Kurochach: I am not going to spoil anything, even for the review you gave this story. Sorry.
Jemstone6259: I can actually and quite easily imagine this sort of drama, without the vampires, of course, happening in real-life high schools.
sousie: I will not confirm and deny anything. Stick around for the future chapters, as well.
xSiriuslyPadfoot: Thanks, I am glad I am making Beatrix appear sensible when it comes to strangers. Like, can you imagine meeting the most beautiful/hottest person you have ever seen in your life – you just met them, mind you – and then you just jump into their car? No thanks. I agree with how many of the fanfictions depict OCs that seem to always be drawn to vampires. I get that their appearance is meant to lure in prey and it apparently works, but… just no.
keikei313: Sorry for the long wait. Here is the new chapter that you and others have been waiting for.
It's so cold outside
I'm alone, I'm alright
It's so cold outside
I'm alone, I'm alright
-By Neffex (Cold)
Chapter 5:
Cold room
To say that I am a bit rattled by what happened yesterday would be an understatement.
I am positively ducking down at every possible second, whenever a flash of blonde or pale skin appears in the corner of my vision. Funnily, this is the exact same kind of panic-like emotion mixed with utter shame that I went through before in my school year. Bolts of cold and hot spread throughout my body, muscles rigid and shoulders constantly rising up to the level of my ears.
I could have prevented this, it is what I have been thinking throughout the day. There is pretty much no one else to be blamed for this transgression, but myself. I am supposed to be a mature soon-to-be-grown-up, yet, I have just gone and ruined whatever form of peace I could have in high school. Stupid, stupid, stupid, stupid, is the mantra that has been playing inside my skull for the past few hours, further highlighting just how bothered I am.
At least no one saw.
An urge to bang my head against a wall appears and washes away. I do, however, rub my face in tiredness.
The images from yesterday's encounter with Jasper just won't submit and leave. They have haunted me since I woke up and only intensified throughout the day. The very reason I haven't even eaten yet – the hunger is killing me – is because I didn't want to risk running into the source of my blood pressure in the cafeteria. Childish, stupid, I know. And incredibly unnecessary. Once again, I do not know what was going through my head at the time. All I remember from the hour of food is that I started sweating the second I looked towards the Cullen table.
I regret not taking an umbrella, not continuing walking and ignoring the call of my name and then throwing the movie right at Jasper's face. It was impulsive, purely done out of… I am not sure if I had any reason other than tiredness and nervousness to do so. The regrets have only become worse when I woke up this morning and could think somewhat more clearly.
The thought that this incident was not as horrible as the one involving red paint hasn't helped.
My eyes sting from dryness and I blink, eyelids heavy, almost refusing to rise up again. I am doodling, absentmindedly, half of the classroom's noises passing through my ears. I wish to stuff my head, though. The voices are unusually loud today, and the deepest part of my head winces every time the chalk scratches the board.
Again, I sweat but shiver soon after. The hand I use for drawing stills and tiredly lowers the pen. There is a messy picture of what was supposed to be a cloud – no, I probably wanted to make a flower at first – and is instead a dark mass of tangled lines. I sigh and rub my face again.
Just what am I doing?
"Miss Stone, what are you doing?"
The sharp question is unexpected, and my chin tilts up sharply. Mrs. Brantley is standing in front of my desk, arms crossed across her chest. I know that look, I hate that look and tense in preparation for what is coming.
"Where were your ears, when I gave the instructions?"
Her voice is, once again, unnecessarily loud. It scratches my ears and gains the attention of the rest of the class. My face burns and I bite on my tongue, looking at her in nervousness. "Um…"
"'Um' isn't an answer," she chides and points to the board. "Read the first three sentences."
Snickers, that is what I am starting to hear, and heat continues spreading on my features. "Choose four poems of interest from the literature work. Write them down. Return the lists to the front desk."
"Good. You can still read. And what is it that you have written down?"
"… nothing," is what manages to come out. The answer is pathetic and apparently humorous from the increase in giggles and whisperings. It has become certain. This teacher has something against me. Almost no one else has gotten as much of her ire on them as me.
However, today's dose of humiliation seems to come to an end, because she frowns and suddenly leans a bit closer. Mrs. Brantley is known to have a bit lower than average vision, but today there are no glasses on the bridge of her nose. So, her face comes almost uncomfortably close to my face and I unconsciously lean back against my chair. Oh my god. Is something wrong with my face again?
"Are you feeling alright?"
I do not take that question as something directed at my health, at first. The more I look at her frown, though, and squinting gaze, the more I have an urge to have a mirror in my hands. Almost an entire day, I have not been feeling that great, that is true, but… there is no way I can look just as bad as I am feeling, right?
"I suggest that you go visit the infirmary," the adult in the class says with finality and turns her attention to the clock just as the bell rings sharply. The rest of the students don't wait for her to dismiss them and start gathering up their stuff. Seeing this only makes Mrs. Brantley wave her hand dismissingly. "Remember that next time I want all of you to have your essays with you!"
The paper filled with my insignificant drawings is still sitting in front of me and I have an urge to ask if I should still finish the task. The small flowers in the corner don't seem too bad, too. However, I decide against it, knowing that this is my final class and prefer the idea of heading home. The latter is the priority and I scramble up, glancing up warily at the bulky woman who keeps an eye on the door. Good – she is distracted.
But just as I am at the door, Mrs. Brantley calls out lightly: "And I expect those with lower markings to do their absolute best this time around."
Of course, it is plainly obvious who she is directing those words to and I cringe inwardly, hands clenching my schoolbag. The ends of my fingers tingle and I frown, adjusting my hoodie and pushing sleeves further down till they reach the fingernails. It wasn't exactly warm inside the classroom, but this hallway's air only drops several degrees compared to that. Not only that, but I also have a sudden urge to crawl into the bathroom and maybe empty the meager scraps of bread from my stomach. Whether this terrible nausea is due to the fact I didn't eat lunch or the nervousness from public humiliation from the class, I sure hope yesterday's trip in the rain isn't the main reason. It would only make me feel even more stupid for acting the way I had. The physical discomfort putting strain onto my body is nearly enough to make me regret not taking Jasper's offer for a ride.
I shake my head, recalling the way my limbs were frozen popsicles. Even after a hot bath and cuddling with a blanket, the chill had settled into my bones. If all of that is considered, then maybe I truly appear sick… not appear. I am sick. The thought causes a crease to appear on my forehead. The last time something like this has happened was years ago, so I silently also doubt the possibility.
Oh, cut the crap. The people are gathering up in one single hallway and like always it is hard to get through in the rush. You're sick and you know it. The voice inside my head is chiding, much like how Mrs. Brantley's. It echoes a few times in my head, which is muffled and where every bit of the blood is gathering into. The more I focus on that fact, the more bothered I become. Even if I am sick – which is quite certain now that even a teacher has commented – I would still have to make my own way back to my house. And once more, the weather isn't on my side.
The temperature had dropped more than enough last night. The water that had gathered up due to rain has frozen solid, making the ground slippery. The sun isn't here to melt it, so the air is just the same – icy, chilly. A perfect nightmare for someone who just yesterday was in danger of dying from hypothermia.
It is like those cold waterdrops are soaking me for the second time when I step out. Shivers shake my body and my feet freeze for a small second. The inside of the school smells like rubber and overly used perfume, but I would much rather be there right now, rather than out here. For once, the saying 'there is no place like home' comes to my mind together with a mental image of huddling in the corner of the couch.
And then suddenly, for some reason, I pause with walking, when a familiar dark hair catches my eye from the parking lot. It is the new girl.
Talk with her.
My gut clenches and I immediately push away that ridiculous thought. There is no way that I could ever do that – making acquaintances hasn't been my strongest feature. I do not understand it myself, but maybe because she acted so awkwardly that I found similarities between us from last time. That is the reason why a small part of me wants to go there and open my mouth.
What would I talk with her in the first place?
Coward.
Silently sighing under my breath, my head turns involuntarily back forward, and I continue moving, through the haze in my mind. The coat I am wearing is thick and makes my movements feel stiffer than normal. The thought of seeing that familiar house behind the trees is the only thing keeping me looking forward to what lies ahead of this tedious walk.
"Stone."
There is a sudden jolt going through every small vertebra in the spine. The shudder that follows next rattles them. There is no mistaking that voice the second time around. I am suddenly wishing that whatever I am coming down with could grand temporary deafness as well.
I curse that the rain from yesterday hadn't frozen over from the night chill like the ice covering most of the concrete ground. Still, I turn around, finding that keeping somewhat a blank face surprisingly easy. And the moment my eyes meet with the ones belonging to a boy with soft blond waves on his head a strange sense of calm washes over my tense body.
Contrary to what I expect, Jasper is the one who appears to be the most uncomfortable out of the two of us. There is obvious stiffness on his shoulders. Unlike me, though, he has the guts to keep eye contact. A lump forms in my throat from even a second-long glance.
This atmosphere reminds me of too much of our last interaction and the peculiar comfortableness wavers.
The awkward silence could be an opportunity for me to make a run for it.
"Alice wanted me to give this to you," he suddenly speaks up again, takes a dangerous step closer and holds out a book.
Everything slows down and comes to a halt. My mind works slowly and spins. I am looking like an idiot between the object and at the pale face before me, like not even aware of what is happening. Alice? The book has a simple red cover and is not thick, but rather thin. The sight of it brings out the exasperated side of me – I am tired and feel like laying down and he stopped me for this?
Without thinking or having the strength to process a thing, I reach out and take the book off his hands. "Thanks – tell her thanks, I mean."
Jasper gives a slight nod. "She is still not feeling well and can't come to school for a while."
… Okay. Why is he telling me this? While confused, I also feel a bit lightness blooming in my chest in a literal sense. At least now I know the reason for the pixie-like girl's absence. The emotion is short-lived, though, when a wave of nausea hits me from the gut. Outwardly, I cringe, inhaling deeply the chilly air, hoping it to clear my body out of the virus I might have caught.
Without really thinking, I look down at the ground and see a small, frozen-over puddle between us. On the surface, the ends of two dark forms barely touch. They appear muddled, blurry, barely anything close to human that it brings another nauseating wave throughout my body. Whatever form of calm is left fades and trickles down as cold sweat. Every small muscle in my gut clenches further when something almost rises from the base of my throat.
This is the worst place to throw up.
Not realizing just how long I have kept my eyes low, a pair of dark shoes step forward.
The ends of my eyebrows knit together – no, calm down. For the second time, I inhale deeply and struggle to shrug the sensation of sickness off. The next hardest part comes from trying to lift my eyes back up and not jump out of my skin in shock.
Jasper is a lot closer than one could have guessed from the location of his shoes.
"You don't look too well."
"Y-yeah. I might have… caught something from a classmate," I lie through my teeth, not wanting to recall how I shivered in the shower for more than half an hour.
If the conditions were better and I wasn't feeling like barfing, I would let out a snort. You are one to talk. I have not paid too much attention to his features, but with this proximity, small details are far more obvious than when avoiding looking straight at him. The most startling discovery being how the trademark dark circles under his eyes are not visible.
And then there are those golden eyes, the kind that one could mistake for hazel at first sight. Those are pretty much the only bright spots besides his hair which can be distinguished from the plain and white background of school outer walls. The color of his clothes is like that, so Jasper practically blends in with the scenery. Still… those eyes.
They are unwavering, despite showing no signs of hostility. It is strange. For months, the image of stormy dark orbs has been edged into my memory, but those are the last signs of rage I have ever seen on Jasper's face. Now, only blankness or discomfort is obvious. Strangely, though, that fact does not make the burning stare less intense. It is almost like the golden-haired boy doesn't blink – or he doesn't know how – and keeps his line of direction unnaturally straight.
Being somewhat of a social outcast does not mean in any way that normal human functions during an exchange of words escapes from me. Jasper definitely doesn't either blink or make small and noticeable eye movements. This is disturbing. The situation is almost similar to a scenario where there is a person at public transport, sitting on an opposite seat and giving you the most obvious stare in the world.
They were definitely black back then, a voice whispers in suspicion. Whether it is because of that strange fact or that the boy who I had just yesterday thrown a movie at is standing a few feet away, my hands turn clammy inside the long sleeves of my jacket.
Still, I am yet to feel fully uncomfortable from this silent staring contest… what really bothers me is how my gut is telling me to kneel over and throw up whatever it is inside my stomach. The blood is rushing to my head, as well, for some strange reason.
Breathe in.
Breathe out.
In. And out.
"Well," I choke on whatever burns the back of my throat, "I've got to go now."
I am not totally absentminded. I definitely must be mistaken with how the world seems to sway all of sudden. I pray to be mistaken. The strange book in my hands is at least still there, so this can't be that serious… Right?
"Stone, I can give you a ride."
"W-what? A ride? You?" The heavy lids on my face blink. For a second, his words go through my head and the buzzing in it intensifies. I am not even sure when it started. In the end, I shake my head. "No thanks... I can… make it on my own."
Déjà-vu – this is the second time he has asked that question from me and the second time that I have rejected. It is rather shocking. One would think that he wouldn't even want to think of it after getting shot down so rudely. Slight guilt does stock up into the already towering pile, but at the same time, this makes me feel a bit confident. Look at me rejecting a ride in a fancy car two times in a row. Does anyone else have the guts? I don't think so.
As soon as a smug smirk twitches my lips up, they fall down, crashing from another dizzy spell. There is the solid ground underneath my feet, but it turns into ice, the kind where you can easily slip and crack your head wide open. This is the point in life where anyone should realize not to stay stubborn until it is too late. Sweat must be prominently dripping down my forehead by now.
Before I can form a solid answer, a distant sound of screaming snaps our heads towards the lower parking lot – no, not screaming, more like screeching. The kind you could hear in movies. A car speeding ahead, unable to stop and then –
Isabella.
Like from a burst of an explosion, the breath is knocked out of my lungs at the sight of a large vehicle making its way towards a ridiculously plain truck. Then there is the girl who is about to be squeezed between the two. I do not own a car, nor really understand the speed limits, but I can tell unconsciously in a second that the sliding vehicle won't be slowing down or be able to stop. Rather, the entire thing seems to slow down and inch closer towards the frozen brunette. Just like in movies.
Blood rushes into my head – everything becomes blurred. Cold sweat fills the entire length of my back. People are screaming and the name 'Bella' yelled out more than once by different individuals. These sounds mix together with the blowing chilly wind in my ears. It's like listening to a messed-up radio in a closed-off car. The scene is almost like…
A car. Rainy evening. Lights. The police.
The nausea increases. Now, something is definitely rising up my throat.
"Isa…" I trail off, wanting to scream. However, the brunette's name comes half-way through my chapped mouth as a whisper.
The entire world is shaking, as whatever food I have had in my gut finally comes out. My barely aware brain mainly registers how badly the acid stings the back of my throat. The thought of embarrassment or shame does not even cross my mind. Everything merely hurts. From the tip of my toes to the top of my spinning head, the muscles and bones ache.
The pain spreads to my knees when they hit the solid ground with full force. Somehow, not standing anymore makes me feel a tad bit better.
I have never – and that means never in the period that I have been breathing on this earth – once in my life fainted.
Car rides, bus rides – I have always liked them for some reason. There is just something about the humming of the engine that always manages to lull me into sleep or calms me down. Someone said that it is because there is nothing much to do in a car and that may as well be true for me. I do not have to do much else but look out of the window and feel a bit sleepy.
I was once curious and looked it up. Turns out, the explanation was just a simple one. The gentle movement of a car is like a parent rocking their child to sleep. If someone was tired, they would fall asleep in it easier. The most obvious reason in the world. But even if I didn't fall asleep or wasn't tired, I would still feel comfortable inside a vehicle.
So… why, even in this kind of situation –
"The rate of the heartbeat is rising."
"We may have tachycardia in our hands."
"The temperature is one hundred and eight point two."
"Pupils dilated."
"… a seizure."
I am completely calm, or at least I think I am. There is not much going through my head, even when the blaring of what sounds like sirens blasts in my ears. Even before that there is a strange dull noise of drumming and it jolts all the way from my chest.
Everything smells like rubber. Only a few kinds of places can smell like this – rubber factories and medical clinics and hospitals. The latter options seem more likely, but the former could be an option as well. Who could know? I can barely see what is going on anymore. Bright lights merely keep on stabbing me in the eyes. If I could, I would cover them, but my hands don't seem to be working.
Finally, it becomes worse. Chilly wind blows against my face – it feels strangely heated – and thousand small ants keep on crawling underneath and on my skin, their small feet made of needles which stab my flesh over and over again. The light is now so bright I might as well be next to a sun, glaring each other like hated enemies. I want to hide. Suddenly, I can comprehend just how afraid I am of what is happening. The worst part is that I can't make it stop.
"A seventeen-year-old threw up, collapsed on school grounds and is having seizures together with a fever over one hundred and eight. The heart rate has kept on rising."
"Bring her here."
"The seizures have lasted more than…"
If I was half-aware of what was truly going on, I would be crying. My body is both numb and aches at the same time – how is that possible? It is like the flesh has lost its sense and bones are starting to bend and break, if that could be the right kind of explanation. I am sure that I would be screaming my lungs out if that were that the case.
Am I breathing?
My arm is raised. It prickles and my facial muscles twitch. The world is burning and shaking.
Someone…
"Prepare the IV."
Just make this stop.
In Forks, it is normal to have cold temperatures at this time of year. Although, that does not apply to the feeling like you are being swallowed by a blanket of snow and ice prickling your skin. At the same time, you feel hot, like your blood is being boiled from the inside, if that is even possible. That is how I could describe how I am currently feeling.
The ends of both upper and lower eyelids feel like they have been glued together. It is a struggle to get them to open. When they finally do, what greets me is a peculiar sight of an unfamiliar ceiling staring right back at me. It is snow white – I must be in the mountains or something. That is the only sensible explanation. I wouldn't be feeling like laying on snow otherwise.
I should hurry back home.
I try lifting my upper body, but it won't budge. The feeling where one's body turns into heavy stone is the closest thing to describe this sensation. The next thing I notice is that something is on my face and a continuous pressure pushes the air against my nose – it is plainly uncomfortable. So many unfamiliar senses and I still can't move properly.
"Trix?"
"Is she awake?"
"Y-yes, I think so."
… Who is that? Is the first question that pops into my head, as soon as an unfamiliar face fills my vision. Trying to make out features is hard, my head just starts hurting. But eventually, I recognize the sight of dark hair, which is usually neatly combed laying on the shoulder as one bundle.
It is Alex's mother, looking down at me with… I can't make out the expression. Why is she here? I want to point out how strange it is to see her at my house, but again, my voice doesn't come out. Wait… am I at home? Or was this place… My eyes close. Why is it so hot in here? Or maybe it is still cold… There is no way that it can be cold and hot at the same time.
"Ma'am – ma'am, I need you to step aside."
"Yes, of course."
"Miss Stone, can you hear me?"
Even if I could, I do not react. The scent of the hospital invades my nostrils even more and the smell of Alex's mother's perfume fades. I miss the latter but can't form words on my tongue. It is slack, merely staying as an unmovable worm in my mouth. Not to mention the sensation of cold snow bundles surrounding me snakes itself into my bones. Since when does it snow indoors? I want to get out, to see the familiar forest and smell the pine and spruce. I have homework to do, as well. Although, that isn't my first priority.
Someone touches my face. Their face is misshapen and blurry. I twitch, thinking that it might be the old man from the library who always sits in the corner. What is he doing here? Tiredly, I close my eyes, letting the hand linger on my forehead and then drawback. The feeling of the touch lingers, though. Am I being given a facial? I couldn't afford that with my meager allowance.
Weakly, I move my lips that stretch painfully, sting and crack. "…off."
"Miss Stone, what did you say?"
I do not like how I sound. My voice is faint, coarse and it takes a bit of energy to get it out. It is a strange sound. "G-get… it off…"
"Unfortunately, I can't do that," the voice continues and adjusts the same bothersome thing on my face that I want to be rid of. "The doctor has advised keeping CPAP on you."
"Trix, sweetheart," Alex's mother's voice is like clear water, "you have to keep it on, please understand. You had trouble breathing on your own."
I barely understand what she is saying. "Off."
"I am going to get the doctor. Her temperature hasn't gone down."
The noise of sharp heels stabbing the ground echo. Whoever that person was, they are gone now. I am strangely relieved from that.
The gears in my head turn around and around slowly when a familiar hand grasps my own. The touch feels firm, soft, but warm against my skin. It is a contrast to the freezing temperature surrounding me and I have a desire to draw myself closer.
"C-cold," I choke out, loathing the way my voice grades in my ears.
The hand squeezes mine. "I know, but it is for your own good. You have such a high fever… I was worried."
My head turns, the icy sensation of snow spreading to my cheek. "I want… to go… home."
"You can go soon," she continues saying with a soothing voice.
Again, I feel her touch shift and move to my face. She shifts the bangs on my forehead, and I can distinguish the sticky feeling of sweat binding them down against my skin. I am wondering if I had a bath at some point. That shouldn't be right either. This is not my room, nor do I recognize that awfully white ceiling. A few moments ago, I had been staring at the grey sky filled with clouds.
The older woman continues speaking through the steadily growing buzzing in my ears. "Alex will want to come and visit you later, once he is feeling better that is."
"… we promised to go… to Carver Café."
"You can, when the two of you are feeling better. I tried contacting your father, but he isn't answering the phone. I did leave a message, though."
My eyes open and close, like I can't decide between staying awake or falling asleep. I am not so sure I want to choose the former. Something in what the black-haired woman said sends an unpleasant wave down my digestion system. I do not think much about it, though. The coldness just keeps on eating me. And even her warm hand can do nothing to chase it away.
The ends of my eyelids glue themselves together again. I do not try opening them. I just want to go home.
"Please, just let me see her."
"Are you listening to yourself? Why must the two of you make things more complicated for us?"
"I just need to see her, once, a few moments. I need to make sure – "
"She looked half-dead the last time you saw her – it is not like seeing her is going to make it better."
"Calm down, both of you. She is in critical condition and needs her rest."
"No need to tell us that with that ragged sound coming from over there."
"How can you be so cruel?"
"Don't fight – this is a hospital.
"Gosh, it stinks in here. Let's go already."
"Can you at least tell me, when she is feeling better?"
"… I will."
"Her body temperature has lowered, but there are still difficulties in breathing."
"No signs of inner damage, fractures or masses in her respiratory system."
"She has no history of asthma or health problems."
"We are trying to contact her parents."
"The scans appear normal."
"Hey, Trix, if you can hear me, know that I stole that last Oreo cookie from your batch a month ago."
"Alex, I know you are worried about her, but you need your rest, as well. Visiting hours are going to be over soon and the nurse will – "
"So, if you want your revenge for that, you should get better soon."
"…"
"I will come back in the morning."
So noisy.
I can hear it – the sound of my heartbeat.
It has been going on like this for a while now, even if I am not aware of what time it is. The room is nearly pitch black and covered in darkness, so it might be nighttime. I do not see any other reason for that, or maybe I am constantly keeping my eyes closed. Other than the beating organ and the humming of the machine – I am conscious enough to hear and recognize it – there are no noises made by other humans. The entire place seems like there is only me laying there. Completely immobilized.
The blood pumping muscle feels like it is close to jumping out of my chest. It has constantly been hitting against the front of my ribcage, like trying to get out and through a closed door.
They haven't taken off the strange thing on my face either. I think this is the time I am supposed to be asleep, but it has proven to be quite the challenge. At least, I do not feel like I am laying on a pile of ice and snow anymore. This is a sauna. I have no idea how I ended up in a spa, but I would already like to get out… until I forget what I was thinking a second ago.
Hungry… My eyelids flutter open, taking in the sight of a blank wall and turning to the side. There is a window there, curtains barely concealing the light of the night sky. From between the cracks, I can see the round moon and stars – the clouds of dispersed. I am thirsty.
The temperature in the room feels like it is only rising higher and higher. My throat is just as chapped as my lips like a desert has replaced the mouth. Again, I am frustrated how I can't sit up, or even lift my head off the pillow. No muscle in my body rises or falls by will. The only thing I have as proof that I have not been completely paralyzed is the heartbeat. I am still pretty much alive.
So, what is wrong with me? This is the weakest I have ever felt…
No.
My eyes close, they sting, and a ragged breath scratches my lungs. The thing on my face only makes inhaling feel more unpleasant.
Slowly, gradually, eventually, I begin to realize something: this has happened before.
Once, years ago, I recall being in this same position. Just laying, and unable to do anything.
I am scared.
My eyes flutter open and close. The night has become darker. The fear of it devouring me with this fever makes me remember what a hopeless crybaby I still am. There has been little to nonexistent change from my child-self to this moment.
Back then, at least I was at home and not on some strange and cold bed. I can't sleep comfortably anywhere that isn't my house and my bed. This breathing device – or whatever the nurse called it – is only increasing the torture I have to endure. Every single time the machine puts pressured air through my nose and into my lungs, the entire length of my throat constricts and fights against it.
It is like my own body is preventing me from getting better, trying to kill me.
The door opens. The frequent sound of sliding has become more than familiar in my half-awake state… Or maybe I have been just dreaming about that? No, even now someone touches me, lifting my arm up and my eyelids start to struggle in opening up.
A second after I think of trying to see how my mouth works, a sharp pain stabs my arm in the middle what feels like the main artery.
Son of a bitch is what I would curse if I was able to.
Instead, I flinch slightly, unable to do anything as whatever is being injected into me gathers up underneath my skin. It is disturbing and feels like it lasts for minutes. My clogged throat has now an immovable seal on it, my chest constricts and cold sweat mixes with the sweat that has already gathered up all over my body.
When the needle draws back, a fresh tear slips past my closed eyelids and trails down to my cheek. It feels warm, but the trail it leaves soon turns freezing.
Someone brushes the salty droplet off. The sensation of cold never leaves, though, and harsh cough ripples out of my squeezing lungs. My fingers twitch, desperate to take off the respirator system from my face.
"It is alright," the person still holding my hand places it down slowly, like the sound of the noises coming out of a patient isn't alarming in any level.
My ears are pretty much ringing when the pressure pushing air into my lungs stops and the object of my torment is taken off. I inhale freely, though, still with a bit difficulty.
"Breathe."
Easier said than done. Tears do not stop coming out of my eyes, I feel terrible.
You know the feeling when someone is staring at you like a three-headed monster that appeared from thin air or a mysterious timebomb that could explode at any minute? Well, that is precisely how I feel I am being treated.
"Do you still have difficulties in breathing?"
"No," I answer and let the nurse raise the bed so that I am slightly sitting upwards. My eyes are, however, more curiously drawn to the thin tube attached to my arm. I find it disturbing – I have never been hospitalized like this before.
"Nausea? Headache?" The doctor keeps on listing the symptoms and I merely shake my head at every turn. Finally, he takes out a stethoscope and asks me to sit sideways so he can listen to my lungs.
This is ridiculous, I think and let the nurse, again, open the back of my hospital gown slightly to let the cold, round scope touch my bare skin. My muscles stiffen, but otherwise, I do not react. When there is an instruction to take a deep breath, I do as I am told. This process is repeated and the cold object travels across my back, leaving a trace of the hairs standing up and goosebumps spreading all over my body.
This room is surprisingly chilly.
"Hm," the doctor lets out and draws back. "Your lungs sound fine."
I almost want to frown, because that is the most obvious thing in the world to me. If I had any say in medical opinions, I would point the respirator system that was attached to my face as the main reason for such things. Honestly, I feel like I can breathe more properly without it.
"And you have said you have not had any health complications before this?"
"Yes. I think I got a high fever because I was out in the rain the other day and nearly froze to death," I answer and see the nurse give me a look of pity from the corner of my eye.
The doctor nods, a bit of clarification coming to his face. "Hmm, I see. That might explain something. However, there have been no signs of damage to your lungs, which we find rather odd – "
You want me to go through with more tests.
"We would like to go through with more tests."
"Can't I just go home?" I ask bluntly, hoping that desperation shows on my face.
He shakes his head. "I am afraid we would need parental permission and signature for that since you are still minor."
My spine stiffens – parental permission. That is just perfect, this is exactly what I need, I think sarcastically. The last person on earth that I would like to see right now is the one who can actually set me free from this place. I shudder at the thought of just ripping this random tube out of my arm and marching out of the front door.
"Unfortunately, we haven't managed to contact your guardians – oh, you live with your father, correct?" He rearranges his words, once he glances down at my file.
Silently, I purse my dry lips and ignore the stinging it causes. "Yes."
"Then, perhaps you would like to contact him. Until we get his approval, we need to keep you under surveillance just in case."
An urge to just rip off my hair comes over. Now that I am in more control of my limbs, my arms naturally just flinch from the sheer thought. There is nothing wrong with me damnit! I do not feel ill anymore, I don't like this place and I just want to go home.
In a second, my eyes shoot down at the school bag that was brought with me. I reach out for my phone. That old man should better be in Washingon or else I will be stuck here forever.
To Dad:
I am at the hospital. They won't let me out without your consent and signature. Come back quickly.
From Beatrix.
"Funny. It is usually you who comes and visits me in here."
"You are practically coming to visit me in your own house, doesn't really seem like such a weird thing to me."
"Point taken."
"The food here is much better than I heard."
"I will be sure to pass the word to cafeteria ladies, but you should taste the food on Monday."
"What's on Monday?"
"There will be carrots on your plate."
My face makes a grimace. "Ugh. Say no more."
Alex relaxes against the chair that has been dragged next to the bed. "You sure you are feeling alright?"
"Stop sounding like your mom," I order with a wrinkle between my brows. "It is bad enough that she and the nurses are looking at me like I am going to fall into pieces at any minute… I do not look that bad, right?"
Alex's face turns towards me in all seriousness and we stare at one another. While he is assessing me, I do the same for him and take into account that he has recently had surgery. He speaks the usual way – playful bantering. But the huge difference is how hoarse his voice sounds and that dark, even line slicing through his neck horizontally. Stitches line up the wound, like a half-finished collar.
It is a bit disturbing. To see something that has been sewn into the skin is almost surreal and a cold sensation spreads in my gut. I want to keep on looking and avert my gaze at the same time.
"Does it hurt?"
His lips turn thin, hands hesitantly reaching out for the stitches, but not touching. "No, not really. I just don't stretch it and it is fine. What actually happened to you is more interesting."
"Apparently, when you walk through the rain for a little over an hour you get a high fever, difficulties in breathing following," I explain smoothly, recalling what the doctor told me. "They can't find that anything is "damaged", so to speak, and want to keep me here in case I might have something."
Alex nods, but then gets a bit absentminded look and seems to be in his own world for a while. While he is not looking, I trail my eyes down to see an absence of the heavy gas chamber he usually carried around the place. Then, my gaze looks up at the tuffs of thin hair on top of his head. Is he still on chemo?
"Did you hear what happened to that Swan girl?" He asks just as I am reaching out for a drink.
My hand freezes just a mere inch away from glass and m thoughts move on slowly. "Um, the nurse did say that she went home yesterday."
As hard as it is to believe, I see no reason why those fretting nurses would lie to me. Still, the memories of the last things I saw on school grounds before collapsing replay themselves in my mind. It is a slow and short film. Me standing on higher ground from the parking lot, the golden-haired boy's voice barely getting through the mess of images, and Bella standing in front of a retro and old red truck. Then, the noise of tires screeching, a large vehicle sliding against the slippery ground like it is surfing on waves… screams that followed… She should have been hit. And the last time I checked with my barely five-grade level in physics that kind of mass coming at her with the speed, should have ensured that the injuries were worse.
I am both jealous and confused. Bella gets to leave from this place before me, the weirdo that she barely held five-minute conversation with, just less than twenty-four hours after arriving. I merely fainted but needed a respiration machine to breathe and be cooled down by icepacks like a refrigerated chicken. This doesn't make any sense. What kind of standards does this hospital have for patients that have gone through critical situations?
It is as if Alex has gained mindreading abilities when he speaks up next. "That is right. They said that she survived the accident without a scratch."
The rim of the glass is on my lips, but I do not choke on the water. My mouth clamps shut, instead, and I look at him strangely. "Without a scratch? Are you sure?"
"Yes. Even mom told me so."
A pause and I shake my head. "No, that can't be right."
He frowns. "Why?"
"I saw what happened. There was a car the size of a mini truck going towards her. She was about to be crushed between the two vehicles!"
"That is also what I heard, but apparently there was enough room between her and the two cars so that she wouldn't get crushed, or something. I didn't really ask for details, but only the driver got hurt."
Again, I shake my head. "No, that was – I saw what I saw, Lex. The car wasn't going to stop, and it went too fast and…" I trail off, completely lost to how I could make my point.
There was a chance for her to get broken limbs, a bone or two would be shattered, or at least bleeding. But to hear that she survived completely unscathed throws me off a loop. The frown on my face is now so deep it almost hurts. Does she have the luck of a devil or something? It is one of the favorite phrases that one nun back in my old hometown used on every little coincidental event. Like Forks, it was a relatively small place, so every small thing was huge news on our scale.
Here I thought I would have heard every ridiculous and strange accident story being exasperated, but apparently not. I am now like those old people that always sat together in the church exchanging gossips on things disappearing and strange cars going through the town. I may now be going through similar emotions that they went, or perhaps the high fever has caused me to go to an early senile stage? No, no, this can't be happening to me.
I try recalling the horrible scenario at school, but the only difference this time around is that I remember faintly throwing up before collapsing.
I end up running a tired hand through my sticky hair. Great. Everything is going so well for me.
"From what I understand, you had a fever when this took place," Alex says and comfortably picks up a grape from a bowl his mother left. "Maybe you were just delirious?"
"I was aware of my surroundings, thank you very much," I snark back, but then mellow down when his words sink deep. "But… maybe you are right."
The tingling in the back of my skull doesn't fade, though. In fact, it makes me look down at my legs covered by a white sheet. Underneath that are two knees patched up and hiding the view of small wounds from meeting the concrete. It isn't my biggest concern, but… it just keeps on reminding me of what happened. Jasper was there. He was there, he probably saw what I did, too. Or I don't remember it right.
But many must have thought that Isabella Swan was about to get turned into a human pancake. They had also been terrified if the screams are enough to prove that. All in all, she was very lucky. Apparently, I am very lucky, too. A shiver goes down my spine when the doctor's haunting voice echoes in my ears hollowly. Almost one hundred and nine fever, seizures, difficulties in breathing, heartbeat rising with high blood pressure. Luckily, I have not listed all of those to Alex. I already feel like there is a cold snake wrapped around my neck.
I feel like I almost died.
Suddenly, a small 'ting' sound fills the room and startles my attention down to my phone on top of a small desk. I reach out, open the device and then focus on the new message I got.
"It's my dad," I answer to Alex's obviously inquisitive stare. "He says he will be here soon."
"Oh," the boy sounds surprised and he looks at the phone curiously. "Didn't think he would. You always say he is out of town and busy."
"Yeah, he is," I nod a bit after silence and close the phone. "It's lucky that he answered this quickly, though. He was probably at home."
"Isn't that good? He is coming to see you."
"Only because I texted him to come and get me out of here," I say without missing the beat.
The brunette next to me falters, my words closing his mouth. He has met the infamous Mr. Stone a few times in a row when he was still able to come to my house. Alex understands, since getting the first impression on the man he has understood that he is not exactly a hands-on-parent.
"Are you sure you should be leaving, though? If doctors say you might get worse, then you should listen to their advice."
I shake my head and lay down, the pillow nearly swallowing my head whole. "I want to go home. I even feel better. I hate sleeping in places that aren't my bed. The night was horrible."
"Maybe because you had a fever and a bunch of wires attached to you?"
My answer is chucking the pillow at him. Our chuckles and snorts resonate around the white room.
He really has arrived. Only three to four hours have gone since I texted him and he is standing near the reception desk. Or rather hiding in the dark with his usual hat and dark jacket on. He may not be doing it on purpose, but those colors blend him against the shadows and make him stand out at the same time from the white wall.
His head tilts up before I am even a few feet away. He has spotted me, that much is obvious. I walk without a pause, one hand holding my backpack and adjusting my jacket slightly. It is getting hot in it, but I do not take it off. The weight of my keys and wallet in the pockets is heavy.
Unlike what I think he will do – like starting to walk before I even reach to him – my father stands where he is, eyes looking at me underneath the shade of his hat. The bright light of the hospital makes the shadow line appear even darker than back at home. The wrists of pale hands are like chalk in this environment, too.
I stop almost right next to him, meeting his eyes blankly. People walk past us – doctors, patients, nurses – but they do not pay any attention to the strange pair.
"Are you feeling better?" He asks all of sudden, breaking his mute state.
For a second, I do not understand his question. There is a perfectly good reason for that, though – I do not remember the last time he has asked me about something like this. His tone doesn't sound worried like any other parents should. I have spent a night in the hospital and didn't come home, yet he still acts like this. But there is a small, very tiny, maybe a small spark that could be snuffed out in an instant, sound of interest in his tone.
When I finally manage to open my mouth, it comes out as a line of stammers. "Y-yes, I-I am good."
His eyes actually look at me up and down, as if assessing the validity of my answer. Without a word, he merely nods and then starts walking towards the door. The second his back is turned, I can feel how my shoulders actually slump down. I didn't even realize how tense they had been. A small puff of air escapes from my lips as if I have been holding it back.
The world is going to end. The sky is going to fall on top of all of us. The dead are rising from their coffins.
He actually waited for me to come to him, instead of walking away, and asked if I am 'feeling better'.
The absurdity of the situation settles in with my silent bewilderment and I hurriedly start following after him. I can feel it – the warm bubble that has been laying dead in my gut for so long is slowly starting to rise up again. The ends of my lips twitch and my cheeks tingle. Despite how earlier my pockets weighted like small rocks, now they are as light as feathers.
He… actually cares, right? The question remains in my head the entire time I watch his back. The ghastly jacket he always wears loses its light swallowing color and suddenly doesn't appear to be filled with the usual wrinkles. Even the hat he wears is no longer old and worn-out – it is like a crown on top of his light-haired head…
I almost shake my head. Something is definitely wrong with my father. It is as plain as a day. He shouldn't even give a sign that he cares, or perhaps – lord above – was worried about me. Still, those suspicions do nothing, when I cover my mouth to hide a small grin from the world. I have not brushed my teeth.
I am acting like a small child again.
"Beatrix?" The melodic voice sounds confused when it pronounces my name, and my feet actually glue themselves on the ground.
Doctor Cullen and I lock our eyes. His are slightly widened but return to neutrality in a second. His pristine features light up into a smile and the back of my throat clogs. This is our third time meeting and no doubt it won't be less awkward than the last two were.
"Hello, Dr. Cullen," I say with a faint, uncomfortable smile.
He walks closer, hands out of his stark white doctor's coat. "You are leaving?"
"Yeah, I am free to go," I nod and wet my dry lower lip. Gosh, I need lip balm and quick.
From my answer, he does a small head tilt and a faint frown appears on his otherwise smooth face. "You have been released? From my understanding, you were meant to be kept under observation."
I am playing with the strap of my school bag now. "My dad signed me out. I am fine, though."
The older man's expression doesn't change. "You certainly weren't fine yesterday," he states, not unkindly, though. "Where is your father?"
"Oh, he is," I turn to gesture at the said man, but instead stare at the glass doors of the hospital. A man walks by, but it is not him. "He… he went out."
Disappointment feels like a rock has been plunged down your esophagus and into your stomach. I do not dare look up at Mr. Cullen when I turn my head back. Both cold realization that everything is still normal and red shame from parent's behavior fill my face at the same time.
"Do you feel alright?" The blonde man asks, instead of enquiring further about the mystery man who has left his child in the lobby.
I give a nod. "I felt better when I woke up. The nurses said my fever was fully gone."
"You are certain?" He asks again and after receiving the same answer continues. "No shortness of breath?"
"No."
"Your father is aware of what your condition was at your arrival?"
"Yes," I answer without hesitation. Or I hope so. That came out too quickly. It is suddenly too hot in my jacket, again.
Mr. Cullen must notice that my shoulders stiffen because his look changes into an unreadable one. "You should from now on to avoid walking in the rain. Have a friend drive you home."
Actually, your son offered. The thought of it makes me even more uncomfortable, even more so than the fact that the man before me is aware of what is suspected to be the main cause of my fever. The small, almost teasing smile on his lips tells me much. I blush, still not meeting his golden-brown eyes.
"I will," I say, even when not having any friends at that school is a fact. "Bye, and thank you."
"Stay well, Beatrix. Don't hesitate to come, if you feel unwell again."
The car stops at red headlights and the silence grows more than stuffy. The seats smell like they always have – clean and deodorized. I sit at the back, watching the blank expression on dad's face from the mirror. It has certainly been a while since I have last sat here with him driving. I don't have the luxury to get comfortable, though.
Somehow, I miss the stench of the hospital and Alex's company. Half of me wishes that I hadn't asked him to come. The entire house will be dead silent, like always. At least while laying on that bright white and uncomfortable bed, I heard noises and had someone to talk to.
"Do you know what happened to me?" I ask, voice almost too faint to hear through a horn blow of a nearby truck.
"You fainted," he actually answers and presses on gas, when the headlights turn green. The car moves and his hands grip the steering wheel.
There it is – one statement that bitters my mood and makes me grip the fabric of my jeans tightly. "I also apparently had over one hundred and eight fever. They said when they brought me in, I was having a seizure and my blood pressure was dangerously high. I had to use a respirator machine to breathe."
He doesn't react, just steers the wheel so the car turns right and goes down the road. The small mirror hanging from the ceiling of the grey vehicle doesn't show any change in his expression. He doesn't even glance back.
I slump against the seat, looking back down at my knees. The jeans are dirty and have small holes where my wounds are under the plasters. They sting a bit every time I bend or move my legs. The physical sensation makes my tongue taste bitter, strangely enough. I frown and play with the ends of my hair. I am a mess and feel tired from the smooth twists and turns the car makes.
"Can you turn on the heat?" I finally ask, voice neutral and drained. I cross my arms, leaning against the door to look at the grey scenery. "It is cold in here."
A few seconds after, warm air fills the confining space, but it will take a few minutes before I stop shivering. The desire for my bed is back and I wish the drive is over quickly. I close my eyes, finding more comfort from the cold window than the bed I left in the hospital. As expected, there is no conversation flowing and the only speaking occurring is an argument happening between drivers of two cars who have collided and stand out at the side of the road. The noise of sirens soon follows. Even without looking, I can already see an officer stepping out to resolve the argument… at least that is what I think is happening outside.
That may as well be what I wish for us to have – an argument. Just like many other parents and their children. They bicker about schoolwork, how they can't take care of themselves and scold the child when they are not home on time. Since when was the last time that I was even scolded by anyone besides my teachers? As strange as it sounds, when you don't have the basic normality in your life, you crave it. I want both of us to get mad. It is always just me who raises her voice.
At the same time, I want to ask many other questions. Where he was, or how his work went, has he been abroad lately… those are things that I should know about him, right?
"Dad," I say and don't need a sign to know he is listening. "Alex's mom tried contacting you. Did you receive her messages?"
We stop again, the car giving a small jerk from the halt. From the rearview mirror, his eyes are barely visible and the strands of his short hair peeking from underneath the hat are almost like needles.
"I did," he answers calmly. The light is still red.
There is a lump in the back of my throat. "Did she tell you I was at the hospital?"
"Yes."
"She said you didn't answer back."
He doesn't say anything to that and the coldness in my gut spreads to my chest. Still, I do not say anything back, or ask questions, or even yell. I feel nothing, only numbness and look stiffly out of the window again. This is how I deal with his silence, pretend that he doesn't exist. It is rather easy, considering I can never tell if anyone else besides me is in the house.
I exhale tiredly, shifting to get more comfortable and ignore the prickling sensation of my emotions. Something actually prickles me – or rather aches – when I move my arm, though. The same arm that now has two needle marks impaled to it.
"What is this?"
That is the first question I ask when we reach home. There is puzzlement in my voice, and it is as clear as a day from my face that I am flabbergasted. Still, that expression melts, when I inspect a small box on the kitchen table, which I am sure that I did not leave there, and dad doesn't ever even touch or move things in the culinary space.
The box is made out of wood and when I open it a familiar bitter, but sweet scent hits my nose. Small, dried tea leaves rest at the bottom, filling the box like a treasure of gold.
I look over my shoulder at dad who walks past the kitchen without much of a word, as usual. However, he does stop, when a small noise escapes from my throat. I try forming words on my tongue, but it is suddenly very difficult.
"This is," I lift the box and look back up, "mom's tea?"
He merely gives a subtle nod, before retreating into the hallway and the sound of his room's door closing and opening reaches my ears. I do not stop him, though. Somewhere in the corner of my mind, I am thinking that he doesn't need to hear anything from me. After all, the softness in my hoarse voice must have told him enough.
I return my eyes back to the box in my hands and inhale deeply. It is the smell of dried and crushed strawberry leaves with a somewhat faint bitter scent underneath. The same scent that I have grown used to over the years and perhaps the only form of tea that has remained my favorite to this day. Strange, I ran out of stock a few days ago. The fact makes me wonder if the silent man currently hiding in his room noticed it and went to get me some more.
Much like in the hospital that same strange and giddy warmth spreads in my chest until a small smile is on my face. I try to stifle it. They don't sell this kind of tea at any store I have been to. There is only one family recipe for it, and it requires freshly gathered strawberry leaves, which don't suit the current weather. This is why I thought I would need to wait until summer.
Finally, I can't just stand still and lower the box. When it is closed, I almost miss the scent but end up walking in front of a thick wooden door and knocking on it softly a few times.
A few seconds later – without even hearing anyone approaching – the handle twists slowly and dad peeks out. Seeing me standing there with my hands crossed stiffly, but with a healthy flush on my face, he fully opens the door.
"Thanks," I blurt out, lifting my eyes to meet his. "Thank you for the tea, dad."
When I was small, the first thing I thought of dad's eyes is that they were two endless blackholes. They were always either framed by his hair or hat, the heavy shadow of the house or sheer emptiness of what I thought were his emotions. I also remember how I was always slightly scared of them. They are so dark and foreign, nothing like the warm brown color of my mother's eyes.
But at this very moment, at least in my head, there seems to be a small flicker of light in his gaze.
I smile up at him. It is stiff and awkward, but I hope it to be sincere. I rarely do this with him present, after all.
Seeing a small shift in his expression is more than enough for me to turn away and go back to the kitchen. A few seconds later his door closes again, and my smile brightens.
I don't regret coming home from the hospital anymore.
"The patient was in a critical condition."
"We explained this to the guardian – "
"Including how she could have suffered severe damages to her body that we have not detected yet?"
"The patient made a fast recovery without any of those in sight or complications – I made my own professional judgment to keep her under observation, but the father was adamant in his own decision."
"Did you request that she would be brought to daily checkups?"
"Of course," the doctor answered with an offended tone. "Although, I am not too sure if her father will go through with that. He didn't seem to be too shaken by the explanations of his daughter's symptoms. Rather, he appeared to be indifferent."
The conversation with his colleague goes over and over inside his head. The sight of the girl who was brought a day before into the hospital with her vitals crashing doesn't leave easily from his mind either. He is certain that everyone else besides him thought she wouldn't make it if the smallest of effort was made in treatment. With how slowly the background information on her was found, he had feared they might give her something that would only make things worse.
The girl had looked fine, even with the slight water burn on her face the first time they met. When she came to visit her friend, Alexander, in the hospital, there hadn't been any warning signs on her health. It was astounding when he saw her being pushed in a medical bed to the building.
"Something the matter?"
He doesn't need to turn to see Esme standing only a foot away from his chair. Carlisle keeps on looking down at the files in his hand, not telling her to leave or stay.
"Did you hear about what happened in the school?"
"Is this about the Swan girl?" She asks softly and looks over his shoulder. Seeing the name and date, however, makes her fall silent for a few seconds. "Beatrix Stone. Alice has mentioned her, hasn't she?"
"Alice and Rosalie had an argument in the hospital yesterday – it was about her."
At that, Esme allows a frown to appear between her brows. "Didn't Rosalie and Edward also argue about someone?"
"It was Isabella Swan. She didn't need to be hospitalized, though."
"Is the other girl well, then?" Esme asks curiously, if not with a hint of worry. New travel fast in a small town. Everyone pretty much only knows that someone collapsed and other details are just baseless rumors of surgeries and broken bones.
"She was discharged today."
"You don't sound too happy about it."
"Her father signed an AMA and they went home. It was our advice to keep her in the hospital a bit longer for several reasons."
The caramel-colored strands brush against his shoulders when she places her hands on them and leans closer. She whispers, her sweet and playful breath brushing against the side of his face. "They are fighting again."
A small, subtle upturn of his lips causes her grin to widen. "Yes, I can hear them."
By 'them' he means his 'children', who are even now having a heated argument downstairs. They don't need an excellent hearing when the group isn't even trying to conceal their voices. Three of the five are the ones raising their opinions the most, though.
Two pairs of golden eyes meet. "Shall we go and take a look?"
"Yes, we should. They might start destroying the house otherwise."
"Yeah, might be too late," a playful voice quips from the door and Emmet gives the two a smirk. He leans against the doorframe comfortably, as if nothing is going wrong downstairs. "Rosalie has thrown a chair out of the door."
The three are in a second standing next to the living room. They note that one of the chairs – as per to Emmet's words – is missing from its place next to the couch. On the couch, Alice is sitting next to Jasper, who is holding her hand in a gentle grip. The strangest part of this scene is that the pixie-like girl appears upset and has a frown on her lips. It melts gradually with her 'sibling's' soothing, but that is not enough to lift the tense atmosphere.
Everything has fallen silent, as soon as Carlisle and Esme stepped into the room. The argument has stopped, but not the icy air left behind. The door hangs open, letting in the cold wind that none of them can feel or be bothered with. The bulky and dark-haired man does, however, close it and goes to stand near the golden-haired girl who has her back turned to all of them.
Rosalie is upset. If she had the need to truly breathe, her shoulders would be rising and falling heavily. But because that is not the case, she is standing extremely still, which is worrisome. When the silence continues, though, she finally turns.
Her entire face is controlled, showing nothing, but her eyes that were golden this afternoon have turned pitch black. Bruises frame the underline of her perfectly white skin, showing to what extent she is feeling so much anger that it can't even be formed on her face. In many simple words, she is going to be boiling with pure rage soon; she is pissed.
"Don't you dare bring us down with you."
Her words are directed at Alice who doesn't raise her head.
"She and Edward are placing us in danger," Rosalie continues, looking at her adoptive 'parents'. "The Swan girl is already suspecting Edward after that little stunt he pulled. Now, these two," she pits and looks at the pair on the couch, "have been playing buddy-buddy with that other girl who threw up in the schoolyard."
"Beatrix," Alice says, opening her mouth finally and looking up with a stiff expression. "Her name is Beatrix Stone."
The blonde huffs and crosses her arms. "I could care less what she is called. How could you go flaunting this in front of our noses?"
"I am not flaunting," the shorter girl defends and stands up straight, Jasper following her silently. "Trixie is my friend."
"Oh, Trixie is your friend alright," Rosalie mocks sarcastically. "To the point that she will accept what you and all of us are."
"Girls," Esme tries to gain their attention carefully, but the two barely hear her soft voice.
"I have seen it; she will."
"Then tell me what you saw. Did you see her running in the fields with us, skin glowing under the sun?" Rosalie starts taking steps towards her 'sister' who doesn't back down. When they are only a few inches away, the blonde girl hisses dangerously. "Or did you see her corpse on the ground with throat wide open?"
Everyone tenses again, especially Jasper and Alice. The former takes a step closer, touching the shorter girl's hand in a calming manner, his own expression crumbling and dark color replacing the golden irises. His jaw clenches, together with the two girls' as they glare hatefully at each other. Both are obviously ready to pounce on one another.
"Rosalie!" Carlisle's voice rises in an unfamiliar manner, cutting the air. His voice softens a second later, seeing that everything has halted. "That is enough. Go get the chair you threw out and return to your room."
They do calm down. They bottle up their emotions and all four 'children' of the house relax their stiff shoulders. If the blonde vampire has the need to yell like that, it is a sign that the line has been crossed. Still, it does not escape anyone's notice how perfectly trimmed nails dig into the skin of the palms when the blonde girl turns around and walks towards the door.
Everyone watches her go, heels clicking faintly on the floor. She is doing that one purpose, creating noise. Her expression remains stormy, but it is not clear whether she will decide to say something else or leave peacefully. She is like a mountain cat ready to turn around and claw someone from one wrong move.
Finally, they get their answer. The door opens and closes harshly, the wide glass walls trembling from the force, but not shattering. Emmet follows his wife, but in a more mellow manner – he walks to the door, opens it casually, closes it and then vanishes. After he is also gone, there are only four vampires left in the silent living room.
Carlisle watches the spot where the two others went before turning back to the other pair. "Alice."
"Trixie is my friend," she insists and looks up. "I know she will – "
"It is a possibility," he cuts her off. His voice is not judging or reprimanding, just gentle and calming. "I agree that it was reckless of you to visit her without talking it through with the rest of us. That is why Rosalie is so upset."
Her eyes drop, followed by Jasper's. He is feeling guilty as well, for knowing that she was up to something and not telling his family anything. The oldest vampire watches them, truly seeing two children being scolded. With Esme silently by his side, giving his hand a gentle squeeze, he sighs and looks down at her.
They were all rather shocked last week when they heard where Alice had gone to. So many risks and possibilities of being found out and letting that one human girl have an inkling of their true nature. When Carlisle received that phone call where she told him that Beatrix was injured, he couldn't have felt more dread than was possible.
"Jasper," he addresses the golden-haired boy who raises his eyes to him. "Are you fine with this?"
As soon as the question is asked, Alice looks up at the vampire next to her with an expecting look. She is also curious, and her expression slightly falls, when Jasper's remains unchanged and… a bit guilty.
"Not entirely," he finally lets out but does not remove his hand from Alice's. It must be painful for him to look at the betrayed expression on her face. "I agree that what you did was foolish – you should have never gone to her house. You should have kept activities outside of school at a minimum."
"She is no danger to us, even you can see it," she says and turns to look up at him, pleadingly. "You can talk to her, you can be near her longer than with any other human, even without me."
"What?" Carlisle let's out and his wife covers her mouth in shock. "Jasper, is this true?"
His jaw clenches, when he looks at his 'parents'. "I admit to having a few conversations with her."
"Oh, don't start," the girl sighs and also looks at them. "Please, trust me. We will be fine."