Daddy
Disclaimer ONE: I am not Stephanie Meyer, nor do I own any of her characters. But I wish I did. They're awesome.
Disclaimer TWO: My mother thinks that this entire concept is ridiculous, but she hasn't even read my writing before so hey, I would rather know what you think. So I am going to tell you that this has some themes included that are not for the faint hearted.
It is rated M for a reason.
Just letting you guys know: I haven't written anything at all like this – it's my first fanfiction of this kind, and second altogether (I am Rebecca from the DaniBek duo). So I hope you like.
Also, reviews are appreciated, even PMs as long as they're constructive. Please no flames.
And with that outta the way – I'll try to update as much as physically possible. I can belt out a chapter in a couple of hours if I have no distractions... Like uni.
So if you let me know what you want, I can deliver xx
Alright, inspiration for this chapter – it's a combination between Sylvia Plath, Incubus and the English Patient. I love the rawness of Ondaatje's work.
The alarm blares. It's six o'clock. And it's time to shuffle myself out of my comforter and into a very hot shower.
The metal taps are cold against my skin when I touch them. And I can't wait for the feeling of the searing water to capture my limp body.
This is how every morning starts.
It feels nice to wash everything away, even the invisible grime that builds up over time.
It's refreshing as I feel the imagined layers of dirt come away from my body. And I am whole and clean again.
The burning water gets underneath it all.
Steam wafts and circles around with the dim lights as I feel the burning in my hair. My shampoo lathers well as always, just like soap would as you let it pass easily between your fingers.
Then comes the body wash as I push my face under the jet of scolding water.
I let my fingers slip and slide over my skin, between my breasts, down my torso, above the wet folds of my vagina, until it too, lathers.
I have to rid everything that is unclean.
To wash it all away, like my sense of filth.
Then the soap bubbles and water slip away from my aching body as I look down to watch the slick mixture pass down into the deep unknowns of the dark drain.
And I turn the taps again, but they are warmer now.
It's time to dry and dress for school.
So I slowly guide the shower curtain away as I step all dripping wet onto the bathroom mat.
I stand there for long enough to watch the fog of the mirror fall away and reveal my reflection.
My brown eyes are bloodshot again. I must not have slept well. Then there is my ultra-pale skin that could have passed as cling-wrap over the thin flesh of my organs.
The only thing that is remotely voluminous on my body is the mahogany strands of gently curling hair that find their way to the small of my back.
Other than that, I am sickly and pale, too skinny to even look alive.
And it almost bothers me, like when I would dwell on it after reading a particular girly magazine.
But most days I don't care, like today.
So I just do the routine. Breakfast is a glass of juice only, like always. And then I'll find my bag, pack in my books, slip my shoes on and walk out the door.
That's after just shoving some clothes on and brushing my damp hair.
I really don't do much for grooming or upkeep.
Oh well, maybe in another lifetime.
I trudge the two miles in the rain to school. Forks has a way of only ever being rain and gloom. It's an odd occurrence, even a blessing if the sun shines.
Today isn't one of those days.
It's a dull, grey twenty-four solid hours.
At least within the brightly-lit corridors of the school halls, I don't realise how miserable it really is outside.
Yet again it always lingers. The sense of oppression is constant as the clouds suffocate the earth and even as I make my way, overly-early, towards my first class.
No other students are inside and I am an hour early, like always.
And still, just like every other morning, the teacher sits at his desk before the chalkboard.
I won't lie to you. He is one of the most handsome men I have ever seen.
In fact, he has starred in many of my daydreams.
He is still heavenly even when he has his nose in a student's paper, grading it.
Bent low over the papers on his desk, he has a pen in his hand that he flicks back and forth in his fidgeting fingers.
Those same pale fingers that curl around my thin hips in my nightly escapades in the dreamland.
As I walk in, he looks up from his desk.
His eyes are tired and darker today. Green irises are almost hidden behind a glorious set of lashes.
'Morning, Bella,' he smiles.
'Morning, Mr. Cullen.'
I have no energy to be upbeat this morning, nor does he.
So we resign to sit like we usually would and silently read.
Well I pretend to read as I remember that morning three months ago. We had both come to an understanding of sorts.
I had been coming to school early for the previous month, learning how to avoid particular situations at home. Little did I know at the time, but Mr. Cullen was doing the same. So we had sat together in this very room, silently going about our own separate agendas when he made the first contact.
He had looked up from his work and appraised me over the bundle of stark white papers. 'Your writing is improving.'
I then looked up too, making sure I heard him properly.
English was one of my better subjects, but I also knew there was room for improvement.
He barely managed a grin. 'I want you to submit something to publish someday.'
I shrugged, 'if you say so.'
And then he placed what I assumed to be my latest assignment on the edge of his desk.
That was his way of handing it to me.
So I stood up from where I was in the centre of the room and made the short distance to his desk.
He was still reading papers, but mine was there on the edge of the wooden desk.
There was red ink above the title. He'd given me a B.
'If you put effort in, you would outdo yourself and the rest of the class,' he said without looking up from his work.
I nodded, knowing he was right about my lack of effort.
Then I chose to sit back down and read his comments.
But his voice startled me again and I wasn't used to it. We almost never spoke in the mornings before the rest of the class would file in.
'What makes you arrive here so early, Bella?' he was looking up at me now.
I thought about the most appropriate answer.
I mean it was true. I had unconsciously taken the opportunity to meet him here at seven every morning before school. It had been a routine we had both upheld for a while. He would grade papers and I would read my books until other students would come in.
'I'm a morning person.' I had said, quietly asking more than stating, hoping that that explanation would do. Of course it wouldn't.
Mr. Cullen appraised me once again. His eyes boring into mine, just telling me that he knew what was going on in my head.
'I like to be out of the house before anyone else wakes up,' I shrugged as if to just brush it off. I wished he would just take that as the best answer.
He didn't.
'What makes you want to leave the house so early Bella?' he questioned further, ignoring the body language I was sending his way.
No more questions, please.
I hunched over the desk I sat at. My long hair served as a shield as it hung low over my shoulders and around my face.
'No reason,' I tried to sound nonchalant.
And then I decided to ask him something.
'Why are you here so early?'
He sighed, putting his pen down and running his long hands through his dishevelled bronze hair.
'Pretty much the same reason as you.'
That was the day we made our understanding.
About ten minutes later, Mr. Cullen had pulled up a chair beside mine and whacked a bundle of playing cards on the desk.
I looked at him, startled.
'What are the terms?' he removed the glossy cards from their packaging and began shuffling.
I sat quietly for a moment, judging the situation I was in.
Deciding it was safe, I let myself smile.
'If you win, I'll answer another of your questions. If I win, you answer one of mine.'
He thought about that for a second. 'Okay then.'
So he dealt out seven cards to each of us and set the rest upside down on the wood of the desk between us.
'You go first,' he smiled at me, his eyes tired and just as bloodshot as mine.
So I quickly looked through my dealing. I had no pairs yet. So I then chose to ask him for a two.
'Go fish,' he had replied. I took a card from the stack in between us. His face then screwed up in concentration as he surveyed his bundle of playing cards.
'You got a Jack?' he then asked me, carefully watching my face. I looked through my now eight cards and found no Jack there. I shook my head, not bothering with the 'go fish'.
He picked up his next card from the middle stack, smiled, then picked two cards out of his dealing and placed them upside down on the desk nearest to him.
He had a pair already.
So I asked for a five, having absolutely no strategy yet.
He raised his eyebrows a he found the card he was looking for and handed it to me.
I couldn't help but show a little victorious smile.
Then I had one of his cards. It was still warm from his delicate touch. I fingered it gingerly, hoping he didn't notice.
His next turn had earned a 'go fish' from me and slowly my pile of pairs was overtaking his.
Eventually I won.
And yet, I swear he must have let me.
He had asked three times consecutively if I had a Queen.
But nonetheless, I felt truly victorious over my English teacher.
Well, now I was allowed one question.
So I asked him the most obvious question I had. 'How old are you?'
He sighed, smiling a little bit.
'All the ladies ask me that one.'
I waited, not feeling like responding to his humour.
'Okay, I'm twenty-four.'
I crossed my arms over my chest. He looked so much younger than that.
'You only look seventeen at the most, sir.'
He chuckled at my response. 'I know.'
Then he started dealing again.
I watched as his hands fluidly flipped the cards into three neat piles.
He handed me mine. I had no pairs again.
He did though.
And I caught myself making the connection between our ages. Mr. Cullen was six years older than me.
And I couldn't really concentrate on our game as I found myself thinking about the strangest things.
I found myself thinking about whether or not he had a family, if he had a wife or children.
And then he had won.
I cringed, knowing he would be asking me a question soon.
He took a moment to recover from his easily taken victory.
Then I watched as his emerald eyes found mine, boring into them like had before.
'Tell me what's going on,' he asked of me, no implications or accusations however.
I stopped breathing.
It was not something I spoke about, ever.
He made me feel comfortable though, as he sat back lazily in his chair. It felt like he was trying to make the air between us less tense as he parted his legs and hitched his arm up on the back of the chair.
I let out a nervous breath.
'That's not really a question Mr. Cullen.'
He didn't even move.
He just grinned, flashing a set of beautiful teeth.
'Okay then,' his eyes never deviated from mine, 'why are you here, early, every morning?'
It took me a while to respond.
'I like to avoid certain people at home.'
'Like who?'
I hunched over in my chair, he was asking too much. 'You're only allowed one question, Mr. Cullen.'
So he started shuffling the deck of cards again. He wanted to get it out of me.
Luckily, that time, I won. He might have let me, I didn't know.
'Why are you here so early, really and honestly Mr. Cullen?'
He scratched his forehead, thinking first.
Then he let out a long sigh. 'I'm not happy at home either.'
I tried to imagine what his home life was like.
I couldn't.
'Okay, I'll elaborate if you do,' Mr. Cullen had suggested.
My hunger for knowledge made the choice for me.
'Okay.'
He looked at me expectantly.
So then I decided not to make eye contact when I spoke.
'Alright,' I stuttered a little, 'I like to avoid my step father.'
Mr. Cullen thought about that for a moment.
'What's his name?' he then asked, trying to piece together any links.
I just sighed. 'James'
He closed his eyes and shook his head.
'I like to avoid my wife.'
His words had hung in the air. And I let my eyes peer at him from behind the veil that was my hair.
He wasn't looking at me, just gazing off into nothing.
The present day is just as gloomy as the one which is playing in my memory.
And suddenly Mr. Cullen has my attention.
He is smiling at me from his desk, his eyes more tired than ever.
I just smile back, now we are comfortable friends for the time being.
'Jane Eyre?' he asks about the book I have been trying to read.
'Yeah,' I reply a little more confidently than usual.
He just titters, immersing himself in his marking again.
'I prefer Wuthering Heights,' he says without looking up, still reading.
'Me too,' I reply, guarded again.
Then silence ensues.
This is how my relationship with Mr. Cullen is. He's sporadic in his conversation, but he is never rude, never harsh nor unpleasant.
He happens to be in the same predicament as I am, just under different circumstances.
We both respect that in each other.
And it's almost time for the other students to start arriving.
Sure enough, just as I the thought left my head, Jasper Whitlock comes striding through the classroom door. He's just as quiet as I am. That's why we make such good friends.
I watch him as he comes around to the desk beside mine and sits down, shoving his books and what-not onto its wooden surface.
He looks over to me, his blue eyes assessing.
'Hey, Bella'
I give him a half-hearted smile in return. 'Hey, Jasper'
We both turn to the front and watch as Mr. Cullen gets up from his seat and begins writing on the board. His neat cursive never deviates from straight lines.
And then Alice Brandon bounces in, making her way to further side of the room toward the front.
I can feel Jasper stiffen next to me.
That's when I see his eyes carefully appraise her as she unpacks her tiny backpack. She pulls out a sleek silver notebook computer.
Everybody knows she loves English and History the most. And Jasper loves her because she was just as into history as he is. Well that and her smile. And the way she walks. And her messy short hair. The list is never ending.
And now the rest of the class file in. Jessica Stanley and her huge hair, brown, almost the same colour as her skin.
Angela Webber comes in the wake of everybody else. Her tall form is not quite graceful as she takes her seat in front of me. She smiles before turning around to take out her books to copy down Mr. Cullen's notes on Sylvia Plath.
Mike Newton struts in, tries but fails to catch my gaze as he takes his regular seat in front of Jessica. I like to avoid Mike. It's his hair, I think. I don't like the short, spiky, backstreet boy look.
Once everybody is inside, Mr. Cullen clears his throat, calling the class to his attention.
'Okay,' he paces toward the desk to retrieve a weathered looking book, 'Sylvia Plath everybody. Turn to page fifty-seven of your anthologies.'
We all follow his direction and begin to read.
I notice Mr. Cullen watching me carefully. I'm used to this now. He just likes to keep an eye on me. And yet today his gaze is piercing and unrelenting. I try to ignore him, looking anywhere but his eyes.
Angela begins to read. I only catch snippets while I busy myself with avoiding Mr. Cullen's gaze.
'I have always been scared of you, with your Luftwaffe, your gobbledygoo, with your neat moustache and Aryan eye, bright blue.'
I look up at Angela, she seems unfazed.
'Every woman adores a fascist, the boot in the face. The brute, brute heart of a brute like you...'
Yet the words hit me like a slap in the face.
I think it is utterly beautiful, the way she uses her words to create the image of a Nazi.
'You stand at the blackboard, Daddy, in the picture I have of you...'
I feel a sinking feeling at the sound of it. The Nazi is her father. Daddy.
'But no less a devil for that, no not any less the man who bit my pretty red heart in two...'
The sinking feeling develops into an awkward shudder. All I can feel is overwhelming revulsion.
'I was ten when they buried you, at twenty I tried to die, to get back, back, back to you...'
Suddenly he's there inside my head, his rough and calloused fingers hold down my thrashing legs. And Prickles break out over my thin skin.
'I thought even the bones would do...'
My head continues to conjure up unwanted memories of him. Of Daddy, as he forces me to call him. I like to forget everything as soon as it happens. But his hungry blue eyes stare at me now, licking his lips as he holds my legs still enough to work his way upwards. My stomach lurches. My chest constricts. Bile makes its way up and up.
Daddy, Daddy, you bastard, I'm through.'
Then my final shards of sanity are gone, escaping through the classroom door. I decide to follow them.
The bathrooms, I need the bathroom. Any of them.
And then the mixture of bile, and juice from this morning, are projecting out of my mouth and into the confines of a toilet bowl.
It takes a moment for my stomach to stop the heaving. And even longer for the taste of acid to leave my mouth. So I rinse it, carefully avoiding the person looking back at me in the mirror. I hate this person. She makes me sick to my stomach.
And there's a knocking.
I open the door to the bathroom and Mr. Cullen is standing there, his eyes downcast.
I slam the door in his face.
I knew he'd done this on purpose.
And damn the school toilets for their lack of locks.
Mr. Cullen pushes his way through. Luckily enough, I am behind a cubicle door by this time.
The locks work on these ones. So I sit down on the floor, facing the cubicle door.
He just stands there on the other side. I can see his feet from the gap between the bottom of the door and the floor. I can hear his breathing hitch.
'Bella,' he calls softly.
I refuse to speak.
'I'm sorry,' he says sincerely. But it's going to take more than that.
'Please come out.'
I don't move an inch.
He huffs and I can just imagine him gripping his hair in frustration.
'I had no idea that would happen,' he is still apologising.
'Just leave me alone,' I breathe out a long gust of air.
'I can't,' he starts pushing on the cubicle door, 'I need you to open up to me.'
I snort now. 'Why should I open up to you?'
'Because I know something's not right.'
'What's it to you if there is?' I snap at him. He deserves it.
I can hear him push on the door. The lock starts to strain under the pressure.
'Bella please,' he almost begs.
'No, just leave me alone.'
The door makes an awful snapping noise as he shoves it roughly. It breaks away from its hinges and Mr. Cullen opens it to find me sitting on the ground in front of the toilet.
This makes him smile, but only slightly.
'I told you to leave me alone,' I snap again.
He refuses to move, his eyes assessing the red rings around mine.
And suddenly, he holds out a hand for me to grab onto.
I briefly think about taking it, but decide against it.
'No.' I try to avoid his eyes again. It is only just barely working.
So he sits down, mimicking my position. Now we are eye level.
'Do you want me to tell you something?' he asks now, his eyes hopeful.
I don't speak, but rather look up, utterly defeated.
'Right,' he braces himself, 'My favourite part of the day is when we both sit in that classroom together.'
I blink and look downward, toward the floor. I don't want him to see that he's breaking open my tough shell. Yet he continues.
'Bella,' he says now, careful not to touch me, 'my marriage is falling to pieces and being the selfish man I am, I'm doing nothing to stop it. I have started questioning... questioning the way I feel about her... about Tanya.'
I look up at him now, briefly forgetting my pain to focus on his.
Is this his way of helping my trust for him to grow?
He tells me about his life, so he wants me to tell him about mine.
But then again, I know he's only doing this for me, to help me forget my pain.
'How did you come to realise you don't love her anymore?' I find myself asking him.
I watch as he begins to avoid my gaze, shrugging.
'It was at the start of the year, when I met you.'
Silence ensues.
This is not meant to happen. It isn't just my trust he wants is it?
I stand up, confused and flustered now. The look of shock on his face is just as disconcerting. But I continue my departure nevertheless.
'Mr. Cullen, you can't say that.'
And I take me leave, careful to walk around him as he sits numbly on the bathroom floor.
He doesn't attempt to stop me, or say anything as I walk away.
I guess walking away gives me some form of control back.
What are you thinking? Please review to let me know.
Okay, just a few bits you'll need to know for the next chapter:
Alright, Bella is being subjected to some pretty awful stuff. And it has its reasons too, I'm not the sadistic writer who loves pain. Fuck that chapter was the hardest thing I have ever had to write. Anyway, I wanted to explore some particular issues with both men and women and more so the relationship between father and daughter. James serves as an extreme who will eventually get his penance, don't get me wrong. But this is essential to the plot, especially when Charlie comes into the picture.
Secondly, I have the classic case of forbidden love between teacher and student. Yes, it can be seen as unrealistic to some (like my mother), but then again, I have read worse. Bella feels a lack of control and is experiencing some issues about trust. It is Edward who firstly notices that something isn't quite right with Bella, so naturally he wants to find out. It is through this that he has fallen in love with her. Bella, as you will find out in the next chapter, has her ways of dealing with the issues she faces. And yes, the way she deals with it is through Edward – you'll get what I mean.
So this brings us to the next chapter, which may startle you, which may confuse you. I hope it doesn't. It's where Bella lets Edward in. I'll explain more in the next update.
For now though, review or PM!
