-.-

The End of a Bloodline

Chapter: 12. On the other side, there is no grass

Rated: M

Disclaimer: Stephenie Meyer created Twilight, not me.
I, on the other hand, created TEOAB – respect that

Beta: Gasaway Alley

A/N: This may be the longest chapter yet, and I had a tough time writing it,
so I apologize for the longer-than-usual wait. Hopefully I'll get the next one up faster, but I'm
not making any promises. So, here goes…

-.-

Obviously, I don't have the keys to my apartment. When I went up to the roof to end my life, I was in a haze and so focused on the task at hand, so can't remember what I did to them. So I stand outside my apartment building, shoeless, sockless, my feet numb from the cold. I cross my arms in front of my chest, a futile attempt of warming myself, and catch a sniff of myself.

Dirty.

Gross.

On the way here, I've been looked at as if I were homeless. Looking at my clothes - the grey sweater I got from Edward, and the torn and bloody jeans I've worn for over a month - I can't blame their accusation. It's instinct, even in New York, to look at the beggars like they're below you. Because you work. You have a home. You live. They don't. And that's how they look at me; like I'm a lazy slob, because I look a mess.

The sun still shines brightly, but winter's wind can't be stopped. Government-planted trees sway with naked branches, like they're dancing. Or crying. Begging. Pleading to be saved and be given salvation.

Just help.

The door opens, and I take a step back. Like I don't want to be affiliated with the building. Hoping the person exiting is not someone who knows who I am. I want to be invisible in that moment, feeling just as bad as I did at fifteen - wanting to blend in with the background.

"Miss Swan?"

I recognize the sound of my landlord's voice - rugged, raw, Russian. One hand on the handle, one foot outside the door, staring at me with shocked eyes. The man is fifty-something, five foot nothing, and is completely and utterly terrifying. His mere demeanor radiates fear and a demand of respect, like he's been to the end of the world and back, seen wars fought across continents, the iron curtain veil Europe, and never even flinched - you just don't want to mess with him.

"I thought - what happened -" He stutters out unfinished sentences, stepping out completely and rushing down the five steps to the pavement. When he reaches me, I almost expect him to hug me tight - even if we've never exchanged more than pleasantries and talk about payments - but then I see his face is painted with anger.

Irritation.

"You've been gone. I was just about to clear out your things." He wrinkles his nose, blinks and spits out in disgust, "God… you reek." "You have two days to pay, or get out."

He is unbiased, untouchable, and uninterested in my current state. In under a minute, he's managed to make it clear to me just how little I mean to the world. How I affect no one. How my disappearance was only noticeable because I couldn't make rent.

Pathetic.

Depressive.

"Umm… yeah. I'll get right on that. But, sir, I've managed to misplace my keys. They're probably in my apartment, but could you just open it for me?"

It doesn't take a genius to decipher the emotion on his face.

More irritation.

"Fine, Miss Swan."

I follow him up silently, trying to make as little sound as possible, taking two steps at a time to keep up with him. For a man in his fifties, Stavros is a fast man with no time to waste. Time is money, and he just can't get enough of either. For the three years I've lived in this building, I can more or less count on one hand the times I've actually talked to him; the rest of our interactions only consisting of nods or a simple look. I had no more than the bag of clothes I came to New York with, and the promise to work at the Ritz Carlton, when I begged him to give me a break.

To this day, I don't know why he caved. The man appears almost indifferent most of the time, but why question his decision to give me a break? "Miss a payment, and you're out," is what he said to me. After that, I did everything I could to find more jobs. Up until I got the job at Billy's, I'd cleaned dishes, handed out pamphlets, stood on the corner in a chicken-suit advertising for a restaurant - hell I even degraded myself to apply at a strip club.

Thinking of Lady Sanders and Sarah, I'm glad I never heard back from that seedy place. I could have ending up like Sarah, more or less raped repeatedly on a daily basis, fucked to the brink of death where the only way out is a needle.

Inside my apartment, everything is as I left it, just filthier. Dust gathers in the corners, and cobwebs form on the ceiling. I stand on the threshold like a stranger, hardly recognizing my own apartment. Not home, just apartment. But still, I've lived here for years, and yet I stand here like I've opened the wrong door. It's all unfamiliar, and for a split second I think that maybe… the attic is more familiar to me now.

I know the every square inch of that place. Where the wallpaper is easier to peel off, where the floorboard creaks the most, and how many nails are in the ceiling. I can picture the sun lighting up the room like it's the fondest memory I have, but remembering Jasper and myself on the fire escape is too blurry to see in my mind.

I'm a stranger.

The door shuts behind me - my landlord disappears down the hall.

Did my new neighbor realize I was gone? Or did he just relish in the silence? Must have been nice not having to deal with random breakdowns and bitch fights in the hall. If Mrs. Cope had been here, I'm confident she would have worried. Done something. Mr. Cope would have demanded police interference. But they're gone. Like everyone else I've ever cared about.

The apartment is cold as hell, but still warmer than the outside, and the feelings in my toes start to come back. No longer numb, I step further in, wondering if I'll feel more at home if I just see everything.

The kitchen is my first stop.

Pans and dishes and spatulas; they were my dream at one point, one I tried to keep alive for so long. Now I stare at the cupboards with void emotions. The fridge reeks. Inside, tomatoes have grown fur, and the cheese has turned a diseased microbial green. Decomposing. Disintegrating. Dissolving. I slam the refrigerator door shut, trying not to gag at the disgusting smell, and I remove myself from the one place I've ever found peace.

I venture around the apartment, as if in a haze, looking at the furniture and the abstract pictures on the wall. They were gifts from Jasper…

Jasper.

Swiftly, I turn around with a crazed urge to search. I run to the hallway, to find it void of anyone empty. The kitchen is just the same. But in the bedroom, I stand in the middle of the room, looking at my bed, looking at me.

My portrait is in the middle of the bed. I can't remember placing it there, but I don't exclude the possibility that I did. Did I stare at myself before I went to kill myself. Did I stare at the beautiful curves and the subtle pink scar on the thigh? Did I stand right here and look at his signature, letting it spur on my urge to die? Seeing his name now certainly does. I am responsible for his death. It's my fault his wife is without a husband, and his daughters without a father. If I'd only kept to myself…

I feel filthy.

I feel like every inch of my body is covered in dirt and death, and I tear off my clothes. Edward's grey shirt falls to the ground, and is covered by my tattered pants. In the bathroom, I make a beeline to the shower. In there, the water is tepid and the pressure is low, and more than twenty minutes pass before I feel remotely clean. I stare at my feet as dirt swirls down the drain, and run my hands through my hair. I shampoo thrice, but the feeling that it's greasy doesn't go away.

When I push the plastic shower curtain to the side and step down on the tiles, I cover my head with a towel like a turban, but leave my body bare. I catch sight of myself in the half-length mirror, and what I see makes me gasp.

Sunken in cheeks.

Greying skin.

And my eyes? They're the same dull brown color they've always been, but the small amount of life that used to occupy them has vanished. Like the fire once ignited by Jasper has dulled down and died. Death has nestled inside me, growing stronger with each passing day, and now my body is being affected.

I'm thinner. Definitely. I touch my stomach and the roundness that once curved my abdomen is gone. I feel weak. My legs fight to keep me up, and once I look at my knees the wobbliness doesn't surprise me. Old bruises have turned yellow and green, and pink paints my flesh where I once scraped my knees on the ground. The skin is tender to the touch, and I wince as I press my finger against a newer bruise.

That is when I notice they are painted all over me. My arms, my thighs. Small healed scars are scattered next to them. I let my hands follow them, pressing and wincing. At least I feel the pain. I know I'm alive. This is not a dream.

I end up pulling the towel off my head, and at the hairline a small wound has reopened. Bleeding. I let it bleed. The drops of blood trickle down my forehead in a straight line, through my right eyebrow, and I close my eyelid as the blood runs over it down to my cheek. I follow it with my eyes in the mirror, as it curves and falls from my chin to my chest.

I wash it away with water.

But I still see it.

The blood on my hands.

Tainting me.

At least it is my own this time.

I shake my head, trying to rid myself of those thoughts. In my hours of freedom, I want to be somewhat happy. Or, at least, not in complete depression. I know Edward is coming. There's no denying the fact that he'll easily find me. I could try to flee, but what's the point? Should I run for the rest of my life because a vampire wants me to be his mate? I don't want him at all, but what other choices to I have?

Back in my bedroom, I prop the portrait of myself against the wall on the floor, and as the sun sets behind skyscrapers, I lie down in my bed. Comfortable. Queen size. Cotton sheets. I wrap them around me in attempt to keep warm, and I fall asleep immediately on the soft mattress, thinking this will be my last sleep.

-.-

"Bella?"

"Tyler?"

In the darkness, I see nothing but a bright light, but I know it's him. A little angel.

"Why did you let me die, Bella?"

His nickname for me takes my breath away, and my chest aches.

"I didn't mean to. Tyler. I'm so sorry."

"Why did you let him take me, Bella? Why didn't you save me?"

-.-

My mother told me when I was little, that bad dreams are reflections of our worries and fears. She told me this when she loved me. When I was still her only gem. Before Tyler came along and became her wonder. The bad dreams I had back then came from worrying about school. Before I was obese, I was chubby. And kids are mean. Snide comments attacked me every day, and I resented going to that hellhole. The only thing that made it worthwhile was Chelsea, my best friend.

My bad dreams now go deeper than a fear of being bullied.

When I awake, I wake with a gasp. First I try to remember my dream, but all that comes to mind are black trees and rivers of red blood. It's haunting, but as seconds pass, even that fades, leaving my mind troubled and annoyed. My body is covered with Goosebumps, and when my eyes adjust to the darkness in the room, I realize the window is open.

I sit shock still.

Waiting.

"Where are you?" I say into the darkness. "I know you're there. Say something. How long does this silence have to go on? Do you intend to torture me forever?"

Forever with him will be torture enough.

I just want to hear him say it. Hear his voice before I die. Before I'm cursed like he is.

There is no answer, but I wait for it, expecting to hear his cackle and his drabbles about my smell, my taste. I wait. And wait. But there is nothing but silence.

I get out of bed, gasping when my feet touch the cold floor, and step carefully to the window.

Somehow I know… I know he's been here.

I can't sense him or any of that bullshit. I can't smell him in the air. It's just logic to me. He can sense me. He can smell me. That he has picked up the trace and followed me during the night is painfully obvious. What I don't understand is why I'm still alive. Why I'm still breathing.

And why couldn't he at least have shut the window when he went? My teeth chatter from the cold and my breath turns foggy. New York's night sky is lit by city light; the stars are hidden, unable to compete. Sounds ping off the tall buildings all around; cars honking, a distant police siren wailing, the chatter of hookers walking down the street beneath me. I sharpen my ears to hear him, to filter the urbane clatter. Something.

"Are you there?" I ask again, whispering into the night. "If you are… let me be. Please. I don't want to be with you."

At all.

The man I want to be with, the man I love…is dead. Edward killed him. Love is impossible for me now. I can't ever love again. And I can't be with him.

"Let me be. Just please. Let me be," I chant in a whisper knowing if he is near, he can hear me. Why don't I scream my plea? I know, I don't want the neighbors to think the crazy train hasn't pulled into the station at my apartment.

I stand for minutes by the open window— though they feel like hours— waiting for his response. A sign. A hurried rush of air. But there is nothing. Nothing but me, standing frozen by the window, talking to myself.

Maybe he has left. Maybe he came after me and realized I'm not worth chasing down.

My heart sinks at the thought, morbid as it may be. Like I want him to want me. Just wanting to be desired— although it's my blood he wants. I do realize that is one of my greatest faults: my constant need to be accepted and wanted and appreciated by others. A psychologist would say, in layman terms, I have daddy issues. When Tyler came along, my father never really gave me a second thought. My needs and wants were put aside. Now I strive to be number one in the ways I can.

Never to succeed.

A crappy housekeeper.

A slow bartender.

Now I'm neither.

Silence commences, and I feel at a loss of what to do.

I shut the window, and sit down on the bed. The night is still young, and my alarm clock on the nightstand shows a shattering 3:02am. A yawn rips through me. I'm exhausted. I haven't slept that long, and the past month's hardships still linger inside me, still wearing on my bones. But I can't go back to sleep. I can't bring myself to do anything.

The moonlight shines through the room, settling on the portrait.

Don't cry. Don't cry, I tell myself, but still I feel the tears well up.

My chest contracts and my nose stings. An image of Jasper flashes through my mind— even if it's not real, even if it's a mix of Titanic and my own imagination— where he's awake next to me, looking at me while I sleep. Watching me. Staring. Adoringly. Awed. His eyes raking over me as his hands fly over a sheet of paper, drawing the outline. Knowing he had my body memorized, and must have done the painting based on that, makes my heart swell and tear asunder at the same time.

To imagine that he cared for me in that way hurts the most.

Knowing he betrayed me by lying is not the worst. It's knowing we could've had a chance. He could have left his wife. He could have told me the truth down the road. And then we could've moved in together, started our life together. Marriage. Kids. My life could've have gone so differently.

But it was ruined.

By Edward.

And that's the main reason why I'll never in my life find it in myself to care for him even a fraction of how I cared for Jasper. He's handsome. He's dark. But apart from his looks, there is not a single trait that makes me tingle.

He didn't hold me while I slept, or stroke my thigh as we spooned— not that we ever had.

He didn't hum when he ate— not that I'd ever seen him eat.

He didn't kiss my forehead before he left.

I don't know anything about him, other than that he's done horrible things in his life, both as a human and vampire. He has no respect for life. He has no respect for women. Flesh and blood means nothing to him, but it means everything to me.

That is why I now, at 3:15am, walk to the phone with determination. The cold floor sends chills up my spine with each step, but my mind is set. Flesh and blood. Mom and dad. I realize it's a futile attempt, and they will probably not even answer. Or if they do, they'll hang up.

But I dial the number; they have never changed it.

Ring.

Ring.

Ring.

On the fourth ring, I lose the little hope I have, but then—

"Hello?"

His voice is groggy and worn, but it's still clearly my father. The manliness. Musky. Throaty.

"Hello?" he says again, a little annoyed.

"I… uh…" I stammer, panicked. My mouth is dry and my eyes are wide. My head is empty. What do I say? I made the decision to call because I've been kidnapped, held captive, and put through mental torture unfathomable to me… and because Edward's lack of devotion of family made me realize how much I love my own— despite their lack of love for me.

"Who's there? Who's calling?"

"Dad?"

"Isabella? Is that you? Why are you calling this late? And on Christmas Eve?"

Christmas Eve?

I haven't realized it's Christmas, but looking back at my walk home— flashes of Santas, Salvation Army donation pots, red and gold filling shop windows, and people walking around with bags and wrapped presents invaded my brain. I realize I'd ventured home blind. My mind had been set on getting home and warm, never registering the yuletide joy reflected in people's faces. Until they saw me.

"Yes dad… it's me. I just… I needed to call you. I - I - I miss you and mom so much. Daddy, I want to come home."

"You can't."

He doesn't say more than that, but in the background I hear voices. My mother's voice. And my dad saying, "It's no one honey. Just Paul drunk dialing again. I'll take it outside, you go back to bed."

Mommy.

How I miss her.

Not counting the last months before I left— where she screamed and swung her wine-bottles at me, cussed me out and prayed I'd die— when she was a great mother. She made me soup when I was sick, and even joined me when I went on my walks. She was the one who took me to the doctor's when I first decided to lose weight, and helped me through the entire process. Though Tyler hated not having chips and candy in the house, my mother never bowed to his pleas, in respect of my lack of self-control. She did that for me. She loved me. My mom.

There's rustling on the line, and it's my dad moving the phone out of the room. Water starts running, and I realize he's gone to the bathroom and turned on the tap. He really doesn't want mom to hear it's me…and that hurts.

"Listen… Isabella. Honey. I- I'm sorry, but I'm gonna have to ask you never to call us again." The world stops turning, and his words are like a clenching hand around my heart. Squeezing. Squeezing. Until it ruptures and bleeds dry. "Your mother and I have finally managed to start moving on. She's going to AA, and I, I'm home more to watch her. Things are better for us. We're starting to heal. You calling just reopens the wounds, and I love my wife too much to see her go through all this again."

I'm stumped.

Fractured.

And pissed off.

"Really, dad?" I squeak through my tears running hot down my cheeks. "You don't think I'm devastated? I'm the one who found him! I'm the one who carried him out of the woods. I did that. Me! I know I was selfish. I know I did a horrible thing, but you make it sound like I wanted him to die, dad. I loved him." I choke on my own words, and alongside his hand is a knife twisting and turning inside me.

"I love him. He was my brother. And I didn't kill him. I made horrible choices, dad, and I'll never forgive myself for that, but I'm also your daughter. Daddy. Your flesh and blood. Don't you love me at all?"

He doesn't say anything.

And that is the moment I finally shatter. I realize I have physically felt that ball-peen hammer systematically tap-tap-tapping at my interior and its last blow has fallen.

"Okay. Dad. I won't call again. Ever. You don't love me… I just, I just have to tell you I'll never stop loving you and mom, even if you can't even find it in your heart to forgive your own daughter."

I hang up.

And my past's final bonds are cut.

-.-

The bathroom door is wide open, and the dim light from the window is the only thing lighting up the room. Maybe it's idiotic, shaving in almost darkness, but for some reason I don't mind the risk.

Ouch.

Blood seeps from my leg. Just a small drop. I continue shaving my legs. Over a month of no razor-availability does horrible things to a woman's body. Horrible. A few minutes later, my legs are smooth— so is the rest of me, and I actually smile. Bittersweet, but I'm smiling.

Talking to my dad only made me realize there's no reason to think I have anyone. I mean, I've known for a while that I'm all alone, but there's always been a lingering hope inside me saying: they will answer, one day. One day. Today he answered and threw me away at the same time. I almost wish he hadn't picked up at all. Then I could have held on to the false hope they still love me. But they don't. He made that perfectly clear.

Clear silence.

But even if I have no one— and I know Edward will come for me one day— I used to have someone.

Someone who could make me smile just by looking at me.

Who made me beautiful.

I walk out of the bathroom and put on my black stockings, pull the dress over my head, and sit down and slip on the low heels.

It's the same dress I wore for his funeral— it only seems fitting to use it now as well, when I'll go to say goodbye once more. For the last time.

-.-

In Forks, the streets were practically void of human life on Christmas Eve, except for when people would drive back from Church. But in New York, people swirl the pavement— doing last minute shopping, eating out for dinner, and even partying in a few select clubs. The city that never sleeps does not slow down for the holidays. The busses are packed, the trains are overfilled, and the subway is unbearable.

Traveling to Hoboken has never felt longer.

A few miles feel like a thousand. A death march.

But when I get there, it's easy to navigate though the city, and soon enough I find myself standing in a graveyard. A small coat of snow has stayed on the grass. Flowers put down by loved ones are dead— older ones have turned black and withered. Lights stand on top of stones.

In loving memory

Three words paint stone after stone as I pass them. But they don't just say in loving memory. What they really say is "I love you". We love you. We'll never forget. "In loving memory" is saying a thousand words, but professing only three.

His stone is a lot like the others.

Beloved son, husband, and father.

Date of birth and death.

But his grave is bare.

Like my soul as I stoop to my knees. The snow soaks through my stockings immediately, chilling my knees, but I can't help it. Here lies the man whom in the act of knocking on my door, gave me the best time of my life. Gave me confidence. Who ordered me around on kitchen chairs and fire escapes, told me to pout my lips and flip my hair. "Smile. Frown. Intensify your eyes." He twisted and turned me in more ways than one— and he did more than excite my body.

I truly loved him.

Nothing will ever change that. Not his lies. Not his deceit. Nor his death.

"I love you. I'm sorry."

How many times have I not said that and thought those words? Professing my love and apologizing at the same times has become my trademark. My thing.

"If it hadn't been for me, you'd still be alive. You'd still be able to see your little girls. I'm so sorry I took you away from that. I never knew…"

Never knew vampires existed, and that one of them would kill you because you had my scent on you.

The minutes tick on, and I stand up. A bench is just on the other side of the gravel path next to his grave, and I brush away the snow and sit down. It's still light outside, though the afternoon's dimming clouds are huddling together on the dark sky. The naked branches on the trees sway and dance in the wind. A death dance.

I sit there and reminisce.

"God, you're beautiful."

"Want to come over for a drink?

"You know… I'm looking for a model for a picture-series I'm doing."

"Hey, I'm just calling to see if you're free tonight. I'm in town and you, my lovely lady, deserve a night out."

He really was sweet to me.

But then I recall sitting on the couch on this exact day one year ago, pining for him, wondering where he was.

And I know now.

He was with his wife.

"What are you doing here?"

I jump to my feet, startled, and turn to face the reason Jasper was never mine. Not fully.

"I'm here to pay my respects," I say smoothly, and it's the truth.

Maria stands there, holding a candle in her gloved hands, staring at me with a deadly glare. If looks could kill, I'd be dead a thousand times. Still, even through her obvious rage, I can see why Jasper loved her. Or, fell for her. She's beautiful. Italian. With dark curls and exotic features. Petite, but obviously full of fire. Her back is straight, like she's been to hell and back and proud of it. Rising above all challenges.

I've seen her only two times: one time broken, another time grieving, but this is the first time I've ever seen her fully enraged.

"Don't you ever fucking come here again. Do you hear me, whore? He never loved you. He never loved you! He loved me. Don't you get it? He never told you about me, because you were just a fling. A mindless fuck.

Her words sting and threaten to vaporize the pieces the hammer missed, and I start backing up. She follows. The candle drops to the ground, but doesn't break as she continues to shout. "He never loved you. He loved me. He always came back to me, don't you see? You were a plaything, Isabella. You were his toy." She's right in my face now, and in her eyes I see nothing but red-hot fury. Resentment. There is no holding back for her now.

"You're nothing. I was his everything. Me. Not you. All you ever did was distract him - and it's your fault he died."

My fault. Edward had said that as well.

Her words blur together, and I turn to run away. She remains shouting by his grave, and this is my goodbye to him. I leave him, with her words like a fresh and painful wound, with the woman he truly belonged with.

Out on the street, the night has taken over, and the street lamps illuminate the ground as I pace down the sidewalk. Walking alone. Always alone. And now I know.

I have nothing left to live for.