TW: This chapter will feature self-harm. I've edited it to make it less graphic on here, but in case anyone wants to skip that section for whatever reason, leave at "I'm going to let the hot water burn me" and rejoin at "I close my eyes shut."

"The fiercest anger of all, the most incurable, is that which rages in the place of dearest love." ― Euripides

As it turns out, I remember anger. Really, really well.

I don't know how long I sit crying on the floor. My knees digging into my chest, I can feel the bones press into my breastplate. A little bit more, maybe, and I'll crack my ribcage. Just a bit more, really.

For many moments I consider pressing into myself until I hear that pop! The crack! Of my reality breaking and escaping back into the world where Edward Cullen loves me. Where the whole Cullen finally accepts me into their home with open arms. I'm no longer a fragile human waiting for their blessing.

It's easy to consider breaking again for someone who just broke you. There's a surprising fury in that epiphany.

Maybe hours later I register the sound of a van driving. Though it really could have been minutes after I slammed the door and my brain is just now recognizing it. The thought of time slipping doesn't surprise me anymore.

Yet the sound wakes up every nerve in my body. It starts in my belly, the pit of rage threatening to boil over. I can feel the crackles of emotion When it shoots down my legs, they twitch uncontrollably. I stand up instinctively, but there's no wobble in my posture. I'm immobile. I'm on fire.

I run into the downstairs bathroom and face myself.

My appearance is horrific. Dark circles underneath my eyes. I could have predicted that if I had been more conscious in the past month. My hair is unkempt and I probably smell horribly. In the back of my mind, the very depths of it, shame creeps up with the notion that Sam Uley saw me like this. How many other people? The whole school….the whole town.

A rage comes over me. What I have been reduced for in the name of another person. No, a god, but still a man. A perfect man sentencing me to misery indefinitely. Did he not even care how I might react to his departure?

I hold my fist to my mouth and bite down. My teeth sting my flesh so I try to scream instead. It's no good.

I rush out to the living room and grab a throw pillow from the crouch. I bury my face into it.

Now I scream. Now I let out the anger within me. I scream until my lungs burn and I think I can't possibly get any louder. I hope the pillow masks the violence ricocheting in my ears. And at the same time, I hope they don't. My screams should be heard all over Forks, through the forest and to the edge of the ocean. That's how it should have been when he left me.

When Charlie comes home from work, I'm bouncing my knees on the edge of the couch. I've spent the whole day pacing and jittering, ready to crawl out of my skin. Watching nonsense on TV didn't do a single thing to distract me. My neurons won't stop firing.

"Bella?" His voice is stable, but I can hear the hint of apprehension and disbelief in it. He starts to take off his belt and put it on the table.

I shoot right out of my spot. I begin pacing again.

"I want to do something." I tell him. I watch his eyes go wide, "Can we go shooting? I really want to shoot something right now."

"Um," Charlie stutters. "Uh, sure. You know what, I'll call Billy and Harry and maybe we can make a day of it in a couple of weeks."

"A couple of weeks!"

I groan and finger my hair incessantly. He liked my hair. Maybe I should chop it all off.

"Bella? Are you okay?" Charlie's voice borders on concern now. Not this again.

I throw my arms down to my side in a rather petty and childish manner. Not that I care. "Fine, whatever. It doesn't fucking matter!"

I see his heavy eyebrows furrow together in shock and I run off before he says something; the second time I've done this move today. My march up the stairs is heavy and without disruption. I throw open my bedroom door and close it forcefully.

Throwing myself belly first on my bed seems the logical choice. That way I can find another pillow and scream all over again.

When I wake up there's light coming through the blinds of my window. Maybe an hour after sunrise. It takes me a long moment to adjust. I squint and try to see through the light. Rubbing my eyes only helps momentarily.

In this brief moment, I'm confused. I don't remember where I am, anything that has happened to me, or even who I am. I only know that the sun stings and I want to go back to sleep. I want to wake up later, born again and unafraid.

The moment is too short. Knowledge comes searing back into me and I remember. The anger pools inside once again. It's a sickening internal lesion.

I throw the purple covers off myself and get out of bed. There's only one thing in my line of sight: my computer.

I remember the times Alice has sent me emails of fashion magazines or even worse, the newest makeup products. My idea turns around inside my head. It's worth a shot, though I know in my bones that it will fail.

I pull up my Email account.

To: Alice Cullen

From: Bella Swan

My fingers move across the keyboard and I push my feelings of dread away for just a second long enough.

Alice:

Where did you go?

I hit send and hold my breath.

A notification pops up thirty seconds later.

[Message failed to reach recipient]

I slam my laptop shut.

Another stretch of time spills out before me. Only I am barely cognizant of its passing. I can't remember what I've been thinking or dreaming about, what emotions come with those images either.

There's a faint knocking on my door.

"Bells?" Charlie asks. "Your mom has been wanting to talk to you."

I open my bedroom door and give him a fake smile, "Yeah, alright, I'll call her. Thanks."

I'm about to close it again when he puts his hand in the way, forcing me to stop and make eye contact with him. There's that worried look.

"Is there anything you need?"

Charlie is like me, fishing for the truth in a net of ambiguity. He knows his question could pertain to food, a shower, anything. But I know he's hoping for something more solid to offer in order to snap me out of my delirium. He just doesn't know it's already been done.

I shake my head, "I'm good. Not so hungry tonight."

I close the door quickly before he can protest.

[Message Failure]

Alice:

Why couldn't you take me with you?

Eventually, I think, I do call my mom. Renee is happy to hear from me. That makes one of us. Yet, instead of the mumbling I normally hear coming through the line, her words make it through whatever walls inside of me continue to crumble.

"Hey, baby," she says. "How are you feeling?"

"Fine."

I don't hear a sigh from her end, just a moment of contemplative silence.

"Have you been dreaming of anything lately?" she asks.

Yes, dying, over and over again. Sometimes by the hand, mouth, of a red-eyed creature. Sometimes by my own desire to launch myself into oblivion.

"Occasionally," I answer. "I don't remember much when I wake up."

It's surprisingly true. The details escape me, but the feeling of terror and darkness never leaves. Dreams make it all the worse, trapped in my own mind forever and alone.

I can picture her twirling a piece of her hair just like I do, "Charlie tells me he thinks you have nightmares."

"Hm?"

"That you wake up screaming."

My stomach falls and beads of black dots gather in front of my eyes. I don't remember screaming, I really don't. Just the horror of reality and passing out again whenever Charlie wakes me up knocking. Has he been hearing this for a long time? The pain of guilt makes me lose feeling in my extremities.

I wrap my arms around myself, "I didn't know."

"Oh, baby," she coos. "You're certain you won't come to live with me?"

"No, mom."

"Really? Because I've been looking into these art therapy programs, even just for myself and…"

My voice grows harsh, "I really don't think that will help."

Renee does sigh then, "You don't know that, sweetie."

"I don't like painting, mom."

"But it's not about painting per say! It's getting your feelings out, so they're not stuck inside you. It's visualizing goals and a clear path to achieving them. It's supposed to really work!"

I see red. The gooseflesh gathering on my arms starts to burn. Why does she always do this to me? Why can she never leave it alone?

"No."

I hang up.

[Message Failure]

Alice:

If this is about Edward, then just forget it….But if it's about me, then I want to know.

I pace back and forth in my room. I feel like biting my nails down to the quick or tugging out my hair with each hand I run through it. I feel like throwing my cell phone out the window so no one can ever call or text again.

The days become more meaningless to me and because of that, I only grow angrier. How am I supposed to spend my time when I know better exists elsewhere?

Eric sends me a text: Party my house? :-)

There's nothing I can say in response to that.

Days pass and more people try to reach me. It feels like it's everyone except the ones I want. The unfairness of it all only blackens my outlook on life.

At school, I know I look angry. I bounce my leg harshly during lunch, still choosing to sit away from the group. I scowl at everyone who looks at me. It's probably why they choose to message me instead, less fear of my rage. The guilt from that accumulates in the back of my head where I keep it locked away. At least at the moment.

Angela's kindness continues to irk me: Thinking of U (:

My response is curt: Thx.

Then I look at their numbers still saved on my phone. Would it hurt calling again? Just one more time?

I know the answer to that.

[Message Failure]

Alice:

Why couldn't you be honest with me? Or Carlisle, Esme, Jasper, Emmett? Couldn't someone have told me that I don't belong?

I'm going to let the hot water burn me. It does. It should turn my skin pink again, like a snake just shedding it's skin. The allegories of rebirth happening in water never made sense to me. Instead, I'm reminded of when I sat here waiting for the time to pass so Renee wouldn't complain. My body ignites from that thought. She doesn't understand. No one does.

If I hear another "Are you okay, Bella?" I'm going to jump off a building and let myself be deconstructed on the pavement. Seems a fitting end to a human life. What begins with a spark in a black void ends with a whimper. I think there's some famous quote about that. Not that it matters. Nothing does.

I bring my knees to my chest and shake back and forth. A sad human life. Of course I was left, of course. I'm imperfect and even becoming a vampire wouldn't change that.

I look down at my thighs. There's a long, black line underneath my skin. I know what it is. An ingrown hair. I cover my mouth with my hand and almost vomit in the shower. I hate them, I hate them so much.

There's no way no way I'm letting such a thing keep existing inside of me. Disgusting, horrific. No wonder he left me, no wonder. When I am marred by such things as a hair incapable of growing the right direction, who could stand the sight of me?

I stand up, narrowly avoiding bumping into the shower head. It fills me with rage. I shove the curtain to the side and hear the click-click-click of the metal clips hitting each other in a successive motion.

A rampage through the bathroom drawers helps me find what I'm looking for: a pair of long and sharp tweezers. It'll help me remove the mark inside of me. My skin will be all white again, just like theirs.

I slide back inside the shower and stand beneath the warmth for a moment. It feels nice for once. Maybe I shouldn't do this, I think. But I'm going to, I am. It's necessary, it is.

I fall down on my feet in the tub. My right thigh lays flat atop my ankle. Like a cadaver on a metal gurney, unmoving, ready for scalpel incision.

The beginning is the worst part.

My teeth clench together. I'll use more pressure.

I can see the dark hair better, but it's still so far out of my grasp. God, it looks like if I didn't catch it when I did, it would have grown down my whole leg and reached my toes. The thought makes me sick. It's enough motivation to press with all my strength.

The hair is impossible to grasp onto. I try to angle the tweezer so that I catch it in the middle and pull it out like that. Maybe if I push the hair to the side and pull it up, it'll come out.

The pain reaches my eyes. It could be the water hitting me, but I feel them glisten and burn. It's too late to turn back. I'm determined, this has to be done.

The water only gets hotter. Maybe the faucet is broken? I don't know how these things work. I won't move from my position to fix it. I'll stay hunched over myself and keep working.

My stomach keeps clenching. I'm not good with pain. The bite from James felt like liquid fire in my arm. This feels like that pain has been reduced to a needle-sized area in my thigh. Every spot I'm hit with water feels the same. It's remembrance. If only I could pull this fucking hair out of me.

The hair doesn't exist.

I look at my wounded flesh, dumbfounded. Had I missed it? Maybe I pulled it out without realizing it? My mouth grows dry and bitter. I know the truth, pooling at the bottom of my abdomen. There never was a hair.

The wound on my leg is stark white, void of all color. The shower stream reveals what I've done.

I blink.

The water is actually cold.

I blink again. I stand up and don't look down. I turn off the shower. I wobble as I stand up. I swallow the gathering of saliva under my tongue.

I'm still alive, stuck, alone, burning-up.

The mirror in my room shows me another terrible truth. My legs peeking out from beneath the towel are covered in red marks. Some are scabbed over, some are fresher. Many might scar. There has to be at least twenty littered down my thighs.

How many times have I done this? For how long?

Oh God.

I close my eyes shut.

[Message Failure]

Alice:

If you've started to hate me, that's OK. I hate myself already.

But honestly?...I kind of hate you all too…

The cafeteria bustles with an energy I've failed to notice these past couple of months. Excitement maybe, for the second-to-last semester of high school to finish. I breathe in deeply and let the scent of sub-par food reach my nose. There's always an overbaked pizza option, always. I fiddle with the packaged salad in my hands.

Another breath and I walk over to the table I've previously abandoned. They're engrossed in some chatter about soccer related topics. Angela seems attentive, but Jessica is quickly growing bored of the subject. Mike and Eric don't pay any attention to their feelings on the matter.

Looking at them only ties the knot worse in my stomach. They notice me when I get closer and stop talking immediately. I try to keep the look on my face nonchalant as I sit down right next to Mike.

"Hey," I offer.

"Hi, Bella," Angela smiles sweetly. She makes any surprise she has with genuine compassion. My stomach acid boils.

"Woah!" Mike grins, "So you're back!"

He's like a little kid at this moment, eager to receive praise from a mother that has repeatedly abandoned him. I don't get his interest in me when he could have Angela. Perhaps its because she and Eric take too long masking their shock around my joining their table with a more acceptable emotion.

I nod and brush my fingers through my hair. I can't quite make eye contact with any of them yet. Jessica offers me a tight smile while looking between the others on how to continue responding.

"Awesomesauce," Eric laughs, finally. "We were just discussing…"

Yeah, I don't pay attention. But I can't really say what my mind wandered off to anyway. The millions of little thoughts and pinpricks of emotion render me mute. I'm completely scatterbrained, unable to focus on anything other than seeing their faces in front of me.

The collective buzzing of students' voices in the room reaches every neuron in my head, splitting open thousands of memories before me. I see so many flashes of him, them, sitting in the corner of the cafeteria, never eating. I see them in their house, the perfect statues of Greece basking in their glory while doing something so simple as flipping through a magazine. And I see him, feel it even, his lips on my forward when I say something stupid that only a human could.

It's too late and the packet of salad dressing I'd been trying to open explodes out all over my dark striped shirt. There's going to be a thousand islands of stains to get rid of. And I thought I liked this shirt too.

The group stares at me a second and then breaks out into laughter at my expense.

I slam my first down on the table without thinking, "Fuck!"

"Dang, Bella," Jessica chides. "You should, like, take a chill pill or something."

Her laughter boils my blood. Her arrogance, her condensation. Everything strikes a fire inside of me.

"And do you know where I can get one of those?" I snap.

My voice cuts with the malice I used on Renee and Charlie, undeservedly again. The group falls silent. Shit.

I sit up a bit straighter and find my fingers combing through my hair again, "Uh, sorry. I just have a lot of anxiety, you know."

Mike nods at me slowly, "Um, yeah, definitely."

"Of course, we understand," Angela says. No, you don't.

After a minute of awkward glances in my direction, the conversation returns to its normal pace. I quickly excuse myself to the bathroom after I find the napkins in front of me aren't enough to get the dressing off my shirt.

I want to scrub it until my fingers go raw between the friction of damp, frayed cotton. I'd scrub until the stain spreads throughout my whole shirt, down my pants, into my shoes, until all of my very skin is red and sore, bleeding and broken.

But I stop and look back up at myself in the bathroom mirror. The light flickers from the occasionally short-circuiting of badly installed electrical wiring. The darkness underneath my eyes is not as strong as it might have been weeks ago. Yet there's an aura of something undeniably lost on my face. I feel as if I might vibrate with rage at that.

There's a hollowness in my cheeks and an even greater lack of pigment in my skin tone all around. There's something I'm not remembering quite right, something that could destroy me. It's the very worst of my fears. I've somehow forgotten a certainty embedded into my soul that now lingers far below surface access. This is going to destroy me.

"What have you done to me?" I whisper. To no one. To everyone.

[Message Failure]

Alice:

I can't keep hurting myself over this. Contacting you when you'll never respond is a mistake. Goodbye.

I'm leaving the library when Eric smiles at me and pulls me aside. His eyes take on a wild, conspiratorial look that matches his hushed tone.

"Bella, I've got an idea for your anxiety problem," he says.

My eyebrows raise at him. This better not be a religious thing. I think I'm out of reasonable excuses to get out of going to Angela's father's services.

Eric's voice grows even lower and I fight the urge to move away from him as he gets closer to me, "Have you ever smoked pot?"

"What?" I exclaim, "No!"

I am the police chief's daughter after all, even if Renee may have not really cared. But it was never an issue I felt like exploring with her.

Eric tugs on my arm to pull us away from a gaggle of teachers. "Shhh!" he whispers.

I take a breath through my nose and decide to let him continue.

"It helps with anxiety a lot. Even with nightmares. You just get this intense calm feeling all over your body. It's really like nothing can bother you! I use it sometimes before tests…" he continues on about the benefits of marijuana. Supposedly can help with a lot of diseases too.

I'm almost about to tell him off when the vision of me standing before my mirror last night seers itself into my brain. I need calm and I need peace in my body, even if I don't deserve it. So, why not try anything to get that?

"Okay," I cut him off. "How do I get it?"

Eric smiles, wide-eyed and experienced all at once.

The trip to the Rez is both calming and entirely nerve-wracking. If I'm there for not more than an hour, then Charlie won't wonder where I'm gone. It's pretty important to not look suspicious in front of him. Yet, the voice in the back of my head, the one that said vampires won't hurt me, tells me this is more important than being a good daughter.

My truck steals a few curious looks from the inhabitants of the land. They know to recognize each other and be wary of tourists, I suppose. By the time I'm at the gas station, however, the looks stop and the onlookers present only sport a dejected look on their faces.

I pull up to a pump and casually close my car door. The big SUNCO sign is only half illuminated. The stench of gasoline tickles my nose.

Instead of doing what I should, going inside the service station to put a twenty on pump 5, I walk to the side of the building and approach the teenagers laughing and kicking empty bottles.

Like everyone else here, their brown skin glows and their long, dark, straight hair looks like perfectly spun black silk. Even with their young and lanky figures, their carefree attitude only 'others' me more.

I clear my throat badly, "Are you guys, uh, selling pot?"

They stop talking and look between themselves.

"Who sent you?" the tallest one asks, he brushes his hair back against his shoulder and looks down at me.

I gulp, "Eric Yorkie."

A smaller one laughs, "Wow, you just gave away that dude's full name."

They all laugh.

I feel my own cheeks burn, "Sorry."

The tall one waves his hand, "It doesn't matter. Do you got a name?"

"Bella." The thought of giving a fake name only comes after the truth leaves my lips.

"Alright, Bella. Yeah, we sell weed. Did you want some?"

I fumble through my jean pocket to pull out the money I have lying around, "Uh, here."

They keep laughing at me.

The third one looks at me with amazement, "Have you ever done this before? Goddamn! She looks like a deer in the headlights."

I shake my head.

Maybe out of some kindness to my naivete, the tall one steps closer to me. "You're going to need a grinder and roll-ups. A lighter too. You got those?"

"Oh," I say and push my left foot into the ground. "I thought it came pre-packaged?"

Their laughter is the wildest I've heard in the five minutes I've been here.

The boy in front of me composes himself and offers me a charismatic smile, "You're lucky we've got a first customer special going on. Here, I'll let you try the product for free since you're so new."

He fiddles with something I guess is the grinder. I watch him move the top of the silver container to the left, hearing the friction inside with whatever gears must be crushing the plant.

A chill passes over me. There's something behind me. I turn to look before I think about it.

The figure of Edward Cullen stands tall and scowls. The blue button-up he wears is my favorite. It peels back to a part of his skin shimmering in the light. It's perfection. I want to turn away and approach him immediately.

But the sun isn't shining. How can he be glistening?

He isn't real.

The breath gets sucked out of my lungs. I turn away from the kids now engrossed in their own conversation and whisper, "What are you doing here?"

Edward's silk voice cuts through the air, even if it still sounds partly underwater. It makes my knees buckle. "You promised to be safe."

I steel myself, "I don't actually remember that."

The weight of him in front of me ignites my nerves. How can he do this? How can my own mind let him back in so easily? The unfairness of it all spins me around.

The small kid takes the object from the tall one and holds it up to his mouth, "It's called a blunt, if you were wondering."

They snicker more and flick the lighter on to burn the end of the blunt. The inhale and happy exhale of light smoke almost mesmerizes me.

"That is not safe," Edward warns.

Don't I already know that?

I'm handed the blunt and I weigh it in my hand for a second. The paper is waxy and smooth even if it's dark brown and looks like it should be rough. If I press hard enough, I can feel the individual grains of marijuana inside it.

A flicker of dark skin and a familiar tattoo hits me in the corner of my vision. I don't pay it much mind.

"Don't do this," the hallucination pleads with me. "Bella."

I look straight into the ghostly eyes of Edward Cullen and bring the blunt to my lips. It's foreign and honestly gross. The smell of burning paper nauseates me. The effect better be worth it.

His sad gold eyes peer into me. Even his hairs still tossles with the wind. I never imagined a hallucination could be so corporeal.

"Please, Bella."

Go to hell.

I inhale.

A/N: TLDR; Bella is an angry and unreliable narrator ATM.

Ugh, I've found writing her chapters is just so much harder than writing Sam. Perhaps because she's so utterly miserable and I find myself dealing with issues/trauma more like Sam: focusing on everything else, but my feelings rather than doing what Bella does which is shutting out everything but her own misery. I think they make great foils to each other this way.

Also, after like 20,000 words, I think it is finally! time! to pit Sam and Bella in some scenes against each other. Definitely over Bella's burgeoning habits, don't ya think?

Thanks for reading and bearing with my interpretation of difficult topics!