The Black Balloon Contest
Title: The Right Kind by Xx Brii Xx
Characters: Bella, Edward, Esme, Alice, Jasper, Tanya, Rosalie, Emmett, and Carlisle.
Content warning: This contains extreme coarse language, dark themes- including suicide and suicidal themes, graphic violence and violent themes, substance abuse- including drugs and alcohol (though not explicit), sexual themes (may be considered as explicit and/or abusive), and intense graphic abuse- (includes explicit sexual assault and severe physical abuse). This also contains Religious influences and themes. Please do not read if these offend you in any way.
Disclaimer: I do not own Twilight, its characters' or any of its affiliates. I do, however, reserve the rights to this story, its plot, and any characters I create.
Judge not, and ye shall not be judged. Condemn not, and ye shall not be condemned.
Forgive, and ye shall be forgiven- Luke 6:37
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Sole survivors'- they aren't words you hear very often. It seems that fatality, or perhaps it's merely fate, always has the upper hand. That it always claims every life before those words can be uttered. But drenched in sweat, tears, blood and God only knows what else, Isabella Swan, a sole survivor, numbly walked through the crowds of people.
"Isabella?" a reporter shouted. "Tell us, what was it like standing on the beach, knowing you were the sole survivor?"
Though tears brimmed beneath her eyes, none were shed. Isabella had always believed that life would be kind to her. Not once had she imagined it turning out this way. Not once had she imagined this being the way it would end, and continue, all in one go. Suddenly, all of the flashes and all of the voices blended into one. They became a snarling swirl of things she couldn't understand. It was like drowning, like sound becoming distorted and the images turning blurry. Isabella could see nothing, she could feel nothing. In that moment, she thought she was dead. In that moment, she hoped she was.
Specialists in the field of Mental Health say that trauma affects different people in different ways. But one of the best ways to move on is to gain some closure, they say. That's what these therapy sessions were- a faint, pathetic, attempt at closure.
Was it even possible to 'move on' from this?
No it's not! Isabella silently screamed. She imagined lunging at the therapist opposite her, knocking her and her pompous attitude back to the ground, where it rightfully belonged. But Isabella didn't. She merely sat, impassive and unmoving, just waiting for the session to end.
It had been three months, yet each day seemed to drag longer than the last. It had taken exactly two months, six days, seven hours and five seconds for Isabella to start letting her emotions out. She had taken the clock from the wall and smashed it through a mirror, screaming and cursing with all her might. When they had asked why, she had told them that the ticking was frustrating her. It was the only time she spoke. Yet it was still with perfect clarity that Isabella remembered that day.
Isabella remembered the sounds of laughter and general chatter that morphed into screams. She remembered the small, whimpering cries that transformed into merely whispered prays'. But always at the forefront of her mind, she remembered the deafening silence from the seat beside her, the beautiful, hopeful mouthed words.
"Okay," Dr. Carmen said, sounding despondent. "That concludes our session."
Isabella stood, gathering her coat and bag before slipping out the door. Dr. Carmen Toper was used to this silent treatment, though. It didn't bother her anymore. Carmen understood that when Isabella was ready to talk, she would.
And then all of my hard work will pay off, she thought gleefully. It was a naive, vain hope- which is why it was doomed to fail before it ever truly began.
In another state, a Father stood in front of a church full of worshipers and thought, who actually believes?
As he spoke the words, he wondered if anyone ever grasped real belief, or real faith. He often wondered if he did.
"Thy Lord is my Shepherd," he spoke. "I shall not want. He maketh me to lie down in green pastures. He leadeth me to still waters. He restoreth my soul. He leadeth me in the paths of righteousness for His name' sake."
"Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil; for thou art with me; thy rod and thy staff, they comfort me. Thou preparest a table before me in the presence of mine enemies.
Thou annointest my head with oil; my cup runneth over."
"Surely goodness and mercy shall follow me all the days of my life, and I will dwell in the House of the Lord forever." Closing the Holy Bible, the Father removed his glasses.
"Amen."
"Amen," resonated inside the Church walls. A flurry of activity rose as people stood from the pews, walking to the Father to congratulate him on the sermon.
"Wonderful as always," Esme Platt said sweetly.
"Thank you, Esme," the father said, smiling graciously. "I'm glad you enjoyed it. Are you staying for lunch?" he asked curiously.
"Of course," she laughed gently. "You're an amazing cook, Father. I don't think I could resist if I tried."
"I'm glad," he responded with a chuckle, guiding her outside and into the sunshine.
"It's a lovely day," Esme said, her face turned up towards the sky.
"It is," the Father agreed, inhaling the clean air gratefully.
The Father and the Church goers pulled together a few picnic tables and started setting up for lunch. An hour later, preparation and cooking done by all, they sat at the tables, their hands clasped together.
"Lord, thank you for this food, this drink and this life. Amen."
Multiple Amen's sounded once more before their hands dropped each others gently. Everyone paused for a brief second before greedily tucking into the food. The Father smiled, passing the dishes around to the others.
"So, Isabella, how have you been feeling this week?" Dr. Carmen asked. Expecting no answer, she continued.
"Have you been eating?"
"Yes," Isabella said tersely. Carmen, shocked at her sudden communication, sprung into action.
"That's great," she enthused. Pulling a pad onto her lap, she clicked her pen and poised it on the paper. Isabella watched with mild attention, seriously considering throwing the stapler at her head. She wondered if the stapler would leave a mark, or if it would simply knock her out. And while Isabella wanted the former, so that she would have a reminder that she had, indeed, pulled one over on the oh-so-smart Dr., she still greatly favoured the latter. Clearing her throat, Carmen, despite her mood dropping, kept the smile on her face.
Honestly, Isabella thought crossly. What was she so happy about?
"Okay," she sighed, making the tenth mistake running. "Talk to me, Isabella. How have you been? I'm not a mind reader, you know. I need you to help me out. Let me understand so you can leave this behind you."
It was those last words that broke the camel's back. 'So you can leave this behind you' was the stupidest thing Carmen Toper could have said. And what's worse is she didn't even pick up on her mistake. It infuriated Isabella. For four straight months, she had listened to this woman make insane notions about her, telling her what she felt. While the mature, thoughtful woman protested against her harshly placed restraints, the pissed off woman in Isabella, free from chains, controlled her completely.
"Shut up," she hissed. "Just shut the fuck up!"
"You listen to me," Isabella growled, smashing expensive bowls and vases off the coffee table wipe a swipe of her hand. "You sit here, in this luxury suite," she spat. "Peddling this shit about helping you out and making you understand. This isn't about you!"
"No, it isn't. I'm sorry, Isabella," Carmen said, trying to placate her. But Isabella continued on as if she hadn't spoken.
"I was the one who sat on that plane. I was the one who survived it when everyone else died!" she screamed. "You think you know shit because you have a nice office and twelve degrees from Harvard?! You know what you hear, see and smell before you hit the ground?" Isabella asked cruelly. Carmen shook her head, waving away the assistant that raced in the room after hearing Isabella's yelling.
"Everyone had this look on their face, like they just knew it was ending for them. There were a lot of kids on that flight," she said, her eyes glazing over with memories.
A little girl, with blue sparkling eyes and short blonde hair, ran through the isle, giggling and tripping but never stumbling for too long. It brought a smile to her face, and Renee, her mother, smiled also.
"It reminds me of you," she said, squeezing Isabella's hand. "You were such a lively child. I had a damn hard time trying to keep up with you," Renee laughed. Isabella chuckled, drawing her window shade down to get the glare out of her eyes.
"I can't imagine that," Isabella laughed. "As a child I distinctly remember having a hard time keeping up with you!" Renee shrugged playfully, pursing her lips.
"Yeah, yeah, yeah," she mumbled.
"Don't worry, Mom," Isabella assured, rubbing her hand. "I still love you."
Renee laughed, but the words in her throat cut off as the plane gave a violent jerk. Conversation paused, and everyone waited with baited breath. Suddenly, the plane lost weight and started to fall. But it wasn't like a pencil dropping from the table to the ground. The plane glided, although extremely fast into, and down, through the air. For the split second between flight and free-fall, there was absolute silence. And then pandemonium struck.
The shrill screams pierced the air so loudly Isabella clutched her head in protest. Renee, already terrified of planes, was screaming the loudest. The smell of burning metal hit her face, and before she could even blink, part of the plane's shell came off. Children were cradled by their mothers and other passengers were trying to comfort others beside them. Everyone was trying to understand the situation, and though they knew what was happening, they wouldn't have the time to understand why it was happening. The oxygen masks deployed, and though she saw no point, Isabella made sure both her and Renee were wearing them.
"Mom," she cried, grasping Renee's hands as they fell forward into the brace position, their heads turned into each other. "I love you, Mom!" Renee's eyes brimmed over with tears but she smiled and squeezed her daughter's hands.
"My sweet, baby girl," Renee said, smiling though she was frightened. "I love you so much, my darling."
It seemed like time wasn't moving as they fell, but she knew that time was running out. The last thing Isabella saw was her mother closing her eyes and mouthing prays'. The smell of burning flesh, so heavy and pungent made her gag, but the smell of urine clinched her heart. A second before they hit the ground, it was like she was being shoved under water. Sounds and smells mixed, becoming a snarling swirl of impossible realities. There was screaming, and then there was silence. Isabella Swan would be the only survivor.
"That's the real world," Isabella snarled, glaring at Carmen. "You think because I can sit here, alive, that I will ever be able to 'leave this behind'? I lost everything that ever meant anything to me!" Carmen, sitting still in silence, looked at Isabella with a new light.
"When you've lost so much, and when you've dealt with the real world, in all of its unfairness, all of its bitterness, and in all of its greed, you talk to me. But until then, you just shut fuck up. Because I cannot make you understand anything."
"Get out!" Alice screamed, pounding on Jasper's chest. "Get out of my house, you stupid, selfish prick!"
"Alice, please," he begged. "Please don't do this, Alice." Alice glared, mascara coated tears streaked her pale cheeks.
"Don't go blaming me, Jasper Whitlock! I'm not the one who ruined this marriage. You are," she cried. "When you brought another woman into our bed you ended this. Now get out!"
Slamming the door on his grief stricken face, Alice sucked in ragged, broken breaths. She crumpled, crying into her hands. Beneath the kitchen bench, she wept for her marriage, and for her husband that she loved with all her heart- the one he had just torn to pieces, shattered and smashed to oblivion.
Alice knew they had been distant lately, and three miscarriages' had definitely taken their toll, but not once did she ever even consider that Jasper would turn into the arms of another woman. Almost instantly, her tears let up- anger and fury overtook her pain and sadness.
Alice stormed into their room and ripped all of his clothes from the dresser and closet. Her bed sheets that she loved dearly but couldn't stand to look at anymore were the next to be savagely torn away. Screaming, kicking and cursing with all of her anger, betrayal and fury for Jasper, her marriage and Tanya fucking Denali, she grabbed her keys off the table and stomped outside.
Bypassing the chance of being stopped by Jasper, even though he was long gone, she ran to her truck and started it a second later, tearing out of the drive. She drove to the one place she hoped he wasn't, and thanking God and cursing him at the same time, she parked the truck, hitting the car parked in the drive and slamming the door closed.
The light flicked on just as the door opened. And wasting no time, Alice snapped her fist back and threw into Tanya's face. The solid crunch of her nose was a very soothing thing for her rage, even though it enraged her further. Alice, fueled by the betrayal from her best friend, dove forward and tackled Tanya into the hallway.
"You fucking slut!" she screamed. Tanya's eyes, usually a stunning, vibrant blue, looked blood-shot and hollow. She had been crying, too.
Alice found no sympathy in her body, however. Because whatever Tanya was upset over, Alice knew that she deserved it all. Another fist of Alice's was slammed into her face, and another and another. Annoyed by the fact Tanya was just sitting there taking the beatings; she pulled Tanya by the hair and slammed her head back onto the tiled floor.
"Fight back you bitch!"
"No, Alice," Tanya said in a barely audible voice. Alice stood, huffing, and glaring like an enraged bull, desperate to make her feel the same pain she was feeling. But there was no fight left in her body, only resignation.
"We," Alice said, using her bloodied hand to motion between them. "You... you don't ever, ever come near me again. And keep your disgusting, filthy paws off of my husband!"
Alice walked out and slammed the door behind her with such force it rattled the frame. Inspecting the damage to Tanya's car with no remorse, Alice jumped up into the truck, started it and drove off without looking back.
Tanya, still lying rutted on the floor, rolled onto her side, curling into a fetal position. Her abandoned cries turned into racking sobs as she remembered her best friend. They had known each other since they were five years old. And she couldn't imagine life without Alice in it.
Tanya hated that a small lapse in judgment and a betrayal could, and would, ruin so much. If Alice came here, set on inflicting pain, she was sure Jasper had told her everything.
Drinking the tenth, straight, double of Jack, Jasper groaned, slumping further into the cushions of the sofa. Tanya sat beside him, working on her seventh. Both were mourning, or perhaps they were just looking for a reason to get shit-faced.
Tanya, depressed over her recent break-up between her and her boyfriend of three years, and Jasper, feeling like a failure, depressed that he and Alice couldn't get pregnant, and stay that way. They consumed so much alcohol, and while it eased the pain that consciousness brought, it blurred their minds and common sense. Not once had they ever thought of each other more than friends, more than a brother or sister, until that moment, that is. And then moving in almost a blur, Jasper and Tanya were all over each other.
There was no passion in their kisses, however. It was like kissing someone in fury, with malice. Jasper straddled her thighs and ripped her shirt over her head, roughly tugging at her bra strap until it gave away. Her breasts, full and heavy, felt like tarnish on his hands. Yet Jasper groped her roughly, tugging on her erect nipples before cupping her full breast. He moved down onto his knees, lavishing her breasts with his mouth. But her skin, so sweet and soft, felt like sand paper and cyanide in his mouth.
Angered by this, he ripped her jeans down her legs, roughly palming her between her thighs and over the cover of her silk g-string. Her hips bucked, pressing into his hand. It was the wrong hand, though. It was too large, to callous. Yet she mewled, her body overcome with sensations of having her clit worked so thoroughly.
Tanya tore Jasper's shirt over his head, scrapping her nails, almost too viciously, down his sculpted torso and back. His back arched, but not in pleasure or pain. Jasper arched to get away from her too long, too perfectly manicured nails. They weren't right, and he hated the feel of them on his skin.
Jasper hooked his fingers in the small crotch of Tanya's g-string and literally ripped it off her body, the sting branding her with laden lust and hatred. Jasper's hands, thick, long and masculine, trailed down her body, cupping her hot, now naked, wet sex firmly. He, yet again, probed her clit with one finger, watching her shudder and shake before thrusting two, deeply, inside her opening. Tanya arched, unused to the sensation of another man between her thighs.
Jasper pumped his fingers methodically for a second, but the slowing of their sex brought out feelings he didn't want to feel, so he roughly thrust his fingers in and out of her pussy, fucking her with them. He wouldn't let her climax, though. He held no interest or pleasure in her release. As Jasper stood, she lunged forwards, unbuckling his belt, unzipping him and dropping his jeans and boxer briefs to the floor, pooling them around his feet. Jasper stepped out of them robotically, and gripped Tanya's head, forcing her mouth on him.
He's longer than Michael, she noted, her mouth lapping at the head of his penis. Jasper, tired of being licked, much like a cat would do to milk, forced Tanya to take him in further. She gagged against the sudden entrance and he revelled in the sound, thrusting in harder.
"Let me fuck your mouth," he ordered, his breaths coming in short pants.
Tanya did. And despite her unease, she let go of all her inhibitions and let go of her control. She was not that experienced in the art of giving head, and each thrust inside her mouth made her gag and almost bite down on his penis.
"Breathe through your nose, relax your throat," he ordered, not stopping. She did, and found it easier to breathe, but it still felt so incredibly wrong. Michael had never dominated her like this. It felt wrong; it made her feel like a cheap whore.
Jasper found it wrong also. This kind of oral sex should have been handed, willing, over by her, not forced on her. And Tanya's hair felt wrong in his hands. It was too long, too blonde. He pulled out harshly and drugged her to her feet. Hooking one of her legs around his waist, she lifted the other as he slammed her against the wall.
With a long, powerful thrust, he was entirely sheathed inside her. Tanya's walls gripped him tightly, massaging his penis as she tried to adjust to the sheer size of his cock. Jasper pulled back and thrust in hard and fast, but it was awkward. Tanya was too tall and much heavier than he was used to.
Jasper stumbled, falling slightly and slipping out of her. Frustrated, he pulled her up higher and all but ran them to the bedroom. Throwing her down on the mattress, he slammed inside her pussy and gave five rough thrusts before pulling out. His hands gripped her hips and spun, pulled, and lifted her until she was on her hands and knees, facing away from him. He couldn't stand to look at her face.
Jasper knelt behind Tanya and thrust into her, holding her hips tightly. With a series of quick, hard, rough slams, his hips slapped against her backside and thighs as he brought them to climax. Tanya gasped, mewled and moaned loudly, half in pleasurable pain and half in emotional pain, as she neared closer to her release. And each of Jasper's thrusts was punctuated by a deep grunt and another tight squeeze of her hips.
The smell of sex, their sex, permitted the air. It wasn't sexy, though. The smell made his stomach clench in unease. Still, his balls slapped against her clit with every stroke, and the loud clap of their skin mixed ungodly with the sounds of her moans. Even her sounds were wrong; her moans weren't deep and throaty. They sounded hoarse and fake.
Fire burnt in the pit of his stomach, in his throbbing cock as he grew harder inside of her. To the tops of his thighs the pleasure burnt, yet he could not happily bask in it. With a growl, he pinched Tanya's clit and watched as she shook and dropped onto her chest, her walls gripping and releasing him as she came down his length, moaning, gasping and sobbing into the mattress. Jasper thrust, hard, into her once, twice, a final three times before stilling and roaring out with his release.
Almost instantly, like being burnt and finally feeling the pain across your flesh, their actions crashed down on them. Jasper pulled out and ran to the bathroom, emptying the contents of his stomach into the toilet, gasping and sobbing until he passed out from exhaustion. Tanya had done the same.
It was naive to think that an explanation and an apology would overrun the hurt they had caused. But Tanya had believed it so greatly, that when reality crashed in, she realised she was left with nothing. Gasping, Tanya stood to her feet and limped into the bathroom. Looking into the mirror, she could barely see through her eyes, but she knew Alice had worked her over well. And from the bench, she picked up the seven strips and read the results of each pregnancy test.
Another loud sob ripped from Tanya's throat as she crumpled on the floor. There would be no happy ending.
"Stop!" Rosalie screamed, backing herself into the corner. She cowered from Emmett, fearful for her life. Emmett McCarthy, her boyfriend of six years, was a chronic alcoholic. Always consumed by the drink or drug, or sometimes both, he had turned into a spiteful, bitter man. Full of rage and anger, he lashed out on those closest to him.
Rosalie had loved Emmett with everything she was. Never once did she cower from his hand. But now the mere mention of it had her shaking and gasping with terror. She couldn't deny that she was afraid, disgusted, of him. She didn't know if she loved him anymore, though. And sadly, that, beyond the cruel words and painful breaks of flesh and bone, was what hurt the most.
Emmett McCarthy was a hulk of a man, built tall and heavily muscled, he was feared by many. When Emmett blew out his knee, Football had ended for him. And with it went all of his hopes and dreams. He had turned to narcotics and alcohol to numb the pain of failure, but he lost himself in the process. Having sworn to never turn out like his father, a man who beat and abused women, he now watched as the woman he loved so dearly, cried and cringed from him. The bruise forming on her cheek was a like a slap to the face- it reiterated the fact that he had already become his father.
Though heavily intoxicated, Emmett reared back, seeing, for the first time, exactly what he had been doing, exactly what he had been causing.
"Are you cheating on me?!" Emmett roared, slamming her against the wall. "Answer me!"
"No, Emmett," Rosalie cried, trying to numb the pain in her head. Her arms, gripped painfully in his hands, felt like twigs willing to break at any second.
"You're hurting me," she whimpered. Emmett, seemingly enraged by her voice, and what he believe to be blatant lies, gripped her tighter. The crunch of her wrist was so painful, a hoarse scream ripped from her throat. Emmett grabbed her by the hair and threw her, harder this time, into the wall. Yelling at her, he slammed her against the wall over and over, pulling, slapping and punching her with no regard. With eyes so glossed over, he continued to hurt her.
In that moment, she realized that his soul, if he was capable of containing one, was nowhere near him. Eyes as black as ice, they represented. She blocked out everything he did. Each sharp sting of flesh and bone that tore and broke, pinned her to reality and ripped her from it all in one go.
Crying, sobbing, Rosalie was thrown around as Emmett ripped her clothes from her body, taking his a second later. His hard, long penis was strong and fully erect. It felt like pure evil resting on her hip.
"You are mine!" he roared, slapping her face before picking her arm and throwing her over the arm of the sofa. Fully naked, he pushed her face into the cushions, and roughly, tearing her, thrust himself into her backside entrance. Rosalie screamed, and though muffled, it was so loud he hit her again, trying to shut her up.
Emmett, showing no mercy, no compassion, and no care for the blood and pain she felt, he thrust hard into her. For an agonizing ten minutes, she cried and screamed into the cushions as Emmett raped her. He came, gasping and panting. And before he pulled out, he spat in her ear.
"You are mine. And do not ever forget that."
"Rosalie," he slurred, yet his face was frozen in shock. She stood, shakily and still cringing, and watched him for a second before racing past him and grabbing her keys. She turned hastily when she felt his presence behind her, and cowered into the bench.
"Please don't," she begged. Her wide, fearful eyes glisten with tears even as they ran down her cheeks. Emmett took a step back, the fog clearing in his mind. He realised, that it wasn't mere fear consuming her; it was so much more, and so very much worse.
"Please just let me go," she cried, her nails clawing into her sides. Emmett took another step back, and then another and continued until his back was pressed firm against the wall.
Not wanting to waste the chance, Rosalie ran out of the kitchen, past the hall of beer bottles and cocaine lines, past the shattered, smashed and obliterated rooms, and out the front door- straight into her car. Once inside she locked the doors and started the ignition.
The sound of the car turning over the graveled asphalt was knives to Emmett's heart and mind as she sped out of his life. Rosalie didn't hear the regret, remorse, or even the apology he had barely been able to whisper. Instead she left, not wasting a single second, and not looking back.
Fury grew in him again, but not at anything but himself. He was not this man- the kind of man who hurt his girlfriend and drunk, smoked and snorted himself into induced rages of stupor. Yelling, so loudly that it vibrated around the entire house, Emmett lunged forward and broke everything in sight. Every single bottle of alcohol he smashed against walls, floors and tables. He ripped the sofa to shreds, cussing and yelling loudly as he swiped the pills, and lines of cocaine off the coffee table. He trashed the entire house; every room was completely over turned.
He would be sober. He would fix everything he had done. He would earn forgiveness. He would earn back trust. He wouldn't be his father for one second longer. He was better than that. He was stronger than that. He would do it. And he wouldn't give up until he had.
There would be no more alcohol, and no more drugs. He would stand on top of the wagon and cheerfully shout his victory. He would rejoice in beating his demons. He would make it right. And he would start doing it right now.
"Rosalie," Emmett whimpered, reality crashing on him once more. "I'll make it right, baby. I promise."
The thing with the wagon, though, it is rarely stable and there are always temptations and reason to jump off it. Rosalie, driving through the storming weather, prayed that he make it on and stay there. She couldn't be his reason. She wouldn't shoulder that burden, no matter what kind of woman that made her.
Rosalie would go to the one place she felt safest, and there she would lie in His warm embrace.
"Are you feeling any better?" Dr. Simone Peters asked. Her new therapist was much easier to tolerate, and she had sat in complete silence for six weeks until Isabella felt ready to talk.
"I'm feeling a little better," she admitted. "May I please have some water?"
"Of course," Simone said, pouring her a glass. Isabella took a grateful drink, and exhaled, although shakily, in relaxation.
"I've haven't had any nightmares this week," she said with a smile, nervous smile. Simone smiled back, her eyes gleaming with happiness for Isabella.
"That's excellent," she encouraged. "Are finding the medication to be helping?"
Isabella frowned, annoyed that her strides were being passed off for the use of medication. And Dr. Peters, almost like she could hear Isabella's thoughts, spoke again.
"It's all you, Isabella," she assured. "But there is no shame, nor does it make what you have accomplished any less impressive, I was simply curious if it was helping."
Sighing, Isabella sat back against her chair. She closed her eyes, breathing deeply through her nose and exhaling through her mouth, counting slowly until the feelings she felt started to evaporate. Once she felt better, she opened her eyes and met the kind ones' of Simone.
"I think it's helping a bit. It makes it easier to relax, I suppose."
"That's really good. Relaxation is a key to achieving anything in life." Isabella frowned again, her nose scrunching delicately.
"Am I going to need medication for the rest of my life?" she asked, dreading the answer. Simone sat back in her chair, thinking for a slight moment.
"I'm sorry, Isabella, but I'm not sure. Sometimes people slowly come off the medication and find they deal just fine. And sometimes it doesn't work that way," she added. "We can definitely try, though."
"Oh," Isabella whispered, feeling very forlorn. Simone frowned this time, though she concealed it very well.
"Don't give up, Isabella. There are lot of impossible things in this world, in this life, but where there are impossibilities; there are many achievable possibilities, too. We haven't even tired yet. Please don't give up."
Isabella smiled- her spirits lifting as she did what Simone had told her to when she was feeling down. She closed her eyes again, this time remembering her mother and happy memories they shared.
"Another margarita," Renee cried, beckoning a hunky waiter. Isabella giggled into her palm, amused by Renee and her flirting. Renee winked at her and then at the waiter, who happily smiled back and sent her a wink as he placed another drink beside her.
"I'm so proud of you, Bell," she said, hiccupping through the middle of her sentence. "Are you happy?" she asked.
"It's going to take up a lot of time," Renee warned. Isabella smiled, waving her mother's worries away.
"It'll be great, Mom," she assured her.
"Just don't forget to live, baby," Renee said, oddly serious. She giggled a second later, the margarita finally making its self known. Isabella laughed, throwing her head back as Renee snorted and fell out of her chair.
"I won't," Isabella promised, opening her eyes and smiling widely.
Hurt and heartbroken, she sat in the motel room, unsure of where else to go. In tatters was her life. Her partner, her confidant, had destroyed so much trust and love inside her that the ache was inconsolable. Fear and anger, and resentment and bitterness held no meaning as she sat on the disgusting floor. Having fled so fast, all she had was a few dollars in her pocket, but luckily, for what she planned, it was all she needed.
Never once had she sinned too greatly in her life. And she had loved with all her heart and put faith in those that mattered the most to her. But the betrayal, so short and yet so long, crushed her all of her faith in one foul swoop.
As she broke the blade out of the newly bought disposable razor, she asked herself- do I really have the strength, the courage to do this. But as she pressed the blade onto the skin of her wrist, all she could think was did she have the strength, the courage to not do this.
Isabella looked to the plane, and never once had she seen such a ghastly sight. It was in immaculate condition, of course. But the fear that crushed her the last time she attempted this reared its ugly head again. She doubted if she could do this, and without medication or a little liquid courage, to boot.
Steeling herself, remembering everything she had learnt and talked about with Dr. Peters, Isabella handed her ticket to the air-hostess and stepped aboard the plane. Fighting back horrific memories, she made the long trek to her seat and sat down. Shakily exhaling, Isabella took long breaths through her nose and exhaled through her mouth, counting until she was relaxed as possible.
Thirty minutes she sat on the plane, just waiting to take off. The airline, knowing her circumstance, had organized this for her so she could leave the flight, prior to take-off, anytime she chose. But Isabella didn't. She waved off the air hostess's that looked to see if she was okay. Finally the plane's engines spurred to life. Momentary panic gripped her, but using her relaxation techniques, she, again, managed to calm down.
When the plane left the tarmac, Isabella thought the memories would come back for sure. So you can understand how surprised she was when they didn't come. Frowning, she sat back against the seat, crossed her legs and looked out of the window.
For some time, two hours, thirty-seven minutes and six seconds to be exact, Isabella was fine. And then she wasn't. Memories came slamming back with such force she hunched over, crying and screaming into her palms. The smell of burning flesh, blood, sulfur and metal invaded her mind. Reliving her greatest nightmare, that was, in fact reality, she gasped for air as the feeling of suffocation gripped her and pulled her under.
Four flight attendants rushed over, Dr. Peters following them instantly. They weren't able to calm her. They weren't able to calm her down enough to convince her it was just memories, and that she was safe. Of the four, two attendants cried into their hands, the sheer force of her life's pain crushing even them. People looked on, half in sorrow, and half in horror at the woman who was making quite the scene. Children begged to understand what was going on as Dr. Peters injected her with a sedative, unable to help her any other way.
Isabella didn't remember getting off the plane, or remember that fact that she had, in terrified fear, soiled herself. All she knew was that she was curled on her bed, sobbing into her knees.
Long since the accident had faith relinquished its hold on her, but that night, if only for one night, Isabella prayed to the Lord in Heaven. She asked Him to give her strength, she asked Him to give her courage. Isabella didn't know if her prays' would ever be answered. But, then again, that was the crux in faith. Faith meant believing in the good times when miracles were made. And having faith in the bad times when they weren't.
Carlisle had just finished his shift at the hospital. The twenty something hours were excruciating. In that time, there had been six fatalities and eleven serious injuries. What he couldn't understand is why people didn't learn from past mistakes, either ones they had made themselves or ones that others had made.
The first two patients' had suffered from severe internal bleeding, and by the time they had been able to scrub into surgery, both patients' had coded. Though Carlisle and his team had tried relentlessly, they could not save the two fifteen year olds'.
It was just one of the reasons he hated parents that didn't teach their children right from wrong. Had they, the parents, talked and set rules, watched out for, and over their children, perhaps all of these accidents and deaths would have never occurred in the first place. Then again, Carlisle mentally conceded. It might not have changed a thing.
Tired and alone, he climbed the stairs to his motel room and opened the door. Having moved out of his ex-wife's house, Carlisle relocated to a new town, in a new state, more than ready to start his life over. Of course he didn't imagine himself living in the town's only shabby motel until his house was ready, but still, it was a start.
Showering the daily grind away, Carlisle rotated his neck under the shower stream, reveled in the feel of the hot water stinging against, and down, his body. After turning the shower off, he dried and dressed in some grey sweats, too tired to go through his washing and find his pajamas. He crawled into bed, intent of going to sleep but paused, cocking his head to the side as he listened to his next door neighbor crying.
Shrugging, he turned the light off and rolled over, but again, he could not shake the crying from his mind, even after five minutes. It was like he knew something was wrong. Despite his body aching in protest, he retreated from his room and stopped outside the door. It was unlocked, so as Carlisle gently pushed it open, he braced himself on what he may find. But what he found was nothing he could have imagined.
"Shit!" he cursed, racing into the room. Taking his shirt off, Carlisle quickly ripped it in half and wrapped it around her wrists. Holding them above her head with one hand, he checked her pulse with the other. It was faint, but it was there.
"Help!" he yelled, unable to move to call the ambulance, or pick her up without dropping her arms.
"Someone fucking help me!" he roared.
Jasper was walking past the motel as he heard Carlisle's cries for help. So rushing up the stairs, he skidded into the room, only to gasp at the sight. In front of him, her lips blue, blood seeping from her wrists and her chest unmoving was everything to him. She was everything he had left. Jasper scurried over to her, desperately cradling her head in his lap.
"Call the ambulance," Carlisle shouted again. Jasper, finally realizing Carlisle was speaking, did as instructed and called the ambulance.
"Is she going to be okay?" he croaked. Carlisle looked at Jasper, his face grave.
"I don't know," he answered honestly.
The Father sat in one of the pews, looking forward at the candles. Standing, he removed his reading glasses and rubbed the bridge of his nose. Grabbing a stick, he held it in the flame until it caught. Saying a silent pray, the Father reached forward and lit eight candles before shaking the flame off the stick and moving back to the pew. He replaced his glasses and picked up his Bible. He opened it and read from where he left off.
"Father?" a soft, timid voice asked. Startled, the Father spun and slipped off the pew. She gasped, covering he mouth with her hand before rushing to help him up. He chuckled, embarrassed, and allowed her to help him.
"Thank you," he said sincerely.
"I'm so sorry," she apologized. "I didn't mean to scare you."
He chuckled again. "It's no problem. I tend to become a little absorbed when I'm reading." The Father sat back against the pew, tucking his Bible beside him as he turned to face her.
"Are you okay, Alice?" he asked concerned. "What are you doing here so late?" Alice shrugged, trying to contain her tears but shook her head, giving up.
"No," she said, crying softly. "I'm not okay."
"Alice, I'm sorry," he said, removing his glasses. "Is there anything I can do to help? Perhaps clean up your hands," he suggested, gesturing to her cut and bloodied knuckles. Laying a soft hand on her shoulder, he smiled gently and promised to be right back.
To his word, the Father returned a minute later and went to work on cleaning and bandaging her hands. He kept silent, only smiling apologetically every time she winced or pulled her hand back.
"Can I ask you a question, Father?"
"Of course you can, Alice."
Alice smiled, thanking him as he bandaged the last abrasion. She pulled her hands back into her lap and they sat in a comfortable silence for a minute or two. Gathering the courage, she turned to face him. He was already looking at her.
"Is it true?" she asked without preempt. The Father nodded, resting back against the pew and patiently waiting for her next question. When she didn't speak, he frowned.
"Was that what you wanted to ask me, Alice?"
"Not exactly," she confessed. "Can you tell me about it? I mean, I understand if you don't want to and it's really not my business to begin with so..." The Father cut her off by raising a hand to silence her rambling.
"Alice, of course you can. I was nineteen at the time. My friends and I were always making trouble," he chuckled. "We went out one Friday night, which wasn't uncommon," he said, shrugging gently.
"And using fake I.D's, we went to a bar and had a lot to drink. I had just been kicked out of my parent's house and was very angry, and bitter," he confessed. "I made a lot of mistakes that night." Alice nodded, crossing her legs on the pew as she faced him fully. The Father smiled, grabbing his Bible.
"My friends and I got into a bar fight. A woman tried to break it up, you see, she didn't want her bar being destroyed. My friend, Paul, he never meant to hit her," he said, his eyebrows furrowing. "But after that it was like everyone in the bar turned on us. We never had a chance."
Clearing his throat, he chuckled lightly. "We made a break for the car, and Paul got in the drivers' seat. They were still chasing us so we took off. We had drunk a lot. We shouldn't have been walking, let alone driving. But we did drive, and the boys, myself included, got rowdy and before we knew it, Paul had gotten distracted and lost control of the car went we hit a patch of ice."
"What happened?" Alice asked. The Father sighed, clasping his hands together.
"We crashed into another car. There was a family in it," he said softly. "Everyone died, Alice. Every single person died but me. I was labeled as the sole survivor, the lucky one," he scoffed. "I didn't feel lucky at the time. But I eventually found myself. I found my faith. And I was lucky. Very, very lucky to have lived." The Father grasped Alice's hand and smiled, though tears welled in his eyes.
"Mistakes and lapses in judgment happen, Alice. We are only human, and human beings are flawed."
"Yeah," she agreed. "I guess we are."
"You know my favourite passage in this?" he asked, lifting the Bible. Alice shook her head, her eyebrows pinching. The Father cleared his throat and quoted.
"Judge not, and you shall not be judged. Condemn not, and you shall not be condemned. Forgive," he said softly. "And you shall be forgiven."
"What is that?" she asked, sniffling quietly. The Father smiled softly, brushing her tears away.
"It's the Book of Luke," he answered. "Alice, if anything I have learnt, it's that your past doesn't mean your future is fixed. That and forgiveness is the single greatest, but hardest thing to give and to earn. But I can tell you, quite honestly from my own experience, it's one of the most rewarding."
"Jasper cheated," she confessed, crying in earnest now. The Father rubbed her shoulder softly, and nodded in understanding. "I just...." Alice paused, her shoulders shaking as she cried. "Father, please," she begged. "I don't know what to do."
He sighed, running a hand through his hair. "Alice, I can't tell you what to do. Unfortunately, there isn't a right kind of answer," he said gently. "Ask yourself this, instead, can you forgive him for that?"
"I love him," she gasped, tears falling as she clutched her chest. "I just don't know if I can forgive him."
"Of course," he said. "And understanding that love isn't always enough is important. But love can be enough of a reason to try. Is the love you feel for Jasper enough to try?
Alice paused for a long moment, her eyes clenched shut. "Yes," she finally answered, her eyes opening. "I think it is."
"Then I believe you have your answer, Alice."
"Thank you, Father," she said, standing and slipping her coat back on. "I really appreciate it."
"Alice," he said, standing and walking over to her. "This is the House of the Lord, you are most welcome here anytime- no matter if it's day or night."
"Thank you," she said, laughing quietly as she wiped away the last of her tears.
"Alice?" The Father asked, stopping her just before she walked through the door. "Please," he all but begged. "There isn't a need to call me Father outside of mass. You make me feel old and I'm only twenty-seven," he chuckled. Alice giggled and nodded with a smile.
"Sorry, Edward," she laughed. "Thanks again."
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