Twilight belongs to Stephenie; this plot belongs to me.
"Well you learnt to hate me
but you still Call me baby
I guess you forgot my name...
Still I stand to save your soul
Yes I stand to save your soul
Before you're too far gone
before nothing can be done." Too Far Gone, Sam Bradley
Five days later – landing in WA State
I'm a total fucking mess as I make my way into the airport, searching for Emmett who is supposed to be picking me up, according to Emma. I had booked the first flight I could get, which was five days after Emma called me in New York; five long, torturous days. Finally, I see Emmett standing near the baggage claim area, and I make a move for him, and he ushers me out of the busy Sea-Tac airport and into his parked mini van.
"Oh, um thanks," I say when he takes my bags from me.
He nods and tells me it's no problem, and I hop into the black van to escape the prying eyes of the nosy public. A moment later Emmett gets inside and carefully tries to weave around the traffic.
"Are you hungry, would you like to stop anywhere?" he asks as we finally make it onto the highway.
I shake my head, staring out the windshield.
"No, I'm . . . no thanks," I say quietly.
He nods.
Another thing about Emmett: He knows when not to crack jokes and to take shit seriously—like now.
Emma calls him and asks if he picked me up yet; they don't talk for long, and he relays something to me from her.
"He's at Harborview," Emmett tells me.
I nod.
We make it to the hospital in just less than three hours. When we finally find a parking space, I hesitate with going inside, but in the end push myself to go. I walk in with Emmett, but I'm on autopilot. Emmett and I go to the floor that he's on, and walk to the waiting area where families go. There, Emma and my longtime friend, Elizabeth, meet us.
Emma hugs me, and I hug Elizabeth, wondering what on Earth she's doing here, but I don't ask.
"Why am I here?" I ask Emma quietly.
Emmett and Liz went to the cafeteria to eat; Emma and I didn't want to, so we stayed up here.
She sighs, rubbing her hands over her tired face.
"He won't fucking talk to anybody . . . psychiatrists have been in and out to see him multiple times a day, but he never says anything—to the best of my knowledge, anyway. They always leave with defeated faces. He doesn't want anyone in the room, and when he woke-up in the early morning after he was brought in—I stayed the night with him—he cried. I've tried talking to him, but he only gives short answers; most of the time all you get is a glare. I talked to one of his doctors, told them about you (nothing about what happened, just that you're close to him); they suggested seeing if he'll talk to you," she explains tiredly.
"What's Liz doing here?" I ask her, trying to process her information.
She shrugs.
"I really don't know other than she was at the house when he was brought in."
"Um, I don't wanna push you, but are you gonna go in today or no?" Emma asks me.
I sigh, and glance towards the hallway that holds the rooms.
"I should, shouldn't I? The thing, I doubt he wants to see me; at least, that's what our last conversation conveyed," I say bitterly.
"He wants to see you . . . Bella, he cries for you in the night, and every time I'm in there, I can see the questions in his eyes. He wants to ask about you, but he won't because he's too damn stubborn to admit he fucked-up," she tells me.
At around 5:30pm, I finally gather the courage to go to his room. I hesitate outside of it. I take in shaky deep breaths, telling myself just to do, and I finally go for it. I slowly push open the large white door, glancing inside. After seeing that his eyes are closed, I breathe a sigh of relief and walk in, closing the door gently behind me. I take a seat in one of the chairs near the door, and just watch him. He looks horrible, like his body has taken a serious beating, which is has. His face is sweaty and slightly pale looking; it has lots some of its tan color that I'm so used to seeing. He looks so frail, and I can only imagine what his eyes look like behind his closed lids.
As if he knows that I'm here, his eyes slowly open, and they find me immediately. He stares at me through dull eyes, almost as though he's looking right through me, and not at me. I stare back, hating what I see. Tears fall from his eyes, slowly making their way down his cheeks, and it kills me inside, but I don't make any move to go over and comfort him; it's like I'm frozen with fear and pain.
"I-I didn't think y-you'd come," he says in a hoarse voice, like it hurts him to talk.
I bet it does.
From what I heard from Emma earlier, they pumped his stomach when they got him here.
"I almost didn't," I admit through a whisper.
He nods a little and coughs twice, then winces. I'm kind enough to get up and pour him some water that's in the plastic pitcher on the pull out tray; I hand it to him, but I have to help him drink it because his strength is weak—in more ways than just one. I set the cup back down on the table-tray and go to sit down, but he stops me.
"S-stay," he whispers.
I bite my lip and, against my better judgment, take a seat on the bed at the end of it.
"Why. . ." I try asking, but I wind-up trailing off.
"'Cause I f-fucked up," he whispers.
Knowing that I'm not going to get anything further out of him, I ask what Liz is doing here, considering he hasn't seen her since we were twenty.
He looks at me and then looks away; he's hiding something, that much I can tell in his dull still high-dilated eyes.
"Edward," I say quietly and carefully, almost fearfully.
The feeling that comes with the look he gives me next . . . it fills me with even more pain than I felt five days ago, and I really want to throw-up.
"Say it, out loud," I tell him, trying not to cry. "'Cause I won't believe it 'til I hear you say it."
He blinks and it's then that I realize that he's crying again.
"I-I-I ch-cheated on y-you w-with her," he whispers.
I'm back in the chair that's near the door; I don't know how much time has passed, but it's been passed in silence. The only talking that's been was when a nurse came in to check on him and take his vitals, then left. Emotions run wild throughout me – fear, pain, rejection, anger, disbelief, anxiety. I rest my arms on my knees that are pulled up to my chest.
"Why," I whisper emotionlessly, but my voice does crack a little.
"'Cause . . . I wanted to hurt you," he whispers softly.
I snort but it gets stuck in my throat.
"Hurt me . . . well congratulations, you got your fuckin' wish," I tell him bitterly.
I get up and walk around a little in the room, knowing that his eyes are on me the whole time. I pull at my hair, and he calls me out on it.
"Stop that, you're gonna hurt yourself," he says.
I stop to look at him finally; I snort.
"I think you've done more than enough for the both of us with that," I snap quietly.
"I'm sorry," he whispers.
His voice holds the apology and I can hear regret in it as well, but I don't react to it; it just pisses me off further. I walk to the bed and stand next to it, looking out the window at the cloudy sky.
"You're not crying," he says quietly.
I look down at him.
"You're not crying," he repeats, this time louder.
I shrug.
You go through enough, you either finally break or learn to deal with it, or you just get to the point where it doesn't affect you like it once did.
"You aren't crying," he says for the third time, realization in his voice each time.
"No, but I'm fucking dying inside," I hiss at him.
Tears slip down his cheeks, and before I have time to stop myself, I lean in and kiss his forehead, then try to pull back, but he stops me by bringing me closer and down, hugging me. I lose my balance and fall onto him, pressing my palms into the bed to right myself, and stand back up.
A week later – the release
He was released yesterday; apparently he finally told the doctors it was accidental. I'm at their house today, helping Emma out. I'm helping Edward get situated in bed; I shouldn't be here, everything in me tells me to leave, but I ignore it.
"Um, if you need anything else lemme know," I say quietly.
He nods and turns onto his side, facing away from me.
xXxXxXx
When I go back upstairs to check on Edward after Emma and Emmett leave, I see that he's still asleep, so I quietly lay down beside him, careful not to touch him or jostle him too much. I pull the blanket up over him that it covers his arms. He has some of his color back, but he still looks fragile. Although I'm laying right beside him, I still feel miles apart from him, and once again every cell in my body tells me to leave, but I don't listen. He's sleeping on his stomach with his head turned toward me—I took my usual spot next to the wall—so I carefully, hesitantly, reach out and gently run my fingers through his hair. He exhales deeply as I do this, and hurts to know that my touch still calms him, when just being near him kills me inside.
I don't know how long it's been, but it's already dark outside. It's October, so I'm not surprised. I haven't moved much, other than continuing to run my fingers through his hair. I'm watching him when he finally wakes up; his eyes find mine and he takes in a shuddering breath that also sound choppy, like he can't breathe right. My fingers still and I bring my hand away from his head, only for him to catch it in his own hand. He keeps it there, our palms pressed together and his fingers locked with mine, and even though I shouldn't reciprocate, I do; my fingers squeeze his. I squeeze, squeeze, squeeze until it hurts and I want to cry. I see tears fall from his eyes to his nose.
"Don't cry," I whisper, even though I'm now crying too. "Don't fucking cry, you promise breaker."
Tears fall from both our eyes.
He turns fully onto his side without ever letting go of my hand. He sits up and pulls on my hand, trying to get me to sit up with him; I do, needing to wipe my eyes because they're burning-stinging. When he does let go of my hand, it's only to wipe my eyes and cheeks, and oddly enough I find myself missing his hand in mine, but I try to push that feeling away, thinking—knowing—that I'm supposed to be angry, pissed off at him.
He tries to pull me in for a hug but I shake my head, not wanting to give in.
He doesn't take it, though, and wraps his arms around me, engulfing me in his scent and warmth. His skin is sleepy-warm still and his dark blue shirt is wrinkled. I finally can't take it anymore and give in, wrapping my arms around his neck. His arms move just beneath my butt and he lifts a little, pulling me closer; I wrap my legs around his waist and lock my ankles together, squeezing him. I sob and shake, and soon my breathing is choppy and shaky, and it's hard to take a breath at all. He squeezes me back, so tight; I'm suffocating inside but I don't care—I need him.
"I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm so fucking sorry baby," he whispers in my ear.
He rocks us gently from side to side, and I cough a few times, trying to breathe.
"Breathe sweetheart, please," he whispers.
I take in a shuddering breath of air, and what comes back out is a half-exhale, half-wail and sob, creating another round of tears.
When I pull my face away from his neck and look at him, I see that he's crying as well. A part of me doesn't want him to cry, that he created this mess, so he shouldn't get to cry or be allowed to; the other part of me—a much larger part—wishes that he wouldn't be so strong at times like this, and I actually like the fact that he's crying.
"I'm so fucking sorry, baby. I'm sorry," he apologizes again.
I might be twenty-six, and this might be six years later, but it feels as if we somehow went back to six ago. I feel like I'm 20-years-old again, trying to hold onto something that's not good for me, but I'll die without it. I need him so damn much that it scares me.