Summary : Bella realizes there is a very big chance that saving Edward Cullen was the worst mistake of her life. There's also a very big chance that it was the best.
Warnings : Language, slight Sexual situations, Themes, Possible Abuse/Molestation
Inspirations : AngstGoddess003's Wide Awake, Segolily's Daylight, Cuppycakes's Emotions Unaccounted For.
Ownage : Only my own plot. Everything else is Stephenie Meyer's. Pity.
Pairings : Mainly EdwardBella, AU, AH
A/N: Okay, so this is my first fanfiction for a very long time. I just saw Twilight yesterday, and I think they did a very good job. But hey, I'm optimistic. I can't help that. This is pretty dark, and even a little cliche. But, hopefully, you readers will enjoy it. This is AU plot, and pretty OOC, so no, none of this would probably really happen, even though I'm trying to keep some of Bella's and Edward's original character traits intact. Bare with me, folks.
Sometimes I have a moment where all I can do is laugh. Usually, when this moment occurs, I'm in my rusty, beloved truck driving down the streets from school to my home. I lived with my unbelievably oblivious father, who, has his life planned around the television. Which, after so months of living with him, I've grown used to. It didn't mean I liked it.
Right now was one of those moments. The rain was unusually happy today, which, by default, did not make very much sense. Most likely, it was my mood. I don't how or why this mood came by me, and it usually only lasted a minute of pure giddiness. It was like I suddenly loved everything - the obscene amount of green foliage, the gray skies, the rain, the broken heater, my cold fingers. I'd feel like an idiot after every time it passed, and then a little sad because it reminded me of my crazy, forgetful, mother. And then, I'd be back to normal.
Junior year here was nothing special. It was November now, the cold and wet rain now combining with harsh winds that whipped at my nose and tangled my hair. I didn't like it, but really, I couldn't do anything about it. Mostly, I was just bitter about Arizona. When I arrived here last year, March, of my sophomore, I was easily welcomed into the Forks resident cool clique, so to say. They were all nice, friendly, and kind of dramatic, but nothing compare the tall, blonde, overly tanned snobs back in Phoenix. There was Jessica, and Angela, who I was substantially close with, though I never really share any of my personal thoughts with them. There was also Mike Newton, my retriever friend, who I could really only be around in small quantities.
But I couldn't really complain - they were all nice enough to accept me into their group of friends, making me feel like everyone else. It was nice, to be normal. From the get-go I knew it wasn't going to last very long, however, to my surprise, it did. They kept smiling, and I would sometimes give them a grin. They kept inviting me to parties, and I would sometimes accept. I think this is what normal people would call friends, but I'm not sure.
When I got inside of my house, a small, little white house with barely a floor and a half, it was cold. I groaned, Charlie had obviously forgotten to turn the heat on before he left. It was no use now, the house was so old that the heat wouldn't actually start to work until about tomorrow morning. None the less, I turned it up anyway. Slipping out of the jeans I had bought at Port Angeles, I slipped into gray sweat pants and a large sweat shirt, which is what I usually wore at home. It was comfortable, plain, warm. Everything I liked in the world.
I sat curled up on my bed, opening my Trig book, skimming over the problems that I hadn't had time to do. They were fairly easy, and I felt pretty smart being able to do them. Sadly, this was about as much self esteem I had in my whole body. The cold house air was still, and silent, like it often was. Charlie had take up a higher job in the little town over, which paid more. He said he didn't mind the extra work, though he usually got home a later than eight. The clock read five, and I figured I might as well get dinner ready anyway, so that Charlie could heat it up when he got home.
Downstairs, I skimmed the cuboards for something to make, and decided for soup. I pulled out carrots, and onions and left over chicken and broth. I used a big pot from one of the below cupoards, stirring it occasionally. This, aside from the little spaz-fest I had in my car, was probably the most eventful thing I did today. It wasn't until a few minutes later did I realize I forgot my bag full of dirty gym clothes in my car. They needed to be washed tonight, and I stood up, slipping on my rain boots and my coat and venturing out in the rain. The sky was nearly dark, a soft blue and black clouds resting above me, my breath looking like cigarette smoke as I breathed out. I hurried to the car, hunching from the cold and bitter air. I grabbed the bag, turning back to head inside.
Something, however, caught my eye.
It looked like a black sweater lying there out in the over grown grass of my side yard. I don't recall leaving one of my sweaters out here, but I cared at least a little enough to take it in. It was raining, and I was doing laundry anyway. I squinted, the night becoming blacker though it was barely six. I truged along in the muck, my boots making a horribly gross squishing sound under the soft earth.
But I realized - with surprise, that it wasn't just a black sweater. It was a body inside a black sweater. A boy. His skin was pale and wet, and he was laying in such an awkward display that it looked like he was set there rather than lied. His lips looked a little blue and his eyes were closed; I could barely see his breath. My stomach flipped as I kneeled down into the mud to check on him. I could feel his pulse, though just barely. He was weak, and cold, so cold that it almost hurt to touch him.
And than, I realized who he was.
Edward Cullen was in my class last year, - when, of course, he made an appearance. He was a breathtakingly flawless boy, whom most girls at Forks, I learned, fawned over. But he seemed to isolate himself, rather than accept the people who so openly doted - or tried to dote on him. When I came last year, I thought he was quite full of himself.
Now, however, I was scared. This was not the same Edward Cullen that I remember, - not at all. He looked pale, and weak, almost like a little boy. All this thinking made my heart sped up indefinitely - I was wasting time, and he could be dying.
Throwing the bag over my shoulder, I grabbed one of his arms and swung around my shoulder, hoisting him up best I could. It was easier than I thought - he seemed to only weigh as much as I did. As I clutched onto him, I could his ribs through his pale, black, sweater. I threw the door open to my house, dragging his bedraggled form. He was still, scarily so, as I lied him on the couch. My hands flew to my hair as little tears seeped out of my eyes - somehow my panic seemed connected to my tear ducks, a humiliating trait of mine. My legs took me to the hall closet and I rifled through, looking for old blankets and old, thick cable socks.
He was covered in wet, sopping clothes, and I grimaced. I had paid attention to enough of my health classes to know he could die from the wet clothes, or go into a coma, or get deathly sick. I felt my face blush, even though he was unconscious, as I picked up his little sweater, slipping it over his head. I tried to keep my eyes off his chest, my face becoming almost purple as I unbuttoned his jeans and slid them off, leaving him in his little blue boxers. I kept my eyes away from his body, not even looking at it. I felt embarrassedly prude.
I put blanket after blanket on top of Edward as he lied there lifelessly. I took of his muddy and worn black converse, fitting on Charlie's old winter socks. But it didn't seem to be enough. I panicked, my hands running throw my hair in frustration. Though I didn't like Edward Cullen particularly, I wasn't going to let him die. I wasn't going to let him suffer. I took off my sweater, the large thing that it was, and threw back the blankets, before sliding it on his body. My arms prickled at the cold air of my house; I went to close the front door. My hands, though they were hardly warm, took his own hands, as I rubbed them together, trying to get them warm.
It seemed like hours of stress; I got a call from Charlie saying he was just going to spend the night as Abigail's, and for once, I was thankful. I detested Abigail for the sole reason of her interest of my father, because I didn't want him to get hurt like my mother hurt him. However, she made him happy, and I couldn't argue with that. The soup was still on stove, simmering peacefully, and I remember two hours ago when I was in my own little world. No Edward Cullen dying in my living room.
And then, his eyes fluttered. His eyes fluttered open. I sat very still has he moved his neck, his mouth opening and closing. The brillant colour of bronze surveyed the room before they landed on me. But he didn't seem shocked or surprise. He didn't even seem scared. Just cold. I let go of his hand, realizing with a blush that I had still be holding it.
"Are you okay? Do you need anything? Water? Soup? Crackers? More Blankets?" my brain seemed too fast for my mouth as I stumbled over my own words. He managed a little smile, snuggled deeper into the hill of blankets he was under. Moving his neck around he looked at the sweatshirt he was wearing. His eyes brows furrowed; he didn't recognize it. "It's my sweatshirt…" I muttered, blushing again and looking at my knees.
"Hi," he croaked, look at me with wide eyes. Again, he reminded me of a small, helpless child.
"I found you in my yard," I said to him, my eyes looking at his cheek bones. For some reason, I was scared to look into his eyes. "I thought you were dead."
"I would have been," he rasped. He seemed on the verge of tears.
I walked into my kitchen, ladling soup into a small bowl before bringing out to him. He was trying to sit up when I entered my living room again, and I frowned, setting the hot bowl of soup on the side table that held mostly pictures of me growing up. I put my hand on his lower back, looking at the couch cushion, trying to fight another blush coming on. I put my other hand on his hip, hoisting him up and setting against the arm. He looked down, shrugging father in the blankets, almost embarrassed as I was. I handed him the soup, and a spoon, and he mumbled a small thank you.
"So…" I spoke after a few minutes of hearing him slurp the soup. He ate like he hadn't eaten in days, which, by the look of his thin and bony wrists, the bags under his eyes, the protruding collar bone I saw, he probably was. "Why were you in my yard?"
"I didn't…mean to." he muttered, his voice still faint and weak. "I…think I just passed out."
"Why?" I asked, and then felt a little heat rise to my cheeks from my bluntness.
"I was…running away," he said after a few minutes. He looked down, his eyes staring into the half filled bowl. I frowned.
"Why were you running away?" I asked softly.
"Because," he said, his voice suddenly sharp and angry. I flinched at the intensity of it, and he collapsed farther into himself. "Because…" he said, like he was aching just from thinking of it.
He continued eating, and I went into the kitchen, putting a bowl of soup and wrapping it with cellophane for Charlie tomorrow night. I felt really, really, tired, a queasy feeling in my stomach as I washed the pot. Edward Cullen almost died. Edward Cullen was weak. Edward Cullen was a runaway. Edward Cullen was in my house.
This was real - I almost wanted to pinch myself. But that'd hurt, and I was coward even in that of little importance. In the living room, I took the bowl from Edward, putting it in the sink and washing it along with the spoon. I felt very stupid as tears dripped down my face, two gigantic weights making my shoulders sag. I locked all the doors and closed the blinds, shivering my tank top, the heat yet to kick in.
Edward was still in a bundle of blankets, his pale face regaining some color. I went to sit by him again.
"Is there anything I can get you?" I mumbled. His eyes were half closed, a small sigh resting on his lips.
"No, thank you. Bella." He mumbled, and I tucked in his blankets more, mulling over the very existence of him, and how he knew my name. I've never even talked to him. His eyes closed, again, and soon, he was fast asleep. You'd think he'd look peaceful, sleeping as soundly as he was, but even his expression in his slumber was pained, scared. I felt a strange need to touch him, to cradle him in my arms.
However, all I did was turn off the light and the face of Edward Cullen in my head, making it almost impossibly for me to sleep.
Review?