This story stems from my passion for singing and playing the piano. They really, truly mean a great deal to me.
Disclaimer: I do not own Twilight.
Soundtrack: The Deep End, by Josie (You'll find her on Youtube. She's 11 and incredibly talented.)
* You can cage the singer, but not the song. ~Harry Belafonte *
Chapter One: Chopin's Nocturne
I remember every second of it clear as day. The sound of crunching metal, the hiss of leaking gas, the sparks igniting, and the roar of the fire over the sirens. The sensation of extensive blood loss, of the smoke invading my lungs, of losing my parents, and of his dead body on mine. Every second of every minute of every hour of every day, it haunts me. It's odd to me, however, that I've never experienced a nightmare because it. Sleep comes easily, my bittersweet companion always patiently awaiting me at the folds of night. In the warm embrace of my subconscious, I somehow elude the horrors of my parent's - and my soul's - death. That is all I could ask for.
The piano before me, its flawless ivories relatively untouched, gleamed in the light of the sun spilling through the gaps in my drawn shades. It glared back at me, matching my resentment inch per inch. This manmade piece of art, this craft of wood, could sing. And I could no longer. How was this fair? - that I was forced to live without my voice, while this object could create music that moved millions to tears. I slammed the lid shut and stormed from the room, the anger suddenly becoming too much. I emerged from the grand foyer in a fury, scowling at every inch of the polished wood and luxurious furniture about me. It was too open, too happy, too free, while I was caged in my own personal purgatory. I screamed, only emitting a shrill squeal that could barely be heard even in the silence. Frustration welled up in my chest.
You know that feeling you get when you're attempting to grip something between your index and middle finger, then discover that you are exerting no pressure? You can feel the force welling up behind it, but it's not coming out no matter how much effort you force into it. You feel trapped, caged, and frustrated beyond belief. If you understand that, then you understand me.
"Bella?" Angela's voice called through the front door. I glowered at the doorknob, debating whether I would appreciate any company. "Honey, I know you're in there." Overcome by tenacity, I crossed my arms, popped out a hip, and began tapping my foot on the hardwood. "I've got a spare key!" The lock clicked and the doorknob jiggled in place. I'd added a deadbolt - she didn't have a key to that. "Bella! Are you kidding me? Did you have your locks changed?" Angela demanded in exasperation. "Fine. I'm going to get Rosalie and see how you hold up to that assault."
I momentarily panicked - bringing Rosalie in meant bringing in the big guns. My stubborn nature won the internal debate, though. Fine, Angela could bring in my pushy cousin, but there was no way in hell I would speak to either of them. Even if I could speak. I ducked into the living room again, peeking out the curtains of the bay window to watch Angela leave. She looked royally pissed, but I couldn't have cared less at that point in time. At least she was gone. As the blue Mercedes disappeared from view, I raced out to my mailbox. At this rate, my friends would soon be camping outside my door and if it came to that I wouldn't be able to get my mail; might as well get the bills paid before the cavalry arrived.
Out in the sunlight, I cringed and shielded my sensitive eyes. I stumbled a bit in my haste to get back inside before my neighbors could see me. They would ask questions, questions I wasn't ready - or able - to answer yet. Once inside, I made sure to lock both the knob and the deadbolt. I sorted through the mail, unsurprised to find that more than half of it was bills. I climbed the obnoxiously large staircase to my study and tossed the bills on the desk. Flopping down in my oversized chair, I tentatively opened the letter that I'd been dreading for weeks.
Dear Ms. Swan,
In light of recent events and the passing of your father, Washington Trust Bank requests that you meet with Mr. William Black to gather your inheritance…
I flung the letter away from me, watching the wretched piece of paper skid across the desk and land on the floor. Tearing open the rest of the mail, I filed it away for another time. I was just descending the staircase when my front door began to shake.
Rosalie pounded violently on the red stained wood. "Isabella Swan! Get your ass down here and open the fucking door!" I tensed, eyes going wide and heart rate accelerating. "I'm counting to five and then I'm going to bust this door down!" Fearing for the life of my door, I scrambled down the steps and began fumbling with the locks. Just as her countdown reached zero, I flung the door open and backed away from the furious blonde. She stormed inside, her dark blue eyes narrowed. "Where the hell have you been, Swan? Locked away in this house, torturing yourself?"
I shook my head frantically and let out a small croak. "No! God, no! Just go away!" At least, that's what I attempted to communicate; it all just came out in a weird, slurring moan.
"Don't give me that bullshit, I know you can form words." Rose scolded, advancing on me again. I clawed at my throat, willing my vocal chords to emit some kind of recognizable sound. Tears sprung to my eyes and I collapsed on the bottom step, shaking my head in defeat. Rosalie's eyes softened. "You can't even speak a word, can you, Swan." It wasn't a question. I broke into hysterical sobs and buried my face in my palms, letting out a strangled cry that closely resembled the squealing of a dying mouse. Rosalie wound her arms about my shoulders, pulling me to her chest and rocking me back and forth.
Angela's voice made me jump; she was in the doorway. "She has voice therapy at three; maybe you can get her there this time, seeing as she refuses to budge for me." I glared at her through my tears. "Don't give me that look, Bella. I have to be to work in ten minutes, Rose, so see if you can get her to therapy in time, please? See you later." My friend disappeared into the blinding sunlight. I recoiled from its rays, wishing to be buried further in the shadows.
"Come on, Bella, let's get you cleaned up." Rosalie sighed, taking me by the arm and leading me upstairs. She pushed me down on the seat of the toilet and dug out my makeup bag. Gently, she used a wet cloth to scrub the mascara stained tear tracks from my face. In a matter of minutes, she redid all of my makeup, before guiding me to the bedroom to find me some suitable clothes. I curled up on my monstrous bed, numbly watching Rose dig through my closet. She emerged with a pair of light-wash jean capris and a navy blue tee, tossing me a pair of silver sandals along with them. She waited patiently for me to undress and then pull on the new outfit; her eyes scrutinized my thin frame openly, narrowing at the pull of tendons and bones against my pale skin.
"Thanks," I croaked.
It didn't even sound like a word, but Rose understood. "You're welcome." I followed her back down the stairs and through the open doorway, cringing when the sun hit my eyes. She tossed me a pair of sunglasses, nodding when I tried to thank her again. We slid into her red convertible, settling into companionable silence. She turned on the radio and as music poured from the speakers, I clenched my fists angrily. Her eyes went wide, before realization settled and she quickly turned it off. I relaxed a minute later.
As we pulled into the crowded parking lot of the medical complex, I cast my gaze on the daunting brick building. Inside these walls, they claimed that they could teach my vocal chords to work again. I stamped down any hope that may have stirred; it was better to go in accepting that this wouldn't work than to suffer through the disappointment when their therapies failed. Rosalie took my trembling hand in her own, trying desperately to be of comfort as we entered the building. Following the signs and directions, we made our way up to the fifth floor and emerged into a very serene, dimly lit reception area. The walls were red, looking smudged as if by watercolor and there was a gold and black chandelier hanging from the low ceiling, casting a soft glow about the room. Different pieces of vintage furniture were arranged throughout the room, all following the same dark color scheme. I took a steadying breath and approached the counter.
A stout redheaded woman looked up from her computer, eyes squinting to make light of my face as she fumbled about for her glasses. Once she could see, she handed me a sign-in form and dismissed us. Rosalie led me to a black love-seat in the corner of the room and we made ourselves comfortable while I attempted to make sense of the medical and insurance mumbo jumbo on the sheet. After a solid ten minutes of filling out the papers, I took them back to the desk and was handed a cool glass of water. Puzzled, I cocked an eyebrow at the woman.
"Drink it before you go in - it has soothing minerals that should loosen up your throat for the appointment." She shrugged as if this was just routine. For her, I figured, it was. I downed the water and winced at the arctic liquid as it ran across the raw patches in my throat. After tossing the plastic cup in the wastebasket, I made my way back to Rosalie. We started up a game of hangman on her iPhone and suddenly I was more grateful for a cheap app. than I'd ever been in my life. I had to sign every letter to her though, so we moved onto a game of tic-tac-toe, which I promptly kicked her ass at.
"Isabella Swan?" A woman emerged from the back room with my file in hand. She had long, carmel hair and soft green eyes that could persuade you to do anything they asked. I rose from the love-seat and dragged Rose along with me; she was my translator since I hadn't yet entirely learned the art of sign language. I was working on it, though.
"What's your name, doc?" Rose asked in her true, blunt fashion.
The woman chuckled. "I'm Esme Cullen and you are?"
"Rosalie Hale, cousin extraordinaire."
"It's a pleasure to meet you, Ms. Hale."
"Call me Rosalie and I'll call you Esme; anything else sounds entirely too formal."
I envied them so much at that point, free to exchange pleasantries and witty comments as they wished. If I wasn't careful, my eyes would be green with jealousy by the end of my life. I trudged on behind the two women, reluctantly listening to them chatter on about life and such. Bitterness swelled in my chest. This just wasn't fair. We entered a dim room lit entirely with candles and no artificial lighting. I took a seat in the large, brown leather seat in the center of the room, while Rose settled into a black, plastic chair in the corner. Esme sat on the doctor's stool with a sigh, flipping through my file once more.
"Alright, Bella, can you say any word at all for me?" She began, rolling forward a couple feet.
I shook my head and attempted to say, "no," which came out sounding gargled and strangled. Esme pursed her lips and her eyes filled with sympathy and compassion. I worked very hard not to scowl back at her; I didn't need pity.
"Rosalie, what is Bella's story?" The doctor inquired after a moment of silence. "All I have on file is a recount of the damage done to her vocal chords and throat, but not the reason behind all of this."
Rose looked to me for permission; I shrugged carelessly, settling back into the oversized chair. She scooted forward in her seat. "About six months ago, Bella was visiting her parents in Forks, Washington - her hometown. She had been on tour in the UK for almost a year and was quickly topping the charts." Her eyes darted to me, but I kept my gaze firmly on the wall. "There was fan mail every day and that's normal, you know? But this man…his letters were getting a little creepy. James claimed to love her, said he knew every detail of her life right down to her…underwear choices. It was frightening and Bella needed a break from the road for awhile. What's better than returning to your tiny hometown where the rest of the world can't get to you? Charlie and Renée welcomed her home with open arms. The second night back, they decided to go out to dinner in Seattle to celebrate Bella's success. The record label had dispatched a few body guards to keep watch on her while she was away from the tour, fearing that the man may try to get to her when there were no crowds around her. They weren't supposed to intrude on life, just keep watch while she was out and about.
"They had just pulled off the exit ramp and into Seattle when…when James jumped out of the car behind them and broke the window in their SUV. The bodyguards tried to get to him - they'd been following in another car very close to the Swans - but Charlie panicked and stepped on the gas, trying to throw James off the side of the car. They drove- straight into the traffic and were t-boned on either side of the car. It flipped and rolled all the way across the intersection… He had gotten into the car before the wreck. My poor, sweet aunt and uncle were killed on impact. Bella was lucky to be alive…but only because James threw himself on top of her when the second car hit them of her side. He took the brunt of the impact, shielding her body with his. He died…right on top of her. The gas started leaking and sparks from the wreckage ignited. Bella…she was pinned beneath him. She was trapped in the fire for so long; it was nearly an hour before the firefighters figured out that dammit she was still alive and they'd left the entire car thinking everyone was dead. After all, there were at least five other cars full of people that they had to help and no one in that car could have survived. They pulled her from the wreckage…bleeding, broken, and voiceless. She'd inhaled so much smoke that it'd not only very nearly suffocated her, but permanently damaged her throat and vocal chords as well as her eyes. So…here we are today. Alive, but definitely worse for wear."
I blinked away the moisture in my eyes and quickly brushed away the tear tracks on my cheeks. Esme was looking at me with such compassion and sympathy that I very nearly started sobbing. She blinked her watery eyes and then settled back into a more professional mode.
"I am truly sorry for your loss." She murmured, patting my knee, before moving into her work. Throughout the course of the session, she had me swallow, inhale, and gargle so many different remedies that my mouth began to taste like old, dry toothpaste. She massaged my throat and had me run through a series of tests, trying to sort through the sounds I could and couldn't make. By the end of the appointment, my throat was oddly numb. I welcomed the sensation over the usual, chalky grating feeling. Rosalie attempted to fill the silence by chattering aimlessly about her upcoming first date with a man named Emmett, but we both knew it was hopeless. Our girl talks and nights of endless gossip were over. My voice was gone, leaving an empty void. Rose could only talk to the silence now.
"Here we are, Bella." My cousin sighed as we pulled into the driveway of my mocking mansion. I scowled at the polished exterior. It appeared so meticulously crafted and cared for, when really its only inhabitant was a bitter, crippled musician with no real future in store now. "Do you want me to stay?" I shook my head and used my phone to communicate.
You have plans tonight, I can see it in your eyes. You don't want to be stuck at home with your moody cousin again. Go and have fun. I think I'm just gonna go to bed anyway. Thanks for taking me to the appointment. Love you.
Once she'd read the message and nodded gratefully, I stepped from the car. "Love you too, Bells. Don't do anything crazy while I'm gone, k?" It was our own inside joke and it only masked the hopelessness that my life was brimming with. We both knew I wouldn't do anything at all tonight except cry myself to sleep. Happy, crazy, impulsive Bella was gone - dead in the wreckage along with her parents and the man that had brought this horror upon them. As she drove away, I trudged into the house. The darkness greeted me like a spouse, warm and comforting after a long day. I dragged myself up the stairs and into my bedroom, stripping down to my underwear and then crawling into bed. I glanced at the clock on my bedside table. 6:30 p.m. Great, I've turned into a spinster. Now, I just need a bunch of cats and I'm set.
Sleep claimed me quickly, though, and I drifted into a world where I was still singing.
Leave a review and I'll keep writing.
-Infini Danse