Chapter Two

BPOV

My account of the next several days involves a massive amount of curse words, and damning a few select medical professionals to terrible, violent deaths. So I'll spare you. Plus, I just really don't want to get into that shit. But the good part of being in this damned hospital (and honestly, the only part I remember through my morphine-induced haze) is getting to know Esme.

Ever since our lovely first encounter just a few nights ago, Esme and I have grown pretty close. Day and night, we lay on our beds for hours, often only semiconscious, just talking, about anything and everything, or about absolutely nothing at all. She listened to my whiny sob stories; I listened to her heart-wrenching accounts of her abusive ex-husband. We talk about everything except our illnesses; we both tip-toe around the topic. She doesn't want to talk about cancer, and I don't want to talk about…well…whatever the hell is wrong with me.

"Bella, do you believe in God?" Esme abruptly asks one night, glancing my way while picking at her dinner.

I gape at her almost incredulously and I think a little food falls gracefully out of my mouth.

Usually in these types of situations I say something vague and non-committal, as to not offend anyone. But the hell with it. I'm lying in a hospital bed, barely able to make it to the bathroom by myself at the age of twenty-four. For once, I decide to tell the truth and not beat around the bush.

I defiantly look her straight in the eye.

"Absolutely not" I state confidently, not the slightest waver in my voice. Which is a feat that I am quite proud of.

"Oh," is all she mutters as she sighs, looking back down at her food, dragging her fork along her tray. The look on her face is one of disappointment—among other things.

Oh shit, I hurt a cancer patient. Hell: 57 Bella: 0.

I mentally kick myself; I could be so heartless sometimes. "It's not that I didn't at one time," I speedily say, attempting to recover. "It's just that I've seen way too many things happen to good people that no self-respecting God could ever let happen."

She looks at me with some kind of strange hope; the look that I only see on the "On Fire For Jesus" type with they're about to try to convert me. Oh, this ought to be good.

"Bella, I really don't mean to force my religion upon you," she begins. The typical opener.

Too late, I think, with an internal snort.

"But you can't blame God for things that happen; God gave us free will, and people make bad choices Bella, and I won't deny that sometimes I don't understand his intentions, but you can't go through life always blaming Him," She explains carefully, all the while averting her eyes from mine.

"You can't blame what you don't believe in," I retort bitterly, turning my gaze to the ceiling. I wonder how many tiles there are…

"Bella, people have believed in this for two thousand years, you can't really tell me that all those people have been wrong," she attempts to reason. Not happening.

"People also believed the world was flat for two thousand years," I rebuke, wincing at my own sharp words. I need to shut the hell up.

Esme is silent for a few moments, and then she speaks:

"Bella, I'm not sure what has happened that caused you to lose all faith—and I know this sounds trite—but it's not too late, you're young," she says and it is, in fact, extremely trite.

My rebuttal is on the tip of my tongue, but I bite it back. I've burnt enough bridges for one life time. I don't need to add another to my ever-growing list.

Just then, the blonde nurse waltzes in again to check my IV. All my frustrations come in a wave, and crash into me all at once, and I take it out on the nearest person, which just so happens to be Perky-Pants, the nurse.

"Yeah, hey, um, excuse me? Have any of you asshats figured out what's wrong with me yet?" I snap, intentionally unleashing my inner bitch.

I feel Esme's shocked eyes on me, but I ignore her for the time being. Perky-Pants is stunned, but she quickly recovers; with a smile, of course.

"Looks like someone is a little cranky, poor dear. I bet you're not sleeping well. Well, I'm gonna go get something that will fix that right up," she chimes, her over-sweetened voice making me want to vomit. But I detect a hint of mischief in her voice. I should've remembered that this lady is in charge of medicating me. She could knock me into next week. Quite literally.

She shoots something into my IV bag and I watch it sink down to the bottom of my bag, through the tube and into my arm.

Then I watch the world go all funny, and I giggle a little, before surrendering to sleep.

I find myself in my father's sterile white room at Northridge. He sits in his rocking chair, slowly, rhythmically, methodically rocking while looking out the window into the intense greenery of the forest. I walk around to the front of his chair, into his line of sight. His eyes flicker to me for a second, but then return to the window.

"You left me, Bells," he rasps in his slow, slurred speech. It's just barely a whisper this time.

"Sorry, Dad, I'm kind of sick right now… I would've come earlier, really, I would have," I offer as a lame excuse; it'd been nearly six months since I had been out to see Dad. Guilt washes over me in thick surges.

Dad sits there, trying to make his mouth form the words he longs to speak. He is struggling, and thinking hard. He gives up. The sight makes magnifies my guilt.

"You left me, Bells," he repeats, sounding more broken this time.

"I know, Daddy, but I'm here now, see? I'm right here; I'm not going to leave," I reassure him. I debate on reaching out to touch his shoulder, but think better of it.

His face morphs into an expression I don't recognize.

"Who are you?" he screams, startled and confused. Making me to react in the exact same fashion.

"Dad? It's me! Bella!" I shout back at him, willing him to understand.

"NO! Who are you? GET OUT! GET OUT!" he screeches.

I drop to my knees in front of him, tears welling up in my eyes. My father, my own father, has forgotten me. I abandoned him. Just like Renee. The tears spill over my eyes. It's a foreign feeling, tears streaming down my cheeks. I press my hands into my eyes, pulling myself together. I stand back up and take a deep breath. Charlie stares out the window once again, and shows no evidence of his outburst. He's oblivious to my presence. I am forgotten.

"Bella!" A male voice calls from the door. A familiar, thin, man with long, dark hair, pulled sloppily back in a ponytail stands there, holding his hand out.

"Drake?" I whisper.

Why is he here?

"Forget your old man. You chose us, remember?" Drake reminds me, a wicked grin on his face.

I reluctantly look back at Charlie. He's absorbed in the forest out his window. I trudge toward Drake and take his hand.

"That's my girl," he smirks, satisfied.

I'm suddenly furious. I am not his girl.

"Get off me!" I yell, yanking my hand from his.

There's a dark corridor ahead of me, and I have no choice but to run down it. I sprint down the hall, but it's still not fast enough to outrun Drake. He roughly grabs my shoulders and pins me against the wall.

"What are you doing Bella? You chose this remember?" he whispers in my ear.

I'm feeling nauseous.

"Get away from me, Drake. I don't want you," I demand through clenched teeth, turning my head away from him, but he grabs my chin with one hand and makes me face him.

"Shhh, don't worry, Bella. Just chill. I got something right here that can take all the pain away…" he says, pulling something from behind him.

It's a pillow.

He holds it even with my face, and I see his vicious smirk before he shoves it over my face. My arms are bound to my side by his weight, and I can't fight back. I try to move my head to gasp for breath but I can't; so I scream. I scream a deafening, blood curdling scream.

Without warning, I'm sitting up, gasping for breath in my hospital room, back in my bed. Behind me, my heart monitor is going crazy. I let my breathing slow. It's the middle of the night, or maybe early morning. I haven't had a nightmare like that in a while. The nausea from the dream has carried over. I stagger to the bathroom, not bothering with the bunny slippers this time. I throw up, and then I dry heave for a while. I rinse my mouth out. I don't bother looking into the mirror this time. No point in depressing myself.

I stumble back into bed, totally drained. I succumb to sleep, praying to every god I can think of that my nightmares won't return.

I must have prayed well.

I wake up facing something that maybe used to be able to call itself a curtain, until it got attacked by a fucking be-dazzler. Excited female voices chatter from the other side.

"Don't you like your new curtain Esme? We asked the nurses if we could change it from that awful neutral print..." exclaims a soprano female voice.

"Oh yes, Alice," Esme speculates, as if talking to a small child about a drawing, "it's lovely."

"It's just part of your birthday present, we decided to give it to you early, and you can use it on your shower when you go home," a deeper, smooth voice adds.

I can't help but notice the emphasis the second woman put on when you go home. It was a small way to reassure Esme, and probably herself, that Esme would get over this.

"Rosalie! When are you going to make me a great aunt?" Esme inquires, changing the subject, and I can hear the smile in her voice.

"Oh I don't know. We've got time. But I'll tell you, it's not for mine and Emmett's lack of trying. If you know what I mean," Rosalie—I assume—gossips.

All three women giggle conspiratorially. I feel a small smile tug at the corner of my lips.

"Shhh! You have a roommate, right?" Rosalie says, shushing the other ladies.

"Oh, um yeah, but after the stuff the nurse gave her last night, I doubt she'd feel an earthquake," Esme reckons, I can hear the giggle she tries to cover.

"Oh. Well isn't that, you know, weird? I mean, sharing a room and all?" The higher pitched one—Alice—asks.

"No, not really, she really is a sweet girl, if not a little misguided," Esme answers, her voice getting just slightly darker at the end of her sentence.

Misguided? Misguided? I snort loudly. The women hear it.

"Yep, that's Bella alright. Alice, dear, will you open that curtain?" Esme directs, the naturally sweet tone back again.

A few seconds later, I see a tiny hand on the curtain as Alice pulls it back. Alice and Rosalie fit their voices; Alice is cute and petite, and Rosalie is dazzling and curvy. They look at me appraisingly.

"Hi, um, Bella, is it? I'm Alice," Alice greets, putting her tiny hand out towards me.

"Yeah, Bella, pleased to meet you," I respond, taking her hand and giving it a mini-shake.

I just want to put Alice in my purse; she's so cute and tiny. Alice, Rosalie and Esme all give me a puzzled look. Then I realize I said that out loud.

"It's the damn medication," I explain hurriedly, "It kind of eliminates my brain-to-mouth filter."

Alice is the first one to break the awkwardness.

She crinkles her nose and says "I wouldn't want to live in that off-brand thing," she pouts, pointing to my well-worn purse on the floor by my bed.

I laugh. Hard. I like Alice already.

"I like you too, Bella," Alice smiles, making me realize I said my thoughts out loud again. Goddammit.

After that I try not to think anymore, as to not let anything obscene, or possibly mentally scarring, out of my mouth. The women continue chatting, so I decided to give them the illusion of privacy by turning on the TV and staring at it.

Oh my God. Maury is on. Sweet.

Today, the freak show includes some chick name Trixie, and her boyfriend Jim-Bob is sure that their baby, Junior (yes they named their kid Junior), is not his, but their neighbor at the trailer park, Dwayne's baby. Maury with his smug, shit-eating grin resting on his face is sitting in his chair, holding the results in his hand, amusedly watching Dwayne and Jim-Bob go at it. Meanwhile, a picture of Junior is projected on the screen behind them. He's an ugly little fucker, barely two years old and already has buck teeth.

Maury finally decides it's time to stop Dwayne and Jim-Bob from losing any more teeth, and decides to read the results.

"Jim-Bob… in the case of twenty-month old Junior, you ARE the father," Maury announces.

Oh hell. The whole studio erupts into ear-splitting, lewd calls, and the trio runs to the back. Cut to commercial.

"Holy shit, was that Maury?" Rosalie asks, whipping her head in the direction of my TV.

"Uh, yeah. I can turn it if you want…" I offer, picking up the remote.

"No! I love this show," she interjects, moving to the chair by my bed for a better view. Maury comes back on and we fall silent.

This time it is La'Tanya, and her boyfriend TreQuan arguing over baby Jamal. La'Tanya was "512% sure" that was TreQuan is "da baby daddy". Maury doesn't hold out as long this time.

"TreQuan, in this case of six-month old Jamal… you are NOT the father," Maury announces.

Again the audience busts into unintelligible, but no doubt offensive shouts. TreQuan does some sort of ghetto-stomp/dance on the stage, as La'Tanya sobs uncontrollably in the back ground.

Oh, the stereotypes.

"Hey Bella?" Rosalie asks, head cocked to the side.

"Yeah?" I absentmindedly respond.

"Do you mind not narrating the whole show?" she asks politely.

"Oh, uh sure." I answer, embarrassed. I hear Alice giggle a little from her spot at Esme's side.

Damn it. I hate medication. Maury comes back on, and it's basically the same story for the next half hour.

After the show she stretches gracefully and mumbles something about spending quality time with the bottom of society.

"Edward, Jasper and Emmett will be by later with the rest of your present," Alice says to Esme. I momentarily wonder who they all were…

"You guys really didn't have to-" Esme starts. But she is almost instantly cut off.

"Oh shut up and enjoy it," interrupts Rosalie.

I'm kind of jealous of their family dynamic; it's comfortable and bantering. Something I used to have with Charlie. Images from the dream flash through my head. I shiver. It goes unnoticed. Thankfully.

"Well, we're going to go nab some lunch then meet up with the boys to make sure they haven't trashed anything," Rosalie says, grabbing her coat and purse and heading toward the door. Alice follows, they say their goodbyes and then they're gone.

"Listen, Esme, I'm sorry about last night…" I apologize after a few moments, wanting to make things right again with her.

"Why are you apologizing? I asked you for your views, and I got what I asked for," she explains and it sounds genuine.

"I just didn't mean to hurt your feelings," I protest.

"You didn't, I promise you." She replies, and I have a feeling she's telling the truth. I sigh contentedly.

We lay there, watching crappy local cable, and our companionable atmosphere is back.

"Sorry about my family waking you up," Esme apologizes.

"It's no problem, I really like them. They really care about you," I reassure, smiling her way.

"They are sweet, aren't they?" Esme agrees, returning the smile.

Doctor Can-do decides to show is sorry ass just then. He casually knocks on the open door, as if he hasn't been poking me with every needle in the hospital for the past week.

"Ms. Swan, do you mind coming to my office for a moment?" he inquires, as if I have a choice.

"Yeah, that would be nice, if I could freaking walk," I retort. I do not have to be nice to these people.

"Of course, that why I brought her," he answers, motioning to something behind him.

Nurse Perky-Pants comes in wheeling a wheelchair.

"Now," she begins overly-sweetly, obviously still bitter about last night "do you want to climb in, or would you like me to put you in here," she threatens, the smile on her face slowly turning evil.

I quietly climb in the chair, no trouble from me. She wheels me roughly out of the room and I slightly wave to Esme. We pass a multitude of identical hallways before arriving at a glass door with DOCTOR FRANKLIN in big, black letters printed on it.

She yanks the door open and pushes me through and wheels me around to face the desk. She glares at me and leaves. Damn, who buttered her toast? Oh right. Me.

Dr. Can-do sinks down into his cushy chair, looks at me and frowns.

"First of all, Ms. Swan, I'd like to address a complaint. We here at Harborview would appreciate it if you don't approach our staff as, ahem, asshats," he scolds.

I laugh at his awkward use of the curse word. He grimaces.

"We strive to keep a respectful environment between patient and care-giver. And we ask that you keep up your end of the deal, and treat the staff with respect," he continues sternly, quickly recovering from his little bout of awkwardness.

I try not to smile as I say, "No problem, won't happen again."

"Good, now I have more to tell you," he informs me, which instantly gets me on the edge of my seat…er, wheelchair.

Then he puts on the generic "bad news" face again. I hate that face. Nothing good ever follows that face.

"You're results came back today. I've got to tell you Bella, it's not good news."

Well, shit.