Chapter III

A furious squall came up, and the waves broke over the boat, so that it was nearly swamped. Jesus was in the stern, sleeping on a cushion.
The disciples woke him and said to him, "Teacher, don't you care if we drown?"
~Mark 4: 37

Dr. Melissa Varner walked into the hospital cafeteria, fresh Caesar salad in one hand, fork in another, packet of patient charts tucked neatly under her arm. The smell of glazed bagels and warm pretzels hit her, one of the few elements of food here that she enjoyed. Eyes catching onto the form of Carlisle Cullen, hunched over a round table by himself in the corner, glaring at the papers spread before him, she happily walked over to where he was seated, clearing her throat after a moment. Blue orbs rose to meet hers, though the smile that was tugging against her lips vanished when she saw the exhaustion written in them.

"I was wondering if you'd mind if I joined you."

She watched him carefully, realizing that it took him a longer time than typical to comprehend the meaning of his words. After a long five seconds though, he finally seemed to grasp hold of her statement, nodding to her once in acknowledgement, faking a welcoming expression that was clearly forced. "Of course, Dr. Varner."

Suddenly feeling awkward, she lowered herself less enthusiastically than she had planned into the hard, blue plastic chair adjacent to his own. She felt out of place as she began picking at the lettuce and tomatoes, taking notice that the only lunch in front of him was a cup of Starbucks coffee, untouched by the looks of it. Purposefully coughing into her hand, she kept her gaze locked onto his handsomely carved out face, the normally sharp features of it more tired than usual. "Are you alright Carlisle?"

His head snapped up, and he stared at her for a long moment.

He had forgotten her presence.

"Of course," he easily lied, mind trying hard to keep up with the newly opened conversation. "Why do you ask?"

She shrugged lightly, normally hyper personality slowing into a deep caution. "You've just seemed a little out of it today. Plus you were late for your shift this morning." At his nearly incomprehensible crushed posture at being accused, she immediately tried to backfire. "I don't mean to blame you. We're all late once and a while. It's just…" She momentarily struggled to find the right words. "Not very common for you." At his silence, she cautiously slowly reached across the laminated surface of the table, softly laying her hand on his. He barely seemed to register the touch as she lowered her voice. "You know it helps to talk about things Carlisle. You're the one who's always reminding me."

Quiet loomed for a stretched minute before he sighed, breaking whatever façade was left in him and rubbing a hand through his blond hair.

A part of him knew she was right.

A part of him hated that she was right.

A part of him rejoiced.

"Have I ever told you how Esme and I adopted Emmett?"

She blinked quickly, not expecting that those words of any would be the ones he'd speak. Nevertheless, she gave a speedy 'no,' hoping that it was a thorough enough response for the question.

He moved to toy with the edge of the page he was lingering on, the words written on it blurring. "He was eight when he was checked into the hospital I was working at at the time, down in Tennessee. Leukemia. His parent's weren't very rich. Actually, they could hardly afford to pay the bills. Still, they gave up everything they had to get him the best treatment that they could."

She listened as he talked, not wavering as the sentences were continually pushed. "He made more of an impression in those first few days than any other patient I had ever had." A small grin creased his features. "He understood far more than he should have. He knew there was a chance he'd die. He knew that he was worsening. Still, it was impossible to get him to stop being so…happy. Eventually, it came down to the point where the staff there was going to him to be cheered up, even when it should have been the other way around."

He broke off suddenly.

Took a deep breath.

Slowly continued.

"It was raining that night," he whispered. "The other driver was drunk. They didn't know what had hit them; died immediately from the impact." Carlisle moved to scoff at the perfectly spotless tiles.

It was too clean.

"They called me. I was the closest doctor to him. By the time I got there, they were debating about sedating him. He was collapsed in the corner when I walked in. Huddled up on the floor. Crying. It took a good two hours for me to calm him down enough to a point where I was at all comfortable." He surprised her by suddenly laughing, a light tremble, more joyous than she had thought it was capable of. "The first words out of his mouth besides the sobs were reassuring me that it'd all be fine—that they made it to heaven, and that he was done being sad over it."

Melissa smiled fondly, imagining the scene. "That sounds like Emmett," she commented, a vision of the fourteen year old, burly son of her colleague. His son was always telling jokes.

Always making her laugh.

He didn't seem to hear her. "Ten days later, I was taking him home. It was one of the best choices that I had ever made."

His hand moved back up, fisting against the collar of his shirt. She could see the wetness accumulating in his eyes. "I knew what was happening at first, somewhere in the back of my head. I just didn't want to believe it." He choked. "So I didn't."

He moved his elbows up, burying himself into the palms of his hands.

A feeling of helplessness sunk in her gut.

"The bruises, the headaches, the cramps…I knew what they meant from day one." He moved to meet her uneven, swaggering gaze. "We got him into a specialist yesterday."

She dropped her eyes.

"His leukemia's back. Acute."

"Carlisle…I am so, so sorry."

[+]+[+]+[+]+[+]+[+]

Jasper

Staying invisible. It's the one, singular rule that I've lived my entire life by. It was the one saving grace that managed to get me through each and every day alive. Because a simple fact always seemed to hang above my head like a noose to convicts on death row: I was weak. I was pathetic. I was worthless. I was the prey. The strong ones are the ones to survive; to thrive.

I wasn't strong. I never will be strong. I'm not sure that I ever want to be, either. Because when you're strong, you see the world differently. You see the world like you own it. And I don't want to be that person.

The strong ones kill the weak.

People like me.

People who everyone views as a waste of space and time and air. I had gotten used to it.

Edmund Burke once said, "No passion so effectually robs the mind of all its powers of acting and reasoning as fear." I suppose that it could be an accurate statement for some people—for the stronger ones. But when you're weak, you get used to it. Fear doesn't exist anymore. You find ways to numb yourself. Not consciously, no. Naturally. After you start to figure out just how really destroyed your life is, it all falls into place. The constant high feeling that you're always in. The constant defense mechanism. It worked for me rather effectively.

Invisibility. Numbness.

Lifesavers.

Keep your head down. Don't make eye contact. Don't talk. Don't touch anyone. Don't let your shoulder brush against someone else's. Stay out of the way, no matter what happens. Avoid raising your hand in class. Never draw any sort of attention to yourself. Invisibility.

Ignore all words. Ignore all looks. Ignore all actions. Never let anything sink in. Don't get close—attached—to anyone; that's dangerous. Don't let it build up too high that everything else will be blocked out. When the emotional pain becomes too much, find other ways. Numbness.

Savers of my life. Lifesavers.

I'd given up long ago at trying to build up hope. Building up hope for me was like making a shelter of twigs and leaves on the San Andreas fault: meant to be crushed, torn down, completely destroyed until all that's left is dust and wood chips. You may want to keep that idea in mind if you plan to continue on with these words. I've never claimed that any of my actions are anything less than stupidly idiotic, so in an effort of fairness, I'll try to make sense of why I do certain things that I do.

I don't look forward to tomorrow. I don't wake up to a shining glorious sun perched high in the sky outside my window, and a strong scent of pancakes and coffee floating up the stairs. I punch my alarm clock with the small inkling of prayer that it may break under the force. I don't cheerfully await the day as if it were a magic rainbow with a leprechaun dancing on the other side. As gloomily as possible, I throw my own silent tantrum about all of it, and tread through the water.

Because this was Forks. And there was always going to be water in Forks.

The bottom of my converse hit the puddle, splashing up the muggy liquid onto my sweatpants. I couldn't really find the enthusiasm or heart to care enough to step any lighter with the next one. Again, it soaked through to my legs, and I'm sure that later I'd probably regret that I was idiot enough to have not planned ahead for the cold I'd be experiencing within the next minute. Still, it didn't really matter to me all that much.

I continued jogging, pushing myself faster as I felt the blood flow quickly through my veins, rapidly pumping in the desire to keep up with my quickly dissolving supply of energy. The tingling stabs of pain in my shins let out another wail of protest, but I ignored it, only speeding up further as I made it to the bottom of another winding hill. The breath passed rapidly in and out of my lungs, my chest dramatically rising and falling with each one beneath the black hoodie it was sheathed in. Adrenaline rushed further into my head, completely numbing my brain with a piercing ache that I could have cared less about.

The temperature had dropped tenfold since I had left the house, little more than twenty minutes ago.

It had been forty degrees at the time.

The golden tinted trees meshed together around me, my gaze unable to focus fully on what was in front of them. Dead silence was the only sound of the Washington forest, apart from the pounding of my feet against a pitifully used black road and the light fall of steady, never ending rain against leaves and dirt. Both of them worked as a kind of metronome for me, keeping up the steady, quick pace I was going at.

My muscles began to scream louder as the slanted angle up increased.

I pushed myself further into a run.

A car horn began to go off somewhere in the distance, not doing all that much for my growing migraine. Simultaneously, it reminded me why so many people loved to live in the cities.

Humans are incredibly ignorant creatures.

Finally running out of air, I stopped flat, my joints shrieking desperately at the sudden change of movement. I fell to the wet grass that lay on the edge of the line of pines and oaks, not caring how the dirty water immediately began to soak in through my pants, putting my legs on a rushing fire of ice before quickly numbing off. I highly doubted that it was going to help the frostbite that still remained, but at the moment, I wasn't really concerned much about it.

It hurt too much to care.

My lungs desperately pushed in and out, gaping for more oxygen that the environment seemed prudent in not supplying.

I'm not positive how long I sat there. My mind didn't seem capable of forming any thoughts, much less counting off the minutes that passed. It must have been a good hour though, because when I opened my eyes again and slowly forced myself back from the ground, the dawning sun that had previously been was now full in the sky, as far as I could tell, though sheathed in a mass of churning black clouds.

Tiredly, each step adding to the excruciating pressure of my body, I began the long walk back home, frown deepening as I noticed just how far exactly I had gone. I kicked at a rock, staring down at it as it crashed down into the ditch.

I found another.

I kicked again.

It became a source of entertainment for me. Follow the rock. Pathetic but true. By my fortieth kick, I was rounding the bend that led back to the winding driveway, hands stuffed into my pockets and expression no doubt absolutely as dismal as the weather. Somewhere around my tenth kick, it had began to rain.

Hard.

Splattering my way to the front door of our white mansion—a luxury that made me feel like even more of a spoiled brat than I usually did—I slipped inside, the pounding noise that had worked its' way as a rhythm in my ears immediately falling into a soft background against the roof.

The house stood empty in sleep.

Candles sat flickering by the small stand beside the door. The scent of warm, welcoming vanilla and red apple flooding down into my tight chest, slowly relaxing it.

I pulled my wet shoes off, not bothering to watch where they landed, satisfied by hearing the plunk against the spotless white carpet, though I was careful to make sure they were virtually clear of mud before I let them drop from my hand. Esme's day would no doubt be completely ruined if her hard work for keeping the house clean went unnoticed.

I glanced around the living room, finding it void of any and all possible presences. Figured no one besides me would be a freak enough to get up early on a Saturday.

Carlisle's doctor bag sat abandoned on the coffee table, signaling that he had gotten home in accordance to the ending of his shift. That was rare. He fell into the category of workaholic, and wasn't about to deny the charge anytime soon.

The answering machine's small red light blinked as I walked past it, though absolutely no interest was spiked in me to see who the messages were from. The slightest pique in that had long ago been crushed when Rosalie and Emmett had started dating, along with that relationship being the stalkerish tendencies over the phone that paralleled them both.

Trying to ignore the fact that my legs felt like belts of lead, I slowly trudged my way upstairs, knives stabbing into my flesh with each step. The frames of pictures hanging by nails from the walls cast shadows around me in the already dreary atmosphere, the few candles flickers sitting here and there on different pieces of furniture surrounding the hall making them visible. Blindly, I came to a stop in front of where my room was, fumbling for the knob and no doubt looking like a complete idiot while I was doing so.

I tripped through the suddenly open doorway, the wood that was just under me changing into the soft carpet that I was so familiar with.

It was silent. Not the loud, screaming kind. The dead kind. The kind that fell short of something and nothing.

The dim red glow of my alarm clock shrouded the soft gray walls into a dank horror-like feel.

Heavy black curtains hung loosely—lazily over my overlooking window. It blocked out the sound of water dropping against glass.

I collapsed onto my bed, chest and feet aching, my pulse still continuing to rapidly beat against my temple into a cutting migraine. I could feel my body slowly beginning to shut down, though sleep wasn't something that I wanted to fall back into. I hated sleeping. Hated the dreams. Hated the vulnerability of it all. Hated the need for it.

Instead, I moved to pinch my forearm, nails digging in and slightly puncturing the skin. Small, nearly indecipherable drops of blood dripped down over my fingers as I continued to only increase the pressure of my hand. I couldn't seem to find the incentive to pull back.

My life was turning out to be a fucking mess. One that I couldn't control. One that was going a hundred miles an hour and not even stopping for a cappuccino and donut break along the way. Truth was, I had tried a long time ago to slow down; to save myself from the turbulence of speeding forward at a trillion miles an hour. No such luck. And because of that, it was all starting to crash down on me.

Slowly.

And surely.

With a mildly shaky hand, I took the rarely used silver phone off my bed stand, flipping it open. I scrolled through the list of contacts, until it stopped on Jacob Black.

[+]+[+]+[+]+[+]+[+]

Esme Cullen had always considered herself an exceptionally lucky person. She had a husband who she adored, and who adored her back; doted on her every need, hand and foot, day and night. Money, for her, left nothing to be wanted. She could look in the mirror, and contrary to so many others in the modern world of the female sex, appreciate what she saw. She had three sons who she'd give her life for. She loved her family. They loved her back. And sometimes, it was impossibly difficult for her to separate the heavens spoken of at church from the reality of her world.

And sometimes hell would spit back.

Emmett's sweaty face pushed further into the soft flesh of her breast, his panting heavy as she ran her nimble fingers through his thickly curled brown hair. His muscles trembled slightly as he leaned heavily against her, whether it was from the cold of the room's atmosphere or an effect of the treatments, she wasn't sure.

Either way, it was a slap on her cheek.

A floor down, Carlisle was taking his time walking the wide stairway, not on purpose, but too lost in thought to care for speed. Jasper met him halfway down, somewhat surprised. It was an earlier hour than usual for the normally long lasting hospital shift to end.

Each stopped as Carlisle tilted his head to the side in question.

Jasper toyed with the beautifully carved banister. "He's not doing so great."

A heavy minute passed.

Carlisle continued up.

The door of the bathroom hung open, a sort of macabre, rude welcome for him to step in. Hesitantly, he crossed the threshold of his son's eternally dirty, scattered room, moving towards it.

Esme's face met his as she heard him come to a stop, the tears in her eyes glistening against the harsh light. Her back was against the base of the shower, a towel laying abandoned on the tiles beside her; her perfectly curved frame clad in jeans and a loose t-shirt, Emmett's in sweatpants, bruised torso bare.

He moved in, the dankness of the small area hitting him head on. Ignoring it, he lithely went over o them, crouching down in front of the two of them. "I called his doctor," she spoke quietly, careful not to jostle the body in her arms as she shifted slightly. "She said that we shouldn't give him anything yet. Not before she hasn't checked him again next week."

He sighed heavily, running a hand over his face. "That's what I figured she'd say." Brushing off the sudden rush of disappointment, he reached out, softly tracing his palm over Emmett's head. "Hey Em," he whispered, making a poor attempt to smile.

He didn't move.

Worriedly, he turned back to his wife. "I'd be tired too," was all she said, before both of their attention was suddenly drawn back to the subject of conversation. Before either could process what he was doing, he had escaped his mother's careful hold, gripping the toilet seat with clammy hands as coughs erupted from deep within his lungs. His body convulsed slightly as the coughing turned into gagging, then a heavy vomiting—again—his throat automatically tightening with a natural response. He tried to distract himself; think of something other than the vile taste that was continuously filling his mouth.

Someone came up behind him, carefully cupping the back of his neck, rubbing gentle circles against his shoulder blade in support.

Their hands were too cold.

Ten tortuous seconds went by.

Followed by twenty.

Carlisle watched helplessly as Esme silently excused herself, feeling like he was being punched in the gut with every heave Emmett had. He could do nothing. Nothing but sit and watch. The fact was tearing him apart from the inside out.

The moment there was a steady silence once more, Emmett collapsed back against him, letting his full weight drop. Used to the routine, Carlisle grabbed the half filled glass sitting by the sink, something that Esme had clearly already been using before his arrival. Not saying anything, he put it to Emmett's lips, who hesitantly took a sip before weakly pushing his hand away, spitting the water back into the toilet, something that seemed to take him more effort than it should have. Using the towel that lay, untouched on the floor, he quickly wiped off his son's jaw, realizing for the first time the heat that was searing through his dress shirt where the younger man's temple lay.

Not thinking twice, he put his hand against Emmett's forehead, trying to gauge his temperature as best as he could without the help of a thermometer. "You're burning up," he mumbled, to absolutely no one in particular. If Emmett was still conscious enough to make the attempt to understand the words, he failed miserably.

"Em…Emmy? You with me?"

The answer he got was a moan. "No. Stop talking."

Carlisle forced out a chuckle, though the line didn't reach him to heart. The latest occurrence was still too engraved into his short term memory for that. "How's the stomach?"

"Empty. Not surprised though. Chemo's a bitch."

"Emmett." The quiet chastisement was nothing anywhere near stern. The sympathy choking down at the pit of his throat was too big for any real severity to be behind it. Appropriate language didn't really seem to matter all that much at the moment. He wasn't sure if it'd ever matter all that much again; if it ever did.

"Sorry." The fragility of the two syllables was like being hit by a brick. Hard. Painful. Unbearable.

"Let's get you back into bed, alright?"

He didn't bother opening his eyes. "Kay."

Letting Carlisle half haul, half drag them to the room, he collapsed onto the mattress as soon as he knew it was close enough to catch him, burying himself into the blankets, not truly caring of whether or not he suffocated.

He rolled slightly as Carlisle laid down beside him, his weight pulling against gravity. An arm wrapped around his waist, pulling him closer, as another slipped beneath his neck, serving for a harder than usual, and yet more comfortable, surrogate pillow. Lips pressed against his temple in a soft kiss for a few long moments before pulling back slightly, though close enough still for him to feel the warm breath washing over him. "How're you feeling?"

Emmett groaned in response, burrowing into his father's side in a response that was quickly becoming habit. "Wonderful."

"Em," Carlisle murmured, "tell me the truth."

He just nuzzled further against his shoulder. "I'm fine. Honest." His fingers dug tightly into the blanket. "'s nothing new. I'm used to it." He wasn't sure whether or not it was the full truth. It wasn't new, no. It was the matched routine they went through every time a foreign poison was injected into his body. But if he'd ever get used to it was still a question that was forever lingering above him.

A couple loose strands of hair blew slightly as Carlisle sighed, tightening his firm grip. The nausea, the vomiting, the dizziness, the headaches, the sleepless nights, the high fevers, the blurred vision and fatigue and lack of appetite and weight loss; it was something that they were all getting used to for a second time in their lives. It was a nightmare that had constantly hung over them light a hangman's noose to a prisoner on death row.

Death row wasn't a place that they wanted to be.

Emmett trembled slightly as another harsh, hacking cough came over him, every last inch of him dowsed in soreness. Carlisle rubbed his thumb against the small of his back, massaging in a hopeful attempt to ease some of the pain. "You're okay," he whispered. "You're okay." Maybe it was to convince the other.

Maybe it was to convince himself.

Emmett went limp against him. Dead weight. Nothing more. "Sorry." He hated it. Hated how pitifully weak he was. It was doing nothing short of driving him mad. Being a prisoner towards himself was never something that he really cherished all that much.

And he wanted out.

"Don't you dare apologize."

Esme's return drew his notice, a small bowl in her hands. As soon as a quiet settled once more, her hesitant voice rang through the thick air. "I made some broth." It was all she was willing to say.

Carlisle turned back to his son, leaning down. "Em," he softly crooned. He didn't continue until he had opened his eyes. "I want you to try to have some, alright?"

He feebly shook his head, drained of energy to do anything more than that. "I won't be able to keep it down Dad." The voice was hoarse. Scratchy.

Dad. Any other day—every other day—he'd start grinning like an idiot at hearing the name. Now though, it made his gut sink. He was a father. A father was supposed to protect his child from anything that tried to hurt them. And he was failing. "I want you to try though Em. We need to get some fluids in you." He wavered. "Otherwise I'm not going to have a choice; I'll need to take you into the hospital for an IV."

He took his time answering. "That's a low blow." He hated hospitals with passion, and everybody knew it.

Too many bad memories.

Too many sources of horror for him.

Too many everything.

"Come on," he murmured, pulling Emmett up with him as he went, keeping him tightly tucked against him. Esme moved forward, sitting next to them.

"Come on sweetheart," she lovingly repeated her husband's words, stirring the liquid by the spoon in her hand.

A/N: So…for those of you who actually do read author's notes, I've a few things to bring up:

1. A million apologies for taking this long to update. I know that there's absolutely no vehement excuse for doing so, but for those of you who'd like to pity me, three out of four members of my household (myself not included) came down with the flu, one of which ended up in the hospital. I kind of had a lot more chores than usual to get to. Pity me.

2. Some of you may had been reading one or more of my other stories, and know I haven't been keeping up with them very well. So, to quench curiosity, here's what's going on with them: I don't know. As of now, they're on a temporary sort of hiatus, though I could still add a chapter or two any time. The reason that I'm saying they're being put on hold for now is to not get anyone's hopes up, and have all of you wonderful people just waiting in the dark, expecting me to get off my lazy streak and write anytime soon. That may or may not happen.

3. As for this story, I'll be sticking with it, and trying to get it going again as soon as humanly possible. And excuse me if the whole process that I just showed Emmett going through isn't an experience you think is fully accurate to your own experiences. I've discovered through the years that every reaction to every different disease and treatment is different, but if you think I missed anything key, please let me know. :)

And good 'ole 4. I am currently looking for a beta for this here story. I would just put my name up in the whole 'beta lookout' engine, but I'd really like someone who I know at least somewhat (for some reason I can't quite comprehend) enjoys my writing, and is willing to stick with me for a while. If you think that you'd be at all interested, let me know. If not, I'll keep trekking through this one on my own.

Love you all a million! XOXOXOXOX