Jasper Whitlock Age 29
The girl's face was white and drawn, a stark contrast to her dark mahogany hair which framed her thin face. Her eyes were large and brown, steadily fixated on the desk which I sat behind. Her thin hands gripped the arms of the chair she sat on, the whiteness of the knuckles proof of the force behind the grip.
"Isabella Swan, right? That is your name?"
She nodded minutely, mutely, still refusing to make eye contact.
I sighed inwardly. In all my 15 years as a psychiatrist and therapist, I had never been tasked with such a difficult and complex case. Isabella Swan, aged 16, was a victim of severe child abuse for most of her life, the extent of which had led to her muteness, and her constant refusal to make any kind of eye contact. Her case file came to me incomplete, simply stating that she could not talk, would not talk, and would not make eye contact with anyone. Her father had passed away when she was little, and her alcoholic mother brought her up, subsequently abusing her during boughs of drunkenness. It also stated that Isabella was a victim of bullying at school, too. I was shocked and appalled at the people who had led her into this state of obvious mental, emotional, and physical agony, and at lost as to how to help this poor girl.
And this was saying a lot. I, Jasper Whitlock, had the perfect track record of helping every single one of my patient get better. I had helped dozens of broken females from rape cases get over their fear of males and rebuild their confidence; helped people with absolutely no self-confidence discover theirs, not to mention the tons of mental disorders I had cured over the years. But no patient had ever stumped me like this one, sitting in front of me, unmoving, unblinking. I didn't know where to start, how to start, what to do. To make matters harder, Isabella Swan was going to be adopted tomorrow. A kind couple whose children had all grown up already offered to adopt Isabella, and the overworked and underpaid social care system here had jumped at their offer, all too glad to get any of their charges off their case. The emotional upheaval was going to take a toll on this already all too fragile soul.
Breathing deeply, I squared my shoulders and attempted once more to communicate with her, to help her. If I had to use every technique in the books, or adopt and invent my own to get through to this girl, I would. There was no way I would give up, especially on Isabella Marie Swan, who was clearly in dire need of help.
Isabella Marie Swan Age 16
I stared at the brown table in front of me, refusing to meet the gaze of the psychiatrist, or therapist, whichever he was.
My throat stung and burned with every breathe I took. I dug my nails into the cushioned arms of the chair I was sitting in, trying not to cry out. I was tired. All I really wanted was to be able to go to sleep without seeing visions of her approaching me with the knife, slicing my arms slowly, deliberately. The blood I saw behind my lids when I closed them terrified me. In the back of my mind, I knew she was gone. But somehow, the fear that she would come back with her knife, her fire tongs, or the bucket of bleach she used to make me scrub the floor bare handed with would not go away. The even greater fear that one of her boyfriends would return, strip me bare and intrude parts of my body with things that really did not belong in there lingered too. Oh, god. Just the thought of it made me cringe, and want to scrub myself free of the filth.
"Isabella Swan, right? That is your name?"
I was brought back to the present, saved from my own horrifying memories by the blonde doctor sitting in front of me. I'm such a loser that I can't even save myself from my own thoughts. I sensed the doctor's gaze on me, but I refused to meet his eyes. He wouldn't understand, I simply didn't want to see the hate in people's eyes anymore.
But I had to acknowledge my name, as much as I wished it didn't belong to me. Or as much as I wished I was a different person, living a different life. So I nodded my head, which sent a jolt of pain up my spine. Ouch.
"Right, Isabella. That's quite a mouthful, isn't it? Can I call you Bella instead?"
Bella. Somehow, I like the sound of it. Someone new, someone different, without my past. I nod again. This blonde doctor is turning out nicer than I thought, but maybe it's just a façade, one can never be sure about people.
He is talking about my adoption tomorrow, his southern accent strangely calming. A nice middle aged couple is willing to take me in, and help me. He says they will like me, and care for me. I'm not sure how I feel about that, though. I would like very much to be away from the orphanage, but yet, to have to stay with people I don't know is a terrifying thought. What if they turned out to be like Renee? If my own biological mother hates me so much, how can anyone else not hate me, not to mention, like me?
Esme Cullen, Age 44
The sight in front of my eyes breaks my heart, and I swear to protect this girl from any further harm. I will provide her a warm and caring home, one that she never knew before. Isabella Swan, the girl that Carlisle and I will be adopting, is so thin and underweight; it looks like the wind can snap her. Her face is deathly pale, and beneath her large eyes are purple bruises. She keeps her head down, staring at the floor. Beside her is a pathetically small luggage with all her belongings. She holds the luggage with one hand, and clutches her arm with the other in a defensive posture.
"Isabella, listen to Mrs. Cullen, alright? Be a good girl now, remember to behave!" The caretaker of the State's orphanage tells her.
Isabella nods, and winces, reaching a hand to clasp the back of her neck. Clearly there's been some injury. I reach a tentative hand out to her.
Isabella Marie Swan
Esme, my new foster parent reaches a hand out to me. I shrink back out of instinct. Seeing her hand, I think of Renee's. Renee's hand. Slap. Her blood red nail polish. Her hand, red from blood. My blood. The knife in her hand.
Suddenly, all I can see is Renee's hand with the knife, and blood – a lot of it. I try to run away from what I'm seeing, but my feet won't move. I take a breath, willing the sight to disappear, but it won't, and my lung starts to burn. I try to scream, but I can't, and my throat feels like it's been ripped open. I sob and try to back away, but all I can see is the blood, my blood, on Renee's knife, on the furniture.
"Isabella! Bella, Bella! Bella!"
I hear my name, but it isn't Renee's voice. Unlike Renee's shrill, sharp voice, this one is soothing, low, and sweet. Who does it belong to? I can't think straight, everything's a mess. My head is spinning, and I can't seem to keep my feet on the floor.
Carlisle Cullen, age 46
I run towards the source of the commotion, and see Isabella, the girl we're adopting today in a corner, sobbing, crying, and hyperventilating. Her eyes are wide open, but they don't see. Her mouth is open, but not a sound comes out. Oh my god.
I have to get her out of this state of shock; it's not good for her already too frail body. Grabbing the glass of ice water on the table, I pour it over the girl, trying to bring her out of shock.
"Isabella, listen, I'm Carlisle Cullen, and you're safe, okay? Calm down, darling, breathe. In, out. In, out."
She seems to be coming around. Her eyes blink rapidly, and her breathing slows down to an acceptable rate. I grab the other glass of water, and hold it out to her.
"Isabella, have some water. You're alright, you're safe, okay?"
Isabella Marie Swan
Suddenly, I am soaked in ice cold water, and back in the foyer of the orphanage, without Renee.
A guy with copper hair tells me he is Carlisle Cullen, and that I'm safe. He holds out a glass of water to me, which I drink gladly. It relieves the burning sensation in my throat. A raw, bleached throat and screaming just doesn't go well together.
I remember Esme reaching her hand out to me, and then Renee. I feel so bad, and the tears keep falling. I want to tell them that I'm sorry, but I don't know how to. I can't speak, clearly, and I don't know sign language.
Esme seems to know what I'm thinking, though.
"Oh, Isabella, don't be sorry, it's not your fault, alright? Now, drink the water, you'll feel better."
Ah. The sweet voice I heard earlier was hers. Oh, if only she was as nice as her voice sounded. I feel tempted to look in her eyes, to see if she is as nice as she sounds, but I can't.