You may have noticed that the rating has changed to M. This fic is not rated for abuse. That's all I'm going to say.
January 2008
Marty's Garage
Vancouver, BC
"There you go, hon. Tighten that head pipe first, but don't overdo it or you'll break a stud off, and the whole thing will go to hell in a hand basket on you." I obeyed, taking care to follow Marty's instructions to the letter, as always.
This whole thing started by accident. One day a few months after I moved here, my dad called me with a reminder to change the oil in my car—his way of letting me know he was thinking of me. That night I went to the bar, intent on only having one beer since I needed to be able to pay Jiffy Lube, which was expensive thanks to modern oil prices. I asked Marty if she knew any place cheaper that would do a good job, and she gave me that crow's foot twinkle-eye and said, "I'll do you one better. Meet me at Paylow Auto Parts on Frances Street tomorrow morning, and I'll show you how to do it yourself."
I found out, during the course of that bizarre, greasy learning experience, that Marty once worked in a garage. She didn't have a mechanic's license herself, but neither did a lot of people—that's why the Paylow sold mechanic's manuals for individual makes and models. Her motto was simple: Harleys are high-maintenance vehicles and foreign cars require expensive foreign parts, so it's important to know how to work on your own ride, especially with the economy going to crap. This suited my own philosophy of self-reliance perfectly. So one weekend it was changing my oil and hers, the next lesson was replacing my brake shoes, the one after that was suspension rods for Marty's bike, until before I knew it I was the one suggesting aftermarket modifications and asking if we could work on her old man's bike, too. This might have seemed a strange way to spend my rare free time, but it was relaxing somehow. Today we were installing a customized exhaust pipe.
"So Brown hasn't seen Celeste in five years?" I asked, fingering my socket wrench for a second before tightening the next bolt.
"Nope. Neither of her parents has seen her," Marty confirmed, shivering a little and scooting closer to the space heater in the corner. "She was living with her mother up until she turned eighteen, then she took off. She never really said why, but we know her boyfriend skipped town at the same time. He came back a year later, but she didn't."
"Does anyone know if she's okay?" I wondered, trying to wrap my coat tighter around me.
My friend looked at the bits of hardware laid out on an old towel. "She used to send postcards to Danny Junior. When those stopped coming, Brown hired a private eye to find her. The detective tracked her to a titty-bar in Manitoba. That picture we have up in the bar was taken as she was on her way to work. Celeste refused any contact with either of her parents, but she made sure to pass along that she wasn't living in poverty or anything and didn't need any help. Brown accepted that—it's something we all go through. He just wanted to know she was safe."
"Jesus," I muttered, wondering what it would do to Charlie if I ever just dropped off the face of the earth like that. He still called me every couple of weeks, like he did when I was little, only now it wasn't a veiled excuse to hear my mother's voice. "Why did Brown and his wife break up, anyway?"
"Why does anyone break up?" Marty responded rhetorically. "Didn't get along, didn't want to spend the rest of her life running a bar, hell if I know. Whatever Yvonne told him when she left probably wasn't the real reason anyway. You know how it is."
I made no further response, just kept working until I thought I was done while Marty watched soundlessly nearby.
"You know, Bella," Marty offered quietly as we double-checked my handiwork, "If you ever want to talk about Him in here, you can. I know you don't tell all your college buddies, and I get that, because those are some nosy, fake-ass motherfuckers." I grinned to myself—Shalice's friends weren't much kinder when they spoke of my 'biker buddies,' and generally both sides accused each other of having venereal disease. "You've got to stay focused when it comes to education," Marty continued, "but this guy doesn't have to be something you only talk about in the bar."
I sighed and stood up, carefully putting my tools away in my bright red toolbox. I had long ago scratched out the initials "R.H.C." and engraved "Bella" on the lid with a Dremel rotary tool. Not my initials, and not my surname. Just Bella.
"Thanks, Marty," I replied sincerely. "But in here, he's not part of me, or this." In this garage, helping Marty turn hunks of metal into a thing of beauty, I wasn't confused. I wasn't broken. Renee couldn't pester me, Charlie didn't look at me with that sad expression, and there was no school, no job, no desperate attempt to fill the hours so I didn't have to think about anything. There wasn't even alcohol or harsh memories. There was metal and grease and my friend and me, and everything was broken down into rules that made sense.
Marty looked at me speculatively for a few moments. "Fair enough. But what about everywhere else?"
I shook my head. "Nope. It's as if he never existed."
Marty folded her arms and frowned. "What kind of stupid shit is that? Of course he existed. Just because he went away doesn't mean he didn't impact your life."
I smirked a little. "See, you get it." And just like that, I knew how the mental conversation would go next time I went to the corner table at the Chatterbox. "Come on," I said, jerking my head toward the garage door. "Time for you to test this baby and see how I did."
Marty tossed me the key from the workbench behind her, a smile playing at the corners of her mouth. "Fire it up."
My face lit up with surprise. "Really?" A genuine thrill went through me as the engine roared to life.
February 2008
The Chatterbox
Vancouver, BC
Tonight was different.
I'd sat on those barstools before and laughed, listened, made friends, and bemoaned the inescapable fact of being Renee's daughter. I'd sat at this table many times and cried, made hopeless wishes, soaked in my own sadness. But tonight was just different.
Tonight I was helplessly angry at my boss, because the asshole scheduled me for weekend shifts that wouldn't allow me to take my class trip to Anthony Island, and when I tried to tell him that I'd requested those days off well in advance, he said he "didn't remember that conversation," and that was that. I was furious that my project partner got the same grade I did without doing her fair share of research, claiming she was dealing with her Nana's death back home when really, her roommate revealed, she just spent the weekend with her boyfriend in Seattle, which she could have waited until midterm break to do. I bitched her out for it until I was sure she'd never look me in the eye again, but she still got my good grade, so the victory was hollow. I was irritated with my father, because when I tried to call him to vent, I got his voice mail. I was infuriated with my mother, who still wouldn't let up about 'cute boys' and how I needed to stop being so finicky and just pick one already. And on top of everything else, once again I couldn't. Fucking. Sleep.
Tonight I wasn't just hurt; I was pissed.
I promise that this will be the last time you'll see me.
Did you ever stop and think maybe I would want to see you, you stupid PEPET̸IN? Or Alice and Esme, at least? Didn't you ever consider that they were my family, too? At least, I thought so. It seemed like they did, too. That couldn't have been my imagination.
We won't bother you again.
You miserable bastard. You weren't bothering me; you were loving me, or at least letting me believe as much. Worse, you were letting me love you. Maybe what you meant to say was: We won't be bothered by you again. Because that's sure as shit what it feels like from here.
Of course, I'll always love you…in a way…your memory is no more than a sieve…
You had everything backwards. Your love and my memory…backwards. I'll always know you exist, right up until I wither and die. You'll be a part of me when I take my last breath. And you won't love me any more then than you did the day you took off.
None of them loved me. They were fine before I came along, and they were fine after I left. At least I could understand Rosalie's reaction; she hated me, and she was honest about that. Her leaving I could stomach, because she never lied about how she felt about me. But the rest of them…they treated me like a sister, a daughter, and then they became indifferent. An entire family of experienced pretenders…why was I surprised, really? Alice didn't need a disposable Skipper doll when she had an unbreakable Barbie for a sister.
So much for the eternal bonds formed by Your Kind.
Oh Bella.
"Don't 'Oh Bella' me, you lying, heartless motherfucker."
I'll always love you…in a way.
"You don't even know what love is."
"Bella," Brown hissed in my ear, "your cab is here."
"Shit. I have to be at work at ten tomorrow."
"Bella," he groaned. "Just make sure you drink some water and eat a piece of bread before you go to sleep."
"You'd increase your revenue if you started selling bread and water at the bar," I slurred. He only rolled his eyes.
Water and bread. Bread and water. Like a sacrament, like taking communion in some Protestant version of the Catholic ritual. Like forgiveness could be obtained with a fucking snack. 'This wine turns into my blood the moment it touches your tongue.' 'Sacrifice the best lamb in your flock to me, then fry it up and eat it.' 'Chop the head off that chicken and I'll take care of whatever dumb shit you did this year.' 'Cut the heart out of a virgin to appease me.' Either gods were assholes, or people made up some really stupid gods. I'd always compared vampires to gods in my head, but maybe I had that reversed. With all their demands for blood and sacrifice, maybe gods were vampires.
"We're here, lady. That'll be $8.50."
Fucking cab company, sending me a damn newbie instead of my regular driver. "Don't bullshit me, cabrón. I'm drunk, not stupid. Brown always pays the cabbie before I get in."
A sigh. "Yeah. Sorry."
"Damn right you're sorry," I told him, slamming the car door.
Stairs. When did we get so many fuckin' stairs?
"Bella? Jesus shit, it's two o'clock in the morning!"
"Yeah, I know. Sorry for waking you up." My face was flushed with warmth, and all I wanted to do was to lie down and bury myself in the cool pillow.
"Wait, Bella, I forgot to give you a message. Some lady named Jenna called for you this morning from…financial aid. Something about another scholarship you qualified for, or were awarded, or something. Damn," she yawned, "where'd I leave that paper with her number?"
Too bad she didn't mention that earlier. "Leave it for tomorrow."
"How much did you have to drink?"
I grabbed a bottle of water from my mini-fridge. "Don't worry about it. Goodnight."
"I just want to know which language I get to hear you speaking in your sleep tonight."
"ḵ'aay ts'aawaay k'aayhlg̱ahl da gan—taay hla." The Stars have turned over—go to bed. My Haida accent always got better when I was drunk.
"What the hell was that?"
"Goodnight, Shalice."
April 2008
Hamber House, Place Vanier
UBC
"Bells, are you sure you don't want to come home for the summer this year?"
I rolled my eyes, grateful we weren't living in the age of everyone having videophones in their houses so he couldn't see my expression. "Dad, the university's Museum of Anthropology is world-renowned. Do you know how great it is that they're letting me stay in the country to intern there? If I'm good at it, they'll ask me back next year. This is exactly the kind of opportunity you've always wanted for me."
I heard him sigh. "That sounds good, and I sure am proud of you. But what are you going to do for money and a place to stay?"
Ah, the hazards of operating with only a temporary student visa. "My advisor made arrangements for me to stay in summer housing, and I've still got my campus job." I also lined up an under-the-table gig as a barmaid at the Chatterbox. No wage, but I could keep all my tips. Brown had hired others to do the same in the past, and he made enough profit from the booze during tourist season not to need the extra money from tips. His only rule: no drinking on the clock. I had to save that for my nights off.
Charlie didn't need to know about any of that. Just like nobody needed to know about the untouched money in the safe. Half the time I didn't want to know about it, either. Sometimes I wished I'd never taken it.
"Well, if you're sure."
"Yes, Dad, I'm positive." I was sure I didn't want to spend another summer in Forks. Other than the week from hell with my mother, last summer was lonely, boring, and socially uncomfortable. I couldn't go anywhere, including the rez, without getting that look from people who remembered my past. There was no place to go that wasn't connected with some unwanted memory unless I drove two hours to Aberdeen to hit the SouthShore Mall or the movie theater, which just weren't worth the trip. There were no good restaurants, no decent libraries in a reasonable distance, and I couldn't come to the Chatterbox to see the only people I had any interest in seeing. I couldn't drink at home without arousing suspicion, I couldn't hit the bars because I was still underage in the States, and I couldn't drink with the other local underage kids because it would make things awkward for Charlie if I got caught. I couldn't even do Distance Learning through the university because they weren't offering summer classes online. There was simply no incentive to be in Forks.
"Are you going to tell your mom, or do you want me to do it?" my father offered.
I almost took him up on it, but decided to spare him the headache. "I'll just send her an e-mail tomorrow. I have to finish my paper." I had no time to listen to her hysterics, as if it made a difference which country I'd be working in when I had no plans to stay with her either way. "Gotta go, Dad. Say hello to Billy for me."
"Okay, Bella. Love you."
"Yeah," I said clumsily, looking at an imperfection on the surface of my desk. "You too."
With a resigned sigh, I hung up and turned my attention back to the reference books in front of me—leftovers from the Cullen private collection that they'd chosen to leave behind, suddenly useful to me. Since I had lived on the Olympic Peninsula, I was doing a comparative essay on the Quileute and Makah tribes. I knew they intermarried now (according to Charlie, Sue had nieces there) but their indigenous languages weren't from the same family at all. 'Makah' wasn't even a Makah word—their real name was Qwiqwidicciat, 'people who live by the rocks and seagulls.'
Apparently Jasper had taken a passing interest in the subject as well. And by 'passing,' I meant 'owned ten different hardbacks related to the same thing.' He had the surprisingly human tendency to write his name in his books; his mortal surname, I realized, must have been Whitlock. I wonder if Alice took that name when she married him? With a shake of my head, I banished that odd bit of reflection and focused on the here and now. In addition to this paper, I also had finals to study for, and that was always stressful.
"You coming with us to Gatsby's this Friday?" Shalice asked from her desk.
"Sure, I guess," I said absently. "Blow off some steam before everybody splits up for summer." Weak drinks, bubble-gum pop music, and a crowd of Shalice's friends. Wonderful. Maybe I would just stay for an hour or so to humor her and then catch a cab to the place I really wanted to be. I hadn't been to the Chatterbox (or anywhere for that matter) in over two full weeks; I was so busy with essays and semester projects and work.
"You know, there's a totally hot guy there who's been checking you out," she said conspiratorially.
"Huh," I mumbled, uninterested. "Anybody we know?" Always trying to set me up. She meant well, but I really didn't need more club-hopping people in my life.
"No," she answered breezily. "I've only seen him around for the last month or two. He's probably a freshman who barely discovered the joys of social life."
"You know how I feel about strangers," I replied, hoping the subject would close so I could finish my work uninterrupted.
"I know, I know, 'nobody who doesn't come with references,'" she recited.
"Exactly." Even Renee saw the wisdom in that rule of thumb, seeing as I was in a 'foreign land,' though she didn't know the real reason behind it. Nobody did.
Rule One: Never trust anyone you can't prove exists.
"Bella?" my roommate said tentatively. "Can I ask you something?"
I sighed and turned away from my laptop—it was a top of the line machine three years ago, and it proved invaluable once I wiped Emmett's World of Warcraft crap from the memory. "I know that voice, Shalice. Out with it."
She looked away for a moment. "Is there some reason why you never date anyone?"
"I've been out on a couple of dates," I objected. This question was ridiculous coming from her. "Remember that guy you set me up with a couple months ago?" I'd been thoroughly bored by the blonde kinesiology major who kept talking about kayaking. He seemed to think that because I once worked at a sporting goods store, I would actually be interested in the topic. In order to preserve my sanity, I lied and told my mother we went out three times before deciding to part ways. "What was his name? Robbie? Bobby?"
"Jeremy, as you very well know," Shalice said dryly. "That's actually my point. You've been on a handful of dates since I met you, you never go out with a guy more than once, you don't bother to keep in touch with any of them, and you don't even seem to care that it never works out. Are you…is there something you're not telling me?"
Rule Two: Don't get attached—you only lose what you cling to.
I gazed at her almost childlike expression, blinking once. "Like what?"
"Well…" For once, I wasn't the conversation participant who was blushing with discomfort. "Were you…assaulted or something?"
I smiled gently and shook my head. Last semester I taught my roommate several defensive maneuvers, taking care to remind her never to walk the streets alone at night, and insisted that she call me for a ride if she ever needed to bail on a date, no matter what time it was or what I had going on the next day. She had taken me up on it once already. "I had a close call once, but I wasn't abused or anything. Thanks for caring, though."
She nodded, accepting that, but her eyes were still full of questions. "In that case, is there maybe another reason you aren't with anyone? Something you're afraid to tell me? Because you think it'll make things weird between us?"
That last part sounded hesitant, almost suggestive; I smirked a little. "Are you asking me if I'm gay?"
She didn't respond right away, but she looked at me in earnest. "If you're a lesbian, it's okay. You don't have to hide it. You're still my friend."
I sighed good-naturedly. I'd known this question was bound to come up eventually, and I had my answer ready. "No, Shalice. I'm not into girls." I waggled my eyebrows at her. "Although you are pretty cute." Actually, for a while I considered telling Renee I was a homosexual just so she'd leave me alone, but I dismissed the idea. First of all, I felt it was demeaning toward gay people, and second, I realized she'd either a) freak out and tell Charlie, probably resulting in cardiac arrest; b) start spouting her surprisingly non-liberal opinion about how lesbians were just too lazy to try making things work with a man, or c) pester me with renewed enthusiasm once she realized gay marriage was legal in Canada. She changed her opinions like she changed hobbies. It was too hard to keep up with her personal politics, so I stopped trying years ago.
Shalice giggled at me. "Sorry. I just wasn't sure. It's hard to know what to make of you sometimes. You've got some nice, fancy clothes in that closet that you almost never wear, but you've also got all the Harley t-shirts and those ass-kicking boots. You'd rather go to the Chatterbox than the club most of the time, after Christmas you got that weird tribal tattoo on your shoulder that's vaguely shaped like a motorcycle, and your closest friend is a middle-aged woman named Marty…"
"And I've spent almost every other Saturday in her garage since our freshman year, not including summer break and holidays," I finished smoothly, my smile fading a little. "You do understand that all the engine grease under my fingernails is from restoring her bike and working on my car, don't you? It's not some kind of weird sexual fetish. I'm just doing something I like on my days off. So it's not girly. Does that really matter?"
"It doesn't matter to me what your hobbies are, or even your sexual preference," my friend countered, annoyed. "I'm just concerned. Sometimes I still hear you crying in your sleep, and you're always alone."
"Oh god," I groaned. "Please don't start talking about cute boys as if they're the answer to whatever problem you think I have. I stopped taking calls from Renee for two months the last time she pulled that shit. What have I told you about trusting a handsome face to make everything better?"
Rule Three: Don't rely on anyone else; the only person with the power or desire to take care of me is me.
"I don't mean it like that," Shalice assured me. "I know how you feel about independence, but that doesn't mean you have to sacrifice everything else. I mean, when you go out on these rare dates, do you even kiss these guys?"
I shut my eyes for just a moment, trying to force away the crippling sense of litost. "No. I haven't liked any of them well enough." Don't feel it now. Tuck it away. Save it for later.
Shalice rolled her eyes at me. "It's just kissing, Bella."
I turned back around in my chair, dimly aware of the images on the screen in front of me. "It shouldn't be just kissing." My voice came out sharper than I intended. "It should mean something." It meant everything.
"I'm sorry," Shalice said softly behind me, "I didn't mean to upset you."
"I'm fine," I lied, fighting an unexpected wave of nausea. "I just need to concentrate so I can hurry up and get this paper done by tonight." I looked down at the floor…
Neon blue lights flickered over my head.
Yesterday I kiss you, and you attack me! Today you pass out on me!
Oh screw you. You knew what the hell you were doing. You said you were designed to attract your prey. You seduced me with simple kisses that set my heart on fire. Now I can't even think about kissing anyone else without wanting to vomit, let alone the idea of having sex with any of them. You ruined this for me, too, just like you ruined everything else. And for what? So you could have fun toying with me for a little while? Sg̱aana g̱id ids iijii anag̱uun—the Supernatural Being is watching out of curiosity. Were you at least satisfied?
I'm…tired of pretending to be something I'm not. I am not human.
No, you're a beautiful fucking demon, and goddamn it if you weren't the best kiss of my short, insignificant little human life.
I've let this go on much too long, and I'm sorry for that.
"What the fuck do you know about too long? You're going to outlive me by eons, and you can't come back and see me for five fucking minutes?"
"Bella, come on, that's enough."
"No, Brown, it's not enough. Nothing was ever enough. I wasn't good enough. He fucking told me so."
"Well then he was a dipshit, but right now you sound like one, too, so let's get you in the cab."
I sighed and sat quietly in the backseat as my usual taxi driver took me back to the dorms. Funny, the way He said he was tired of pretending to be human. Sometimes it seemed like I knew exactly how he felt.
"You want me to flag down campus security to walk you the rest of the way?"
I blinked and looked out the window. My cab had come to a stop as close to my dorm as it could. "Nah, I'm good. Thanks for the lift." I met the driver's worried grey eyes in his rearview mirror. "Stay parked and watch me get inside the door, yeah?"
"Okay, sure. Goodnight, Bella."
"Good night, Alex."
God damn it, why didn't we have an elevator in this corridor? Always with the fucking stairs…who's playing piano in the practice room this late? Why didn't they close the damn door? "Hey, asshole!" I yelled down the hall. "Shut up! People are trying to sleep! Don't you know there's a noise curfew after 9:00?"
I'm sorry for that.
"Fuck you and your 'sorry!' Just shut the hell up. I have to get to bed."
Water. Bread. Sleep. Gotta study tomorrow. Fucking finals.
June 2008
Thunderbird Year Round Student Housing
UBC
I sat on my bed, staring at the unassuming brown cardboard shipping box. The label was computer-printed with a confirmation bar code, addressed to me but with no return address.
There's no reason to be nervous, I told myself. All the same, I checked the apartment one last time. The other three bedrooms were all empty, as was the bathroom and the living area. My temporary roommates (who I kept away from as much as possible, the meddlesome, eavesdropping bitches) were all either at class or at work, and I had at least the next three hours to myself. Even so, I made sure to lock my bedroom door and crank up some loud blues tunes before I turned back to the box.
I wasn't sure what I was expecting when I removed the product box from the shipping box, but this just seemed so…generic. Even so, I mopped up piss, vomit, and spilled beer and went entirely without booze for a month to save up for this. For sixty-five dollars plus shipping, I certainly wasn't going to not open up the packaging.
I made sure I had everything I needed in place before I quietly disrobed and crawled into bed, making sure to lie on a towel.
Sexy thoughts. Sexy thoughts. God, I don't even know what I'm supposed to be thinking about. How do women do this all the time? This is so embarrassing. Shit, Bella, just get it over with. Not sure what exactly I was supposed to do, I applied the cold fluid onto my body, and then some more onto the device. Was that right? Did I do that backwards?
One good thing about being such a terrible klutz most of my life: I didn't have to worry about bleeding from hymen breakage. Apparently some long-ago fall took care of that for me. It did not, however, take care of the strange stretching sensation. Curious, how it didn't really hurt, at least not all that much. The gynecologist who performed my first well-woman exam told me that if my partner (I tried very hard not to react when she said that) was gentle, it shouldn't be painful. So I focused my thoughts only on my own body, how much pressure felt good, and how deep I could go before I became uncomfortable. When I grew accustomed to it, I depressed one of the small buttons with my thumb.
Oh fuck!
Suddenly gasping, I squirmed and wiggled, twisted my hand, trying to adjust until I found a place that felt good, maybe better than good. The exterior part of the machine tickled me in a spot I found simultaneously pleasurable and excruciating—maybe that meant I was doing something wrong. I lay there writhing, not at all sure what to do with my legs, trying to find that elusive orgasm I heard so much about, until I just couldn't take it anymore and abruptly pulled the damn thing out and shut it off. Clearly, this was going to take practice. And maybe one or two drinks first next time. I wasn't interested in pornography, but maybe I should watch one just for instructional purposes, since I clearly had no idea what the hell I was doing.
After a few minutes of quiet contemplation, I got up, washed the strange contraption with Toy Cleaner as instructed, and hid everything away in the brown box, tucking it behind my winter scarves at the very back of the top shelf in my closet. Silently, I made my way back to the bathroom, deciding a long hot bath was in order for combating the slight soreness.
It's not about love, I thought as I slid into the gleaming white tub filled with steam and bubbles. It's not about lust or attraction or anything. It's just something my body needs. Like food. Like shelter or medicine. It's not about anyone else. It's not about Him.
I felt the first tears beginning to form in my eyes, and my fingers seemed almost magnetically drawn to my throat, to the pulse point, drifting down to trace my collarbone with the lightest touch I could manage.
It's not about Him. It's not.
October 2008
The Chatterbox
Vancouver, BC
I swallowed my fourth or fifth drink of the night.
You're intoxicated by my very presence.
No shit, Edward. Wasn't that your intent—?
"Motherfucker, you need to shut up before I shut you up!" The shout rang out over the sound of the jukebox from the other side of the room.
"Fuck you, cocksucker!"
I could hear the crunching sound of fist connecting with face followed by groaning, swearing, someone getting knocked over, and the distinct sounds of pissed off drunks. "Hey!" Brown snarled. "Take that shit outside!"
I looked up and saw two men yelling and a third person picking himself up off the floor, livid because his beer had been knocked over and this wasn't his fight to begin with.
Ah, but it was now.
Shit.
The women closest to the door ran out, and the ones near the bathrooms hid in the ladies room. But I, in my far corner, had no door to retreat to.
Breaking glass. Fists flying.
Shit!
I grabbed my coat and slithered under the pool table. My jeans and boots would protect my legs from superficial scratches if any glass slid my way, and I used my jacket to protect my head. I waited it out, occasionally peeking to see boots scraping across the concrete floor and bodies falling. A few faces were actually smiling, which I found hilarious even through my last remaining particle of fear. An open knife slid across the room, stopping just within my reach. I grabbed for the handle as quickly as I could, gripping it tightly with a trembling fist, ready to use it if necessary. I had no illusions about what alcohol could make a man willing to do, even a man who'd never hurt me before, and I'd rather just die than suffer that.
Then there were distant sirens, women swearing, boots stomping out the door, and the sound of fifteen Harleys all being started up at once and peeling the fuck out. I lifted a corner of my coat to look.
"Bella?" Brown's anxious voice called out. "Honey, where are you?"
"She's under here," another man answered. A pair of dirty, steel-toed work boots stopped a meter away from me, catching the yellow-white light from the lamp that hung over the pool table. Then there were denim knees, rough hands, and an olive-skinned face framed with inky black hair. "Miss Bella?"
I pulled the coat entirely away from my head, but kept the switchblade in my hand. It took me a few seconds before I recognized the face as one of the semi-regulars I served over the summer. A good tipper, he occasionally came in with a date and usually drank no more than three beers, always from local independent microbreweries—I laughed whenever he ordered Swans Oatmeal Stout. His knuckles were bruised from the fight, and he might have a shiner in the morning, but he smiled at me in a way that was reassuring. I stopped shaking.
"Why don't you close that knife, Miss Bella, and I'll help you up. Don't worry, I won't hurt you."
I considered my position for a moment. I didn't know how to close a switchblade, so instead I dropped it and shoved it away from us, watching as it slid to a shadowed corner where wall met floor and bench seat—nobody would find it there for a long time. The man smiled again and offered me his uninjured hand. I took it, letting him gently drag me out from my hiding place and help me stand on my own feet.
"You okay?" he asked, holding my jacket open for me. His skin was one or two shades lighter than the Quileutes' back home, and his eyes were bright and friendly.
"Yeah," I whispered back, swaying just a little as I turned around to slip into the proffered sleeves. "You?"
"Nothing a little ice won't fix," he chuckled. "I'm Ben."
"Right. Ben," I remembered. "Bella."
"I know." He looked me over, but not in a creepy way. "First bar fight?"
"Mhmm," I answered, leaning against the pool table. Whoever had been shooting solids was in the perfect position to bankshot the one-ball in the side pocket, but there was a rip in the felt that would have ruined the shot.
"You're holding up pretty well," Ben remarked, looking a little surprised. He flexed his hand a few times, testing for broken knuckles, I supposed.
Scratching at the long, divaricated scar on my arm beneath the scuffed-up suede sleeve, I calmly informed him, "I've seen worse fights." Was he expecting me to cry or something? If a bunch of humans wanted to kick each other's asses, it was fine by me as long as they left me alone. It wasn't like they were trying to feed on me.
The creaking sound of the front door distracted us before Ben could reply. We both turned as the first Vancouver cop walked in and headed straight for Brown while the second one stared at us. Great.
With a long-suffering sigh I walked forward, forgoing a pretense at stumbling but ready to tell the cops I didn't see anything. Truthfully, I didn't see who threw the first punch or who pulled a knife, and I was technically too drunk to be a reliable witness even if I had. "C'mon Ben," I called over my shoulder with a business-like tone, "let's get some ice on that eye."
He laughed, the sound strangely light coming from his deep voice. "Yes ma'am."
That night, I got all the way home before I realized that in all the chaos, I forgot to be miserable.
November 2008
The Chatterbox
Vancouver, BC
"So Brown," I said off-handedly, centering the new green felt carefully over the tabletop, "how'd you meet Marty anyway?"
It was a Sunday, the middle of the month. The Chatterbox was closed today, which was the perfect opportunity for me to complete my project: resurfacing the pool table. Brown had been meaning to get around to it ever since a couple of drunk travelers on their way to California tried to shoot a game of eight-ball and ripped up the fabric with a cue stick. Since Brown and Marty had been taking turns passing bronchitis back and forth to each other for well over a month now, and I had some free time anyway, I offered to do this for them. The library had a book of instructions with photographs, and that guy Ben loaned us most of the necessary tools (which really weren't anything too sophisticated, but they were things I didn't have, like a putty knife). I checked and rechecked the fabric alignment before folding back one half of the felt.
"Met her here," Brown answered hoarsely, holding a cigarette between his fingers but not lighting it—his doctor expressly forbid smoking at least until he'd completed his course of antibiotics. That, and I would be working with something flammable. "She moved down here from Prince George after her old man got locked up."
I stopped what I was doing and stood up straight. "What?"
"She never told you?" Brown looked genuinely surprised.
"I knew she was divorced, but that's it," I clarified, remembering our garage conversations. "She never wanted to talk about it much, and I didn't press her." I didn't push her, she didn't push me, but we were both willing to listen—that was our understanding.
"Mhmm," Brown nodded, putting on his paper face mask when he saw me reach for mine. "She was married to an asshole named Chris. They had their own garage. Did well, too. But sometimes he'd just be gone, and he didn't have a good explanation. Marty thought he was cheating on her, but it turned out he was acquiring parts from stolen vehicles and trafficking heroin." After a beat, he added, "And cheating on her."
"Holy shit," I hissed, propping a chair in front of the front door to hold it open. I hated to let out all the warm air when Brown was sick, but the need for ventilation was greater. "Talk about adding insult to injury."
"Yeah," Brown nodded. "The investigators concluded that Marty wasn't involved in any criminal activity, but she lost everything. The business, her life savings, everything except her bike."
Marty always seemed so well-adjusted and sensible to me. "I never would have guessed she went through such a clusterfuck."
"That's why she doesn't want to own half the bar—I give her a management salary with profit-sharing instead." Brown lowered his mask to sip at his coffee mug. "Anyway, after the conviction and the divorce, she scraped together a little money and came here to look for work and start over."
"And then she met you," I presumed, covering my eyes with safety glasses and shaking up a can of spray-on adhesive.
"Actually," he corrected me, "she met my wife."
I hesitated before I sprayed the pungent glue. "Come again?"
"Marty and Yvonne knew each other," Brown explained while I worked. "They weren't close friends, but sometimes we'd all talk when Marty came in for a few beers. When Yvonne left me, Marty stepped in to help me with the bar. Things just sort of grew from there."
Brown switched on the box fan when I put my can of glue down, blowing the Krylon fumes away. Some of the epoxy got on my suede coat, but there was nothing to be done about it now. Rubbing down the felt over the glue with a circular motion, I sipped at my Sprite through a straw and let Brown change the subject. He always liked to hear me talk about my work at the museum, my research trips, and the people I met at the reserves. I figured it had to do with missing out on that part of his kids' lives, but he said it was because it made him feel smarter, and because those things made me smile.
Thinking about what we had each lost, I decided that if Brown and Marty could go through life without wallowing in self-pity, I could, too. Maybe then I'd smile more often, and so would they.
December 2008
Renee's House
Jacksonville, FL
"Look who's standing under the mistletoe!"
My mother, in her nefarious plot to socialize me like some six-week-old puppy, had special ordered ten pounds of mistletoe from some website and tacked it up all over the house for her annual holiday party. It was like an aerial assault. Fortunately for me, the only men she found even remotely close to my age were the gym teacher and computer lab teacher who taught at her school, a few of Phil's younger cousins visiting from Arkansas and Louisiana, a couple of assistant coaches who worked at the local high school with Phil, and some neighbors who evidently were led to believe I was a globe-trotting supermodel instead of a normal person. I almost felt sorry for them, being set up for disappointment like that. That was Renee for you.
Times like this, I wished I had my lip pierced and that tattoo inked on my neck instead of my shoulder blade. Even though I rejected those things as a bit too Suicide Girl-ish for my taste, they would have suited my frayed jeans and vintage Harley t-shirt a lot better than this stupid Santa hat Renee insisted I wear. As it was, I was sure I would need to get very drunk to get through the rest of this damned party full of strangers. With a smile, I remembered that I was twenty-one now, and I didn't have to hide my drinking from my mother. Technically I never hid it from her in the first place, but now I could be open about it and get hammered in this country.
So, rather than remain under the most evil of plants and let myself be kissed by some beer-goggled guy I'd never seen before tonight (honestly, what the hell was wrong with my mother? Some of these men were fifty!), I made my way over to the drink table, scooped a little ice from the cooler into a red plastic cup, and poured myself a generous serving of Jack mixed with about half a can of Coke. I knew Renee could see me and would probably suggest her weak-ass eggnog as more 'my speed.' With this in mind, I took a long swallow of my drink. The room, already warm from the throng of Phil and Renee's guests, rapidly grew hotter, and I wished my mother would have opened more windows. After nearly four years in the northwest I hated too much heat, but I wasn't such a baby that I couldn't tolerate it for a while. There was an unadorned bit of ceiling next to the TV, so I moved to stand there, desperate to avoid being kissed. Of course, someone came to strike up a conversation immediately.
"What are you studying in school?" Neighbor Boy asked me with what must have been his most charming grin, a bottle of Bud in his hand.
"Linguistic anthropology," I replied, relaxing just enough to smile back but not so much that I didn't notice how close the guy was standing in front of me. I took a step backward automatically.
"Wow, really? That's…awesome." He looked uncomfortable with that information for some reason, but took a drink of his Budweiser to cover it. "How many languages do you speak so far?"
"Besides the two I learned growing up?" I asked. "Three. I specialize in aboriginal languages." I wasn't considered perfectly fluent in any of them yet, but I felt confident that I would be very soon—I was one of the top students in my Advanced language classes. Now that my university finally hired a teacher for it, I'd also picked up Ktunaxa, a language that was culturally isolated and unique, and I spent several weekends this semester visiting the Columbia Lake Band in Windermere to hear the sounds spoken firsthand by the few remaining fluent speakers. Beyond that, I found that I enjoyed having a variety of ways to express myself, I took pride in preserving something worth treasuring, and I loved the way mastering these languages made me feel, like I was connected to something greater than myself. But nobody ever thought that was interesting besides students and faculty in my department (and Brown), which was why I didn't go into detail in casual conversation. Instead I said the usual: "I get to travel, meet some interesting people, and hear wonderful stories."
"Cool," Neighbor Boy said, trying to look like he meant it. Yeah, like he cared. "I speak a little French."
"That's nice," I said as politely as my intoxication level would allow. That would have served him well in Quebec, but who takes French in Florida? I lived in Canada and even I didn't feel the need to learn French yet. Cantonese, perhaps, but not French. Maybe he wanted to communicate with Haitian immigrants down in Miami; maybe he just took high school French because he had to meet his language requirement to graduate. Maybe I should stop mentally picking him apart and just have a civilized conversation. "What's your major?"
I dutifully went through the same battery of monotonous questions I asked every time Shalice introduced me to a new friend of hers. Neighbor Boy was a nineteen-year-old freshman at Jacksonville U. He hadn't picked a major, he still didn't know what he wanted to be when he 'grew up,' his favorite show was Supernatural, he loved Anne Rice novels, and prior to college he played baseball at the school where Phil coached. As an outfielder.
I did not like Neighbor Boy very much at that point in the conversation, and then he tipped the scales. "I didn't think Renee was old enough to have a daughter your age. She must have gotten started very young."
"Don't let her hear you say that," I smirked. "Her ego will overinflate." Renee looked every bit of forty-one—we'd spent too many years in the desert sun for that not to be the case. Then I thought more carefully about what Neighbor Boy was saying. "Wait, how old do you think I am?"
"I don't know, like, twenty-five or so?" He shrugged, pulled my red cup out of my hand, and took a sip of my drink, grimacing a little at the strength of it. "Yeah, no girls I know can stomach anything this hardcore. This is a man's drink." Asshole. Maybe the little girls he dated got sloshed on wine coolers, but grown women drank highballs all the time. I would know—I spent all summer serving them. Why did I always attract the sexist assholes?
I looked up at this doe-eyed teenager with his sun-streaked hair and goofy face. A deeper appraisal of his eyes told me he was very drunk. "And you think a twenty-five-year-old woman is hanging around with a nineteen-year-old boy because…?"
He grinned, swerved a little, and handed back my drink. Fucking lightweight. "You're on vacation and you want non-committal action?"
"You think I want sex?" Un. Fucking. Believable. "You think I came to spend Christmas with my mother so I could have sex with the local jailbait?"
"Well…" Neighbor Boy frowned uncomfortably and ran his fingers through his hair nervously; the unintentional gesticular impersonation made me hate him by proxy. "Renee was at my parents' house one night last week, and they all had a little too much wine. She said something about you needing to stop being so serious and just get laid. That's when she invited me to—"
I was striding away from him and toward my tipsy mother in the next breath. If I'd been buzzed at all, I was sure as shit sober now. "Renee," I hissed in her ear, clutching her arm like a vice, "I need to speak to you privately. Now."
"Coming, sweet—"
I didn't even let her finish speaking or excuse herself before dragging her off to the guestroom I was staying in and slamming the door behind us. "You brought me here," I growled, "for a booty call?" Just saying it sounded ridiculous.
"Do you like him?" Renee giggled. "His name is Jonathan. He lives a few houses down, and—"
"Do I look especially pleased right now?" I interrupted. Renee stopped laughing. "Do I look like I'm ready to jump that kid's bones? Do I look the slightest bit happy to you?"
My mother looked me up and down. "You look pissed off. And you look awfully uptight for someone dressed like a grease monkey." She scowled at me, her expression just as disapproving as it had been when I refused to put on the girlie-looking green mini-dress she wanted me to wear for her party—she was wearing a red one just like it.
Outing myself as a biker wasn't hard. Once I assured her I wasn't gay, she seemed glad that I "found a hobby," but otherwise didn't take me seriously, understandable given that I had no bike. Condescension like that, I could endure patiently. Listening to Renee bitch about how hard it would be to attract a man while dressed like Dennis Hopper in Easy Rider—that was another matter. Thankfully, Phil stepped in before I pointed out that she wanted the two of us to dress something like one of the prostitutes from the same movie. I didn't see anything wrong with looking sexy, but I had my own definition. Peacekeeping aside, I wasn't about to change who I was for her, nor was I going to put myself out on display on her showroom floor.
"Get this through your head, Mother," I sneered, ripping the stupid Santa hat off my head and tossing it to the floor. "I am here to visit you. I am not here for a quick fuck. I'm well aware that you're the daughter of former hippies, but I'm the daughter of a cop who was never around and a woman who left me alone in the house to raise myself. Your carefree attitude about this isn't something I share."
"It's just sex," Renee replied, looking around for something. "Jesus, lighten up. I thought bikers didn't give a damn about anything." She pulled a small box down off a top shelf and produced a pack of cigarettes and a cheap lighter, then headed over to one of the open windows.
"This isn't the eighties anymore," I groaned, sinking onto the bed. "Gay men aren't the only ones who get AIDS. You can't just sleep around because you're bored and expect to get out of the consequences with an abortion or some penicillin."
"So use a condom, Bella. Problem solved." She tapped the green and white package expertly, withdrawing her cigarette and lifting it to her mouth. "I put some in the nightstand just in case."
I smacked the heel of my hand against my forehead, then downed a little more of my drink. Ladies and gentleman, your hostess and colleague, my mother. "God, it was such a mistake for me to come here." Every fucking time…
"Why, because I wanted you to have a good time with a guy?" Renee said petulantly, lighting her Salem with her pink plastic lighter.
"No," I retorted hatefully, "because you think a 'good time' is going to solve anything. Because your idea of a good time is for me to have a one-night-stand with a perfect stranger. In your guestroom. Maybe that's what you would have done at my age, but it's not me. I'm not a broken Renee Junior. I'm different. I don't need you to fix me. Can't you just accept that I have my own way of having fun, and it doesn't have to involve casual sex?"
"Don't act like you're so much better than everyone else, Isabella," my mother mumbled around her cigarette. The scent of menthol smoke wafted toward me in spite of her efforts to exhale out the window. "And don't go spouting ultra-feminist, separatist bullshit about how nobody needs a man for anything. Women didn't get here all by ourselves. We do need men, and you're no exception."
"Mom, I'm not arguing the futility of the existence of the male gender or the impossibility of heterosexual relationships," I moaned, trying to head off the familiar anti-Marilyn Frye rant she'd often spouted once I turned fourteen and started criticizing her dating habits and commitment issues. "I'm just trying to be an independent person, someone you can be proud of, someone I can be proud of. I'm trying to reach the goals I set for myself. At this point, a man would just get in the way. Is that really so hard to understand?"
Renee took a long drag. "So, just to be clear, you're over That Boy, right?"
Oh hell. I successfully avoided this topic for as long as I could manage, but clearly she hadn't forgotten. "For fuck's sake," I scoffed, standing up and pacing the room. "Here we go again. I thought we were finally talking about my real life in the present day. I don't understand why every conversation has to lead back to the boyfriend I had when I was in high school. Three years, you've been harping on this. You'd think he broke up with you. Enough already!" I managed to sound quite convincing, actually, as if I didn't think about this very subject every time I got really drunk.
"He changed you, Bella," my mother argued, not realizing the true irony of her statement. "You were happy and content with life, and then he walked out on you, and you became a different person." Naturally, my mother didn't understand the difference between being content and being happy. This reminded me of Charlie, content with his lot in life but never a happy man.
"You walked out on Dad for no good reason," I said coldly. "You think that didn't do any damage to him?"
She said nothing, just stared at me, her mouth slightly agape.
"You destroyed my father because you were bored, and you never even thought about it," I accused, "did you?"
"Yes," she countered quietly, "I did. Eventually. But Bella, it's not my fault he if he didn't try to form a relationship with anyone else. We were so young—"
"Don't make excuses. You knew he loved you—you've always known. You were plenty old enough to consider the consequences," I growled. "And you weren't much younger than I am now."
"Yes, I know," Renee huffed. The smoke drifted out her mouth and nose as she spoke. God, I hated the smell of menthols. "That's part of my point. You're young enough to start over fresh with someone new. I don't want you to spend the rest of your life pining for That Boy like your dad did for me. You don't have to be this bitter old woman in a young girl's body. Is it so terrible that I want you to move on with your life?"
"No, Mom," I sighed, silently acknowledging her concern to myself, at least. "Moving on is not terrible, nor is having a little fun. The part I have a problem with is that you and Dad both have this idea that I'm not moving on or having a good time unless I'm fucking someone! 'Are you seeing anyone? Are you seeing anyone?' That's all I ever hear from you two. I understand why Dad does it—he's clearly the product of generations in a tiny town where everyone is the reflection of their spouse," I waved my hand at her, "or lack thereof. But you? You and I lived on our own for sixteen years. Obviously I watched you date guys and eventually get married, but I don't understand why you of all people think that's the surest sign of a full life."
Renee's cigarette was half gone, and she did not look at me as she blew her smoke out the window and spoke. "My parents may have been hippies, but they were from a small town, too. They were hippies who got married, had a baby, and realized that those fifties-era social standards actually had a basis in reality: somebody had to work, and somebody had to stay home and actually raise the child. Pop knew how to work on cars, and before she got pregnant your Gran was more about peace, love, and marijuana than any of the intellectual issues of the day. She didn't have a college education, and by the time she realized she needed one if she wanted to make more than a buck-thirty an hour at the dog food factory, she already had me. She was stuck."
I shook my head, unable to follow her Renee-logic. "Mom, I don't understand. If you know all this, shouldn't you be encouraging me to put my degree first?"
"No, you really don't understand," Renee answered quietly. "I'm not discouraging you from pursuing your education. I'm trying to tell you that it's okay to have the best of both worlds. If you spend your whole life fixated on only one part of living, you'll find yourself in another rut when something happens to it, just like last time. Independence, education, and career should be balanced with personal fulfillment."
"Are you fucking serious?" I demanded. "Who are you to judge whether or not I'm fulfilled?"
"I'm not blind, Bella," she shook her head, "and I know you a hell of a lot better than you think. You, my dear, are a born workaholic, and that's not a balanced life."
"No, no, no," I countered, eyes narrowed. "Don't stand there and lecture me about balance. You were so busy 'fulfilling' yourself that you forgot to wash the dishes and pay the light bill and stock up on tampons and make sure my vaccines were up to date. Those things still needed to get done while you were at pottery class or Girls Night or on a date, and the only one left to do the mundane shit was me. I became a workaholic out of self-preservation."
Renee's cigarette was much smaller now, but still burning its tiny red light as she inhaled. "I suppose that's true."
"I'd like to add," I said through gritted teeth, because I didn't want anyone to hear me yell, "that telling Neighbor Boy out there that I came to Florida to have sex with a random stranger is not acceptable maternal behavior no matter which era you were born in. Nor is anyone's penis going to provide me with anything that even remotely resembles 'personal fulfillment.' There's no need to whore me out. If I'm in the mood, I have hand-held equipment for that."
I had the satisfaction of seeing Renee's eyes widen in shock.
"I never said I was living like a nun." I took a deep swallow of my drink, finishing it off. "Like you said, Mother, it's just sex. But once you bring another person and their feelings into the mix, it becomes more. I refuse to use anyone or let myself be used for selfish gratification. I may not be a religious person, but I do have ethics."
Renee reached through the window, lowering her arm toward the root of the azalea hedge, and pulled up an ashtray. "I guess you're right," she sighed, stubbing out the remnant of her cigarette. "But someday your 'equipment' won't be enough anymore. Batteries are no substitute for a warm body."
And then the voice came.
I know love and lust don't always keep the same company…
"If that day comes," I replied softly, glad nobody could see me wince, "I would rather it mean more to me than whatever you thought was going to happen tonight."
Cowed, Renee hid her ashtray and came to me for a quick hug. "I'm sorry, sweetie. I guess I didn't really think this through."
"You never do, Mom." I hugged her back. "You rush in head first and think about the consequences later. I know Phil likes that about you and calls it 'adventurous.' It's fine if the only person affected by it is you, but you can't just do that with people's lives. It's hurtful and it's not right."
"I know, baby," Renee mumbled, sounding chastised.
"If you know, you should act like it," I chided her gently, even as I patted her back like a child. How I always wound up being the one to console her in these scenarios, I'd never figure out. Damn it, I needed to stop coming to Florida. "I'm going to bed now." I pretended to yawn for effect.
"Okay, baby," she smiled, pulling away and turning for the door. "Good night."
I followed her to the bedroom door, intent on locking myself in should Neighbor Boy get any ideas. "Good night, Mom."
"I love you," she said expectantly, looking over her shoulder at me.
I knew what she wanted me to say, but I only nodded and closed the door, pressing the button lock and, after a moment's thought, propping the desk chair under the doorknob. I'd probably regret not making a trip to the guest bathroom for a bedtime glass of water when I woke up with a fierce hangover, but I would willingly deal with that just to avoid contact with any more friends Renee may have 'spoken to' about me. Instead, I put my mother's cigarettes and lighter away for her.
Decembers in Jacksonville were surprisingly cold, something like April in Vancouver, so I slid out of my jeans to make the most of the chill. The bed was cool and welcoming against my skin, with the night air blowing in through the windows and chasing Renee's smoke away. I thought about Neighbor Boy, and about being wanted. Surely it wasn't such an awful thing, having someone want me, was it? Maybe not that young idiot out there, but someone who cared about me as a person. With a deep breath and droopy eyes, I considered my reality. I was too driven academically to bother with frat boys, none of Shalice's friends or my classmates really understood my outside interests or the accompanying attitude, and I wasn't romantically interested in the middle-aged men at the Chatterbox. What I told Renee was true: I was too busy with my own life to put energy into a man anyway.
Much, much too busy for a man. Whether I was wanted or not.
I may not be human, but I am a man.
Liar. If you wanted me, you'd be here.
I closed my eyes and rolled over, settling into bed and forcing myself to dream of Haida legends, the auditory differential between a Sportster and a FatBoy, anything I could call up rather than His face. Men in canoes glided past, their tattoos winking at me. Women turned into birds and flocked around me and into the sky. Animals became spirits, spirits became men, men became animals. Chii'aḵaatl'lx̱a crept on the shore, casting their eyes about the land as x̱uuya cawed a warning. Something stalked me in the empty forest, and I slipped away silently, sprouting black wings and flying up into a tree, listening as the nameless, invisible thing prowled the forest floor.
Bella, a watery voice said beside me, what are you doing?
Shh. Stl'aay taad dang kil guudang gas ga.
Bella?
The cold hand monster will hear your voice.
PEPET̸IN: (SENĆOŦEN Salish) skunk
Cabrón: (Spanish) literally "big goat;" colloquial definition varies by country and situation, but in this case it means "prick" or "motherfucker"
ḵ'aay ts'aawaay k'aayhlg̱ahl da gan—taay hla. (Haida) The Stars have turned over—go to bed.
Litost: (Czech) A state of torment created by the sudden sight of one's own misery (defined by Milan Kundera)
Sg̱aana g̱id ids iijii anag̱uun. (Haida) The Supernatural Being is watching out of curiosity.
Chii'aḵaatl'lx̱a: (Haida) all Supernatural beings that come out of the ocean and change into humans
x̱uuya: (Haida) Raven, the trickster; a sly, selfish character, but ultimately his acts benefit others
Stl'aay taad dang kil guudang gas ga. (Haida) The cold hand monster will hear your voice.
A/N: Wondering about all the native languages? Please visit firstvoices (dot) com/en/SENCOTEN and firstvoices (dot) com/en/Hlgaadilda-Xaayda-Kil
Disclaimer: This story is a work of fiction. All recognizable characters and song lyrics are the property of their respective copyright owners. Portions of Stephenie Meyer's original work are reprinted, but no copyright violation is intended. References to real places and groups are used fictitiously, and certain elements of history are ignored. This story is in no way meant to reflect actual criminal events or territorial claims of gangs or motorcycle clubs in Vancouver or any other location.
