A/N: Please read Chapter 1 first or you'll be lost. It'll get you in the flow anyway. ;-) Thanks for stopping by. Welcome to this... idk what it is. We'll see. My mind is going for 'shit show'. Shrug.
Chapter 2 - Remembering
I can hear the muffled struggle. They're dying. One at a time on my kitchen floor. Making a damn mess.
I ran, and I ran hard. That man by the back of the house is laying there now, eyes blankly staring up at stars; the same stars that twinkled over Mom's lifeless body.
I remember.
God, I remember.
What is this? Everything I thought I knew is all different.
He will always be the second man I've killed. I ask myself, standing in the basement again, listening to muffled death, why I didn't flinch when I pulled the trigger. I came around and found the door open to the basement.
He's upstairs.
I watch that door we both came through. It's splayed. Shadows ghosting over the panes. I reach for that second magazine.
Isabella Swan, you won't be the same from this point on. I swallow hard and accept the words looping through my head as I take those steps. Night and day; I'm the latter now, someone else inside of me.
One shot. A knee bends the wrong way. A man cries out. I aim for his neck this time.
I watch as blood seeps until it almost touches the edge of the carpet I vacuumed this morning. I gnaw at my lip hoping it doesn't connect.
I look.
The front door I locked is now open. I maneuver my way there, walking over a choking man and another splatter to my left. It's all over the countertop, too.
I look into his eyes, and I want to ask him why he came. He tries to take a breath, but can't. I don't get a chance.
Two men in the kitchen, one out back.
I'm keeping count.
The porch outside creaks and squeaks with every footfall. Stealth means nothing to this guy. Sloppy, loud-walking Edward is out there hiding, looking around the wall to the side of the house.
I step out.
I lean the barrel to the threshold … and stare down his barrel in a matter of seconds when I step onto that weak floorboard I know so well.
I lift my chin high.
I wait.
He lets that barrel dip. "Bella." His eyes brightening even in a dark night. The lamp was shattered above us, glass sprinkled around. His doing I'm sure.
He comes closer. His chest heaving.
I cock the gun and find that spot between his eyes.
"What happened to me?"
He lets out a breath. His smile is so big. He lifts a hand to cup his heart.
I pull the trigger.
The thump is loud when he hits the floor. It shakes under my feet. Edward looks back from his crouch where he flinched. He quickly looks behind me. From cupping his heart to my neck in a matter of seconds. We tumble down to the floor just as quickly.
I covered his back, he covers mine with two shots. The black-clothed men fall on either side of us.
Then he kisses me.
I'll have none of it. Not even when he looks at me like I've been lost and he's just found me. He lets his gun go to smooth back my hair, the other hand to wrap itself around me.
I bend a knee and shove him. I press the hot barrel to his neck.
"Up," I seethe.
His mouth turns up instead. He catches my lips again until he can't pucker up anymore. Then, he grunts.
"Get the hell off me," I say. This time, he listens. Maybe he cares for his balls far more than his neck. He stands, and where I kneel, I know I've got him. Gun pointed between his legs.
He takes a breath, but he's smiling.
"Careful, Baby. You don't want to do that," he says. I stand on my two feet, and I'm taller now.
I dig in just a little harder. "Why's that? You come into my house, you leave a mess. Why shouldn't I?"
His eyes flutter. His chest gets going. He's barely on his heels. "Because you'll want it, one way or another." He looks at me.
It's just struggled breathing between silence as we stare at one another.
His hand tentatively reaches. He runs a few fingers down my neck, to my chest. He delves deeper.
"You remember?" he asks. "How much?"
I shake my head. I look away and back again.
I'm wavering.
I know I should never lose focus of what my gun is pointing at. That, I remember. He taught me that.
"I missed you," he whispers. "How long has it been? Seven, eight years? Then you're here, and I almost broke my cover. Every time I'd see you on the street, in town, out my window…" he says and shakes his head. "You made me crazy."
I swallow heavy. It's his words, but it's his hand traveling inside my nightdress. I've observed this man, watched his every move.
Now he's here.
"What happened to me?" I ask through my teeth. I enunciate with a sharp jab.
He sucks in a breath. He bucks against the hard barrel.
I bite on my tongue when he cups a breast. Then he snakes two knuckles around the hardened peak.
"I couldn't trust you," he says. "You appeared out of thin air, and I wondered why and what you wanted."
He clamps and twists hard. Pain shoots through my chest. My hand around the trigger shakes.
"And you were alone. And I've been alone. Every night I wanted to come to your bed like I used to, watching you, but how was I supposed to be sure?" He looks straight into my eyes.
I hold back a whimper. My tense cheeks shake with the pain. My eyes prickle.
"I respected Charlie. I stayed away. It's what you wanted. So, imagine my surprise? I asked myself, 'What does that pretty girl I once knew, who's grown into a beautiful woman, possibly want from me?'"
I'm panting.
His knuckles tighten. I swallow a scream.
I think about this. I think hard.
This crazy man was mine. This neighborhood was mine. And this life of his was mine. He's right. He's the only one who knows me, more than I know myself.
I break.
The gun tumbles loudly at my feet.
Like a desperate man, his mouth is there to wet and dull the pain. He pulls my dress down and makes his way up to my lips again. His hands are everywhere, mine are at my sides.
"What happened to me?" I say to the beams up high on the porch ceiling. My chin gingerly cupped in his hand.
He pecks at my cheek, my temple, and then he looks at me. This sadness changes him. He shakes his head. "You left me," is what he says. "Time has gone by, and I've missed so much."
. .
. .
I open my eyes. The sun is up. The room has different shadows, like it's afternoon, like I'm late, like I overslept and I feel rested when I shouldn't be on a weekday.
I turn to the clock. I shoot out of bed.
"Fuck."
I tear the sheets off me, as it seems they're woven around me. It takes one too many tries.
This is a nightmare. The kind where it's your first day of work and you dream of being late. I turn in circles in the middle of the room.
"Fuck!" I run to the bathroom and grab my phone on the way. One text to Jess, the next to my boss.
Excuses upon excuses typed and sent.
Then I stop. I look in the mirror. Something's different. I stare and stare and…
Was it a dream? Yes. A horrible one.
My God, it felt so real.
I've had these dreams before, extreme ones, where my blood pumps fast, and I wake up sweating and panting, facing a gun, waking up when someone pulls the trigger. It was years of the same dream. It's been months. Now they're back. This dread in me, I want to cry. Because I know, I know it will haunt me every night for weeks.
I step up to the mirror over the sink. I lean in. I grab my breasts; pull on the front of my nightdress. There's nothing, but there's something. Bruising marks ghost down my neck, to my chest. Maybe my nails again during my sleep.
I'm showering, and my nipples are sore. I think and think. It's the end of the month. My period is in a couple of days. I sigh. I step into the stream wishing it to wash away these nightmare spells that come every so often.
I'm lightning speed getting dressed. A blouse, heels next. I hop downstairs trying to get the fitted left shoe on. Wet hair. No makeup yet.
I look around the kitchen, the living room. My stomach churns. Is it the trash can again? I threw it out yesterday. But it also smells like ammonia. I check the cabinet; still full of detergent, nothing has spilled.
"Fuck." I'm late. I rush to the door, grab the keys, my satchel and trench coat next. I lock the door with the key and make my way to the car, turning it on with the larger key to the right of the chain.
Then, I sit in the car. I don't back out. I don't even move. The windshield has leaves on it, sprinkled dust, too. Bird shit is drying out to the top right. I stare and stare at ... nothing.
What's wrong? What's off? I can't leave. I can't put my finger on it.
Then, I'm turning off the car, I'm charging back to the house, flipping back to the left key and opening the door.
I see it.
I fall to my knees. Mouth ajar. Tears burn my eyelids. But I see it, blurred eyes or not. The bullet hole through the back of the couch is obvious.
I crawl there. I put my finger over the patch.
I've put my finger on it.
I look at the carpet. I crawl to that spot. The edges are frayed and cut off. Not a speckle of blood left.
I sit back and stare at everything. Right here, right under me, that choking man died.
I let out a cry. Then another. This time, it comes from my broken soul.
Last night was real; it wasn't a nightmare I woke up from. He lifted me off the porch, climbed the stairs to my room and tucked me into the sheets. He stayed there next to me, caressing my hair, clearing away tears as I cried myself to sleep.
Mom's death wasn't an accident like Dad told me. They killed her, and they almost killed me.
I sob.
I lie on the floor, over the ghost of a nameless, faceless man who died here. The one I killed last night.
. .
. .
Young
"Edward", I call. The front of the class is loud. The teacher stepped out and told me I'm in charge. I don't know why I'm in charge. I'm an average student, but no straight A's. I see why Mr. Banner would choose me, compared to these Neanderthals, I'm a better option.
I sit here, in this old desk marked with slang, curses, and tag names people love to go by in their neighborhood. It's stupid. How did I end up in special studies? This is fucked. The class for troubled kids meant to be monitored and make sure they do their homework. That one fucking class I failed last year, and this is what I get. Torture with weirdos.
I sigh and watch an immature Edward sit at the teacher's desk. He's snooping. He grabs a piece chalk and draws a dick shooting sperm on the board.
"Stop being a douchebag!" I yell. I haven't talked to him since freshman year. Well, more like middle school. He's not popular by any stretch. He's the troublemaker. The popular kids fear him, the popular girls give him dirty looks, but they don't protest much when his hand makes its way up their skirts. He's his own clique. Pete and two other assholes follow him around. They sit on the stairs of the school and snap on underwear when girls pass by. The leaders and cat-callers of tomorrow. How inspiring.
I stare him down when it's my turn up the steps. I try not to look scared. I grip my keys strategically so I can take a swing if anyone tries. He watches me hard, leaning back on the steps.
His biker jacket is the only cool piece of clothing he has. The rest is faded and dated, old Adidas on his feet, corduroy pants on summer days because he's got but a few pairs. But he's tall. His dad doesn't spend money on him. A lesson. I heard that from Alice. She swallowed hard and shook her head when she told me how hard he was on him.
What she never explained was his arms and abs scratched up and scabbed, though trim and taut. He likes to wipe his face once in a while with a lift of his shirt.
It surprised me once. The muscles, but mostly the scabs.
What does he do to get that many so regularly?
He goes away for long periods of time. Then he's back and making everyone's life a living hell. I don't know how he passes the school year. Well, except for that one time. Now he's older than everyone.
I pass by him on the steps, and his eyes follow me, but nothing else. He doesn't touch me. Those same eyes I see through my window at night to his room. We stare at one another a lot. But nothing ever comes of it. We don't talk. We have silent communication. He steps out on that roof off his room, and when he's not smoking or staring at the sky, he's watching what I do in my room. He lounges there and snoozes.
It's not like it's new. He's always done it. I don't find it odd at all. I think his life is shitty and he needs that headspace and the comfort of watching someone else's calm life.
Because when his dad is home, all hell breaks loose. He doesn't come alone. Edward's uncles file in to talk to his grandfather who lives with them.
Maybe that's where he gets his scabs. You can hear the yelling from our house. And always toward Edward. His mom yells his name to stop whatever he does. I couldn't ever get a good view. Dad would come into my room, shut the window and tell me to go to bed.
But I did see once.
I did.
When he's not watching me, he's out in the street all hours of the night, doing God knows what. He has this beat up Dodge Polara his uncle gave him. The girls he drags along, the few who get in his car who really didn't mind when he'd reach up their skirts, they get a ride. More ways than one. They make it to his room, and I have to ignore that light on, pouring in through my window.
Until one night I really couldn't help but look. I was curious. Was he just as vicious to their soft skin and hearts as he was outside his house? I don't know why it bugged me. Even if the girls were the meanest in school, I worried. I watched. And the things I saw.
He was lean but robust from his thighs to hips and shoulders. A man before his age. Gorgeous like his father. He'd crawl over the bed. Sometimes he was generous. Others, he'd lay sprawled back. The shy girl fumbled. But then he'd take over. Settled her exactly where he wanted her. The girl in ecstasy and I held my breath along with her.
He wasn't vicious. He was just rough around the edges.
I never looked after that.
"Edward!" I yell. I channel his mother in some ways. The class looks over at me.
He looks up, chalk mid-air.
"Cut the shit."
He relents. He tosses the piece onto the dusty shelf and walks back to his desk to the beat of my heart.
He sits, folds his hands like a good student and says, "You love me, Bella?" The crowd howls. He hasn't said that in years. It just angers me.
"I'm not even sure your own mother does," I say right back. And maybe the crowd goes wild this time.
I shake in my bones, but I don't look away. I know him more than anyone else in this room. Deep down inside, I know I shouldn't have said that.
. .
. .
Younger
The Cullen family is visiting next door. Classes ended, and that means middle school is next. Mom dreads summer days. She says I'm around the house more and I drive her nuts.
She's in curls and doing five hundred things in the kitchen, or so she says. I only see her doing one: the potato salad with her big pink curlers around her hair. Someone's wedding is today, and I have to wear that ugly dress she made me.
I slam the door from the back and hear her yelling again to stop slamming the damned door.
I see Uncle Emmett and Edward in the yard. I smile instantly and hop over to watch.
His uncle is in his twenties, and if you ask me, he's a hunk. I lean on a hand, watch and sigh. Alice would be so disgusted with me. She hates when I stare too much. But look at him! His big arms and tanned skin. I love when he takes his shirt off and leaves the wife beater on, tucked inside his slacks and belt. That gold chain bright around his neck, hair slicked back. You can tell he smells nice.
He play fights with Edward every time he comes by. I've learned a few moves myself. I'd sneak into his yard and sit and watch Uncle Emmett smack him around. I'd laugh hard. Edward's face would go beet red, just like it is now. But I didn't think anything of Emmett then. Now, it's like my eyes opened up from blindness. He's… dreamy.
"Gotta toughen up, bud," he says to Edward who's in a headlock. Edward's anger won't let him think straight. He charges at him with all his strength and loses focus. That's what Emmett says after diving out of his way.
I wish he'd ask me to try that move again. I wouldn't mind getting close, but I would just about die, too.
He finishes Edward off with a push that sends him to the ground.
"Edward!" There goes his mom, and there goes Uncle Emmett chuckling his way back into the house.
"Hey, where's Alice?" I shout over the fence. I watch him roll around catching his breath.
"How the hell should I know?"
"Well, you live together," I argue. He finds his feet, he looks chagrined.
"Probably getting dressed, fucking curling her hair. Who knows?" My shoulders drop. Her dress will definitely be nicer than mine. It always is. The Cullens are 'loaded,' as people whisper around town. Her daddy gets her so many gifts.
"You wearing a dress?" Edward asks me. I roll my eyes. He smiles funny. "You should. You'll actually look like a girl for once."
I flip him off close to my chest so Mom won't see if she's looking.
"You love me, Bella. You'd wear it for me," he says.
I scoff. I'd wear it for his uncle Emmett, but I ain't telling him that.
Uncle Jasper swings open the screen door and steps out. "Well, you heard your yappin' mother. Get inside," he says, lighting a cigarette. Then he looks over at me.
I never did feel comfortable around him. I let go of the fence and play with the rose bush. I watch Edward make that gesture and uncle Jasper never fails to let him take the cigarette for as long as he can. He puffs once, twice, coughs, and gives it back. He goes inside the house.
"Isabella!" I look back. My mom this time. Except now, I tense. Not because of her yelling, I'm used to that, but it's knowing she'll come out here to fetch me and see one of the uncles. She doesn't like them. Hates the sight of them. Says they're vile and dangerous. She says this only when she's in the house and whispering. Dad always brushes her off. He doesn't say much, but she reprimands me if she sees me near them.
I look over at uncle Jasper and then at our door. I charge through the lawn quickly, but it's too late. Mom barges out and reaches for her bra pinned to a clothesline. She slaps my bum.
"Go put your dress on, we're gonna be late!"
But her voice always gets caught. I wait for it. I watch her hands go to cover her slip she wears underneath her robe. Her eyes go big looking across the yard. And his lips curl up just like Edward's when he's planning something fierce against me. That fierce always ends up hurting.
This time, she slams the door.
I get so mad, piping hot. Nobody makes my mom mad but me.
I'm angry all through the ceremony and the ride to the reception. I sit in the back of the car staring at the back of Dad's head wishing I could yell at him to defend her. Especially when Uncle Jasper catches her arm and pulls her to the dance floor.
My red-faced mother in diamond earrings and a gown to match her complexion is forced to wrap her arm around his neck. He whispers things, soft things that make her dark feathered hair move by her ear. Her eyes flutter.
I hate it.
But the moment I feel fingertips underneath my hair and green eyes staring back at me, I know. I know what she feels.
Turns out, my dress was nicer than Alice's. So much so, everyone stared far too much, for far too long. So much so, Edward won't stop touching me every chance he gets. Now his touch shoots up my spine making my eyes flutter, too.
These butterflies in my stomach, but I don't show it. He gets me punch from the punch bowl. He grabs my hand and doesn't let go for all his cousins to see. And then he looks at me. We're by the bathroom where I had to go, and he waited outside the door.
He waited? My brows furrow.
What does he want?
Why is he being so weird?
I try to ask but he leans in, and he kisses me. And I'm slowly letting my eyes close, slowly puckering up to him. We pull apart and he comes right back for another.
I'm slowly thinking, who cares about Uncle Emmett?
Then the next school year, I'm invisible to him.
. .
. .
A/N: This will go back and forth from Young (Highschool Leading up to her mother's death) to Younger (Middle school Backstory) to Present. Cool? More coming but slowly. I have to mold this the right way. Send your questions. I know you've got some. Kill me dead if you must. Go on, I've got thicker skin.
Thanks for reading!
