Warning: Contains drinking and self harm. Message me if you decide not to read and want a summary.
Chapter Fourteen
Bella POV
If things can go wrong, things will go wrong.
Whatever I'd felt in the meadow beside Edward had evaporated the moment I got home. Honestly I preferred it when Charlie was completely incapacitated by his habits, or even when he was in a drunken rage. Today he'd happened to be sober enough to notice the shattered glass and general disarray that the house had fallen into.
Sober enough to threaten a beating if I didn't sort everything out.
Sore, cut up hands proved more than a nuisance. A few hours later the house was clean, Charlie once again drunk. I had dropped and knocked over more than a couple things in the process. There was a slight bruise on my left cheekbone where he'd hit me, and my upper back stung and ached. I turn on the water and press a cold towel to my face, trying not to see my reflection.
If I detest Charlie, then I despise myself.
I couldn't fight him, no, I was far too weak and way too skinny. I found it incredible that anything earlier in the day had happened at all, that Edward and the strange peacefulness I'd felt were futile memories.
Why would Edward Cullen pay any attention to you. Look at yourself, Bella. It's hopeless, you're hopeless…
I pull the glimmering object out of my bag without thinking, then stop when its point is poised over the inside of my arm.
No, I have a better idea. Downstairs, I reach through Charlie's collection, pushing aside can after can of cheap beer and dark bottles. I find several small, clear bottles in the back and gather up a few.
The first time I'd lost my blades I'd been forced to find new ways to feel the same release. I remembered pressing a smoking match to my skin, eyes closed, jaw clenched at the smell.
The liquid burns me from the inside out, singeing the pit of my stomach until a more gulps bring the feeling to my head. I reach for the piece of glass, feel sharp awareness slice through the mess that my mind has become.
I watch on helplessly as my world fades into a bright red smear.
Edward POV
I'm in my office, Edward. Come up.
Carlisle could always be counted on to use my ability effectively. I felt slightly guilty for being so harsh on Alice, but a century of experience told me that I could indeed hold her responsible for what she didn't know.
"Its alright, Carlisle. I don't know what Alice told you, but I'm fine." He doesn't look entirely convinced.
I think you should know that if you do love Bella, we have nothing against it.
"But Rosalie-"
She'll get over it.
I sighed, but nodded in understanding.
And if the circumstance arises-
"No." That was precisely the sort of thing I was trying to avoid thinking about.
It may be inevitable, Edward. Bella is only human.
And then, as if on cue, a distressed Alice ran into the room.
She didn't need to speak. The image flashed through my mind, and instantly I wished that it hadn't.
Bella POV
When my vision clears up the confused, blurry feeling is replaced by a ferocious drumbeat on my temples. I crawl towards the washroom, suddenly conscious of dry blood on my hands and a strange taste in my mouth. Examining my hands, I realize that I'm still clutching the piece of glass. Shallow, crooked scratches line my arms.
What the fuck did I do?
I lean on the counter, filled with inexplicable dizziness. A second later I'm retching into the sink and trying to calm the burning feeling in my stomach and throat with water. A shower cleans away the blood but not the feeling. I kick empty bottles under my bed, as if their disappearance would erase the effects of the alcohol.
Picking up the shard on the table, I reopen a vague line down the inside of my wrist. A mixture of frustration and anger makes me press harder, and I'm rewarded with a trickle of blood on my fingers. I run the sharp edge into the cut again, deepening it, but slipping fingers and the remaining haziness in my brain pushes it too far.
The wound isn't spurting, but the rapid flow is dictated by a disturbing pulsing that I can't tear my eyes from. Clumsily, I try to staunch the blood, feeling the fingers of my left hand twitch uselessly. Whatever I'm doing isn't working, and seems to encourage the bleeding rather than stop it. The dripping noise gets progressively louder until it merges with the pounding in my head. I feel the cold floor against my cheek and wonder how I got there.
Someone is lifting me off the floor, or maybe it's the dizziness. I think I hear voices, but the noise is lost in the sound of blood hitting the ground.
Yes...the wayward authoress is back and writing. You all have every right to be mad at me : /