Hi everyone, SO sorry that it took so long to update, this chapter was really difficult to write for some reason. It's not the most exciting chapter, but I really thought that it kind of added the extra time in there, I sort of thought that it was necessary. Anyway, don't worry, I promise I will update before I leave for New York on Monday. I'll be back by next Friday, I believe. Anyway, here's chapter 4, I hope you like it!

The Harsh Light of Day

Chapter 4: Coma

Bella:

The next few hours—or maybe it was days; my mind wouldn't keep track of the time properly—brought with it only the comfort of a seemingly eternal nothing. I had no worries, entertained no doubts, yielded to no pain. I felt only an overwhelming sense of love and satisfaction—Edward was nearby, he was watching over me…and when I was finally expelled from this black haven, I would never have to leave his side. And forever would have a whole new meaning.

I had imagined this moment more times than I could count, as a fantasy…and as a nightmare. But the idea that my mind had created was so childishly romanticized. I'd pictured Edward holding me on my bed as he always did while I slept. I'd imagined a strength in me that overcame or ignored the pain and was able to focus on the beauty of the new world that I was becoming a part of.

But this was nothing close to what I had thought it would be like, such was the nature of fantasies. I had imagined the thought of Edward and only the thought of Edward sustaining me, keeping me only aware enough to think of him, to see him. That would, I thought, make my love for him seem all the more tangible. But honestly, this really wasn't the case. As beautifully meaningful as it was that the memory of Edward's face had been the only thing strong enough to console me in my hopelessness, now there was nothing to compare. My thoughts didn't dwell only on Edward; really, they didn't dwell on anything. It was like I was in some sort of morphine-induced coma. I didn't feel anything or think anything.

I had read a little about people in comas. Mostly, I suppose that it was probably fictional, but still it makes me wonder. Was there any truth to the idea that while someone's body lay in comatose, their consciousness drifted in a dreamlike state, exploring their own mind and discovering their own true self? Or was that simply the stuff of dreams, fabricated by writers who chose to change the ways of the world in their own minds?

I wonder if maybe it was different for someone in a normal coma—that is, one that was not induced from medication used to take the edge off the pain of changing permanently into an immortal vampire. Maybe the writers' version was the truth in a more normal circumstance. I would never know.

It didn't matter. I wasn't actually thinking about comas and the strange and unique nature of mine. I wasn't thinking of anything. My mind was gone; if to some place to which my body and my memory didn't follow, then I knew nothing of it. I think that more accurately, my mind was like a computer: shutting down and cooling of before the ultimate reboot.

It meant nothing at the time. Nothing meant anything. I couldn't understand or process anything. Not even pain. Pain, which had been my biggest concern, which had at first robbed my very essence of coherency and the ability to remember a reason to live, now had not even the slightest, most insignificant effect on me. I couldn't feel it, much less bring myself to care about it. If I'd been aware of anything, thinking of anything, I probably would have been praising Carlisle's name for that miracle morphine of his.

Suddenly, and I had not the faintest idea how long it had been since the last time I had formed anything resembling a thought, something snapped. Literally; I heard a snap somewhere in the room, or perhaps in my head, and was abruptly confused by my having been able to process hearing anything or indeed being able to feel confusion—or anything else—about it.

After the initial snap, and the confusion that immediately followed, several things happened all at once. The main thing, or at least the thing that seemed so obvious right away to me, was that I could feel something—everything! Something soft behind my head, something warm covering my legs and torso, and—I realized, almost smiling—Edward's hand gently squeezing mine. It took me a moment to get over the shock and wonder of these realizations, and of noticing that I still felt no pain. But when I did, I finally noticed the smells. Several of them surrounded me just in that one moment.

Most seemed vaguely familiar, but so much stronger than the mere inclinations that they were before now. They filled my being the second they reached my nostrils. Something fresh and floral, strangely invigorating in a toxic new way. Flowers and grass—was I outside? No, the window must have been open; the scent was strong but not overpowering. Something else, bitter and burning, awakened an annoyance in me; it seemed unnecessary and much too close to me for my taste. Another hundred odors flew at me, flooding my senses until one, so much sweeter, so much more potent, hit me full in the face, overtaking me within seconds.

I recognized it—so familiar, so comforting. It was sweet in an unbearably glorious way. It reminded me of all the reasons that I was still alive, that I still had the strength and the faith to go on. It was his scent. If it was blown across a thousand seas I would still know this aroma and it would bring me calm.

Through all of these new discoveries, I still hadn't stirred at all. A part of me was afraid of the world that awaited me when I woke. I lingered close to consciousness, breathing in the sweet scent of Edward, trying idly to convince myself to wake up and leave this comfort zone behind me.

I finally took a deep breath, altering for the first time my pattern that had lasted as long as I could reasonably guess. I detected no change in Edward's position, but I couldn't be positive until I looked directly at him. I took another bracing breath, clenching my jaw against the unsanctioned fear, and slowly opened my eyes.

Edward:

I didn't deserve to be in the same room with her. I didn't deserve to live in the same world with her. I dreaded the moment she woke up; if she had one ounce of sense, she would refuse to see me, she would shun me for the rest of eternity. In fact, that would perhaps be better than what I knew she would do; the truth of it was that she didn't have any sense. I knew that she would find some twisted way of seeing things, of making everything not my fault; she would not blame me. Perhaps that was worse. It would probably be easier if she would scream at me, blame me for not only ruining her life, but in effect, ending it. If she would be angry. Then I would have some small chance of forgiving myself, however slowly, as she did. As it was, she would probably forgive me before she even had time to realize the full impact of what had happened. So I would be left to the chore of hating myself; the way that I felt now, someone had to blame me. How could I bring myself to be with her? To look into her eyes and let myself take comfort in her when I had committed such a crime against her? I knew that she would still love me somehow, but that I would never deserve her. No matter what happened between now and the end of forever, I would never find a way to forgive myself for what I had done to her.

But at the same time, I hated every second that passed while she was not awake. It had been only eighteen hours since the venom had first entered her bloodstream. What Alice had told me was indisputably true, but it was also completely unprecedented. This meant that I really had no idea when—or even, I suppose, if—she would wake up. If just for the comfort of knowing that she was alright, no matter what she thought of me, I wished with everything that I was that she would open her eyes.

I was, in short, trapped in an incurable—or so it seemed to me—state of perfect torment and sheer misery.

I held her limp, chilled hand in mine; I hadn't let go of it for one second since I had carried her into my bedroom and laid her on the couch there, and in those tortuous hours, I had noted a marked change in the texture of her skin. I grasped her hand tightly in both of my own, my elbows resting on my knees, my head bent as I pressed my lips to her fingers.

My entire body shook with silent, dry sobs that ripped through my system and almost forced the tears that would not form to fall.

I felt worthless, guilty, weak, conflicted, alone, selfish, absolutely terrified—terrified of myself, of what was going to happen when Bella exited her coma and entered my world, of that minute possibility that the extra potency of my venom would kill her.

The violence of my sobs was, at this point, such that I had to call on every bit of my concentration to keep from vibrating into another dimension. I kept perfectly still, not because it felt any better, but simply because I knew that if I gave in now, I may never reemerge from my despair.

I was vaguely aware of a deviation in the steady pattern of Bella's breathing. But I was so consumed with grief that the meaning of this didn't really register with my mind.

I felt Bella's hand flex. At this, I finally lifted my head and looked at her. My eyes trailed from her hand up her arm to her face. Her own eyes were finally open, staring unblinking at me, trying to catch my eye.

And then my gaze locked with hers, and my entire world was changed.

Alright, yes. So, all in all, not my best chapter. Let me know what you think. The next chapter should be better!