This story has some dark spots that deal with child abuse...some of it sexual in nature, but it will all be implied...nothing too graphic. This is more a story of healing and recovery than one of horror, though some horrific things have happened to lead us to this point. I picked the rating cuz I just don't trust some of the players to curb their obnoxious tendencies. It is a little known fact that Emmett and Rosalie's native tongue is profanity. And Jasper speaks Pig Latin. But I digress.
I've never written fan fiction before. Or any fiction, really. Ok, so I've never actually written anything other than a check in my life. Oh. And I'm not a doctor. Or a psychologist. Or a vampire. I might make mistakes. Please be gentle. Oh. One more thing. I'm most definately not the amazing Stephenie Meyer who, of course owns Twilight and anything you might recognise from it. I own a camera, a cat named Romeo, and more Polly Pockets than any grown up has any business owning.
Dr. Carlisle Cullen sunk into the hard plastic cafeteria chair, rubbing his face. As if the action could wipe away the frustration he felt. The problem wasn't the fifteen flu patients he'd seen that morning or the fact that he was called in to work a few hours after he'd fallen asleep the night before. In fact, he had taken to voluntarily going in a bit early every day for the past two weeks. The reason for this was also the root of his uncharacteristic sour mood. Two weeks ago a child who was found unconscious on a hiking trail in the forest was brought in to his emergency room. So far, nobody had stepped forward to claim the pale little girl with dark blond curls that Carlisle himself had painstakingly detangled and brushed during one of his early morning visits. Her description had not fit any of the missing children reports that Police Chief Charlie Swan had pored over from around the country. It seemed that other than a few members of the hospital staff, Charlie, and the Child Protective Services worker who had been assigned her case, nobody cared one bit about this little girl. Missy, as the nurses had taken to calling her, appeared to be between the ages of nine and twelve and life had not been kind to her. Examinations conducted by Dr. Cullen and his colleagues revealed that she had suffered tremendously at the hands of another, and for some time. She currently had a broken wrist and numerous bruises, but the x-rays confirmed that she was no stranger to broken bones. When the ambulance brought her in, she was dirty and severely malnourished. Her tiny battered body had also been tortured in the most repulsive way possible. Thick scars rendered her genitalia nearly unrecognizable. While she had technically regained consciousness after having sufficient fluids and nutrients introduced to her system, the little girl was not what anyone would consider to be "awake." She spent her days either lying in, or sitting up in her bed or chair, whichever position the last staff member attending to her had left her in. Her eyes were open, revealing dark blue, almost purple orbs that revealed not one single emotion. She didn't acknowledge the presence of others, or the presence of anything else for that matter. When she continued to ignore food, the attending pediatrician was forced to insert a feeding tube. She didn't use the bathroom, leaving the staff no choice but to resort to the use of disposable diapers. Carlisle knew better than to get emotionally attached to his patients, and, while he cared for them all deeply, usually avoided doing so. But in all his years as a doctor, he'd never had such a lonely little soul as a patient.
"Carlisle, It's been two weeks," Tanya Denali, the hospital's Director said as she perched on the edge of the chair next to him. "Her injuries are healing nicely and there is no medical reason for her to remain here. I know how you feel, but we have no choice but to transfer her to Drake." Arthur Drake Children's Hospital in Tacoma, roughly 350 miles from their small town of Forks, Washington, specialized in the residential treatment of Autistic children.
"Tanya," Carlisle sighed, preparing to rehash the same argument he'd had with other staff members and colleagues who have suggested a transfer to Drake. "I'm not one hundred percent convinced of the Autism diagnosis. If this is a Post Traumatic Stress episode and we don't treat it as such, she may never recover." Tanya pursed her lips and gave the blond doctor a sympathetic look.
"It's not our call to make anymore, Carlisle. She's going to Drake as soon as I can arrange for transport," she said quietly, lowering her head and dropping her eyes to the table as she delivered the news.
"No. She isn't," Carlisle said with a determination that made Tanya sit up straight and snap her eyes back to his, her long blond curls bouncing with the movement. "I'm taking her home."
So...should I continue? Or go back to shopping and writing checks?