sixteen

thanks for giving a shit

Thanksgiving. She's never celebrated it, exactly. Oh sure, there was always the obligatory hand-print turkey art projects in elementary school and the cafeteria's best approximation of a turkey-potato-cranberry sauce lunch, but she doesn't count those. She doesn't count the overcrowded meals at the group homes or that one Thanksgiving where her foster father threw all of the ceramic bowls of food at the walls, followed by his beer, and then his poor wife, either, because those are miserable memories. And miserable memories don't belong with holiday memories.

And she's certainly not thankful that she has them.

Back before she was adopted, Carlisle had tried to have her released from the group home for the day so that they could go out for dinner - but that's not the way it works, really, and so it hadn't happened, much to their shared disappointment.

Which makes this - hand to her heart - the first actual Thanksgiving she and Carlisle have ever had.

And it's not even just she and Carlisle. Of course not. She really, honestly didn't expect any differently, so she isn't surprised that Esme is in the kitchen with an apron on over her pretty chocolate-brown dress or that Alice is already setting the table by the time she shows up.

She's late, but nobody says anything about it. Carlisle's smile is just this side of too much and she avoids his eye as she awkwardly unloads pecan and apple and cherry-rhubarb pie from the paper bag she carried all the way from Charmstone's lone bakery. Because it's, like, good manners and everything to bring dessert, right?

Right.

It's weird to feel like an outsider in her own house, but there it is. Not that Carlisle isn't happy to have her or that Esme isn't wholly welcoming, but that she doesn't know how she fits into this new picture that Carlisle's life has become. He gives her a tight, rib-squeezing hug and all she can think about the entire time is that Alice is watching and so is Esme and they know that she's been treating Carlisle like shit and surely they have thoughts about that because he's theirs, too, and so she hugs him back just as tight. Desperately, even. And it doesn't make her feel better.

"Hey, uh, can I talk to you for a sec?" she asks under her breath, thinking that right now is the best time to bite the bullet and just tell him about the hag and the weird fluctuations of the ley lines and why it's like her emotions just aren't right in her head anymore and-

"Dinner's ready," he tells her pensively. "Can it wait until after we eat?"

No.

"Sure," she says instead.

Carlisle kisses her forehead, then goes to carve the turkey.

And Ella just closes her eyes for a moment, waiting for it all to be over.

They eat.

Predictably, Esme is a good cook - probably for the best, considering that Carlisle's skill in the kitchen extends about as far as a tea kettle. When she says this, framing it as a compliment, Esme smiles and launches on a thoughtful brainstorm about the changes she would make to the kitchen, something about the stove being too far away from the sink.

And Ella just - zones out, gone oddly numb as she shovels perfectly cooked sweet potatoes and green bean casserole into her mouth.

Alice neatly cuts her turkey across the table, swiping the meat through gravy, and injects wryly, "But isn't our kitchen bigger, Mom? Maybe instead of renovating Carlisle's, we should add a cabinet for his teas to ours."

"A very good thought, darling," Esme praises around a delicate sip of wine, pale green eyes landing on the druid at the other end of the table.

Carlisle blushes.

And all Ella can think is, they want to cohabitate, so where does that leave me?

The fork slips from her hand, clattering nosily against bone-white ceramic plates that definitely aren't Carlisle's, and her magic shivers from her, nearly upending the fanciful spread in a horrible mimicry of that terrifying Thanksgiving all those years ago. "Sorry," she gasps, pushing her chair back with a screech. "I can't do this."

Carlisle stands, brow furrowed behind his glasses. "Ella-"

She shakes off his hand reaching for her shoulder. "I can't," she repeats forcefully, fleeing from the kitchen and the terrible gaping of the banshees. She's on the porch before she realizes it, white-knuckling the railing and breathing deep, trying to understand what the fuck is wrong with her that she can't even act normal, anymore.

The door behind her opens, then closes. He clears his throat, a gentle alert to his presence that she doesn't need or even deserve. "Ella, what's wrong? It's not the food, is it? Because I'm sure we can just skip to the pies, we can, and-"

"It's not the food!" she interrupts harshly. She turns, gesturing wildly, grabbing onto the anger that's always there and pulling it to the surface. "It's all this- this Stepford Wifey, perfect life thing you have going on and I'm screwing it up, Carlisle, I really am. I don't belong here. I shouldn't have even come -"

"What are you talking about?" Carlisle steps forward in concern, only to be buffered by a strong wave of her uncontrolled magic, which presses against the house hard enough that the blueberry wood groans in protest.

The magician's glass on her ring is a dully, cloudy red.

"I don't know why you even bothered with me!" she yells, heat building behind her eyes. "Why adopt me, take me in? Because you felt like you had to? Fine, fine, you saved the poor little orphan, good job Saint Carlisle! But you don't need to feel obligated, anymore, okay? You have your real family, your real daughter, and you don't need me to take up space!"

"Ella, that's not - I would never-"

"I'm not stupid," she sneers meanly. "Nobody's ever really wanted me and you can stop pretending, now. You did your duty. So, thanks for giving a shit!"

She strides off the porch, crushing fallen leaves beneath her boots.

"Ella!"

She doesn't look back to see Carlisle following her - instead, she waves her hand behind herself, a violent flush of wind rising in response, loud and howling and strong enough to keep Carlisle away from her.

Because she's spinning out of control and there are hot, angry, confused tears on her cheeks and she's not safe - just look at the magician's glass, that reading on her current temperament and frame of mind and state of her magic - and she shouldn't be around anyone.

Ella isn't looking where she is going. She's not paying attention. She crosses street to street, moving closer to the town, and then closer to the forest, walking aimlessly - and then running without intent, just the deep-seated need to get away.

There is a distant squawk of a bird, but she doesn't stop for Raven, either.

And then -

And then she takes a step forward just on the edge of the forest creeping into Charmstone and it's like being hit by a bolt of lightning. Like looking at a frozen moment in time, she sees the hag kneeling over a boulder marked in runes like take and drain - and then the next moment, the hag is looking up at her - and then the next, Ella is shot through with a burst of magic not her own and it hurts and the hag is saying something like, "I was waiting for the right moon phase, but there is no time like the present, is there, dearie? Hmm?"

Ella falters, knees buckling beneath her, and then she is on the ground, staring up at a pair of yellow-green eyes and a black-toothed smile with a vicious spell spilling from thin, cracked lips -

And then the world goes dark.

A/N: And in this chapter, we see that the subject is exhibiting abandonment issues, interpersonal relationship struggles, emotional outbursts centered on anger, dissociation, and impulsive decisions, all triggered by what most would consider "normal" circumstances. I won't say what it is - yet - but it's definitely a personality disorder. And the interesting thing about reading and writing a narrative with a character who has a personality? All her shit seems totally justified, which is true to form for personality disorders.

Also, a cliff hanger. #sorrynotsorry

As always, be brutally honest. I can take it.

~cupcakeriot