1. Wonderwall
Isabella Marie Swan
January 23, 1999
It is raining abysmally outside and it barely rains in Phoenix, Arizona. I am perched on top of the caramel-glazed desk where I have placed my battered copy of Flowers for Algernon and my black sequinned pouch. I look through the sash windows that are firmly-closed against the unseasonable chill, watching a thin layer of mist pressing itself intently against the glass. I drum my fingers noiselessly against the pane, still waiting.
"Bella, would you like me to drive you home, dear?"
I peer over my shoulder and see Catherine, my dance teacher, standing before me on her pair of burnished silver pumps. She is covered in an oversized maroon coat with a cream-white wool scarf wounded tightly around her neck. She looks almost like a goddess.
"My mum will be here soon. She says she needs to run some errands at work. She's a really busy woman, Miss Catherine," I say, my fingers braiding themselves into my hair that hang in curls of chocolate-brown around my face.
"Your mum just called, Bella. She can't make it to the dance studio on time and it's getting late already. I suggested giving you a ride home and she agreed," she explains in her canorous voice, smiling warmly at me.
I nod thoughtfully, slightly angry at Renee for ditching me when she has promised to treat me a tub of Ben and Jerry's to make up for forcing me to attend ballet classes. I have been craving for cookie dough ice cream since morning when I was served a bowl of cold cereal and a can of lukewarm Orange Crush-typical Renee-served breakfast, even on my first day of middle school which, for majority of parents, is suppose to be some hoo-ha of a moment.
"I think I should make my way home myself. My house is just three blocks away and I wouldn't want to bother you, Miss Catherine," I tell her, tone saturated with gratitude as I sling my pouch over my shoulder and grab my silky pink ballet pumps Charlie bought me last month from the table hastily.
Her brows are furrowed as I shuffle toward her in my off-white sneakers. "Are you sure, Bella? It's raining quite heavily outside and I don't want anything bad happening to you. "
"Really, I'm ok. I usually walk home myself, even in the rain. And if anything bad happens to me, no one but me should be blamed," I assure her, stepping over the carpeted floor as Madame De Cruz, the aged owner of the studio, began switching off the fluorescents overhead.
"Bella, it amazes me you are Renee's daughter. You seem so different from her and I've known her since high school," she tells me with a bemused expression, draping an arm over my shoulder as we walk through the sliding doors.
We bade goodbye to Madame De Cruz who just gives a curt nod and continue dusting the counters and pots of aspidistras arranged copiously along the west wall. Catherine's moss green Honda is parked just in front of the studio and she approaches it, keys around a slender finger.
"Wait there, Bella. I'll get you an umbrella. It is here, somewhere." She gropes around the backseat for the umbrella and I stand in the corner, putting my hood on over my head.
Her head pokes out from the door and she hands me a bright yellow umbrella with a grin as though she has acquired some national treasure. I tuck it under an arm as she slides onto the vinyl seat of her car.
"Have a safe trip, dear. And don't forget, next week classes are still on, at eight sharp. Don't be late," she reminds me as she ignites her engine and the car peels off the slick-wet vacant road in a second.
I make my way southwards toward Renee's apartment, keeping my head on the concrete pavement where there are minuscule pools of rainwater. I try to avoid any wet surface as much as possible for my lack of balance and knack of falling. The roads are dimly-lit by the yellowish glow from the streetlights. I count the blocks of houses I have walked pass and hum to myself a random tune I have heard off the radio.
My heart is beating in my throat as I shuffle through a dingy alley, kicking away rolling empty decanters and Lays packages. My palms begin to sweat slightly and a shiver runs down my spine. I have never felt this particular fear before; I have crossed this alley alone innumerable times. I quicken my pace, breathing rugged, when I hear voices behind me. Men voices.
"Hey, little girl, where are you off to running so fast? Don't be scared, sugar," one of them says drunkenly as he galumphs toward me, hands clasped around a beer can.
"Ronnie, don't scare her away like that, you fool. You are the fairest of them, aren't ya?" another, more gargantuan man mutters, his horn-rimmed glasses askew.
I don't look back and continue walking, attempting to shut out the voices in vain. The gargantuan one blocks my path and the other pushes me to the brick wall roughly, his breath reeking of cigarettes and pickle juice.
"Get off me! Get off me!" I yell, struggling in his arms and gripping the sling of my pouch as tightly as I can.
"Relax, honey. This will not hurt at all," he mutters into my ear as he tugs at the hem of my skirt with sausage-like fingers, attempting to rip them off.
The other man, wearing a pair of stone-white baggy jeans that had been ripped at the knees and a ratty Batman t-shirt, lets out a loud yowl and grasps locks of my hair. I breathe heavily and in an immeasurable second, sink my teeth into his meagre flesh, tasting the saltiness of his perspiration and the iron of blood.
"Fuck you!" he screams, covering his bitten arm with a hand as he jerks away and ends up falling on the layer of general debris, hitting his head on one of the Dumpsters.
"How dare you, bitch," his beefy friend spits at me and it dribbles erroneously on the fabric of his shirt.
His hands work through my hood rapidly, his countenance that of feverish covet. His hand is clasped over my mouth as I am just about to scream for dear life. Tears are beginning to well up in my eyes and soon, I have lost the thread of my thoughts. Maybe this is fated; this is the way I should die. Ripped off my privacy, off my virginity. I would curl up and die here in this very alley, exposed and snow-cold. I wouldn't even want to think what would happen to Renee if I was gone.
"Hey!"
Is that the ethereal shout of an angel? God, I am already dead that fast. I don't even feel any pain piercing through my still beating heart. Should death even come with pain? I am clueless but all I know, his filthy hands have stopped unbuttoning my shirt and the air is so cold, I can't breathe right anymore. The night has reached such a depth of velvety blackness. I huddle in a fetal position, eyes closed so tightly it might as well be glued to the skin. The stench of the savage man sticks to every fraction of my skin.
"Hey, are you alright? God, you're cold," the voice of the angel once more greets me in my stupor an immeasurable moment later as he wraps me in my jacket and carries me off in his arms. He has really white skin, sort of a pearly glow.
"Are you an angel?" I ask as he places me carefully on a wooden bench. We are in the park where Renee always jogs in the mornings.
I am able to see his face clearly now. He is beautiful. He is wearing a beige shirt that fits him perfectly, the sleeves pushed to the crease of his elbows. His thick, black brows furrow as he looks at me as though I have gone mad, a line appearing between them. His lips are chapped and he needs a haircut but still, I think he is the most beautiful person I have met in my eight years of existence besides Catherine.
"Your hand is hurt. I should send you to a hospital," he says, examining my arms that shiver beneath his cool, placating touch.
"You haven't answered my question." My cheeks are fire-flushed as I discreetly button up my shirt back with nimble fingers.
He smiles meekly. "No, I'm just Edward. And you are?
"Isabella. But you can just call me Bella."
He nods. "Why are you out so late, Bella? Are you lost?"
"No, I was just walking home from my ballet class. My mum couldn't drive me home." I remember that I have left Catherine's umbrella in the alley. But I don't wish to be there anymore.
"Well, maybe I should give your mum a ring," he says in a more serious tone, looking out for the nearest pay phone.
"Please, don't tell her," I exhort, putting my hands over his as I gaze into his hazel-green eyes.
His jaw is clenched and he stares back at me, mulling. He nods again and relief washes over me. I don't want Renee suddenly caring for me and suggesting to call the authorities. This is Phoenix and the incident that occurred is almost a ritual here.
"Let me walk you home, Bella," he offers and we hold hands as we begin walking toward the direction of the apartment.
"How old are you, Bella?" he asks, his eyes wrinkling as he smiles. He looks a little my English teacher, Mr. Roberts, only he is more slender.
"Eight. You?" I lie. I am seven, turning eight in December. It must have made me feel a lot mature.
"Seventeen. But you seem a whole lot older than eight. The way you speak, you sound almost like an adult," he asserts thoughtfully and I just smile as he lets me lead the way toward the direction of my home.
"Most people say I was born adult. But it's kind of depressing, don't you think?"
"What do you mean?" he queries with teeth hooking to chapped lips as he swings our hands together a little.
"It seems like my childhood is being ripped off too soon. I mean I'm eight and I have to help my mum settle the bills and cook dinner for her. All my other friends are having sleepovers and playing dress up," I say, lips forming into a pout.
He chortles silently, slipping his other hand into the back pocket of his black jeans. "Well, I'm no different than you. I had to take care of my little brothers and sisters when my parents died in a car crash a year ago. But it's kind of great right? You learn so much about yourself when others sneak pot cookies to prom night and drink themselves dead."
My forehead corrugates. "What are pot cookies?"
It is as though a particular realization dawns on him and he looks at me with helpless eyes. "Um, you'll know what they are when you're older."
I merely nod, listening to the rhythm of our footsteps. We are already nearing Renee's apartment. The windows are pitch-black.
"Well, I'm here."
I climb up the three steps to the door and he waits for me, smiling. "Thanks for helping me. I can't imagine what would have happened if you weren't there. What happened to them anyway?"
"Beat them into pulps. But don't worry; I don't think they'll bother you anymore."
I nod and begin unlocking the door. "So, I'll see you around?"
"You will, Bella. Definitely."
And I instantly know I will see him again from the twinkle of his almond-shaped eyes. I am positive. My hands reach for my pouch. I smile. It is still intact.
June 27, 2009
I am dreaming of my eight-year old self, in white leotards and a crumpled white shirt, with my black sequinned pouch which I loved. I dream of him again, with his alabaster skin and shining eyes as he wrapped me securely in my crimson jacket and whisked me off to the quiet park. I still vividly remember his smile and the questions he had asked. His voice is still so clear in my head. I have dreamt of him for almost eight years, praying hard I would catch a glimpse of him anywhere in the park or Quizznoz. But I never see him again after that night.
When I am awake, I almost forget where I am. Cerulean ceiling and cream white walls greet me with empty vapidity. I prop myself up on my elbows and look through the opened mullioned windows. The overhanging trees sway slightly with the wind and rain pelts against the glass pane. Realization hits me upon seeing the dull, gray light of an overcast morning. Of course, I am on my bed, in a bedroom I haven't slept in eighteen years, in the town of Forks, Washington.
I slip my feet into a pair of battered sheepskin slippers and walk to the bathroom, grabbing my toiletries bag from my wide-open luggage. I shower and dress in my grey jeans and a brown pullover. I don't bother to look at myself on the mirror and throw my books into my rucksack and leave the bedroom door ajar. I can hear frying noises from the kitchen. It must be Charlie, attempting to cook some real breakfast for my first day attending Forks High School. At least, he took the initiative unlike Renee.
"You're up early," he greets me with a hurried kiss on the forehead as he plops two fried eggs on a ceramic plate.
"I wished I could sleep in though. The weather, really. I can go on hibernate-mode forever," I say, spilling some juice on the Formica table.
"Is that why you moved here, Bella? To get a good night's sleep?" he asks, arching a brow as he wipes the orange liquid with a checked dishtowel.
I grin but I remain mute. I scoop some overcooked sausages on the two blue plates and Charlie places some runny eggs onto the side of the plate. I bite through a piece of the sausage and am shocked by his apparent hidden talent for cooking a decent breakfast. Renee would have set the kitchen on fire in nanoseconds.
"You know, I'm glad that you're here. I don't really mind if you're not willing to tell your mother and I why you decided to move back to Forks so suddenly. I am contented enough," he tells me, sipping some of the juice as he smiles reassuringly at me.
My fork digs through the fried eggs as I nod again, not speaking. I love my father. Charlie Swan, chief of police, widowed by own mother since I was an infant. I used to go for trips with him or stay over in his house for whole summers when I was a kid. He would take me to his fishing expeditions with his friends who lived in the La Push area. I absolutely loathed them but just being with my father, I felt oddly special.
"I think I should get going now, Dad," I say, chasing the last of the sausages and eggs with a glass of milk.
"Oh, Bella, I have a little surprise for you actually. It came early in the morning, about 7 am," he mutters mostly to himself as he dumps our plates into the sink and takes my bag for me before I had a chance to grab it from the linoleum floor.
"Surprise? Dad, you didn't get me a gift, right?" I shoot him an accusing look as he leads the way to the backyard.
"Well, I did get ahead of myself a little but I think you will love it, Bella."
My mouth is agape as I gaze at the faded, crimson exteriors and the bulbous cab of an aged Chevy truck parked on the patch of gravel, just waiting for me. I move towards it in measured steps, hands outstretched as I run my hands across the rough surfaces of the metal. I touch the cool handle of the door to the driver's seat, feeling a slight nervousness spiralling through me. Charlie puts his hand over mine and pulls the door open.
"Get in, Bella," he tells me and I slide onto the ebony vinyl seat.
The insides smell faintly of peppermint and a slight scent of cinnamon. The compartment area is empty apart from some sweet wrappers jammed in the corner and parking tickets from the last decade. I grip the steering wheel firmly in my hands and envisage myself driving on long stretches of empty, winding roads leading to nowhere. I feel like kissing Charlie already.
"Dad, I love this. I can't thank you enough," I murmur, peering at him over a shoulder as he stands beside me, smiling like a proud father.
"It's nothing, really. I got it off my friend, you know Billy Black, for a cheap price. It's an antique, made in the 1950s."
I don't have a clue who this Billy Black is but I am thankful. Charlie places my bag on the back seat and hands me a folded map of Forks which I don't need. I rev the engine and it lets out a guttural, spitting noise like all other ancient cars do.
"Goodbye, Bella, honey."
WildeyedJoker-Hey I have tweaked a few details in the story so yeah, Ill update soon :)
