M E S S Y
cHaPtEr 9

I took a deep breath. And let it out. And took another. And let that one out too. I gripped my steering wheel tightly and once more thought of turning around and going home. Because I was looking through my windshield at what was possibly the most amazing, spectacular house I'd ever seen in all of my seventeen years of life.

And I was scared of both that beautiful, intimidating house, and the beautiful boy inside of it.

Edward Cullen's house.

I still wasn't sure if I could go in, but something told me I had to. It would be not only a waste of my time, but a waste of Edward's healing time if I just sat in the driveway, afraid to go inside. Or at least knock on the door.

I eased the car door open—ignoring its creak of protest—and sidled my way quietly up the seven—I counted—steps and onto the porch. I stared at the huge, ornately-carved wooden door for a few minutes before I raised my fist and knocked, lightly at first, and then hard enough to be heard.

And I waited.

I knew someone was home, partly because Mr. Banner was told by the doctor that Edward was not to be left alone, or let off his property. I also knew because I could hear scuffling behind the door, like half-hearted footsteps dragging on hardwood.

Just as I was about to knock again, the door disappeared, having been wrenched open, and I found myself staring directly at Edward's chest. I dropped my arm.

"Uh…hello, Edward." I shook off the surprise and smiled encouragingly. "I'm here for your—"

The door slammed in my face and I heard angry footsteps stomping off in the opposite direction. I sighed, feeling defeated, but no ready to give up just yet. I knocked again, knowing that I wouldn't get a response, but feeling the need to be persistent. If he wanted to die, fine. But I wasn't going to stop trying.

"Edward, come on. It's just me." I tried to sound reassuring and I'm sure I failed in the process. I bit my lower lip and tried to think of something to say, something that would convince him that I wasn't here to hurt him anymore, something that would make clear that I wasn't mad at him for the other day.

I touched my eye gently. It still hurt. I thought the mark would be gone by today, but it was a deep enough bruise that the mark had only gotten worse, and makeup, I knew, would not help.

I was torn from my thoughts by the sounds of voices inside. I recognized one immediately to be Edward's and listened closely to their conversation. I knew eavesdropping was wrong, but I couldn't help my curiosity.

Their voices were too hushed to make out more than a few words; "program," "annoying," "help," "useless," "die." After that last one—Edward had said it—the other voice stopped. When it spoke again, it was a low, threatening tone. The kind no one wanted to mess with.

I got the feeling it was time to leave, and I turned to go. But I hadn't even gone down two steps when the door was opened again, this time revealing a beautiful, caramel-haired woman in her thirties. Her appearance was immaculate, her makeup perfect, and the only thing wrong about her was that she looked upset.

She also looked as though she was trying to hide it.

"I'm so sorry, dear!" She said to me. She spoke shortly, as though she was on her last straw. "Edward's being so stubborn. You're welcome here, of course!"

"Really, if he doesn't want to see me, I can go. I should have realized it was too soon to come over, when he's only just gotten out of the hospital…"

"Oh, no, no, no! Don't be silly! I'm so glad you're here!" Her smile seemed a little less forced and she was calming down. She stood aside to allow me into the house and I slid past her with a grateful smile. I thought I had done a great job walking, only to trip on the edge of the rug as soon as I was in the door.

I heard laughter and lifted my head from the Persian runner to see Edward in the other room, sitting on a white denim couch. On top of a white carpet. Inside a white room.

The decorating was very…white.

I stood back up and brushed myself off, assuring the woman I was fine.

Her teeth were as perfectly white as her living room.

"I'm Esme," she introduced herself with a petite hand outstretched. I took it with my own and couldn't help but notice how soft her skin was. "Edward's mother."

I didn't believe her, and she must have seen my skepticism in my face, because she suddenly laughed. "Foster mother, dear, not biological. He was the first of many." She seemed very fond of him.

"I'm Bella Swan," I said before I forgot. "I'm with the community center outreach program." Her smiled widened.

"I know who you are dear. Although it might not seem like the truth, Edward has actually talked about you before."

"Good things, I hope." I chuckled nervously, casting a quick glance in the boy's direction. He only snorted.

"Nothing good to mention." He said, smirking. Ouch. That stung.

"Edward!" Esme was absolutely aghast, and apologized profusely to me, since we both knew that he wouldn't. I assured it was alright, that I didn't let that get to me, that I was a completely professional person when it came to the subject at hand. I didn't feel it necessary to give her my reasons why, though.

"Well, I'm afraid Edward won't be very cooperative, but I'm very glad you decided to stick with us. I know it doesn't seem like it but it really does help."

Help whom? I didn't see any of this affecting Edward at all, if his display the other day was any indication. Such a shame. He's such a good-looking boy, and I knew that if he wasn't so depressed all the time that he would probably be a delightful person to be around. I had no idea what had happened to make him this way, and I knew he would probably never be the same, but I was hoping I could help, even if only a little.

But, you can try to help someone all your life and it won't help at all if they don't want it.

So I had to make Edward want it. It was vital that I gave him a reason to live, or point out one that he already had, made it more valuable to him. Family didn't seem to do the trick, and friends were nowhere near as important, so I had to find leverage, something that would be worth living for.

"Edward, why don't you show Bella your room? You can talk in private there." Esme cast a meaningful glance at her son and her voice had a tone of finality. The boy in question rolled his eyes and got up from the couch to walk down the hall. He didn't beckon me to follow but I did anyway, knowing I was supposed to. He didn't stop in the doorway, or wait for me. He walked into his bedroom, sat down on the bed, leaned against the wall, and told me to close the door behind me.

I was ecstatic to find that his room was more tastefully decorated. There was not a smidgen of plain white to be found. The walls were an ivory color and littered with pictures and posters, and across from the bed was a bulletin board with papers and ticket stubs littered across the surface. He had one entire wall devoted to bookshelves—most of which housed CDs and not books—and his floor was covered in a golden carpet that was plush under my feet.

His bedspread was a deep red, his nightstand a dark-stained wood upon which rested a small alarm clock with red, block numbers.

He had a silver, fairly new-looking stereo system on a table next to his CD collection, and on the other side of that was a black leather couch. I pointed, asking wordlessly if I might sit. He shrugged, and I took that as a yes and planted my but into the surprisingly soft cushions. It was the kind of couch you never wanted to get off of.

It might sound stupid, but that couch alone would have been reason enough for me to want to live.

A silence stretched between us, each of us having a different variety, both intermingling in the air. His was stubborn, angry, spiteful. He didn't want to speak because it would mean he had given in, decided against his previous resolve, hoped for something. Mine was because I didn't know what to say to him. I was afraid of messing up and being the reason that he finally did what he wanted to. I didn't want to be what pushed him over the edge; I wanted to be what was pulling him back from it.

"So, Edward," I said. "I guess you…really, really like music, huh?"

"How'd you know?" I ignored his sarcasm.

The outstanding number of classical composers that I recognized was a breathtaking number, but in addition to the ones I didn't, half his collection must have been classical pieces. My thoughts flashed back to the CD I'd given him.

"Do you still have the CD I gave you?"

His eyes flickered downward and he looked ashamed or embarrassed. "Stereo." Without asking, I got up to turn it on, thinking it might lighten the atmosphere a little. I skipped through the sad, dark pieces—why did I even put those on there?—and got straight to my favorite—Clair de Lune.

The opening started lightly and then got heavier, into the more emotion-filled notes, the more beautiful ones. I bit my lip, realizing that I would forever associate this song to the broken boy across the room.

"Edward, I know you don't want me here, but—"

"Just stop it." He interrupted. "Stop trying to act like you know my life. Stop acting like you know what I've done."

"I want to help you!" I protested. I hated that we were having this conversation again, we'd had it so many times; he promising to kill himself, and me promising that I wouldn't let him, that I would make it better.

Just how I was going to do that I still had to figure out myself.

"I can't just sit here and watch you wither away!"

"Stop caring!" He was up and across the room in seconds, with almost inhuman speed. He was hovering over me, his face livid, fists clenched at his sides. I was genuinely afraid he would hit me. I shrank away from him, pressing my back into the couch a little more, but keeping my stubborn expression on. "Stop pretending you actually give a damn! You know that when I kill myself, you won't miss me at all!" His face was getting red and he was shouting. Without warning, one hand shot to my neck and pinned me where I was. "This is getting ridiculous and annoying."

He might have hated me, might have resented me, might have wished I would crawl in a corner and die, leave him the hell alone, get out of his life. He might have wished that he was dead, but as I stared into his eyes, wide and frantic as he crushed my windpipe, I saw something there that was all I would need to be persistent.

I saw a plea for help. The eyes of a scared little boy who wanted someone to save him. Tell him it was okay.

He pried his fingers away from my neck and I instinctively reached my own to check for blood or broken skin. I slid down to the end of the couch and ran across the room, leaving him there, staring at his hands, looking like he hated himself all the more. I looked back only once before I wrenched open the door ran down the hall outside, and to my car. I didn't stop until I was home, safe in my own bed.

There were some days in my life that I felt the same way that he did.