Disclaimer: I do not own Twilight
"Why do you stay in prison when the door is so wide open? Move outside the tangle of fear-thinking. Live in silence." - Jalal al-Din Muhammad Rumi
The drugs are lovely. So very, very lovely. They wrap around you, fitting into the niches of your body, curling into you like a lover on a cloudy day. Sensations of exploding warmth waft from your toes to your center, spreading and fanning itself. You are immobilized, yet immobilized by the sleepy caress of your new best friend. A blanket of sleep stretches lazily across your eyelids, painting a smile, tiny and quaint, before you depart rationality. You recede, sans pain, sans anything, into the realm of unconsciousness. You are that tiny dot on the horizon perspective of a painting, the landmark atop that hill miles away, the balloon, floating away, with no one to hold the string.
Yet with this comes the risk of not knowing what you'll get.
Sometimes, it's surreal. The sky is violet, the grass weeps blue. Sometimes, it's so close to reality, you awake with a jerk. Sometimes, there are people. Rose, arriving in all age forms. Age five with pigtails and overalls. Age thirteen with her new shade of Strawberry Ice lip-gloss swiped on. Age seventeen with her new cartilage piercing. Age twenty-one with her running mascara and bleary, blue eyes. Charlie, just as in the photos, with his one-toothed, eight-year old grin. Charlie, walking toward me in his wedding tuxedo - only to tear it off and burn it. Charlie, pulling out his pistol and threatening the sky that he'll avenge his baby. Renee visits sometimes, cloaked in reality and surrealism depending on the dosage. Emmett's been there, usually cracking jokes, trying to assuage the Rosalie with the mascara still running down her cheeks. Professor Esme has been there, holding a paintbrush in her delicate fingers, telling me to sweep the bristles. Close your eyes and sweep. Over and over again. Why? I'd asked her. Pour oublier. She responded with a smile in her native tongue. To forget what? To forget what, Professor? And when he appears, the nurses have to come in and restrain my screaming. They shush me, wiping the hair from my face with cool, tired fingers. I grip the sides of the bed, rocking back and forth until the blonde doctor comes in. Doctor Cullen usually lays me back to sleep, mentioning a thing or two about Ambien, benzodiazepines and rehabilitation. And then I'm back on my way to another episode of drug-induced, subconscious adventures.
Because after Charlie visited, all I've wanted is to forget.
"Bella," He gruffly says. "Jesus Christ, Isabella." His voice drops to the lowest decibel the moment he enters the room. My father stands there, his eyes boring into the battered frame of his only child. They rake over every bruise, every cut, every piece of hurt. Scattered in shambles, I manage to see his eyes prick before I witness this: Charlie, my father, Charlie, the cop, Charlie, the man still in love with Renee, crumbles. His knees buckle and he drops onto his hands, staring at the glowing white of the linoleum tile.
"Dad," I whisper, the tears welling. "I still love you." A nurse places her hands on his shoulder blades, soothing him with incoherent mumbles. The dam breaks and I clutch my scratchy blanket, sobbing and falling back into that pit of darkness.
"I love you. I always have," He says quietly and doesn't meet my eye. "But it wasn't enough." I shake, my chest trembling and exploding with pain.
"But it was, Dad. It was." I sputter and a nurse hustles over to me.
"No," He shakes his head and slowly rises from the floor. "Look at you. I wish you could see yourself, Isabella." Just as everyone else, he stares at the bruises. The sickening buzzing of the fluorescent lights taunt me, giddily singing and deeming me weak.
"I'm okay." I lie for the umpteenth time. It slips through easily, my tears continuing to spill.
"I'll kill the son of a bitch." He growls, that familiar flash of anger entering my own father's eyes.
"Stop," I sob. "Stop it. Make it leave." I bunch the fabric of the blanket over my face and squeeze my eyes shut. When I finally uncover my face, his eyes are brimming with apology.
"I'm so sorry, Bella. I'm so sorry." He whispers and cautiously walks toward my bed. He lightly places a hand on my bed and slowly, carefully, lowers himself onto the floor. Without breaking my gaze, his eyes close.
"Dad." I place my hand over his. I can feel the aging in his hand, the cracks and rough barrier around my father. My fingers curl around his and my peripheral IV does too, the catheter moving with it and the tape around my wrist straining. The intravenous tube snaking out of my hand grazes his arm slightly.
"Bella." Is all he says before he wraps his arm around me gingerly. He presses me to him, so lightly as if I'm now his porcelain daughter. The moisture seeping into the right shoulder of my hospital gown sets me off as well. The first time I see Charlie cry, and I can do nothing, for I'm blinded by my own stint of tears.
My roommate doesn't stare when the nurses wipe my face. He doesn't stare when Doctor Cullen flashes that cheery smile before injecting yet another syringe into my intravenous drip. He doesn't stare when they bring me my blue tablets of Lamictal in a plastic cup. He doesn't stare when I have a new visitor, crying and falling to that linoleum floor. He doesn't stare when I wake up screaming. He doesn't stare when I fold into myself and simply cry. And most of all, he doesn't stare at the bruises. He is the only one who doesn't stare. I like to think he's extending me a courtesy, but I really don't know.
He has a different doctor, always muttering something about catatonia and severe depression. "Catatonic depression." His balding doctor confers to a nurse seconds after I awake from a drug-induced dream. She nods solemnly and they both glance at my roommate. He stares at the ceiling.
…..
"How long have I been here?" I ask a blonde nurse one time. Emmett has a chair pulled up and he flicks through the wall television with the remote. My roommate is asleep.
"One day, dear." She smiles before hooking another saline bag onto the pole. One day? I blink rapidly.
"It seems so much longer," I whisper. "Like a week." She brushes her hands against her skirt.
"No, 24 hours." She chippers and turns around. I blink.
"Go, Mariners." Emmett strains a grin as the television flicks grey with a shot of Safeco Field and downtown Seattle's skyline. The stadium is basked in sunshine, a rarity, as the announcer reels off the lineup. I attempt to smile weakly.
"Hope they don't get any errors." I whisper.
"Let's hope not." He says quietly. But he's not looking at the television. We watch in silence as the first inning commences, him occasionally pulling at his jacket collar or ruffling those dark curls. I run a finger across my catheter and sleepily watch the sport I used to love. That is, until my old life slipped through my battered fingers. Moments pass as Emmett cracks jokes, my roommate sleeps and I cease to give a shit.
"Oh, Miss Swan," A nurse flits into the room. I glance up slowly, Emmett with me. We gaze at her, for there is a wheelchair placed in front of her. Her thin fingers grasp the handles and I whimper. "You had CT scans, so now you need an MRI." She glances at the empty wheelchair seat and I close my eyes.
"How am I supposed to get into that?" I croak.
"I can help." Emmett rises from his seat and places the remote onto the stand. They gently peel the blanket from my body, folding it back to reveal my sickly legs. They're gaunt, so thin and awkward that I'm momentarily enveloped in horror. Worn and emaciated, my kneecaps jut from beneath my pallid skin as there is nothing there. Skin and bones. Bruised skin and bones. Violet, black, blue and paste white, the fluorescent lights place them on display. They've hidden for too long behind sweats, and I once again, begin to cry. I'm still crying when Emmett gently cradles me into the wheelchair seat, and as I'm wheeled out of the room, my chest aches. My friend carries my IV pole alongside me as the blur of hospital surroundings flash by again. And once in the radiation room, I lie helpless. On the scanner, I am motionless, and even if I had a desire to move, I sure as hell couldn't. Emmett waits outside as I undergo the long, tedious procedure of an MRI. My head enters the scanner and I close my eyes. The quantum mechanical properties and all that lovely proton activity commence, causing a whirring noise. I fall asleep to the beat of the hospital's heartbeat.
…..
Very rarely are there no nurses or doctors in our room. And these are the times, far and few, where my roommate slips from his "catatonic" façade. He usually stirs, fiddling with something or changing the wall television to the Food Network. Yet this time, he turns to me.
"They really shouldn't give you that high of a dosage." He turns to face me after hours of being a statue. I'd just downed my tablets of Lamictal, and the moment the nurse and Emmett left, he sat upright. I glance, exhaustedly, at him. The MRI session drained the sliver of energy I once possessed.
"Why?" I croak warily.
"It suppresses you too much." He wraps his blanket around him and I note how lovely his face is. He has a new bandage around his head, but that blanket still sits stubbornly on his neckline.
"The prophylaxis of bipolar disorder is too much? Suppressing? At least it doesn't trigger the mania and all that good stuff." I sigh, painfully, and close my eyes.
"Precisely. The prophylaxis is all in good fun, yes. But keep in mind that lithium citrate was around years before the FDA approved your lamotrigine there." My eyes flash open. Smart, too, I think to myself.
"So what are you saying? That I need to stick to old school?" I whisper and torpidly clutch my stomach in slight pain. Our eyes stay locked, and I somehow find a haven in those green orbs.
"Yes. Your brain is just a sea of antidepressants right now." He purses his lips and once again, buries half his face into the pillow.
"It always has been." I sigh.
He grimaces slightly and closes his eyes. "Just ask them to reduce your dosage. It shouldn't be that high."
"How do you know all this?" I furrow my brow, my left eye still crusted shut.
"Well, you have bipolar disorder, according to your medication." He murmurs.
"Oh… right. But…" I trail. "Nevermind." I bite my lip and exhale.
"It's nice to know we have something in common." He issues flatly.
"And what would that be?"
"I'm clinically depressed. Nice to meet you." He gazes at me, no humor in those eyes. They're laced with memories of melancholia, and I don't dare to ask. Rather, I take a different approach.
"Manic depression is cooler." I joke.
"Cooler," He muses to himself. "That may be." The corner of his lip twitches, causing a tiny capsule of happiness to break open within me. He has a face meant to smile.
"And maybe they think I'm crazy." I sigh and mimic him in nestling half my face into the pillow.
"It's okay. They think I'm crazy too." His lip twitches once more as he gazes at me. I can't help but strain a smile.
"Why? Because you're catatonic around medical personnel?" I darkly muse.
"That," Humor cakes his tone. "Is only because I choose to be."
"And why is that?" I croak and blink once, slowly.
"Because it's bullshit. Pardon my language, Miss…"
"Bella," I sigh. "But, they're trying to save you, Mister…" I refute and idly trace my catheter.
"Edward," He says fluidly, perfectly. Sadly. "And I don't need to be saved, Miss Bella." His tone is edged, dull. I grip my wrist.
"Why don't you need to be saved? Why are you even in here?" I prod and he shuts those eyes.
"I don't want to be saved. But that landed me in here, didn't it?" I needn't say more, but I continue to gaze at this miserable stranger. He gazes back, wordlessly, and I shut my eyes.
"How do you know all that stuff about manic depression?" I ask inaudibly.
"I just do." He says simply. The Mariners game continues to flash in my peripheral vision. There is a low round of cheers emitted from the television as Seattle hits a double.
"How?" I repeat stubbornly. Lopez making his way around 3rd, running for home. There he goes, there he goes! The announcer drones distantly in my left ear.
"What'd you get on your Rorschach test?" He demands. I wheeze once, coughing before composing myself.
"How do you know about the inkblot test?"
"I told you. They think I'm crazy too, remember?" He flashes a wicked smile, and disregarding the darkness of it, that capsule of happiness reopens.
"Well, I didn't get anything sinister but they'd rather not call me sane. If anything, they deemed me artistic." I croak and bury my face into the pillow.
"Of course." His muffled voice reaches me.
"Of course what?" I speak into the scratchy pillow.
"Manic depressives, or those suffering from bipolar disorder, tend to have vast, artistic capabilities." I lift my head to gaze at him, careful not to graze my eye.
"How do you know that –"
"Are you in college?" He begins to sit upright.
"Y-Yes –" I whisper, but he cuts me off.
"What's your major?"
"Art –"
"There you go." There is silence as he gathers the blanket into his lap.
"And what did you get on your Rorschach test?" I strain.
"Depression." He says simply and lets the blanket fall from around him. The only noise left is the baseball game, and even that is silent. The silence eats away at my eyes, the tubes in my body, Melky Cabrera and the New York Yankees on the television, and the space between my bed and his. But I know it eats him too. Bandages wind around his arms, spanning from wrist to mid-forearm. They're soiled, bloodied and heartbreaking. The silence may eat him, but his own abundance of hurt screams so loudly that no one can hear a single decibel.
…..
I've received flowers and teddy bears. But the next person to visit brings a different gift. My college professor stands in the doorframe, shuffling her feet and glancing at the ceiling. Her caramel hair is wound in that familiar bun, and I nearly cry of joy. A second maternal figure to me, I grin. My doctor has a brief chat with her and he smiles more than usual.
"Bella," He leads her toward my bed. "You have another visitor. Miss Popular." The blonde doctor beams and adjusts his tie.
"Hello, dear," Professor Esme croons softly. "I had to get over here as quickly as I could."
"I'll leave you two." Doctor Cullen flickers that smile.
"Oh, it was lovely to meet you, Carlisle." My professor blushes. I blush for her as well.
"A pleasure, Esme." He nods and lightly places a hand on her shoulder. And for unexplained reasons, my roommate pops an eye open to ogle. He rolls that eye before shutting it again and I gape.
"Goodbye." She chirps meekly. He nods and turns to leave before lingering half a second too long.
As soon as the door is shut, I swallow dryly. "Bella," She turns to me and clutches a brown portfolio to her chest. "Oh, child. Oh, darling." She says softly and gently falls to her knees.
"Esme…" I trail and plead with my eyes. I've had enough of tears.
"I should have known," She shakes her head. "I should have known."
"No, you shouldn't have," I whisper. "No one knew."
"I knew there wasn't something right with you." Her voice cracks as she places a hand over my catheter.
"It's okay." I issue the lie, as I always have.
"Darling," She whispers, speaking so softly it's as if I really am porcelain. "I brought you your work." My gaze trails downward to her portfolio then back up to her.
"Thank you." I tremble.
"You were a wonderful student. Astounding, Bella. You could have gone somewhere with this." She continues in whispers and I shut my eyes. The tears leak through regardless. When I reopen them, my portfolio is opened, splaying my paintings. They're stacked neatly and meticulously, the painting of top being one of Rosalie. Typical. She beckons for me to take it, and carefully, gingerly, I hold my paintings. I thumb through them, pausing to smile at a few. The first one, Rose with oversized sunglasses, lies in her family's backyard in a bikini. She splays on the towel, her knees curled up and her hair spilling around her head. She smiles slightly, potentially unaware at the time I was sketching her. Her hand is in her hair, and she appears to be posing in that itsy bitsy teeny weeny black bikini. Yet she was asleep – a moment in time. A person having a pure moment, unguarded, shields retracted, walls crumbled.
Another painting is Jessica Stanley. She has her ankles crossed, those heels awkwardly bent on the sidewalk. Her right hand clutches her peacoat closer to her as her left palm holds a packet of cigarettes. One pokes out the side of her mouth and the city's wind plays around her curled hair. Her brow is furrowed slightly, a hint of irritation overcoming her countenance, as she is engrossed in conversation with Mike Newton. He too, appears somewhat irritated, and the tip of his nose is rosy from the wind. Locks of blonde hair rise with the wind as his hand lightly grazes her knee. They're leaning into one another, albeit the depicted animosity of their conversation. I'd drawn them, afar, a night where I was allowed out. Of course, I couldn't escape animosity, even if I dug a hole to China.
I continue to flip through my paintings, smiling at the story behind each of them. Because every painting has a story, Professor Esme once said to me. Don't you think their story deserves to be told? I count, internally, the amount of paintings in my portfolio. One is missing. I shut my eyes, tensing as the memory painting flashes through my mind. He was sitting at the kitchen table, reading the morning paper. He had bedhead, those dark locks un-brushed. His eyes were brown as he scanned the paper, an eyebrow raised slightly. It was a morning after – a time where I knew I was safe. I had a twenty-four hour safe zone. Because he felt guilt. There were times where remorse would flash across those black eyes, his fist still raised. After a blow, he'd snap out of a trance, gazing down in horror at me at the floor. I could count on him trying to attain some sort of penance. Some sort of fucking penance by placing his hand on the small of my back as we walked together on the sidewalk, or him paying for both dinner and a pretty trinket.
But the painting is missing, and as I meet my professor's gaze, I silently thank her. She squeezes my hand.
"Thank you." I whisper.
"Of course, Bella," She fiddles with her purse. "But I have something else for you." I cough once, my chest aching.
"Oh?"
"Here," She says softly and holds both hands out. In one palm is a paintbrush. The handle is a light brown shade of wood and the bristles are thick, black. In the other palm is a yellow, Number 2 pencil. "To make up for what you've lost."
For the missing painting? Or for more?
…..
"Can I see them?" My roommate scratches the back of his bandaged head. He has new, linen bandages around his arms and I gaze torpidly at him.
"See what?" I clear my throat.
"Your paintings." He turns his body to face me from across our space.
"They're not very good…" I bite my lip.
"Please?" His tone is sad and those green eyes brim with haunted visions.
"Fine." I sigh and slowly raise my arm to retrieve my portfolio sitting atop my nightstand.
"Oh," He mutters. "But I can't hold them." I stop to gaze at him.
"Why?" My fingers drum the edge of the stand and he tilts his head slightly.
"They don't let me touch anything these days." He says inaudibly and raises his arms.
"Oh." I retract my fingers to have them graze my blanket.
"Who are they of?" He blinks once.
"Friends, acquaintances, you know." I croak before coughing.
"Did you paint him?" His gaze bores into my eyes, not my skin, and a fluttering sensation flips my insides.
"What?" I whisper.
"Did you paint him?" He repeats solidly.
"I… Yes," I swallow dryly. "I painted him."
"Why? Because you thought that the man in the painting wasn't the man doing unspeakable things to you?" He demands, those eyes boring in.
"What –" Tears sting at my eyes and I clutch the blanket.
"Am I right? Did you think that his aura of innocence was enough to shackle him to a piece of paper? That he would never lash out and jump out of his frozen moment in time?" There is silence before an animalistic sound escapes my throat.
"Stop," I begin to sob. "Stop it."
"I'm sorry." He says quietly. I tremble in my bed, squeezing my eyes shut, the tears cascading down my cheeks.
"H-h-how… How did you k-know?" I hiccup and grip the blanket.
"Just because." He's inaudible.
"How?" I snap and wince from the pain.
"Let's just say, everyone has their fall from grace." I open my eyes to find him sitting upright, staring vacuously at the white linoleum.
"That's so vague." I reply angrily, sniffling.
"If you spend your life staring into a glass box, you always wonder what it's like on the inside. You peer into it, study it, observe it. You know everything on the exterior, but the interior is a mystery. And then one day, poof. You're on the inside. Here's the catch: the inside in a prison, Bella. You don't know how to claw your way out." He says softly, finally raising his eyes to meet my gaze.
"I've spent my life inside that box." I shut my eyes.
"And now you're on the outside." He murmurs.
"Because I have no choice. My box is shattered." I reopen them to stare at this mysterious man. This mysterious, beautiful man. This mysterious, beautiful, broken man.
"Well, my box has no key." He gazes right back, ignoring the bruises. He gazes at me, trying to unravel, or rather, fit the pieces of my shattered glass box back together. He spills the contents onto the table and commences in puzzling the broken bits back together.
I'm going to die of exhaustion! Bah! Sleepy time...
Well, I hope you like it. Thanks for reading!
Happy Memorial Day :)
kisses, JennyCullen44