A/N: Some important info is revealed in this chapter. Bella's been up to a whole lot more than she thinks.
Summary: "He was my only…anything. Only kiss, only touch, only…fuck. I couldn't call it anything other than a fuck, because anything else hurt too much. He said it was a mistake, and making love isn't a mistake. Fucking is a mistake. Nonetheless, babies come from fucking. And my body was carrying a…baby." Bella awakens with a bit more clarity after her breakup-induced depressed stupor. With a biologically impossible situation at hand, Bella must find her way back to the Cullens and solve the problem that no normal teenage girl is fit to handle. New Moon AU, BxE.
Disclaimer: I don't own Twilight. Rated M for sexual content, mention of self-harm, adult themes, and adult language.
Chapter 4
I stood in the lobby of Forks Medical Center, tapping my nails anxiously against the curved armrest of my chair. I had asked to speak with Laura, a nurse that I knew worked frequently with Carlisle. She was my only hope.
The mousy receptionist eyed me, taking in my small frame. Fortunately, my poor appearance actually served some sort of advantage. I definitely looked like someone recovering from a stay at the hospital. However, I made sure not to look too desperately ill, not wanting to somehow find myself checked in. I even forced myself to come after school, making sure my story was foolproof. I sat in the waiting area, trying to not bite my nails and make myself look suspicious,
A round, forty-something nurse rounded the corner, eyes searching for someone: me. She was rather plump and dressed in heart dotted scrubs. I could see she was easily the kind to flock to Carlisle. She had glasses hanging from her neck. Perfect. If she had bad eyesight, she had to come near before she could realize I wasn't one of her patients,
"Angela?" she asked, glancing over the halfway full waiting area. A flush of shame overtook me. Angela had been Carlisle's patient over the summer for a persistent bronchitis. I felt terrible using her name, but she created the perfect ruse for me when the receptionist logged my visit into the system. We had similar appearances, save for Angela's glasses, and I definitely looked like I could be falling ill to bronchitis again.
"Hey, Nurse Laura!" I feigned enthusiasm, praying my nervousness didn't break through. The receptionist was tapping at her keyboard, disinterested. I let out a breath.
Laura sat down across me, seemingly believing that I was Angela. I hadn't expected that. Once she settled herself, she perched her glasses on her nose. A look of confusion came over her expression when she realized that we had never met before, and I definitely wasn't Angela Weber.
I held up my hand before speaking quietly. I swallowed before speaking, forcing as much confidence into my voice as possible. "I'm sorry, I know I'm not one of your patients. I just needed a cover to get you to speak to me. I needed a reasonable tie to you, otherwise you wouldn't have been able to come down. I was close with the Cullen family, specifically Alice, and I needed a way to contact Alice's father."
Laura's eyes lit up at the mention of Carlisle. I was sure her job had become a lot less interesting since his departure. I could see her in my mind, following him around with her clipboard, doodling love notes. Sounded familiar. "You knew Dr. Cullen well?" She seemed almost starstruck, as if she meeting someone who knew a celebrity. Her hands clasped together and she leaned forward in great interest. It almost came across as pathetic, but I knew all too well what constant exposure to Cullen could to do a seemingly respectable person.
I continued to lie. "Oh, absolutely. He and Mrs. Cullen were so kind to me when I would stay over with Alice. We were very close." I bit my cheek as an unexpected twang of heartbreak happened in my chest. Just get through this.
Her expression darkened when I mentioned Esme. I made a mental note not to mention her again. "Oh, that sounds like him. So good with everyone, especially his patients. You should have seen him on the floor!" She threw her hand forward, as if she was doting upon a skilled dancer, not a small town doctor.
I had to grip the armrest tighter, struggling to keep up the pleasantries. I wanted nothing more to be crying in the cab of my truck. "Oh, I wish. Alice was very inspired by him…which reminds me." I leaned forward. "I need a favor."
Laura raised her penciled eyebrow over her glasses. She seemed to be taking the bait, but perhaps I had underestimated her. I would need to keep buttering her up.
"Dr. Cullen was so good with his children. Alice's brothers and sisters were all so studious and very kind. Alice, however…" I inhaled for dramatic effect. I had to resist a cringe as I dragged Alice's name through the mud. "…she was definitely doing good in school, at first."
Laura's eyes looked intensely curious. I was surprised she wasn't taking notes.
"But right before they left, she told me about this boy she was going to meet up in LA. He definitely was bad news, and it's eating me up that I haven't been able to warn Dr. Cullen. I was wondering if you could help me find a possible contact for them? I have Alice's number obviously." Ouch. "But I very well can't tell her to tell her dad that I'm worried about her." Nothing would incite a middle age woman to accidentally break the law more than scheme to morally curb someone. It also helped that her previous assigned doctor was inhumanly handsome.
"What can I do?" she learned forward, whispering conspiratorially. I smiled.
x
I nearly ran to the car, in a strange combination of satisfaction, excitement, and terror. Not to mention the unaddressed open wound in my chest that had been threatening to tear open at any moment as I sat in that waiting room. As I hopped into the cab, my response to the influx of emotion was to simply break down in tears. I'm not sure whether they were happy or sad. My time spent suppressing my emotions made it very difficult to understand what I was feeling.
Laura had disappeared into the depths of the hospital for a good fifteen minutes before returning empty handed, save for her clipboard. I nearly felt disappointed before she handed me a sheet, a completely random, blank patient pain survey, with words scribbled in the bottom corner. I didn't have time to read it before she spoke.
"Now, take this and give it to your parents. I don't think they'd appreciate you making visits on uninsured time."
I nodded, wide eyed. She had done it. She had found something. It was almost—actually, entirely—too good to believe. I couldn't imagine the Cullens leaving something behind. That wasn't what they did.
In my heart, I knew it had to be a fake piece of information. Carlisle had been dodging these kinds of bullets for years, I'm sure he had a whole system set up. Still, I had to try.
I hastily wiped the tears from eyes on my jacket sleeve, pulling the slip of paper from my pocket in urgency. I unfolded it, pressing it against my steering wheel to read since I didn't trust my shaking hands to hold it.
Dr. Cullen left behind this number, for "specific emergencies". There was a whole footnote about it, but I'm assuming his daughter's health would count for that. Good luck and put a good word in for me!
My heart sank. There was no way this number was real. It was just too easy. The Cullens were smarter than this. If a common nurse could get it, then any of their enemies could.
Tears continued to drop down my cheeks, salty and hot. I had no other ideas.
I drove back to Charlie's slowly. A crack of thunder surprised me at a stop light, making me jump in the cab and accidentally gun the gas. The truck sputtered loudly, and I struggled to get myself across the road before a car hit me. I felt like slapping myself. I was so damn stupid, in everything I did.
Seconds later, raindrops began to land on the rust-covered hood of my truck. It was another dumb metaphor for the depression that had fallen over my life. I drove home, the increasing intensity of the rainfall thundering in the cab. My eyes glanced to my radio, missing the sound of music. My heart nearly stopped when I realized I had failed to notice something quite obvious in my car.
Emmett had given me a modern stereo system for my birthday. It was black and sleek, and it had looked incredibly out of place for the one day I remembered driving with it in the truck.
It was gone.
How the fuck had I not noticed this giant hole where it once was? It was practically looking me in the eye with how painful the memory was.
Cut wires and jagged edges hung from the gaping square, totally vacant. Exposed wiring hung dangerously above my lap, and it had taken me months to even notice it. Who would have stolen it?
When I pulled into the driveway, I immediately turned off the car and leaned down to get a better look. The stereo was totally fucking empty, ripped out. The slightest sense of nausea came over me when I noticed small droplets of blood on the floor beneath it and the edges. Whoever took the stereo out of the car used their hands.
A memory, sudden and quick, appeared in my mind. Its edges were darkened and blurry, like a photograph lost in a thunderstorm.
My hands claw at the dashboard, my sobs filling the car in the pouring rain. The clock on the dash indicates that it's just past three AM. Blood dribbles down my fingers, nails breaking as I pull with all my might to remove the stereo. The pressure I'm putting on my fingertips forces blood through the small cuts I've made so far, smearing onto the device and dropping onto the floor. I laugh loudly as it pulls free, still tethered by its countless wires and cords. I blindly reach for my scissors, accidentally cutting my fingertip on the sharp blade. I disregard the feeling, along with the cuts, and move to cut the wires.
I had no memory of this.
My hands, sitting weakly on my lap, look innocent from a distance. As I raise my right hand towards my face, I see the near-invisible seals of several almost completely healed scars.
I walked into the house, flabbergasted with myself. How had I completely lost that memory? I would have had to had cut up fingers for days, and I wasn't exactly the kind of person to overlook an open wound. I stared down at my hands in shock.
"Hey, Bells."
I nearly jumped a foot in the air.
Charlie sat in his recliner with his uniform unbuttoned. I glanced at the clock above the mantle. 4:44. He was home early.
"Where'd you go after school? I was expecting to see you when I got here."
I was caught off guard, totally unprepared to see Charlie so soon after school. My mind was elsewhere, and I must not have noticed his cruiser in the driveway. Like clockwork, he came home every day at 5:32. 6:05 when he would stop by Harry Clearwater's to pick up fish fry.
I sputtered out the first thing that came to mind, still unable to comprehend the past two minutes. "Stopped by Angela's house to pick up my jacket. I accidentally left it at lunch today."
I silently cursed myself. My explanation was too specific. Specificity meant suspicion. I prayed that Charlie wouldn't think anything of it.
He nodded, looking content with that response. Of course, he had to dig deeper. "You guys been talking much?"
Oh god. Small talk. I had been excused from it for the past few months…or so I had thought. What had I been saying to Charlie? My mind was blank.
"I mean, we sit together at lunch." His face fell. I thought quickly, trying to think of something to satisfy him. "But we have plans this weekend! We just asked her parents if we could go to Port Angeles on Saturday. I was going to ask if I could stay over at her house this weekend when you came home, but you caught me off guard." I forced a laugh, sounding thoroughly maniacal. Shut the fuck up, Bella.
Charlie, rather than looking satisfied, looked at me as if I had grown another head. "You want to stay…with a friend?"
I coughed. "Er, then am I not allowed to?" I was digging myself in deeper. Why didn't I just say I was at the library?
He blinked and waved his hand quickly. "Oh, no! Please, go. I, uh, have a late shift this weekend that I was gonna trade with Mark. It works out. I'm just surprised is all."
Charlie's offhand comment made me go quiet. He had been planning on trading another shift, just so he wouldn't leave me home alone. I resisted the urge to cry, and actually found it very difficult to keep the tears at bay. What else had he been doing for me?
I chose to ignore the surprised comment. "Okay, awesome. I'll call her." I picked my phone up out of my pocket and waved it at him. He still looked at me strangely. "Did you want me to make dinner?"
Charlie looked at me like I was missing something obvious. He scratched the back of his neck. "Uh, Bells, you haven't gone to the store in over a month. We've got milk, cheese, cereal…." he went on with his list, but I couldn't focus.
I had thought I remembered the last two months well enough, but as the minutes passed, it was becoming more apparent how little I had noticed. Hell, I had woken from my stupor two days ago and I had just thought about making dinner for Charlie. Before it happened, I cooked for him almost daily.
He stared at me expectantly. "Oh, uh, I'll have to do that then. Chinese?"
x
After a thankfully quiet dinner of beef and broccoli in front of the TV, I headed upstairs to my room. My mind was racing yet again.
When I closed my door, I instantly walked to my closet, throwing open the door. I had offhandedly noticed how little I had to wear when getting dressed, but I noticed now that I literally had nothing in my closet but couleurs de la misère: Renée's old t-shirts, Charlie's flannels, and all of my oldest jeans. Many of my favorite items of clothing were missing. In fact, there was not a single pop of color in my closet. Only faded greens, grays, and black. Even my bin of random socks looked monochromatic.
My eyes dropped to the floor as I scanned the closet. My previously full CD case was totally empty. Smashed, with small fragments of plastic and reflective CD bits on the floor. I jumped back when I realized how close my bare toes were to another potential cut.
I stepped away in horror. Distant, buried memories of me filling trashcans with clothes I had worn with him filled my mind. Sobbing as I pushed item after item in. I saw myself, weeping at the empty scrapbook my mother had given me before tossing it into the same bag. No photos had even been put in it, but just the context of them item must have been too much. I saw myself slamming a huge Austen collection down on my CD case, shattering discs and breaking the stand. Sharp fragments danced across the floor, and I stepped on them in my thankfully covered feet. I had at least had the foresight to wear gloves then, too. The memories were buried deep, and required digging to bring them up. As each one popped into my head, it was like more and more of the past was suddenly being unveiled to me, a great garnet curtain lifting in a certain part of my mind.
The implications of these memories made me realize there was a whole world of events that I had no memory of. What had I been doing? Who had I hurt? I had known I was essentially living on another plane of existence, but the concept of not remembering my own volatile actions made my head hurt. I had thought that my autopilot switch was only active at school. Maybe it came on for things I didn't want to remember either. The most painful of moments. Perhaps my brain was trying to protect itself from the raw pain that came with each moment.
I sat down on the bed, my mind processing anything else that I could have possibly done.
Life wasn't too different, right? I couldn't have thrown a tantrum at school or attacked Charlie, or something along those lines. All of those actions would have major repercussions that I would have had to deal with already. No one gets away with insanity that easily. I needed some faith in the few people who still were on my side. Angela wouldn't have welcomed me so openly yesterday if I had done anything truly horrible.
Everything I had done solely concerned him. Every memory that had emerged had a direct tie with the Cullens. No one else had brought on this kind of reaction. Surely if anything had happened with Charlie or Renée, it would have bubbled up to the surface by now. Only that which concerned nothing but myself and him seemed to be lost territory.
I stood and began to move rapidly, opening and closing dresser drawers, searching for anything else I could have done. I woke up my ancient computer, only to see nothing but school documents amongst the files. I opened my email next, unprepared for what I saw.
My stomach dropped.
I had at least one hundred unopened Undelivered messages addressed to Alice's disconnected email address. No subjects, just constant Re:, over and over again.
I screamed into my hands.
A sudden onslaught of memories of me sitting at my computer, furiously typing message after message to Alice came to the forefront of my mind. I quickly began scanning the messages, starting from September 19th, only a few days after I returned to Charlie's house. The content was repetitive, but picked at my emotional scabs. The pain was so raw, but equally as hidden as I tried to downplay it for Alice.
I wonder if I'd even noticed she wasn't replying.
The most recently email was dated November 5th, the night before I had noticed my period hadn't come. God, it was three days ago and I had no memory of it.
I sat back, rubbing my hands on my temples. How had I become so fucked up?
I moved quickly to the bathroom after, searching for anything buried in the cabinets, or lack thereof. No brightly colored hair dye or bleach kits, thankfully. I could see myself bleaching my hair and chopping it to bits in a fit of rage, but thankfully I had left it alone. I would have had to have noticed that. Then again, I hadn't noticed any of the cuts on my fingers.
I lifted my hands to my face again, brows furrowed in utmost confusion. My scarred hands were totally ignored in my mind's eye. If I hadn't noticed the harm I had inflicted on myself when I tore out my stereo, what else could I have done?
My stomach rolled uncomfortably when I had a horrible thought. Back in Phoenix, I'd heard stories of girls found passed out in their bathrooms, blood running down their arms and blades clutched in their fingers. One student in my freshman year had accidentally committed suicide in that exact manner, passing out from the blood loss and falling into a sleep she'd never wake up from. At the time, I had grimaced at just the mention of so much blood. I began to shake as another memory filled my mind. My trembling hand gripped the edge of my sweatshirt on my left arm, pushing up the cuff.
What had I done to myself?
Red, thick scars lined my inner arms. All were healed, but still red and raised. Tears filled my eyes and I held in a sob. My right hand traced a scar, wincing slightly as I touched the raw skin.
I attempted to count them, but found myself unable after the first ten, sick with myself. How had I not noticed this? How could I not remember doing this to myself?
The world came into startling clarity then. My arms had never been a focal point of my vision, always skated over as I dressed myself and concealed by the sleeves of my sweatshirts. I had been so distressed since my first bath with the pregnancy test that I hadn't even looked closely at them. Always covered in long, warm sleeves that kept them out of my line of sight. Had I unconsciously protecting myself?
I quickly shut the door to the bathroom and yanked my jeans down. Thankfully, my thighs were scar free, along with any other visible skin. I had only seemed to destroy my arms, forever ruining the smooth, white skin.
The cuts were rough and thick, like red welts from a trauma. They were sporadically placed on my arm, but with a deliberate absence of marks around my bite mark, the only part of my forearm unharmed by my own doing.
Had I gone to the hospital for this?
A foggy memory of me, drenched in red liquid from the stomach down, filled my mind. I held the gauze in my teeth as I tried to wrap my arms. Blood covered the bathtub behind me, sprayed on the white tile. When I leaned in closer to the bathroom mirror, minuscule drops of blood clung to my ashen cheeks and lips.
I dropped to my knees, vomiting instantly at the grisly image.
He'd nearly destroyed me.
Wiping the vomit from my mouth, I pulled the contents of my pocket out, splaying the form out on the floor next to me. With shaking hands, I dialed the number.
It rang and rang for nearly thirty seconds before letting out a flat tone. No voicemail box.
Go fucking figure.
A/N: Something is clearly off.
