I own nothing Twilight.
Chapter 11 - My Blue Heaven
Pain. Everywhere.
This is my first thought when I come to.
Copper, rust and gasoline.
These are the first things I smell.
Blood.
This is the first thing I see.
I try to move, but my legs are pinned under the steering wheel. I try screaming for help, but no sound comes out of my mouth.
So this is how I die.
Next time I come to, I hear voices and sirens and a radio.
"I can't get the door open, we need more help," a voice is saying.
"Jesus, there's so much blood," another voice says.
"Has anyone called Chief Swan?" the first voice asks.
"Tell him to meet us at the hospital, he doesn't need to see his daughter like this."
Everything is blurry, seemingly moving in slow-motion. I'm so tired.
I feel someone pulling me and then it all goes black again.
Beep. Beep. Beep.
I open my eyes, wincing when the light hits them and my head pounds so much I think I might black out again.
". . .significant internal bleeding," a voice says. A familiar voice.
Dr. Cullen?
". . .found OxyContin in her system. Is she prescribed that?" he is still talking.
"OxyContin? What? No," my mother's voice is frantic.
I want to open my eyes to look at them, but it hurts too much to do anything.
"Excuse me, Dr. Cullen?" an unfamiliar voice.
"Oh yes," Dr. Cullen says. "Chief Swan, Mrs. Swan. This is Kate Garrett. She's with Child Protective Services."
"Child Protective Services?" my dad's voice confused. "What the hell is this about?"
"Bella appears to have been suffering from ongoing physical trauma," the woman's voice states. "We've found evidence of abuse. Bruises, cuts."
"Oh, that?" my mom dismisses. "Bella is just really clumsy, she always has been."
No, I haven't.
"Ma'am, no offense, but there is no way that the trauma we found could be accidental. There is clear evidence of wounds that are both old and new. The extent of them are consistent with other cases of abuse that I've come across," she doesn't sound rude, just that she knows what she's talking about.
I want to tell them that I'm here, that I can hear them but there is something shoved down my throat that keeps me from calling out.
"We've also found a drug in her system, OxyContin, that is used to treat chronic pain," the woman continues.
"I do not hit my daughter," my father's voice is angry. "Like my wife said, she's just clumsy. She's had her fair share of accidents."
"We took some photos when she was brought in, for the report," Dr. Cullen speaks again, and I hear the shuffling of papers. "I'd like you to take a look at them. Please keep in mind that these are extremely graphic and clearly show the proof of ongoing physical abuse."
There's silence and I imagine he is showing my parents images what is underneath my carefully chosen clothes I've been using as armor against any sort of detection of Jacob's rage.
"Oh my god," I hear my mother say, before breaking into full hysterics.
I feel sleep pulling at me, dragging me back under. I want to fight it, to hear the rest of their conversation, but sometimes it just feels better to give in.
I am running down a hallway, lockers lining the length of it. I can see the door all the way at the end, the light flooding in through its windows. I run towards it faster, but the faster I go, the further it gets from me.
I can feel my chest tightening up, the fear setting in. I can't reach the door no matter how hard I try. It's so far away, I want to give up. But the terror keeps my legs moving, keeps me going.
I jerk awake, my chest heaving as though I had actually been running.
A hand gently touches my arm.
"Shh," Esme Cullen is sitting next to my bed. "You're safe, child. You are safe."
I lick my lips, realizing that whatever had been down my throat before has now been removed. My mouth feels like sandpaper.
"Let me get you some water," she disappears for a second, coming back with a Styrofoam cup.
She holds it up to my lips and I sip it eagerly. I use this opportunity to get a glimpse of my body. I can't see anything really, the hospital blanket is pulled up to my waist. I try to move my legs, but nothing happens. I try again, still nothing.
Esme must sense my panic because she says, "They're both in casts, that's why you can't move them."
I look at her confused, wondering what all has happened to my body.
"Let me go get Dr. Cullen," she stands, reaching over to brush some hair out of my eyes.
I watch her leave the room, trying to pull myself up to a sitting position. I realize that my previously injured arm is now in a cast. Guess it was broken. My other arm has needles and tubes sticking out of it, probably best not to mess with that.
"Bella, you're awake," Dr. Cullen walks in, smiling brightly. "How are you feeling?"
"Shitty," I manage to croak out, my throat feeling raw.
He just laughs, looking through his charts and writing something down.
"You're a very lucky girl, Bella Swan," he says, pulling up a chair next to the bed to have a seat.
I don't agree. But I don't say this.
"Where are my parents?" I ask, looking around the room.
There are flowers and balloons everywhere. Who knew driving my truck off the road would be the key to getting back my popularity?
"They're talking to the social worker," he starts. "Lets talk about what happened first, okay?"
I just nod.
"Why were you out driving so early in the morning?" he asks.
"I can't remember," I respond, which is true. Everything is so muddled, how long ago was it even?
"It's okay, sometimes head trauma can cause memory loss," he smiles understandably at me. "Your truck hit a patch of black ice and slid off the road. It hit a ditch and rolled over a couple times. Bella, you were going sixty miles an hour in a twenty-five mile zone."
I shake my head, trying to remember. All I can think of is snow and white.
"You hit your head on the windshield and your legs were crushed when the truck cab caved in," he is looking at the notes on his clipboard. "There was quite a bit of internal bleeding, but we managed to take care of that in surgery."
"Surgery?" I ask, confused. "I don't remember."
"We had to perform emergency surgery once you were brought in," he says. "Once we were finished, we kept you heavily medicated so you could have time to heal."
"How long?" I ask, staring down at my lap.
"Eight days now," he answers, face full of pity.
I look away, I don't want his pity.
"Bella?" My mother's voice enters the room.
I look up at the doorway to see her and my father standing there, both looking like neither of them had slept in eight days. They walk over to me, holding each other's hands.
"I'm so sorry, I'm so sorry," my mother keeps saying, over and over again. "We didn't know."
I look at her, confused.
"Bella, there are some things we need to talk about," Dr. Cullen says, before asking my parents to take a seat.
Mom just keeps looking at me, smiling sadly. Dad looks anywhere but at my face.
I want to ask for a mirror, to see what my face must look like. I want to rip the blanket off my legs, to see how useless they are to me now. I want to scream, why didn't I just die? Was that too much to ask?
"When you were admitted to the ER, we noticed that there was a significant amount of damage to your body that was not caused by the incident. You were covered in both new and old bruises and your arm was broken," the doctor says, my mind suddenly recalling the conversations I had heard while I was drugged up. "We also found traces of the drug OxyContin in your system, which you've never had a prescription for."
I keep my mouth shut, wanting to hear what they already know. What they've found out in the eight days I've been out.
"Child Protective Services has had several conversations with your parents, and they've determined that the abuse did not come from inside the home," he turns to both of my parents, smiling at them.
Why does everyone keep smiling? What is there to be happy about?
"What can you tell us about Jacob Black?" he asks suddenly, surprise fills me even though it shouldn't.
"What about Jacob?" I ask, playing dumb.
"Bells," Dad speaks for the first time, finally looking at me. "We know what he did."
"I don't know what you're talking about," I say, shaking my head. "He didn't do anything."
"Baby, you don't have to be afraid anymore," Mom says, rubbing my arm. "He can't hurt you anymore."
She starts crying, "We didn't know, I'm so sorry. We didn't know."
Dad hugs her, she buries her head in his shoulder. I stare blankly in front of me, everything numb and unreal.
"I don't know what you're talking about," I repeat. I can't tell the truth, I can never tell the truth. Jacob will find out and I will pay for it.
"He has already admitted to everything, he's been taken into custody," Dr. Cullen explains.
I just continue shaking my head. It's like I went to sleep and when I woke up, everything has changed. Nothing makes sense.
"We just need a statement from you, sweetheart," Dad says, his hand rubbing Mom's back in a comforting manner.
My mind is everywhere at once, not making sense of any of this. Mom keeps saying I'm safe, but doesn't she realize I will never be safe?
"Maybe we should give you a bit of time to process this all, it's a lot to take in," Dr. Cullen says, as if reading my mind. "We'll give you some time to yourself."
He leads both of my parents out of the room before turning back to me.
"Is there anything I can get for you?" he asks from the doorway.
"A mirror," I respond numbly.
He looks unsure for a moment, as if he's debating whether or not that's the best idea. What he doesn't know is that I'm use to the bruises, nothing can surprise me. He gives in, walking over and handing me a small, handheld mirror that had been sitting on the side table.
"The swelling and bruising have already started to go down," he says, hesitantly handing me the mirror. "You have made a lot of progress, even in just the past few days."
I say nothing, just nodding, waiting for him to leave the room so I can be alone. I wait a few minutes to make sure no one comes in before holding it up to my face, keeping my eyes closed. I take a few deep breathes before I slowly open them.
The tears start before I even realize it. Everything is blue and black and purple. My lip has a cut along the entire length of the bottom of it. There are stitches in my forehead, a line of them leading from my hairline to the end of my right eyebrow. No one will love me now. Jacob was all I had and now even he has given up on me.
For the second time in less than ten minutes, I wish that the accident had killed me.
OoOoOoOoOoOoOoO
Rehab.
That is my parents' answer to my "situation", as they have started calling it. I've seen my chart, I know what they're calling me: "victim", "addict", "suicidal".
I'm so pathetic that even my own parents want to dump me off somewhere out of their sight. Some hellhole in Seattle that is suppose to cure people like me.
"Sweetheart, we really think this is for the best," my mother had said, the day they had broached the topic of rehabilitation.
I was still in the hospital, a week had passed since I woke up and everything was different. I had refused to make a statement to the police about Jacob, refusing to acknowledge that he had harmed me in any way. I couldn't do that to him, not after all that he had done for me. Loved me when no one else did.
My Dad had yelled at me, "Damnit Bella, look at yourself. Look at what he has done to you."
I still refused.
"Bella, we've been in contact with a center in Seattle that has handled cases like yours before," Dr. Cullen had said. "They have the necessary tools to help in your recovery."
Recovery from what? Life?
Rehab was not really a choice for me to make. My parents made it clear that I had no say in the matter. I wanted to ask them if I could see Jacob one more time before leaving, but I was afraid my father's head would explode.
The snow is still falling when I wheel myself over to the window in my hospital room. It's Christmas Eve, my parents had stopped by earlier in the day and promised to be back first thing in the morning. The nurses had strung colored lights around my room in an attempt to cheer me up.
Normally on Christmas Eve, my mom and I would spend the entire day baking cookies. Dad would come home from work for dinner and we'd spend the rest of the night watching 'It's A Wonderful Life.' I would think how silly of George Bailey for wanting to end his life when there was so much to live for.
Now, in the chilled room with the lights turned off, sitting in this wheel chair, staring out at the falling snow, I understand George Bailey.
There's a knock on the already opened door, pulling me from my thoughts. I can't say that I'm surprised to see Edward Cullen standing there. I think a part of me has just been waiting for him to show up.
"Hey," he says, setting down a small bouquet of flowers on the table.
"Hey," I respond, turning back to look out the window.
There's silence and then I hear him pulling up a chair to sit next to me. We don't say anything for several minutes, both of us just looking out the window at the night sky.
"When I was seven," he finally speaks. "My mom let me stay up as late as I wanted to on Christmas Eve, hoping for just a glimpse of Santa Claus. I eventually passed out in a coma of cookies and milk and she carried me up to my room. I woke to find a letter from Santa, telling me how I had just missed him and he'd catch me again next year. My mom was so excited to show me the letter, I didn't have the heart to tell her I recognized the handwriting as hers."
I laugh, "Esme seems like a great mom."
"No," he says. "Not Esme, my real mother."
I turn to look at him, surprised that he brought the topic of his real family up. I never asked Alice about how exactly the Cullen family was brought together, never having the courage to bring it up.
"She died right before my eighth birthday. That was the last Christmas Eve I had with her," he looks outside, the sadness in his eyes all too familiar to me. It's the same way he always looks at me.
I want to keep him talking, ask how she died, but the look in his eyes stops me. I don't want to be the one who causes that look in his eyes anymore than I already have been.
"My parents are sending me to rehab," I say and I don't know why. He didn't ask.
He nods, he already knew. I wonder if everyone else knows. If all of Forks High is abuzz with the news that Bella Swan's boyfriend beats her and she spends all her days drugged up just to keep surviving.
"I have something for you," he smiles, pulling a small, wrapped gift from underneath his coat.
I look at him, uncertain, as I take the present from his hands. I can tell by the wrap-job that he probably did it himself, which is actually kind of sweet. I rip the paper off, revealing the cover of a DVD.
"'It's A Wonderful Life,'" I say in disbelief, holding it up to my chest, hugging it.
"I overheard your mom talking to my dad about how Christmas wouldn't be the same this year, that you wouldn't be there with them to watch it," he looks away, his cheeks reddening. "I thought we could watch it together, so you wouldn't have to spend the night alone."
Half of me thinks he's being genuinely nice and the other half of me thinks that maybe my parents have sent him here to convince me to testify against Jacob.
For the moment, I choose to believe the half that says he's being nice.
For the moment, I just don't want to be alone.
A/N: Thank you so much for all of the wonderful feedback, alerts, etc. I truly appreciate getting your thoughts on the story. Please let me know what you think so far. What are your thoughts on what you think should happen/will happen?
