Chapter 3: Freak on a Leash
Warning: Tread carefully.
"Something takes a part of me
Something lost and never seen
Every time I start to believe
Something's raped and taken from me...from me
Life's gotta always be messing with me
Can't they chill and let me be free,"
~Freak on a Leash, Korn
The street was fairly dark. That should have been the first indicator, the first sign that I shouldn't have been where I was. The city was never quiet, but it was long past the hour where cars were whizzing past in a steady, noisy stream. Like anyone, I'd been warned repeatedly about wandering the streets at night, especially as a woman. That girl in the television movies that you feel sorry for but secretly shake your head, just knowing you wouldn't ever be that stupid? That was me. Later I would call myself an idiot, but I wasn't thinking about the dangers. I just didn't want to go back to my hotel room.
I was leaning against the wall, just staring into space when he came up.
The first thing I noticed was the smell of alcohol on stinking breath. He leaned heavily against the wall beside me. "How much for a blow job baby?" he asked, his hand already snaking down my side. In his drunken haze he didn't seem to notice that what I was wearing wasn't even remotely revealing. My encounters with alcohol were limited, but I'd heard of beer goggles. Obviously, this guy was seeing what he wanted to see.
I reeled away from him. "I'm not what you think I am," I said, trying to keep my voice steady despite my racing heart.
Before I could take more than two steps forward, his rough hand grasped my arm.
"I know what you are," the man snarled, propelling me backwards toward an ally way. "You're just a bitch like the rest of them."
Things began to happen too quickly, and time became a surreal blur. My heart beat a jackhammer tempo that echoed between my ears, distorting the sounds of me scuffling and him pushing. I heard a pleading voice begin to scream, "Let go of me. What are you doing? Please!" and then felt the alley wall against my back.
The voices sounded so distant I couldn't really comprehend what was being said. Some part of me recognized that I was the panicked screamer, but my thoughts were too scattered to grab hold of that. Physical feeling was the only thing that registered. I could feel the edges of the brick wall against my back and his fingers pressing hard against my shoulders. Spasms of pain radiated from where his fingers dug into my flesh, undeterred by the thin fabric of my shirt.
"Shut up," I heard him say a split second before his hand lifted and came down on my left cheek. The slap was familiar, instantly confusing me because time warped. The stranger was stocky with dark hair, but in his place I saw James's sneering face. Instantly, I reverted back to an old tactic. When James slapped me, I let my knees buckle, sliding down to the ground and throwing my arms over my head because I would rather he hit my arms or my body than batter my face. But the stranger wasn't James, and instead of letting me fall he pressed me harder against the wall. Either way, between dizziness from how hard he'd hit me and disorientation because I didn't know what time I was in, I stopped fighting.
He kissed me then.
The last person who had kissed me was Mike Newton. We were in first grade. I had knocked down the sandcastle he was building in the sandbox at school. He chased me, and when he caught me, he kissed me.
"Ha, ha," he'd laughed as I spit and pawed at my tongue though he'd only kissed my cheek. "Isabella has cooties."
Back then the worst thing that could result from kissing was chi-chis. To our first grade logic, Daddies were always kissing Mommies and she had big ones. I spent the rest of the day worrying that I would tip over and not be able to move from the weight of my impending gigantic breasts.
Mike tasted like cookies from lunch and sand from the playground, and my breasts never really grew in, but that didn't stop the man from pawing at them. He tasted like cigarettes, bile and bitter alcohol. He was rough, forcing his tongue inside my mouth as his hands groped me. His chin was covered in stubble, each individual hair rubbing raw against me like an SOS pad. I heard myself whimper.
Do something.
I heard it clear as day. It wasn't muffled by distance as my screams and his yelling had been. It was like someone whispering urgently in my ear. My eyes flew open as if searching. My hands came up to his chest. I did the only thing that came to mind.
I bit down.
Hard.
The metallic taste of blood filled my mouth, overwhelming the acidic alcohol and cigarettes. I wanted to throw up; the taste made my stomach churn uncomfortably. Before I could do anything though, the stranger was pushing away from me, crying out in pain.
Run.
I didn't question her - that voice - I just pivoted. But I had gone mere steps when his hand was around my arm again, pulling me backward against his chest.
He spat over his shoulder, a smattering of blood and spittle landing right near my foot. "Fucking cunt," he said, the words low and dangerous near my ear. The ripping sound that filled the air were my frantic gasps as I tried to breathe. My skin was superheated except for the rivulets of cold wetness where tears had left trails down my cheek. I stopped struggling again when he started to shake me.
With one hand gripping my hair as he shook my head, rattling my brain in my skull, again brought on flashes of my past, and James's voice screaming, Why are you so fucking stupid? The fact that the stranger was screaming a long string of profanities wasn't helping my helping the coherency of my thoughts.
Before I could comprehend what was happening I was pressed up against the brick wall again, face first, with his body against mine. I could feel his heart beating against my back, fast with rage as mine was with fear. He ground his hips against me, and I shuddered, disgusted and terrified. But at the very least the movement put me firmly in the present. James had never touched me like that. This man was not James.
He shook me again. Sound came back to me like an unmuted TV. "Did you hear me bitch? You're going to do exactly as I say, or I'm going to kill you." He yanked my head back hard until it was resting on his shoulder. He had produced a knife from somewhere, a typical Swiss army type knife that anyone might carry around, small but just as capable of puncturing the fragile skin where it was pressed against my neck.
Do something.
My eyes caught the reflection in the backdoor window of a darkened, long closed store. I saw the man's face clearly for the first time, his eyes wide and crazy, a thin blot of blood staining his lower lip. I saw the terror in my own face, the tears running down my checks, my hands wrapped around his arm as if I might try to wrest it away from me.
And I saw her. She was staring at me with almost contempt. How I must have looked to her: so stupid. I wasn't even fighting back. Served me right for staying out until all hours, walking alone down dark streets.
He's going to kill me. He's stronger, I thought to her.
She narrowed her eyes at me.
I don't want to die. I don't. How can he take this away from me? It's not fair.
Shamed, I dropped my gaze, suddenly unable to look at her anymore. I tried to ignore that his hand had wandered down to the button of my pants. Some ignored part of me was livid because all I had in the world was that I was no one's victim anymore. The monster was supposed to be gone, and I was trying to deal with the wreck of a person he'd left behind. Fuck this random asshole who thought he could take that all away from me.
But that part of me - indignant and strong - was like an ill used muscle; I hadn't exercised that side in so long it was easily overwhelmed by fear. Instead of fighting back, I was staring at the ground.
Since everything else was so hazy, I was surprised when I heard a fierce, angry voice cry out. "Fuck you!" Because I was looking down, I could see someone's feet kicking hard at his ankles. He grunted, his legs buckling as he stumbled. An elbow to his stomach released me. Pivoting, I saw two hands clawing at his eyes, nails digging into skin in a way that made my skin crawl. The man screamed, his hands coming up but her hands were too fast. A knee to his groin finished him off, and as he started to fall, I stared for a moment in dumb shock.
Run!
I ran. I ran without hearing my footfalls against the hard pavement though I felt the ground against my feet. I ran without seeing, and when a pair of arms attempted to restrain me, I fought just as blindly. My fist landed again and again against solid flesh, trying to break free of the hold.
"Hey, it's okay."
The words were so distant that I didn't even realize they were there at first. The sounds melded against the noise of the city.
"I'm not going to hurt you. You're okay."
Slowly, belatedly, my mind began to wrap around the words. My blows fell with less frequency.
"You're okay."
I stopped all together, my hands resting on someone's arms, my eyes screwed tightly shut. I was beginning to feel tiny pin pricks on my lungs from lack of breath because I was gasping wildly.
"You're okay."
The world came back to me with dizzying speed. I screamed once and fell to the ground on my knees, shaking uncontrollably. Someone's hands began to rub up and down my arms, no doubt trying to comfort me. I flinched away from his touch.
When I opened my eyes, the boy from the music shop, the nurse, knelt in front of me. Here I was, dropping to my knees again. But there was no I told you so, and he didn't look at me like I was crazy. His eyes held nothing but concern, just like before except with a wide-eyed element of fear - not for himself, but for me.
Wrapping my arms around myself, I shook my head, trying to get a handle on my tears. I saw the boy take off his jacket out of the corner of my eye. He was moving slowly, as if afraid quick movements would startle me. He wrapped the jacket around my trembling shoulders. Somewhere in the close distance sirens screamed. It wasn't rare to hear sirens, but I realized belatedly that it was possible they were heading for me.
"Everything's going to be all right," the nurse soothed.
Maybe if he said it often enough I would begin to believe it.
~0~
My attacker's name was Alonzo Wallace. I would learn later that his wife had taken him for just about everything he owned early that morning at their divorce hearing. Alonzo had been wallowing in shot after shot of hard liquor since late that afternoon - something I thought unwise anyway considering his alimony payments. An ounce of amber liquid wasn't exactly cheap.
Mix burning anger for the opposite sex - his wife was about my build and had relatively the same color hair as I did, lucky me. With as many drinks as he had, I ended up with a multitude of bruises in assorted colors. Black, purple, blue and yellow around the edges. It was a regular fiesta. The police, like tourists at Mardi Gras, had insisted on taking pictures. I just wanted to leave. I wanted to be someplace with warm blankets and no people.
My back was literally sprinkled with little red dots, like a sheet of Morse code, from where Alonzo had pushed me against the brick. Those dots didn't really hurt, but they itched like I couldn't believe. Around my arm was the faint shape of a hand. I remembered elementary school and drawing an outline of my hand on paper, coloring it in. A splotch that resembled a palm was that ugly half green, half yellow color while the finger shaped bruises from where he gripped my arm were a purple-blue hue. My kindergarten teacher would have complimented his use of vivid colors. My shoulders had similar marks, and crescents from his fingernails that had drawn blood in a few places.
Then of course there was the nasty bruise on my face. I hadn't seen it yet but it hurt. It really stung. Whenever I moved my mouth, the stretching skin screamed in protest. Answering questions for the police had been a real blast. Eating was going to be just as much fun for a while.
I sighed to myself for what had to be the hundredth time in the hour I had been at the hospital. The doctors and police had finally left me in peace so I could collect myself. The doctor said something about taking my time and handed me a prescription for some sleeping pills, "to help you relax. Calm your nerves."
The world kept handing me ways to become a drug addict. They could handle a drug addict.
My back, shoulders and arm were easy to accept. I was not looking forward to seeing the bruise on my face. It had never been easy to see bruises on my face. They were impossible to hide, and even worse to ignore when it felt like everyone who looked at you was really staring at the bruise and they could see...
They could see that James had beat me because I was a worthless piece of shit. They could see that Alonzo beat me because I was an easy substitute for some other worthless woman. It was a crack in the calm, collected, self-assured mask I put on after I wiped all the tears away.
I exited the small office and shuffled into the bathroom down the hall, closing the door quickly. For a moment I stood in the darkness of the room, hating that sterile hospital scent that even permeated that bathroom of all places. Why couldn't it smell like piss and filth like a normal toilet? Everything here was too clean, too stark, too fucking unreal for what went on behind hospital walls. Lives began and ended here. Someone in this same hospital was screaming in the worst pain they would ever feel, and I was standing in a vaguely sweet smelling, clean bathroom. Somewhere else in the world, someone was shopping for clothes at Ross and having to stop to take a leak amidst yellowish clumps of toilet paper and a dirty diaper that didn't quite make it into the garbage can. There was a kind of injustice there that, for whatever reason, bothered me. I supposed the fact that my back itched like crazy might have had something to do with it. I was quite irritated.
Finally, I flipped on the light.
It took me a moment to realize that the reflection in the mirror wasn't me, it was the girl. She stared at me with her chin pointing slightly upwards, as if in victory. A vivid, horrible bruise colored her cheek, but she seemed to wear it as a badge of honor. I felt ashamed of my own discoloration. I bowed my head, but kept my eyes up, almost in awe of her. She must have been the one. It must have been her arm I'd seen slam into Alonzo's stomach, her feet kicking at his ankles and her knee at his groin.
Her bruise was a mark of courage. Mine was just a scarlet letter, a testimony to the fact that I could be conquered and bowed; that, if not for her, I could have been lying in that ally, beaten and raped - possibly even dead.
Just then the door opened, and I jumped back in surprise. In my haste I had forgotten to lock the bathroom door, and now the boy from the music shop stood in front of me, looking about as shocked and confused as I felt.
"I'm sorry," he said in that rich, soft voice. "I didn't know you were in here." He moved to close the door again.
"No. It's okay. I was done anyway," I replied, though I made no move to leave. It was probably ridiculous, given the night I'd had, that looking at him still made me swoon just a little.
For a moment we stared at each other. Then I caught a glimpse of the scratches running up and down his arms. They weren't very deep, but they were there.
"I'm sorry," I said quietly.
He appeared even more confused for a moment before he realized what I was talking about. In my desperate attempts to escape him, I'd clawed his arms pretty badly.
"It's really not a problem," he said quickly. "I'm just glad you're okay."
"I'm okay," I repeated in a monotone under my breath. I scoffed lightly, and my hand unconsciously touched my cheek.
"Well, you should see the other guy. When I left the scene he was still…incapacitated, crying like a little girl. Pathetic son of a bitch." His voice was tight with a fierce anger that made me briefly anxious. Seeing my face he took a breath and calmed, smiling at me. "You really did a number on him," he said with a great deal of admiration.
I almost told him that it hadn't been me, that it was her. Thinking better of it, I just shook my head slightly. "Thank you for stopping me by the way. I probably would have run straight into the street. How did you even know that I was there?"
He ran his hand through the thick, not quite brown, not really red hair on his head. "It was luck, really," he admitted. "I'd just got done with my shift - I work here - and I was driving home. I stopped behind a car, and when I looked to the side, I saw you struggling. I called the police and went to help you, but you already had him on the ground." He shrugged. Tentative, he raised a hand, brushing my tender cheek with just the tip of his fingers. "I wish I'd seen you sooner."
There was a painless burn where he touched my cheek, and I could feel my face get hot. "Well," I said, increasingly aware that we were having an awkward conversation in a hospital bathroom, "Thank you."
He nodded. "My name's Edward, by the way. What's your name?" he asked, sticking out his hand.
I paused as I took and shook his hand. It was his look that bothered me. It was a look of total admiration, a look I didn't deserve. He wouldn't like me. I was too weak for the picture he was painting, an amateur to the Monet he was expecting. He was looking for the girl. He'd like the girl.
"Bella," I said finally, my tone apologetic because he couldn't have the girl. I was the only one here. I felt guilty about letting him believe I was her. Where so many others would have turned away this boy had risked himself on my behalf. I wanted to give him honesty.
Or did I? Edward was the first person judging my new self and first appearances are everything. I wanted to be as strong as she was. I wanted to be able to say I could best an attacker the way she had.
Then again, this really wasn't his first impression. He'd seen me twice now and both times I'd been in the midst of non-lucid episode.
As I contemplated this last thought my feet suddenly began moving again. Edward walked in silence right beside me. I wondered, vaguely, why he had not gone to the bathroom as he'd intended but decided we'd already engaged in enough awkward conversation for the time being.
There were still a couple of policemen in the lobby of the Emergency Room, talking to one of the doctors. One looked over, saw me and excused himself from the conversation to walk over.
"We thought you had gone home," he said apologetically. I must have looked confused.
"We could give you a ride back to your car or wherever, but my partner and I still have some questions to ask…. Well, it might take a while," the policeman finished, looking sheepish that he'd let on I was in the same hospital as my attacker.
"That's all right. I can take her," Edward said before I could speak. He looked at me. "Is that okay?"
For one second my breath caught in my throat, an answer I couldn't quite form in my head lingered on my tongue. Of course, that second was filled with a thousand thoughts, not the least of which was the worry that Edward wanted to pick up where Alonzo left off, and I'd end up back at the hospital as a rape victim or dead in a ditch somewhere. But while I wasn't naïve enough to think that this was completely out of the question, I just didn't see Edward as the rape or murder type. I was still shaken. I still felt stripped raw and naked by my own fragility and vulnerability. I was alone in this huge city, in this huge country, in this huge world with no one to cling to. I didn't even have a teddy bear to hug.
And there was this nagging voice that told me I should have talked to him in the first place - after the music shop.
Edward at least shared part of the experience with me. He might be better company for at least the ride home than two cops. Maybe he was shaken too. Sure he lived in LA, but in spite of what the sensationalized media wants you to think, really how many times do you see a rape in progress in a seedy back ally? The cops had probably seen enough shit that an attempted rape and battery case would seem like afternoon tea: calm and boring. But to me, it was a major life event. Edward was the one person on the planet at that time that could understand given the obvious fact that I didn't wish to discuss it with Mr. Wallace.
"Yes," I said quietly after a moment's hesitation. "That's fine."
There was a five minute time period between signing out of the hospital and buckling my seat belt in the passenger seat of Edward's car that we spent in what could be considered companionable silence. We were looking at each other out of our peripheral vision. I have to admit to ogling, but really, who could blame me? My night had been more than a little surreal with being attacked and now being driven off by a guy who could have been a movie star, he was that handsome. Those were two highly improbable events. I could only imagine what he was thinking when he looked at me. He was probably just being wary - wondering when my next breakdown was coming on. But despite all that, and despite the fact I probably should have been edgy and self conscious I was strangely comfortable.
I felt safe, I realized.
Then Edward opened his mouth and the whole situation turned awkward, leaving me to wonder if I wouldn't have been better off with the cops who would not have asked as many questions as he did. Honestly, I couldn't blame him. His questions were quite legitimate, even necessary, but I was a little bummed. Staring at his beautiful face was the highlight of my week so far.
"Where do you live? Or, should I drop you off at your car?" he asked as he pulled into the street.
His voice, in the quiet of the car, startled me, and I stumbled over my words. "I, um. I'm- You can take me right back where you found me."
He glanced over quickly before returning his eyes to the road. "You mean your car's parked around where the bar was?"
More legitimate questions and I still stumbled as if I had something to hide. My situation suddenly seemed very odd to me. "No. I mean, it is, but I'm also staying at the hotel across the street."
This earned another glance and a moment of silence as Edward tried to process this information. His next words came out slowly, as if he were considering each one before he let them slip passed his tongue, carefully inspecting each sentence that came off the assembly line for flaws so they would not have to be recalled later. "It's been nearly a month since that day we first met. I don't know if you remember, you had a little fainting spell in the music store?" I nodded, flushing a deep red. I was kind of hoping he'd forgotten that bit. "That seems like an awfully long vacation."
I chuffed softly, considering another lie. But lies were complicated and I was too tired and jumpy for complications at that point. "I'm living in the hotel right now."
Again there was silence as Edward considered his words. Finally he said, "I really don't feel comfortable with you being alone tonight. Is there a friend I can take you to? Even if it's in Orange County, anywhere?"
I stared out the window at the darkened shops and the scattered people under the dim street lamps, counting down the streets until we'd be at our destination and I would be alone again. "I have no one here," I said simply.
More silence before Edward said, "I know I'm just a stranger to you, and for all you know I could be a murderer or something. I have no way to prove otherwise of course, not at this time of night. But I meant what I said; I wouldn't feel comfortable leaving you alone tonight. I have a small house that I live in by myself. There's an extra bedroom. It only makes sense for you to come and stay."
"It makes sense?" I echoed.
"You've been trough a traumatic event-"
"Nothing happened."
He spared a glance at me, his face somewhat stern. "Bella, you were attacked. That's traumatic. Whether or not it could have been worse is well beside the point. If you went into shock - because it could happen even after the fact - at least I'd be there to help you. If nothing else, you'd have a good breakfast in the morning."
I was silent, considering his proposal. After all, it went both ways. As I could not be sure of his intentions, for all he knew I could be a pyromaniac, a kleptomaniac - any number of things that you don't want roaming your house while you slept. But in the light of that night's events, surrealistic moments such as this one suddenly became possible. I only debated with myself for a handful of moments before I agreed.
Edward was a very gracious host. After all the necessary steps - getting a fresh change of clothes from the hotel, Edward giving me the tour of his house and offering anything I needed - there was a silence neither of us knew how to fill. It was obvious that he was as tired, if not more so, than I was, but he looked reluctant to leave, and I was reluctant to let him go - the night held shadows I wasn't ready to deal with just yet. I'm sure, given that at the very least he thought I was prone to little fits, he didn't want to leave me without adult supervision. But because we had no history together there was no idle chatter we could lapse comfortably into. I was too tired for a getting-to-know-you conversation. Eventually, for lack of anything better to do but stare at each other - which I suspected was better for me than it was for him anyway- we retreated to separate rooms.
The night was so quiet, it was loud. Things had been moving so quickly since the attack. Quick
and with a lot of noise. Police sirens, bustling doctors, Edward running around his house in a flustered state at my unexpected company. Now, with the door to my room closed and the light off, the world had come to a sudden stop, leaving me alone, curled in a fetal position on a strange bed with nothing to distract me from my thoughts.
I remembered something I'd heard in a child development course. Newborn babies could be comforted by swaddling them in a warm blanket, forcing their arms and legs against their body. While I understood that this stimulated the womb, the familiar environment that these babies had been so suddenly ripped away from, I couldn't, at that time, understand how restricted movement could be a comfort. Now, when I felt confused and broken, the thought of confinement was attractive. The less space I occupied, the better I could contain this helpless feeling right?
Exhaustion made my brain cloudy, and I wrapped the blankets over and then under me, pulling them tight. There was a chill that hadn't left me since the attack, and I wanted the warmth of the blankets to chase it away. I wondered if ice was like fire - if I could take away the available space, could I smother it like a flame? I imagined being a fetus in my warm amniotic sac, my mind new and not cognizant, unable to form a thought or image. Fetuses had no memories and I didn't want any.
But I did have memories and concrete thoughts.
From as far back as I remember, I took care of myself. Charlie was a loving father, but he didn't always know what he was doing with me. Even from a young age, I couldn't stand to see the helpless look on his face, so I tried not to cry when I fell down, and I got used to saying 'I'm fine' when I was sick. My mother, if it was possible, was worse. She never could stand the sight of blood - something I inherited from her. Not long after I went to live with her, my mother cut her finger on a piece of broken glass and had fainted at the sight of blood squirting from the small wound. I ran to find James, screaming that my mother was dead. Having just lost my father, it was my biggest fear. James called me an idiot. Needless to say, I never begged her to help me with any of my scrapes and cuts.
While she was still alive, my mother would leave me with my Grandma Marie when I got sick. Grandma would nurse me back to health, cooling my fevers with aspirin and a moist cloth, rubbing my back; whatever remedy she could give, I got. I wished for my grandmother now. She'd had aloe vera plants that would soothe the itch from the scrapes on my back. She would scratch my head, patting my hair until I could sleep.
But one thing she could not give me, what she had never been able to give me, was comfort for the phantom pains in my heart. My insides felt sore and heavy, like they used to years ago when my loving father was replaced by a man who could and would hurt me. Once, I tried at to talk to my grandmother, but she was so old fashioned. She came from a time where you minded your own business and didn't air the family's dirty laundry.
Just like then, there was no home remedy that would take away what I was feeling. When I was young, she would help heal my wounds. If she was here today she would have some remedy for bringing the swelling of my bruised face down so she could pretend that everything was all right again. As long as she couldn't see it, it wasn't there.
Somewhere, as I drowned in this sea of inescapable thoughts, I fell asleep. The blankets, once a tiny measure of comfort, had become Wallace's iron grip on my arms. I was trapped again, but this time I couldn't move my arms, I couldn't move my legs, and there was no one to help me. Not the girl, not Edward, just me and a man-turned-monster.
I flailed desperately on the bed, falling with a startled cry to the floor as I struggled. I wrestled with the blankets firm, tangled hold on me, trying to kick them away from me. Finally freeing myself, I stumbled forward onto my feet, my eyes open but not really seeing my surroundings. I was still in Edward's spare bedroom, but all I could see was the darkened ally in an endless stretch. There was no street to run to, no doors that I could see.
James and Wallace's voice superimposed over each other, echoing off the endless walls of the ally. "Bitch." I reached forward, desperately bumping into furniture and the wall, except my mind wouldn't let me see what they were. Everything felt like it was trying to hurt me or keep me in a place where the monsters could find me.
My lungs were burning, reminding me that I should breathe. When had I stopped breathing? I opened my mouth but nothing happened. All this air around me and I couldn't take it in; I couldn't force myself to breathe. With my hand along the wall, I moved forward, backward - anywhere that was away from where I had been. I needed to run away; I needed to breathe.
Without warning the wall gave away, and I pitched forward, landing on my hands and knees. Pain broke its way through my consciousness, and in that one moment I gasped, my lungs filling with precious air. The burning grip that pressed down like dead weight on my chest eased for a handful of seconds.
I knelt, gaping like a fish out of water, but my lungs had closed again. Again I reached out blindly, finding a surface so I could pull myself upright. I stood on fawn's legs, my hands darting along a cool counter top, knocking things over. I heard the cling and clatter of various cans, bottles and toiletries as if from a great distance. There were choked wheezes and awful gurgling noises that caught in my throat. Air tried to escape my lungs. Air begged to be let in. I couldn't make my body work right.
My hand closed around a small object.
With a whoosh, air was pulled into my lungs as sharp, severe pain spread through my palm. I waited for my lungs to close again, to leave me heaving, struggling for gasps of air I could not take, but they didn't. I kept breathing. With this thing in my fisted hand, I could finally breathe again. My chest was rising and falling rapidly, shaking my body in powerful spasms.
Another hand closed around mine, prying at my fingers, and I panicked. Someone was trying to get the thing away from me. I pulled my arm away violently, scrambling until my back hit the corner of the room. The hand followed me, still trying to get under my fingers, to get to the thing. There was another voice in the room. It sounded frantic, but my mind had forgotten how to process those sounds into words. Everything was instinctual. Automatically, I shied away from the voice, turning into the corner as I tried to hide my hand beneath my body. It hurt so much, but I was breathing. I didn't want to stop breathing again, no matter what the cost.
"Bella!" I heard the voice clearly for the first time. It was a man's voice - a man who was towering over me. Positive that he was trying to hurt me, or kill me, I squeezed my eyes shut, sliding down the wall and curling into a protective ball. He was pulling my arm, trying to get to my hand, and I couldn't let him. I squeezed the thing tighter, a fresh wave of agony coursing up my arm as I gulped air like water.
"Bella!" called the man again, sounding desperate. My addled brain couldn't understand why he was calling me.
"Isabella Swan! Stop!"
At this I opened my eyes, the fog around my brain seeming to dissipate as I became fully awake for the first time since I'd fallen asleep. I was panting hard, my throat dry and raw like a balloon's skin being run over a hard surface. Blinking rapidly, I found myself staring at Edward's terrified face. His hand was gripped around my wrist, and my fist, oh my god, my fist was leaking blood. Thick streams of it poked around from the crevices between my fingers, a stark contrast to my skin, white with tension, which peaked out like islands in a river of crimson.
My vision swam at the sight. With a startled, frightened cry, I opened my hand, watching in horror as a blood stained razor blade fell out of it. My eyes found spots of blood everywhere, on my clothes, in pools of red on white linoleum and tiny puddles falling like rain from my shaking hand.
For long seconds Edward and I stood close together, both too shocked to move. Then he guided me to my feet and over to the sink with an eerie sort of calmness to his manner. He turned on the faucet, holding my hand under it carefully. I sucked in a sharp breath at the pain of water running through the wound; my hand throbbed as the water warmed. The swirl in the sink was pink with strings of red. Naseua clawed at my stomach, making me clench my teeth to keep from fainting or vomiting. Still, I couldn't keep my eyes off the bloody water, remembering that song from the music store a month ago - how haunting and hollow the sound of water circling the drain could be.
Edward had produced a handful of cotton balls and a bottle of peroxide from beneath the sink. He was soaking the cotton without looking directly at me. When he spoke, his voice was calm and smooth. I remembered my mother putting cream on my bald spot. "I don't think the wound is deep enough to require stitches, but I do need to clean it. I'm sorry. This will sting."
The sting of the peroxide in my raw wound drew a hiss of pain from my lips. My hand throbbed double time in protest, and I closed my eyes, fighting not to faint at the smell of blood and alcohol. Edward was efficient, and it was over soon. Before I knew it, he was bandaging my hand in stark white gauze. What was it about medical products and white anyway? There was something morbid about a deep red splotch against a pure white surface.
"How did you know?" I asked, my voice shaking and thin.
"Know what?" he asked.
"My name…my whole name." Apparently it had occurred to me that I never told him my full name. I'd introduced myself only as Bella.
Edward looked sheepish. I was just surprised that he looked at me. "The cops said your name several times when we were talking. I don't know why I asked you. I was nervous, I suppose."
I nodded at this, not replying. Out of distractions, I was lost again in thought, the song from the music store returned to me; a line spoken like a verdict.
Without a sense of confidence, I'm convinced that there's just too much pressure to take.
I was sobbing before I realized I was crying. Edward pulled me to him, murmuring comforting "Shhs," against my hair. My legs gave out, and he held me tighter against his chest as he sunk to the floor. His arms were secure around me, and his legs along mine. Inexplicably, I felt safe. I was crying because I was overwhelmed, like a small child that cried because she was just so tired. Edward rocked me for a long time, until I fell into a dreamless sleep out of pure exhaustion.
A/N: Sigh. My girl.
Thanks as always to jadedandboring and barburella. Mwah. Ily.
We'll meet more of our familiar friends next chappy. Initial thoughts on Edward?