Elizabeth and Edward Sr. What happens when he meets Bella who is ostracized because of her strange behavior due to what she endures at home. What about the Cullens? Will they intervene?
AN:/ I just wanted to let you all know, that the first few chapters may be a little slow, but please bear with me. I promise some major twists and turns soon. This will not be all human, I promise.
Title: Curative Love
Chapter 1 - Hell Comes in Multiple Faces.
Bella's Point of View
I tried to stifle my sobs before they gave me away as I lay in my bed with my knees pressed tightly to my chest in a futile attempt to disguise my presence. As I heard the floor creak once again beneath his weight, on purpose I suspected, so that I would be quite aware of his closeness, I automatically clutched the blankets tighter around myself. I thought back to when these very blankets used to comfort me whenever I retreated to the comforts of my warm bed. Whether it was sadness, anger, or anything else, I could always find solace in wrapping myself up tightly in the soft afghan; it would make me feel as if I could disappear from the world until all of my problems were resolved. These blankets now, though, could not offer me any comfort, nor could I disappear from what was awaiting me just outside of my bedroom door a few feet away.
As I rocked myself again, back and forth, I was silently pleading, praying, and just begging for fate to not let him in, to give him the sudden urge to turn back around and march in the opposite direction of my room and occupy himself with something else, with someone else.
But I knew I would not have such luck.
Not a minute after my desperate prayers had stopped, I heard the slow squeaking of my bedroom door being opened, announcing his arrival. I went rigid in my bed, still lying on my side as I fought the very prominent urge to scream aloud. I restrained my screams, though, only because of the thought of what my screaming and pleading does to him...how it only spurs him on. Only a moment later, I felt his disgusting breath - laced with alcohol and cigarettes - behind my ear.
"Sit up, Isabella," he growled at me. Fighting against my natural instincts that shouted at me not to give in to his wishes, I complied knowing very well how much worse things would get if I didn't. I sat up and let the blankets that had engulfed me fall away leaving me feeling exposed and much more vulnerable; the look on his face told me that he knew.
He took two steps away from my bedside at which he had been crouching earlier and took in my - what I was sure to be - very terrified expression. He was also sure to see the trails that my tears had left behind. After scrutinizing my face for a terrifyingly long moment, the corners of his disgusting mouth turned up into a smug smirk - obviously pleased at the fear that he instilled in me with his presence only. After reveling in his ability to elicit such reactions in me, he began to speak in his gruff, foul voice.
"Now, sweetheart - " I was angered just as much as I was disgusted by his use of the name 'sweetheart' on me " - do you really think that it's very polite to hide out here away from me?" he asked. "Don't you enjoy being with me as much as I enjoy being with you?" By this point I was shaking, because I knew, from experience, what was going to happen. I knew exactly what this revolting man was going to do to me.
And it wouldn't be for the first time.
"Answer me, Isabella," he demanded harshly, his lips pulling back to expose his yellow, deteriorated teeth.
"O-of c-course I do," I answered, barely being able to force the words through my throat due to the intensity of my quivering. Faster than I thought possible considering his age and obviously drunken state, he was in front of me, and I felt the awful pain in my scalp as he grabbed a fistful of my hair in his firm grip.
"Tsk, tsk, Isabella. I've told you time and time again what I am to be addressed as when you are speaking to me," he snarled menacingly. He still hadn't released his killer hold on my hair, and my breathing started accelerating to the point of hyperventilation. "Now," he continued, still not letting up on his hold on my hair, "repeat it correctly."
"Of c-course I do, S-sir," I corrected myself, mentally kicking myself for not remembering that significant fact earlier.
"You know, sweetheart," he began, speaking to me as if he weren't about to perpetrate the most loathsome, wicked act for a man to commit, "I think that it's been extremely too long since we've been together," he fake cooed. "Don't you?"
I was so overwhelmed by the irresistible dismay of the situation and the thought of what was yet to come, that I couldn't bring myself to conjure up a feigned response. When I didn't tell him what he wanted to hear, my agreement, the malignant spark that I have come to both dread and abhor appeared in his eyes. That spark told of his love and adoration of other people's dread. He was a sadist - malignant.
He couldn't draw this out much longer; both of us knew that. He was still smirking sickly as he appraised me in my state of fear.
Just get to the point, I thought desperately. I didn't think that I could take much more of this. I could already feel the bile rising in my throat, and I knew that I couldn't take much more of what he considered foreplay.
For the first time that night, my pleads were answered as he released my hair only to grab me by the top of my arm. He didn't say another word as he dragged me out of bed - stumbling all the way - and proceeded to take me out the door, down the hall, and into his own room. I was silently thankful that he has always felt the need for the scene to be in his room instead of mine; it would ruin the minute peace and sanctuary that I have found in my childhood room if he decided otherwise.
After throwing me carelessly onto the center of his bed I lost track of time and place. I purposefully took myself somewhere else - somewhere less painful. In my mind, I went somewhere where I was always happy. I tried to lose myself in all the happy memories that my mind could recall, instead of dwelling on what he was doing to me. I revisited the park that my mother and I used to go to almost on a daily basis during my childhood days. I remembered sliding down eagerly as she awaited me at the bottom.
But the second my mother, Renee, entered my thoughts, the memory turned sour.
My mother's beautiful, young laugh soon turned to screams as I remembered what happened that night - the night it started. The night the bad things started.
Today is one of the best days of my life, I thought happily as I lounged against the back seat in my mother's car. Since the time I was about nine years old, I knew I wanted to be a writer when I grew up; everyone told me it was my talent, and I believed them. So when my English teacher alerted me of the Washington Junior High Writing Contest, of course I entered. I wrote my original short story and submitted it within a week and a half.
Of course I never thought - never dreamed - that I would actually win. The best story in the entire state! Now my mother, my father, and I were enduring the tediously long drive back home from Seattle which is where the awards ceremony had been held. I peered up at my mother and father from the back seat to see that they were still smiling. The pride that was so evident on their faces caused my chest to swell with my own pride. The acceptance of what I was planning to do when I was older meant more to me than any title, ribbon, or plaque.
Oh, no. My plaque. I quickly searched the seats beside me, only to have my suspicion confirmed. I had forgotten my plaque.
"Mom! Dad! We have to turn around! I forgot my plaque at the ceremony!" I quickly told them. I could hear the desperation in my voice. I have to have it back, I thought.
My parents faces immediately fell at the thought of having to turn back; we were nearly half way back already. "Isabella," my father sighed, "when we get home, we can call the building and tell them to hold on to it for us. Then we can go on another day." He glanced in the rearview mirror and noticed my sullen expression which depicted my disdain for his plan. "Bells, sweetie," he tried again to make me see reason, "look at the roads, honey. They're getting worse by the minute. It'll be best for us all to just get home now. "
His words were true. I peeked out of my window and saw what he was trying to convey. In true, Washington fashion, rain was pouring out of the dark sky which was veiled with impervious black clouds.
I suppose that the weather didn't bother me as much as it should have, though. I still wanted to get my plaque back. Who knows what could happen to it by the time we get back home to Forks.
Looking back on that moment now, just like each time I had, I so desperately wish that I had only listened to my father.
"But, Daddy, what if it gets taken? Or thrown out?" I asked him, persisting stupidly to get my way. I was never one for tantrums - I rarely ever threw anything close to a hissy fit as most teenagers do, but my plaque was a symbol of my achievement; it was my first real award ever. I'm always average at everything - except sports at which I'm less than average. Writing was the only thing I was good at.
After arguing back and forth with my parents for what seemed like forever, they finally consented that we would turn around. After another eternity and a half, we were back on our way home, just outside the boundaries of Forks. I could see the relief on my parents' face - the roads had only gotten worse. The rain had doubled making traveling that much more hazardous.
I didn't let that bother me though. I had retrieved my plaque, and we were almost home anyway. I ran my hand over the smooth surface of my award, tracing the indentations that were my name. I was so lost in it, that for a moment, I didn't hear the high-pitched squealing that all of the sudden filled my senses. I peered out of my window to see what was happening.
But not before I saw my parents' faces first - the faces that were filled with dread, trepidation, and knowing.
Everything seemed to happen within the time span of a few seconds then. My mind barely registered what was transpiring before the car rapidly did a 180 degree turn so that we were facing the way we had just come, me bashing my head painfully against the window in the process. The car was still sliding across the slick roads until we came to an abrupt stop, having hit one of the massive tress that lined this road with enough force to disintegrate all of the windows on the left side of the car. My mind was struggling to come to terms with the shock that had completely engrossed my mind, when another shrill screech, much like the one our car had made only moments before invaded the sudden, panicked silence.
It wasn't until then that I realized another car was involved. I didn't have time to absorb what had happened, but before I knew it, my mother's car, her beloved Buick, was sandwiched between the enormous tree and the other car.
After that, the only things I seemed to remember were the deafening sirens and my father's devastated cries as they told him my mother didn't make it....
His mumbling brought me back to the present. I noticed, with great relief, that it was over. "All her fault," he would mutter to himself as he pulled on his clothes.
And he was right. It was my selfishness that brought this upon myself. Upon both of us. He didn't always used to be like this. He used to be kind. Loving. Paternal.
"Leave," he demanded, angrily. And I did. I retreated back to my room where, after cleaning myself off and getting dressed, I crawled back into my bed and spent the rest of the night loathing my absolute need to get that stupid award back. Much good it does me now, shattered and broken. I cried for my loss, and I cried for the situation that I somehow brought on. I cried because of his decision to let drugs and drinking comfort him when he was suffering my mother's loss. I cried because, even though my mother's life was the only one lost that night, I also lost my father.
Because he is no longer my father. Charlie the Chief of Police - the irony of that fact never escapes me - is my abuser.
The blatant sounds coming from my alarm clock shook me from my sleep easily, as I wasn't able to submerge myself completely into slumber. This was the case more often than not. Though, I groaned nonetheless, not wanting to have to face the day - or the bruises. Remembering the night before with a strong shudder, I knew there would be marks - reminders of my mistake.
I sat up and rubbed the sleep out of my eyes quickly, knowing that I will need all the time I can get to cover up the marks. After throwing on jeans and a baggy t-shirt, I walked warily to my mirror, reluctant to face the damage. When I finally stood in front of it, I appraised my arms, neck, and face, assessing the damage. It definitely wasn't one of my worst days. I had only a few minute bruises along my neck and one that ran the length of my face from the corner of my eye to the edge of my mouth. The worst of them were along my arms which could be easily covered with my customary sweatshirt. I quickly threw it on, no longer wanting to see the purple and blue blemishes that were impressions of my father's hands.
I spent almost the rest of the time allotted to me for readying myself applying the only make up that I had, cover up, that I only used for cases like this. I didn't even bother with my hair - it was pointless. It isn't as if I have anyone to impress. Nobody at my small school of Forks High know of what exactly goes on at home, but they all know that I am not worth their attention or time. To them, I was diminutive.
I only wish that I could say they were wrong.
After hastily eating a granola bar, I was out the door and into my red Chevy. Most of the time, I am quite content with the pace of my truck and grateful that I got a vehicle in the first place. But on days like today, when I am running late, I would wish for something a bit more modern. Although I knew I would never dream of asking.
Arriving at Forks High, I parked my car quickly getting out while cursing my lateness which caused me to be forced to park quite a way's distance from the building, all the closer spots having been taken. The day began as usual. Just as always, as I walked through the halls to and from my classes, the other students automatically shied away from me as if I were carrying the long absent Bubonic plague. The snickered to each other as I passed, pointing and laughing at my obvious weirdness. It didn't faze me though. I had been ostracized by the student body for as long as I could remember. No one ever tried to talk to me. No one ever tried to befriend me. Though, now, I have come to be quite grateful for that fact. It wouldn't be fair for me to have friends; friends are supposed to tell each other everything, and I could never tell anyone of my 'home situation.' I like to think of myself as less ostracized and more aloof.
Taking my usual seat in the back of the class in the last period before lunch, I inwardly groaned. This class was by far the class I despised most - second only to gym. It was in this class that I was subjected to listening to the petty chatter and gossip of the two girls occupying the table in front of me, Jessica and Lauren. Today, they were discussing the same thing they had been for the last week - the arrival of a new boy, Edward Masen. Only today, they were even more worked up because, apparently, they had actually seen him and had - by the sound of their squeals - liked what they saw. I envied their lives and being able to be so excited over something as trivial and insignificant about a new boy coming to school.
But they weren't the only ones ecstatic about his arrival. The whole school was buzzing about it. I mentally rolled myself, and thankfully, after that our teacher, Mr. Adams, walked in and started class.
I sighed with relief as I finally made it into the cafeteria and out of the cold, rainy weather that was Forks. I walked to the lunch line where I, one again, ignored all of the murmurs and snickers around me as usual. When I made it to the counter, I grabbed a serving of tomato soup that was served in one of those plastic bowls and a tray of spaghetti. An odd pairing, I know, but good nonetheless. As I finished paying for my lunch and turned around to make my way back to my table, I was met with a pair of piercing, emerald green eyes that were much too close than I was used to. My train of thought evaded me, and my common sense telling me to stop walking because those beautiful green eyes were getting much too close was smothered by the larger part of my brain that just wished them closer.
In about two seconds, I was cursing that larger part of my brain. As my reckless and thoughtless brain just propelled my body further, I tried to will myself to stop. But I felt a compelling pull towards the owner of those green eyes, as if it wasn't my choice, I just had to be close to them. And then we collided. I ran into a hard, yet soft body, and the impact sent me flying - tray and all - to the floor. My lunch toppled over, tarnishing my white, cotton sweatshirt.
As I sat there on the cafeteria floor, my empty lunch tray forgotten at my side, my cheeks burning with the intensity of my blush, and tears caused by my embarrassment threatening to spill over the brim, I heard one of the most beautiful male voices I have ever come across.
"Oh my gosh. I am so sorry; are you okay?" his voice came sounding sincere. But I knew better. I looked up to see that the owner of the beautiful emerald eyes had an even more beautiful face. His bronze hair shone oddly in the fluorescent lights of the cafeteria, his slightly tanned skin was unblemished, and his vibrant green eyes looked truly apologetic.
"Fine," I mumbled almost incoherently. Of course his eyes looked apologetic; whatever prank he was more than likely trying to play would just be that much funnier if I fell for his act. As he stood up, he extended his long hand to try and help me up. I so badly wanted to be able to reach out and take it, to believe that he was sincere. But being me, of course I couldn't. I knew that none of the kids of Forks High wanted anything to do with me besides the accustomed snickering and fun-making. I got up on my own, only to wish that I had stayed down. Everyone in the room was staring at me. I felt, again, the tears pricking at my eyes. I strode back the way I had come, towards the doors, intending only on getting in my truck and away from my own personal Hell. Only to return to the home of my own personal devil, I reminded myself wryly.
I made my way back to my old, dilapidated truck in a daze, thinking of who I assumed to be the new boy. I was sure that I would have seen him somewhere if he weren't new. Once inside the safety of my Chevy, I finally let the tears fall and resumed loathing my existence.
Thank you all for reading! Please leave me some comments. Good or bad, I want to know what you think! Also, please ask your friends to read this, as I am new to the site and don't know anyone.