A/N: It seems I am the queen of short chapters at the moment. Oh well. To those of you that are reading this story, thank you. It means a lot to me because I really like this story and the ideas that I have for it.
Anyway, reviews are love but I think you guys know that. Thanks for reading.
I wouldn't go so far as to say that I was happy but being with Jake was almost enough to make me forget. Almost. His good nature and brilliant smile were infectious and he always knew the right things to say to me when I was in a stupor.
We spent a lot of time going to the movies or playing video games, anything that was mindless and would distract me. And eventually he convinced me to go back to La Push so he could teach me how to work on cars.
I gripped the steering wheel tightly as we drove by the beach but Jake distracted me by telling me tales of his tribe and quizzing me on them. I learned about the shape-shifter stories, about the spirit quests, and about the shamans and healers. Billy and the other Quileutes made me feel at home. They made me feel welcome.
School was another matter. The first day back was hell. Apparently people think suicide is catching because everyone avoided me like the plague. The only person who even remotely acknowledged me was Angela but I couldn't bring myself to warm up to her. It's selfish I know, but all I could think about when I looked at her was Ben. She had someone that loved her. She was worth loving. I was not. So I kept my distance and tried to focus on my schoolwork.
But people are cruel, especially young people. There were many days that I found anonymous notes stuffed into my locker teasing me about my attempt to kill myself or telling me that I should just finish the job. Those were the days that I would lean against my locker with my eyes closed fighting off the tears and wondering if they were right. Those were the days when an innocent look around a room would reveal numerous ways to achieve the job.
A power cord; a medicine cabinet; the bathtub; all of these things became possibilities. The most tempting of all were my Father's guns but in the end I was too chicken to do that, and too kind. I couldn't bear the thought of him having to clean up such a mess.
So I found myself sitting on my bed with a razor blade held against my wrist. It seemed fitting somehow if I died by spilling the thing that had very first drawn him to me. But again I couldn't do it. It was the last thing I had to remind myself that he even existed. Everything else was gone.
Ironic that my blood would end up being the thing that saved me.