DISCLAIMER: This may come to a surprise, but I do not own Twilight. Drats.
Warning: Dark themes that continue throughout. If your age is on the clock, I insist that you turn right around and find yourself some nice T-rated fanfics. Not all of the story will be dark, but many of the situations that are a part of it are no laughing matters. If you are at all uncomfortable with sex, underaged drinking, self-harm, or suicidal thoughts, this story is not for you.
Author's Note: This is my first fanfiction, so, here goes nothing.
I realize that the summary circles more around Edward but I assure you, Bella has just as much say in this story as he. I just need to get better at summary writing. But never fear, there will be Edward's point of view, after a chapter or so of Bella's.
Thank you in advance for reading, just incase you don't read all the way through to the end where I'll thank you again!
Bella
"Ladies and gentlemen, welcome to Seattle. I hope you all had a very pleasant flight…"
Oh, please. Like she didn't want the rest of us to be just as miserable as she was the entire time. A small, somewhat demented smile grew on my face. If only she knew. She thought she was miserable? Ha! Come take my life for a spin and tell me your life of serving complimentary pretzels and lightly salted nuts is something to bitch and whine about.
That's right, Bella. Go ahead and throw yourself a pity party. That'll sure show her who's life is a complete farce.
The stewardess's voice was a shade or ten too nasally for my liking, so I sat up in my seat, stretching my neck to peer over the tops of the passenger's heads and get a good look at this little ray of sunshine. I hadn't paid much attention to her before, only briefly when she practically chucked a packet of nonperishable goods at me. Not only did she startle me out of my muddled head trip, she also cracked my crackers. I had quietly plotted vengeance until she came back half an hour later, asking for trash. I then meekly handed her my garbage, staring at my feet, and turned to hide behind the portable curtain I carry around with me that I like to call hair.
She stood with one hip jutting out at an unnatural slant with a manicured hand rested on the curve (or should I say obtuse angle?) of her waist. She looked like she would rather be dumpster diving for used tissues than rattling off the weather and local time and we look forward to seeing you soon! into the speaker connected to the wall by a tightly wound wire in her hand. Her voice droned above the general murmur of the plane and when she finished she flashed us all a tight lipped smile before slamming the black speaker back into its slot on the wall so hard that an ear slaughtering screech burst from the overhead speakers. From the back of the plane a baby who only just stopped crying after spending more than half the trip wailing its little head off picked up again from where it left off and there was a collective groan from everyone on the plane, including me.
"Sorry," she giggled, slapping a hand over her trout pout and batting her bright blue eyelids in a way that made me want to gag. How could they let her on the plane? For all we knew, she could be hiding explosives in her heavy eyelashes and giant hair. I narrowed my eyes at her. Sorry my ass.
I sunk back into my overly plush seat that swallowed me whole and assumed the position I had held most of the flight. I leant my head against the rough wall and pressed the tip of my nose against the cold acrylic plastic of the window. I was probably leaving a smudge, but who cares? They'd take care of it eventually.
Outside, the world was a clash of gray and green. Beyond the cement of the airport rose endlessly green mountains, and above those hovered dark clouds that obscured the sun's light. Raindrops fell incessantly from the sky and carried sunlight on their backs. It was beautiful and so very different from home. My throat constricted and my eyes pricked uncomfortably. Dammit, you sentimental wreck. Get yourself together, woman. I took a deep, shuddering breath, and scoffed quietly. Getting myself together was not much of an option. The least I could do was keep from constantly falling apart.
"Quite different from Phoenix, don't you think?"
I leapt halfway out of my skin at the sound of the gentle voice to my left. I slapped a hand over my hammering heart and pulled away from the wall to look at the pretty face of Esme Cullen. She frowned at me.
Her voice was soothing. "Sorry, dear, I didn't mean to startle you."
I shook my head and I managed a lame, half-hearted smile that she probably saw right through, what with all those motherly, let-me-love-you-but-don't-try-that-bullcrap-on-me-'cause-I'm-not-fooled-by-your-pathetic-ass-smiles vibes that rolled off her in waves. "It's okay, Mrs. Cullen, I guess I'm just a bit, uh, jumpy."
"Bella, like I said before, you can call me Esme." She smiled kindly at me. "I don't expect you to call me Mrs. Cullen for the rest of your life." She paused, dwindling from certainty to hesitancy, like she was trying to decide whether or not it was safe for her to continue. "We're… family now, Bella."
I looked away, blanching. No, that was definitely not a safe topic for her to peruse. Please desist before I throw up and leave another mess for the janitors to clean up. A smudge on the window was one thing, but a nice little puddle of what I had been able to keep down the past few days, thanks to the medication Dr. Cullen's colleague had prescribed, was a whole other matter.
Finally, after a few uneasy moments of deep breathing, I cleared my throat, twice, and opened my mouth to respond. "I know, Mrs. Cullen."
I tucked my arms close to my body and bit my lip, hard, and stared unseeingly out the window, which did indeed have a mark from where my nose had been repetitively placed. Not so bad, compared to what my stomach had been threatening me with. I heard her soft sigh from behind the screen of hair that seemed to separate her from me. I clutched at my elbows.
You're a horrible person, came an all too familiar whisper. I would have rolled my eyes if the words didn't so damn true.
Tell me something I don't know.
People were starting to unbuckle now that the plane had come to a full and complete stop. The volume of the plane jerked up a notch or three and I couldn't wait to get out of the metal deathtrap. Mrs. Cullen stood and stretched elegantly. I stood and smacked my head against the back of the seat in front of me.
"Right," I muttered, leaning down to grab my backpack from under the seat and hoping no one had seen me intimately introduce my face to the back of the chair. I should have known better than to hope that my clumsiness would fade away the second I stepped out of Arizona. I guess the temperature wasn't at blame for me being a complete klutz.
Well, the idea was nice while it lasted.
My backpack was orange and worn out and I absolutely loved it. Dr. Cullen had offered to buy me a new one, when he first saw it, but I had used it for the last two-and-a-half years of high school and I'd be dammed if I gave it up now. Plus, I was hoping keeping it would help remind me of who I was before, but, honestly, I was having trouble. Since then, I couldn't remember being anything but a shell. And let me tell you. Being a shell? It sucks.
It's like you can only feel pain, and grief: An overwhelming amount of sadness, so deep and sorrowful you can't hardly breathe if you dwell too much on it. So you shut it out, and with it goes the rest of the emotions you used to feel, like happiness. You feel nothing but fleeting glimpses of emotions like curiosity or anger; otherwise, you're numb. And you've made yourself that way. Because to be numb is to not feel pain, not feel grief. To be numb is to be safe.
And I fucking hate it.
"Bella?"
My head shot up and I almost dropped my bag in surprise. Mrs. Cullen was watching me carefully. Welcome back, space cadet.
"Are you ready to go?" Before I could respond, Mrs. Cullen merged out into the aisle to stand, waiting for me to follow, stopping the erratic flow of traffic that had started up when the doors opened.
"Yeah," I mumbled. She smiled encouragingly at me and I slung the old, slightly delapitated backpack over my shoulder and stepped into the aisle with her. She handed me the coat she and Dr. Cullen had bought for me. It was heavier than anything I had ever needed in Phoenix. One last look out the small porthole of a window had me wondering if it would be heavy enough.
When we walked by, the stewardess gave us a nauseating smile.
"Buh-bye, now," she said, flapping her fingers at me like I was a two-year-old. "Buh-bye!"
I forced my eyes to the floor. She was emetic to watch, but at the same time, fascinating. I marveled at the strength of her eyelids. Those things must be on steroids if they were able to hold that brick of eyelashes on her face.
"Come back soon," she called nasally.
Yeah, no thank you. I followed Mrs. Cullen off the plane. She slowed to my pace and I realized she was speaking. I wondered how long she had been doing that for. I made an effort to tune in from Bellopolis to Reality. Once in a while, Reality surprised me with being more interesting than Bellopolis. It was a rare occurrence though. I hoped this was one of them.
"… and Carlisle is at home with the kids. Oh, I hope they cleaned up. They're such slobs, every one of them, including Carlisle. He's the worst of them, really. Well, no, I take that back. Just wait until you meet Emmett. He might seem like a goof, but really, he's the biggest sweetheart…" No dice. Back to Bellopolis we must go.
Mrs. Cullen's voice was affectionate when she spoke about her family, and it was making me feel a little more than absolutely sick. I tuned her out, not very eager to listen to her talk about how fabulous her perfect family was. It wasn't that I didn't want to hear about them, because I did, well, sort of, but it was just that whenever I pictured how wonderful they were, I remembered that soon I'd be there, being the blemish of the household. Soon enough, they would be scrubbing at their proverbial palms, muttering, "Out damned spot! out I say!*"
At luggage claim, we collected my one, medium sized suitcase which held basically the remainder of everything I owned, apart from the worn orange bag on my shoulders. Mrs. Cullen offered to roll it for me but I shook my head tightly and kept my eyes down, my hair falling in my face, afraid of the growingly familiar half-concealed look of rejection on her face. When she gave me a dejected smile and lead the way out, I wondered against for the umpteenth time why I was doing this. Why was I forcing myself on this family, that offered me so much, when I obviously had nothing to give them in return?
Because I have no where else to go.
The thought clawed at me, but I shoved it away. Instead, I wondered, How would I ever pay my debt to them? I had a pretty good feeling that making a card and hot glue gunning frilly ribbons on the outside and writing THANK YOU FOR PROVIDING FOR MY NEEDS wouldn't do the trick. I wished, oh how I wished that I could slip right in with Dr. and Mrs. Cullen's other children and be perfect too.
I scoffed. You, perfect? When Hell freezes over and pigs fly, maybe you'll have your shot at being normal.
I followed Mrs. Cullen out of the unfamiliar clean of the airport and into the pouring rain. From out of thin air she whipped out a large red umbrella and held it over both our heads. I peered at her purse, which was hooked innocently around her bent elbow. Witchcraft, I decided. Or maybe she got Mary Poppins' bag off of eBay. Either way, I was grateful for the protection from the torrent of rain that beat down on us. I jostled the coat in my arms as my fingers slowly turned to ice and I began to lose feeling in my toes and wondered how I could manage putting the coat to good use without asking Mrs. Cullen for assistance. The idea of her holding my backpack, which heldeverything that meant anything to me, made my heart thud. What if she dropped it? There were puddles everywhere. I might as well tie it to a stack of bricks and drown it in the Pacific Ocean. That had to be the equivalent of how much water was parting around her umbrella, collected on the ground, flooding the street. I decided I'd rather freeze.
"Bella?" I turned, surprised, once again. Mrs. Cullen was looking at me expectantly. "Did you hear me?"
"Yes," I responded automatically. Had she spoken? I couldn't remember. I clutched the suitcase's handle tightly. "Sorry," I added. I didn't know how she could possibly put up with me taking a mental trip to Timbuktu every five minutes. How long will it take them to grow tired of me? The question made me uneasy and my throat grew heavy and constricted. No, no, no. I forced all my attention back onto Mrs. Cullen and left little room for any passing thoughts.
She frowned but took a step forward, down the narrow sidewalk and away from me, and I mindlessly followed her closely, trying to keep myself and my bags under the protection of her umbrella. Sheets of rain fell against its top and streamed around us, bouncing when it hit the ground and wetting our ankles. I could feel my sneakers slowly soaking through. Maybe I would take Mrs. Cullen up on her offer to buy me rain boots. Although, from the looks of it, I'd need scuba gear to survive living in Washington.
However long that might be.
Shut up, shut up, shut up, shut up.
When I had pictured the car I expected Mrs. Cullen to drive, I was thinking a mom van with sliding doors and cup holders with old water bottles and a general overflow of miscellaneous items belonging to her five children. Five! And she wanted to make me her sixth.
The thought made me confused and sick and I stumbled over my own feet. That was not too unusual. I'm lucky if I can make it across a flat surface without face bombing the ground. I quickly righted myself before Mrs. Cullen even glanced my way.
When she pulled out an impressive, shiny set of keys and strode toward a very expensive car, I was surprised. This was no mom van. I mean, I should have expected it, but when Dr. Cullen told me (after I told him several times not to waste his money on someone like me) that they were "comfortable" enough to take care of me and their own family, I thought he meant comfortable in the normal sense of the word. This was beyond comfortable; more around the lines of "my life is equivalent to a Tempur-Pedic mattress."
Mrs. Cullen popped open the trunk and after a moment's hesitation, I swung my suitcase in, cheeks burning at how ridiculously cheap and used it looked in the sleek car. I closed the trunk and ran my fingers over the winged 'B' that was attached to the car. 'B' for Bentley. That much I knew. It was nice to know I wasn't entirely clueless when it came to the type of cars "comfortable" people own.
I felt out of place in the car. My backpack rested at my wet feet, my coat pulled over my lap like a blanket. This car wasn't for the likes of me. It was for people like Mrs. Cullen, who looked absolutely perfect sitting in front of the shiny wheel. Compared to her, I felt insignificant, raggedy, not nearly good enough for her, for this stupid, luxurious car, for anything at all.
Never look a gift horse in the mouth. Pah. The Cullens taking me in, especially with how old I was, was nothing short of a goddamn Christmas miracle, never mind that it was the beginning of February. It just… didn't make sense. Why would anyone want someone as broken as me? They'd have to be complete idiots. But the Cullens didn't seem like idiots at all. And that confused me to no end.
"It'll be an hour or so," Mrs. Cullen told me, checking her mirrors. "Feel free to take a nap. You look… exhausted." Really? Was it the dark, hot air balloon sized shadows under my eyes or the complete lack of color in of my skin that clued you in? "And I noticed you didn't get much sleep on the plane." She glanced sideways at me. "Was it the baby?"
No, it wasn't the baby, as annoying as the poor, ungodly thing was. I just didn't sleep much, period. Not since then. But then was not something I wanted to think of now,so I started converting logarithms in my head and stopped only when my head was cleared of then. But despite my seemingly immunity to sleep, tiredness was seeping into my bones, had been since I sat down in the too nice car with the too nice lady, and I let my head sag back against the soft headrest. I bit down hard on my tongue, trapping the moan that formed itself on my lips. It should be illegal for cars to be this comfy.
"You'll wake me up when we get there?" I asked quietly, after I got my porn noises under lock and key. God knows I didn't want those particular sounds coming out to play, right here next to Mrs. Cullen. I briefly considered telling her just how orgasmic her car was.
Jesus, you've been drugged. It was the cracked crackers, wasn't it? That bitch.
My head lolled to the side and I watched Mrs. Cullen through half-closed eyes. She looked at me, concern laced across her face. I blinked slowly at her.
"Of course," Mrs. Cullen said finally, smiling a small, perplexed smile. She reached over and turned on the radio. An upbeat jazz tune filled the car and I cringed away. No, as much as I enjoyed jazz, it wasn't going to help me fall into the sleep my body so badly needed. She threw an apologetic look at me, as if she could read my mind, and after a moment of fiddling between channels, pausing to tsk at a song about the city of Rack, bitch, she switched it from radio to the CD that was already in the player. The tinkle of the keys to a piano came slowly, but soon the car was consumed by the sound of the pianist's song.
"This is nice," I murmured, not really knowing what I was saying but feeling the need to say it anyway. At this point, my eyelids were too heavy to hold open and I let them fall closed. The music swirled around me, caressing me, lulling me to a sleep, promising me peace. Under me, I could feel the gentle purr of the car's motor, just waiting to fly down the freeway.
Mrs. Cullen hummed in agreement. "It's my son, Edward, playing. He composed this piece. He's very talented." Her voice was colored with the pride she felt for her child. My head rolled to face the other way and I could feel the cold of the window against my face. "It's beautiful, don't you think?"
I listened as the song grew intense and complicated and utterly heartbreaking in all its intricate opulence.
Opulence. What a funny word. Op-u-lence.
"I don't think beautiful is a strong enough word, Mrs. Cullen," I murmured sleepily. Her laugh was lovely. I wished I could laugh like her. All delicate and pretty and whatnot. I sound more like a braying donkey. Just then, I realized I hadn't laughed in a very long time. Right after that particular moment of cognizance, I realized I couldn't even remember what I sounded like. For all I knew, I could sound like a symphony of braying donkeys and dying hyenas.
"Sleep, Bella," Mrs. Cullen said after a while. "I'll wake you when we get there. I promise."
I wasn't sure what would be waiting for me when I woke up and I certainly did not want her promises, but I nodded anyway and relaxed even further into the seat.
And in that too good car, next to that too good woman, for the first time in a very long time, I slept peacefully under the spell of Edward Cullen's song.
*Okay, so maybe comparing Bella to the spot of the king of Scotland's blood stained on Lady Macbeth's hand is a bit much, but out of context, it works, figuratively.
Or not.
Mehhhh.
A/N: Edwaaaaard. What do we know about him so far? He has pretty music. So far, so good. Reviews are love so baby why don't you love me down? It means so very much to me!
Hahah, thank you, again, for reading. Until next time! xxx
~NC
