A/N- I own nothing but my mind. SM owns the characters.

My team: LizziePaige, MarieSCullen, PearlyFox and SunflowerFran, are THE BEST!

Thank you to everyone who continues to follow, favourite, read, review and spread the word about DTTF. I really appreciate every single one of you.

~oOo~

Chapter 9. BPOV.

By the time Monday morning dawns, I'm still reeling. I feel stupid. I feel ... helpless.

The rest of my weekend was spent locked in my room, feigning illness. My parents didn't question me too much; they didn't hover and fuss. After all, why would I lie? Why would their perfect little girl deceive them?

When I returned home late on Friday, they didn't even pretend to be angered. I ignored their text, and they didn't even worry because what would I be doing that was so wrong or dangerous? All they asked was that in the future, I let them know when I won't be coming home when they expect. The lie rolled off my tongue effortlessly. I stayed behind to help Dean with a project. He drove me home to save me walking through the park in the dark ...

If only they knew the truth, Dad would have a coronary, and Mom would probably hyperventilate before asking me all about my adventure with a handsome, mysterious boy. Because deep down, she's more of a seventeen-year-old romantic, than a thirty-six-year-old functioning member of society.

Every time I allow my mind to drift, I'm back on that rooftop, with Edward. Despite all he told me, all he showed me; I can't help but feel as though I only skimmed the surface, that he was holding back. I saw it in the way he glanced at me periodically; he didn't think I was capable of handling any more than what he told me. He was censoring the true details because ... he probably thinks I'm too vulnerable and rather pathetic. In a way, he was trying to protect me while giving me the answers I sought.

Shaking my head, I close my locker and throw my books into my backpack. He's not wrong, and that annoys me. I look around at the students as they mingle with their friends after the weekend—so caught up in the here and now—so oblivious about what goes on outside their bubble. That's me; I'm no different. Or it was me.

I feel different now. I want to know more; I want to truly understand. My curiosity has been piqued, and I can't let it go. The people surrounding me don't hold my attention anymore. I'm detached; I feel separate from everything around me. I wonder what Edward's doing right now, where he is, and whether his fight-riddled face and hands have healed. I cringe as I remember his cold tone, aimed at me from across the car before I left. I think of the darkened streets he directed me through and who is filling them today; I contemplate what struggles are painted on the faces of those who travel the sidewalks on the other side of town. I worry; about them, about Edward, about myself.

I worry about things I had no knowledge of until very recently. I find myself searching the shadows with my eyes, truly looking into the faces of others for any hint of hurt or conflict. I search for a truth my mind is trying to deflect. It feels as though an unknown defense mechanism has kicked in, trying to protect myself from a reality I knew nothing about.

I battle with myself every day. I struggle against the pull of this city; that darkness I feel around every corner. I grasp at my old self, the girl who arrived bright-eyed and bushy-tailed from Washington State. But I feel so much discontent towards that girl. My head tells me to stay in my own lane; my heart screams the opposite. I'm torn, confused, yet adamant to curb my curiosity.

"Earth to Bella!"

I turn my head in the direction of Alice, who jumps playfully to a stop at my side. Smiling, I greet her and apologize for spacing out.

"What's got you so deep in thought?" She asks as we begin our walk to class.

"Typical Monday morning stuff," I answer untruthfully, shrugging my shoulders. "And not enough caffeine."

She laughs, a tinkling childish sound. "Tell me about it," she nods exuberantly. "I was running so late this morning that I've had no coffee. Not even a sniff!"

"What?" I over exaggerate a gasp, making my voice higher and pitch lighter, in mock shock.

"Right? I don't know how I'm going to survive today!"

I chuckle as we take our seats in our English Lit class. We're silent as the teacher enters the room and starts talking. Before long, I'm back in Edward's sleek car, the last thing I expected him to own. But it's clear he hides it away, almost as though he's ashamed of it. I could tell it doesn't get much use, and I wonder why that is. Then I think back to Edward himself, how one minute he can be almost playful and lighthearted and in the next breath, he's defensive and sharp. There are definitely two sides to him, both of which have an intriguing story. He's not just beautiful; he's haunted too. In a way, it adds very much to his appeal, but there's so much more to him than his ethereal appearance and tall, lean physique. He's deep, tortured, and tough, both mentally and physically. He's intelligent too; there's no doubt about that.

He's passionate, jaded, and complicated. He's an old soul in a young body. He's seen a lot, survived a lot, and he's open with his emotions when you catch him off guard. You've got to be one step ahead with Edward, and if you want to know what he's truly thinking, catch him in the moment when he doesn't have enough time to school his features. In a way, you've got to push him, let his emotion speak for him. Watch him closely, think faster, and ignite that flame which burns just under the surface. He may snap, driven by an inherent defensiveness. He may shut down and feign nonchalance, but then, he may even open up and answer honestly, without agenda or careful consideration. I've seen all those sides in such a short space of time.

I learned that much after one short evening in his company, and already, I want to learn more.

"You spaced out again," Alice whispers right before the bell rings to signal the end of class. I smile apologetically and gather my belongings, not having taken a single note. Oops.

We walk towards art, the only creative subject I chose this semester. I read that it can help your application to colleges and probably took it a little too literally. I'm the complete opposite of artistic, but Alice is in this class too, so it's not too bad. She wants to study fashion design after school, and because of that, art class is the only time she's completely silent as she listens intently to the teacher.

"We're going to have a bit of a political lesson today," Miss Holden starts once we're all seated. Groans can be heard all around. "Relax," she smiles, "I've got a feeling a lot of you will appreciate our discussion."

Alice looks at me, perplexed. I return her confused expression. Her guess as to what the teacher is speaking about is as good as mine.

"Has anyone heard of the street art appearing around the city?" Miss Holden asks, and suddenly, everyone is alert and interested. I'm confused, having no idea what she's talking about. "The artist who's been branded, 'Inferno?' "

Heads nod from all directions. She smiles and turns to her computer. "Here's a few examples of Inferno's work. Four pieces, in four weeks, in prominent areas of the city."

The large projector screen flashes to life, and four images are displayed in front of us. It's graffiti. Very skillfully executed graffiti. For a moment, I'm lost in thought, absorbed in the art reflected back at us. Immediately, my mind is back on that rooftop, with Edward. What he spoke about, it's displayed perfectly in front of my eyes, depicted beautifully, yet discarded and disregarded as vandalism. How can anything so beautifully tragic be regarded as anything less than art?

"It's badass," one of the male students calls from behind me. Miss Holden chuckles.

"That, it may be," she acknowledges. "But what do you think the artist is trying to tell us, to show us?"

"Struggle," a red-headed girl to my left, answers. "Real life, unfiltered and true, the struggle of the people."

"It's vandalism. Nothing more, nothing less," another girl calls out, clearly unimpressed by the talent displayed.

"What is vandalism when we're talking about art?" Miss Holden asks the girl. I think her name is Jessica.

Jessica shrugs her shoulder, pointing to the images as though the teacher is stupid.

For a moment, I zone out, lost in the images. My eyes take in every small detail, and my heart breaks. There's so much suffering and pain in the pieces. The small boy using the bonfire to warm himself while the other children play, uncaring around the blaze. His ratty clothing, his holy-gloved hands, and his pale, gaunt skin. It's all so detailed and heartbreaking.

"...it's a reflection of society, don't you think?" Miss Holden asks, breaking my concentration. "The flip side. It's inclusive. No matter what side of the coin you represent, it's emotive and shocking. This artist is not looking for glory or money. Some things are clearly more important in their eyes. We don't even know who the elusive 'Inferno' is, yet everyone is talking."

"And instead of focusing on what the art depicts, the authorities will focus on finding the person behind it. Their priorities are all wrong," I speak, dazed as my eyes refuse to break from the pictures illuminating the room. Everyone is silent. Miss Holden smiles sadly and nods at my words.

Debate ensues; it's heated. Some people refuse to see the art for what it is and completely miss the meaning behind it. They focus instead on the illegality, the principle of the matter. Others are all for the rogue artist and their message, appreciating the skill and talent in the pieces, as well as the controversial subject matter.

The newest artwork is the only piece with any form of wording, and I find that interesting. There's a homeless man, hunched over and defeated. He's so dark, as though he's hiding in the shadows. He's holding a sign, the words hard-hitting and bold, "keep your coins. I want change."

For the rest of class, I tune out everyone around me and focus solely on the spray-painted figures. I study them closely, especially the hidden signature in each piece. A tiny flame. A small offer of warmth and light amidst overriding darkness. It's clever. I'm completely enthralled.

"Your homework is to write a short piece, at least one thousand words, on your feelings and the messages behind Inferno's work," Miss Holden calls as the bell signals the end of class. "Think about it, open your mind to it, and lay your prejudices aside."

"My mom will be disgusted that my homework centers around a vandal," Alice laughs as we leave the room. "I love it." I can't help but chuckle in reply. My mom will probably ask to see examples of their work, and my dad will scoff and mumble about the law. I doubt either of them will be disgusted, per se, but my dad will undoubtedly use it as an example to teach me more about right and wrong. Chances are, I won't tell them. I'll spare myself the inquisition.

Later that evening, I'm locked in my room, sitting at my white desk and tackling my homework. My laptop lays discarded at my elbow, but I can't help but shift my eyes towards it now and again. Eventually, I admit defeat and, driven to distraction, open Google.

I tap restlessly on the keyboard and bounce my knee for a second, before typing 'Chicago South Side history' into the search bar. Within seconds, I'm inundated with results, and I scroll, clicking as headlines catch my eye. As I read, my eyes widen, and my heart sinks. The results do not paint a pretty picture and further solidified what Edward was telling me.

'Chicago's Awful Divide,' one reads. I click and absorb myself in the article.

... Devoid of opportunity and prosperity ... people at the bottom are struggling as much as they always have, if not more ... a combination of Manhattan smashed against Detroit ..."can't apply for jobs in certain neighborhoods because he could become a target of violence" ... public policies played a huge role in reinforcing the walls around the ghetto ... disappearance of industrial jobs ... unable to access the education or job opportunities that could help get them out ... further widens the gulf between the rich and the poor ... gang turf wars that often end up harming innocent people ... kids growing up in neighborhoods that once had a good mix of middle-class and low-income families were now surrounded predominantly by people who weren't working or who were struggling ... fewer role models who had good jobs, who graduated from high school, who went to college ... surrounded by violence and drugs ... "an environment where it's crackheads and violence and fights and arguments and gangs and poverty, it motivates you to do that as well" ... "you have to look over your shoulder every five minutes" ... one of the worst unemployment rates in the country, for people in their 20s ... lack of economic opportunities for youth has given rise to the cycle of violence that ravages neighborhoods on the South Side ... murders increased 58 percent ... non fatal shootings rose by 43 percent ... as violence racks neighborhoods, the cycle of disinvestment continues ... the neighborhoods that struggled 30 years ago, are still the ones that struggle today ...

I sit back and release a breath. My eyes sting; I don't think I blinked once while I read. My heart is thudding in my chest. I had no idea how deeply rooted it was, and the sheer scale of issues. I want to talk to Edward, but I have no way of reaching out, of contacting him. He's lived like this, his whole life. He's a product of what I've just absorbed. I can't comprehend, but I can sympathize. I will never understand, but I can acknowledge.

I do, however, now understand what Dean said; I get it. He said that if he helped one kid, he'd take that as a win. Of course, he hopes to help more, but he's doing something.

The youth center is a good start, and I vow to learn more, to find my path. For the first time, I'm not scared of the darkness that shrouds this city, the eerie whisper that calls to me in the shadows. It feels like a calling, and from now on, I plan to listen, to experience, and to understand.

~oOo~

A/N - The article Bella read is real, almost. I took lines from a few articles I found when doing my own research. It was harrowing. So I can't take credit for what she read, those lines are not my own; they belong to numerous journalists, residents of Chicago's South Side, and publications.

As always, let me know you're thoughts. I know the chapters are quite short right now, but I promise they get longer as the story progresses.

Thank you for reading.