Disclaimer: I don't own anything.
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Atop the mantle piece lay a photograph.
Face down, its creamy white back blends in smoothy with the surrounding color of the mantle.
A distinct layer of dust surrounds the photo's edges, framing it to its surroundings. However, its back is almost dust free, evidence that it is handled often, while its surroundings remain ignored.
The house is eerily quiet. Through the open window crickets can be heard, and a warm breeze can be felt blowing in. It is two in the morning, and the only source of light is given by the moon, pooling through the open window and basking the room in a soft glow.
From his position in the arm chair, Charlie Swan lets out a long deep breath, smoke dancing out of his mouth and into the surrounding air. The open window does little to help dilute the smell, but he decides he doesn't care anymore. Another drag of the cigarette, and his hand falls back down onto the arm rest. He needs to ash the cigarette, but his mind is elsewhere. He has yet to notice.
He disgusts himself. He should be helping her.. But he doesn't know how. He never learnt to be a father. To be a good father, that is. He will have to make due with mediocre. That is, after all, how it has always been.
Somewhere along the way, he wonders where he went wrong. Was it when he agreed to let her live here with him? Or was it when he started working over time to be out of the house and allow himself to live further in this denial?
Or was it as far back as when he married Renée?
The photograph on the mantle suddenly finds itself back in Charlie's hands. His grip is tight, but delicate enough to not crush it. Most of the time these days Charlie felt like this was all he has left of his little girl. He must protect it.
A single tear rolls down Charlie's face as he gets lost in the chocolaty brown eyes that gaze lovingly up at him from the picture.
To his left, Charlie hears a noise. The distant sounds of foot steps up the wooden porch. It groans under the light weight of the walker. The front door swings open and shut again. It is apparent that she is trying to be quiet, but is not doing a good job.
Bella steps in. In the moon light that streams through the open window, Bella and Charlie stop and look at each other.
"You've been smoking." It is a statement. She knows he will not deny it, and somewhere beneath all the pain she has already been living with, Bella feels a sharp stab in her chest. Bella knows it is her fault. And yet for some sick and twisted reason, she doesn't seem care.
Charlie looks deeply into her eyes. He hasn't moved from the chair, and Bella hasn't moved from her position in the middle of the living room.
He looks down at the cigarette between his fingers. Finally, he ashes it. The picture remains in his other hand. Charlie is no longer captured by it, but rather by the look on Bella's face.
There is no emotion there anymore. His little girl has died.
Bella shifts the bag that she has slung over her shoulder. Her sudden movement brings Charlie's attention to what she holds in her left hand.
"You've been drinking," he retaliates. It too, is merely a statement. If Bella wanted to keep it a secret, she had been doing a poor job. She shrugs her shoulders.
Without breaking eye contact, Bella raises the bottle to her lips and downs the final bit of alcohol. Charlie visibly cringes, but does not look away. In the back of his head he wonders how she can do that without wincing at the burning taste of the straight alcohol. Because that isn't the worst of the pain.
Bella lowers the bottle from her lips slowly. Carelessly, she lets it fall from her grasp. Charlie takes another drag of the cigarette as it crash to the floor. Shards of glass surround Bella's bare feet. She makes no move to clean it up.
There is a pregnant pause, where neither of them say a word. Bella is too drunk to speak coherently, and Charlie doesn't have the strength left in himself to do anything about it. From across the room, Charlie can smell the booze on her.
He musters up the courage to talk to her. "Good night, Bella."
Since when did he need courage to talk to his daughter?
Oh yeah, since he broke her.
That is her cue to head upstairs for the night. She does not argue. Bella turns and walks away, her bare feet landing deliberately on the broken shards of glass. If there is any pain, it does not register on her face.
For what seems like hours, the house is quiet. The only sound to be heard is that of the crickets outside and Charlie's steady breathing. He is still holding the photo.
It is aged, the edges bent slightly. Taken probably sometime around her third birthday, Bella is sitting in a field holding a large, bright sunflower between her tiny hands. There is a single petal missing, having found itself logged in between the curly in her hair. Her hair. It is a long, curly mess, swept over one shoulder. Small wisps of it cling to her smooth, round face. She is smiling, showing her tiny white teeth.
Her eyes are what capture Charlie the most. All her life, Bella's eyes have been the window to her soul. From the day she was born, to that day, Charlie has always been able to read her feelings. Bella might not have been aware of it, but it was always evident to him what she was feeling.
That is what hurts him the most. He can't see the feelings anymore. In the photo, Bella is happy, her eyes are laughing and her smile glows.
But her eyes don't laugh anymore, and there is no smile left to see glow.
Charlie regrets a lot of things, but one thing is for certain; he doesn't regret Bella. He regrets himself. He regrets letting it get to this point.
Somewhere along the way, he lost his Bella, and he has no one to blame but himself.
His thoughts are interrupted by an agonizing scream from upstairs. It doesn't surprise Charlie, like it would most parents, to hear their child screaming in discomfort. After continuous nights of enduring her nightmares from an outsider's position, Charlie has come to accept the fact that he can't stop them. Again, he believes he fails as a father.
He can hear her thrashing around in the bed. He wonders almost absent mindedly if he should wake her up before she falls out and hurts herself. However, after considering what happened last time he did that, he decides to leave her.
Her screams continue for what seems like hours. It isn't new. It is actually rare for her to not suffer aloud from her dreams.
Charlie has had enough. For the first time in a long time, he breaks down. He does something he never thought he would do. He reaches into his pocket and pulls out his ancient looking cell phone. He dials a number that he is not even sure will work.
From the other end of the line, a velvety voice announces itself almost immediately.
"Hello?"
To Charlie, it is not a velvet voice. It is a sinister one. He hates it.
There is no need for formalities, no need to tell the man on the other end of the line who is calling.
"You need to come back. You need to give me my daughter back." Charlie chokes over the words.
The line goes dead, the dial tone buzzing in Charlie's ear. He lights another cigarette. Charlie should have known that wouldn't work.
Bastard.
Nothing surprises Charlie anymore. From the nightly cries that echo out of his daughters bedroom, to her new rebellious tendencies, he is barely fazed. But, what happens next, really does surprise him.
Not a minute has passed, and Charlie suddenly finds himself no longer alone. The glass of brandy that had been approaching his lips remains frozen mid air. Edward Cullen is standing in the middle of Charlie's living room, still holding his cell phone tightly in his hand. Topaz eyes lock with Charlie's brown ones and neither makes a move to stifle Bella's continuous screams from upstairs.
Edward waits for Charlie's nod, and flies up the stairs full speed as soon as Charlie gives his silent permission. Edward no longer cares to hid his abilities. Maybe it is for the best if Charlie knows.
Who was he kidding? Charlie always knew there was something different about him. Fuck it. Fuck secrecy. Fuck Edward Cullen for being the only person able to fix his daughter.
Within minutes, the screaming has stopped. Loud, wet sobs have taken their place, echoing down the stairs and into the living room.
It should be Charlie up there holding her. It should be Charlie who silences her cries and rocks her into a calm pleasant sleep. It should be Charlie who protects her from heart break. But Charlie doesn't know how.
He stays seated in the arm chair. He doesn't care how he got here so fast, or how he got in the house so silently, or even why the hell he was here in Forks and not in California where Carlisle said they were living. All he cares about is getting his daughter back. He downs the glass of brandy in one.