"No," I responded, replacing the newspaper to cover the face of the person who was most likely to blow the Cullen's cover, to endanger Edward.
"I need to talk to you," Matt insisted.
"You need to get help. What the hell are you doing outside my house at one in the morning? Scratch that, how do you even know where I live?" I retorted angrily, my voice rising in pitch as I talked to a newspaper covered window.
"If you don't talk to me, I promise that I will be waiting outside each of your classes tomorrow. And that I will have recently managed to open some sort of cut in the back of my hand."
"Sorry my dislike has hurt your self esteem enough to make you start cutting yourself," I replied sarcastically. When did I become so mean? No, it was all to protect Edward. Anything for him.
"I think we both know who the cut would affect more, don't we?" My mind flashed back to blood typing in Forks, of Edward's rescue of me from Mike and the infirmary. I cringe at the memory, wishing he'd appear now, tires screeching on that immaculate silver volvo, and whisk me away like so many times before. But now it was me doing the saving, if I could. I sat down to hold my knees to my chest, just trying to keep myself together.
"What are you so worried about me finding out? And why do you think anyone would believe me?"
"Because they'd be true!"
"That never helped before, Bella. I wouldn't tell anyone."
But I knew that he would. That it didn't matter, that I couldn't take the chance. Not with Edward's life! I couldn't go on if something happened to him. I couldn't understand how the world would go on, if something happened to him, much less me keep living.
I heard a sigh from outside my window.
"I haven't been entirely honest with you, Bella. How old am I?" I found myself, incredibly, actually trying to remember.
"Seventeen?" I guessed. I didn't remember a lot from that day, but its on of the ages for the grade we're in, isn't it? Wait, I don't even know what grade he's in.
"Did I tell you seventeen? Good, that's usually what I use. I'm actually nineteen. I was held back a couple years."
"Too much cutting class?" I still sounded sarcastic, but I really was curious at this point. He didn't seem like someone who'd get held back, unless he really was never in school.
"You might say that. I was diagnosed with delusional schizophrenia, manic depression, post traumatic stress disorder, and insomnia the summer of my freshman year. I spent a year and a half in Ten Broak. Eventually I managed to get some semblance of a life back, but one thing I don't do is ever tell people the truth. You think I could go to school? The doctors tell people I heard voices, Bella. I'm crazy, I've got all the certificates to prove it. The truth got me in there. The truth messed up my life."
"Are you crazy?" I tried to think of what he was going for. Was he just trying to build up my trust? But I could find this stuff out, couldn't I? A look at his drivers license would suffice, for part of the story at least.
"Define crazy."
"Are you any of the things you were diagnosed with?"
"I was depressed, unable to sleep, and suffering from PTSD. Does that make me crazy?"
"I don't know." How could I get his wallet to check, to at least try to verify some of this. What was gong on here? I heard something being worked under the edge of my window.
"What are you doing?" I shouted, tearing down the newspaper. Halfway into my room was his drivers license. I pulled it the rest of the way, looked at his birthday, did a quick bit of subtraction.
"This says you're seventeen."
"Scratch at the year on my date of birth with your fingernail. It'll take a minute, I spent a lot of time on this."
After a minute of sanding, and a bunch of white powder under my nail, a new year was revealed, one two years before the other. If this was all a trick, it was incredibly elaborate.
"Now can I talk to you?"
I thought of doctors leaning over me, flash backs, nightmares that kept me awake. I thought of doctors leaning over me, then in hushed tones telling my father how I needed to be in a mental health facility. Of words like post traumatic stress disorder, depression, catatonic.
"Ok," I said, and began turning the handle to open the window.
Author's note: I didn't mean for there to be any ambiguity in the last chapter about who was at the window. But I did like the enthusiasm for the, perceived, cliffy ending. So I might do those a lot in the future. Suggestions are appreciated. I'd love to hear what anyone says about my story. Where do you see this leading? If I like your idea, I'll write it for you. Or you could, and just post it yourself. Feel free to use anything I make.
