Chapter 19: A Mistake I'd Rather Not Share Over Dinner
This is the doctor Jacob told me about. The one that brings trouble with him. His touch is gentle. His eyes look pleasant and nonthreatening. This man is the reason for everything that is happening.
"I hope my kids haven't scared you off." His slight Italian accent is charming and fluid.
"Oh no. Everyone has been nice, pleasant, um— hospitable." That's what I'm supposed to say, right? Edward came to find me at the diner. Before that, he drew me out to the pier for my belongings, and before that, I sat in his lap while his brother bled out on the floor. Other than that, I guess everyone was relatively pleasant. He did make Mike pay for hitting me.
My eyes have aimlessly wandered around the home office. Brushed metal chairs accent the monochrome furnishings. Old 18th-century paintings line the walls. But the only things that stand out in the room are the textures. There's textured wallpaper and embroidered pillows tossed on the chaise, a linen throw blanket flung across the couch and a waffle knit sweater tossed on the ottoman. All of it looks expensive but nothing is meant to stand out; everything is some variation of taupe.
Should I be entertained by texture or cautious about the lack of color? Everything looks like it's asking to be touched, but if I do, I'm afraid it may get dirty. My legs swing back and forth over the side of the exam table. Is this house really lived in? Do all doctors have exam tables at home? I must be wearing a contemplative face.
Dr. Cullen awkwardly laughs with raised brows. "I'm relieved. Although I think that's the first time my kids have been called nice. Well—" He shakes his head adding, "They're not kids anymore. I am aware of that… I am aware of what they're capable of. They've taken on the family business, but they can still make quite the mess." His voice trails off as his eyes grow old.
"Well they're still your kids, right? That will never change." Are you ashamed or apologetic for your unlawful profession? Is this what it's like to have a dad? Do they constantly worry about the life that they've given you? Do they always feel responsible in some way?
Does he regret his own choices when he looks at his children? Did they turn out the way he thought they would? How often does he talk to them? Do they have dinner together everyday?
Does his wife always smile and make homemade pasta? Does everyone really live together in this house? Does everyone love each other, or do the rooms get dark and chilly when the front door closes? Do they all like each other?
He turns my hand over, softly moving the digits. He examines the bones and surfacing bruises.
"The good news is your hand isn't broken. You probably just hit it wrong. Probably popped a few veins and stunned the nerves." He looks up through his long blond lashes with a reflective smile. "Edward should have told you not to punch the guy in the face. The face is hard and bony. Stick to scratching the eyes and kicks to the groin. If that doesn't work, hit them on the ears, like a double ear slap."
His hands study my fingernails and knuckles. "You work with cleaning products?" His fingers run across my dry, peeling cuticles.
"Yes, at the diner." When I'm rolling around in the mud. I'm in my element when I wipe the tables and prune my fingertips in dishwater.
"I can tell. Your hands were already in a stressed state. The ligaments are stretched out. There's very little cushion around the knuckles and fingers. Almost no fat around the joints. The tendons are so fatigued and fragile. And the repeated bleaching just eats away at the skin. You need rest." His attention to detail and voice of concern feels so warm to me.
"I'm used to it now." I don't fight it. I embrace manual labor. It's the only way to pass the time. Fight it and you'll cry every day. The resistance is what causes the throbbing in the hands. Now I don't even feel them. "My hands start to hurt when I don't use them." I try to smile but wince at my sore cheek.
It must have caught his trained eye. His brows pucker and bunch up his nose. "How many times did the boy hit your face?"
"Only twice." Enough to make me lower my sights to the deck. One more strike and it would've been enough to rub my face in the dirt.
"I know you wanted to get him back. I know you wanted him to feel what he made you feel, but don't use your fists. You can inflict pain without hurting yourself or exerting all of your force. There are other ways to feel that rush.
Punching the face and head takes conditioning. And that takes a lot of time and tears. Attack the eyeballs and cornea. Scratch and scream until you've seen enough blood. That's just as powerful, just as painful. You can express agony in many ways: slowly, gently. Sometimes you have to drag them down to the Hell they've created for others. My sons will take care of the Newtons. They won't be bothering you anymore."
He encourages this behavior. He can justify the misery inflicted on others. This whole time his eyes and voice haven't changed. It's like he's talking about the weather or a bagel he had for breakfast.
He knows what I felt. It wasn't pain or fear. I felt unworthy. There is no anger or sadness in his tone. He doesn't pity me or dismiss me. He knows without me quite understanding it myself. When Mike hit me, I felt inferior.
It is his train of thought and point of view that startles me. He knew just by looking at my hands. He can see everything. He can understand what I can't put into words. Therefore he is the most dangerous. He can take a life as easily as he saves one. He can justify the most cruel and heinous. He is exactly what Jacob said he was. It's a wolf in sheep's clothing. He is a snake in the grass.
It is his honesty that makes him intimidating. His words haven't lied to me but his appearance has concealed his true nature. From his blond hair to his crystal clear eyes and warm smile, he is the embodiment of light. But his lips speak from the ends of darkness. It's murder in molasses.
Should I thank him for choosing to heal my hand when I'm involved with his enemy? He could've watched me suffer. He could've gripped my hand tighter. He could've pulled at the hangnails and laughed at my discomfort.
Instead, he retreats. "I'll be back with something to help the swelling on your face." But he never came back.
Instead, it's Edward that comes back through the door holding an antique wash basin and pitcher along with an ice bag.
"You would think to ice the hand but actually you should soak it in a warm bath first. You don't want your hand to start cramping up. A hand that's stuck is even more painful. Give your nerves a chance to calm down." He tips the pitcher over and we watch the water flow into the basin.
He seems more relaxed now that we're in his home. "Massage the sore areas in a hot shower. Don't ice it until it's time to go to work. It will numb you up enough to get through your shift. Just keep icing it 15 minutes on, 15 minutes off when you have the time."
"Is that really gonna work?" I still can't even ball up my fist. Will I be able to grip a glass or plate?
"Unless you throw another punch, I don't think the pain will be too much to manage. I can give you a few of the muscle relaxants that are laying around here, but then I'd be worried you would faceplant into your steering wheel and crash your car. I'll look for some ibuprofen before you go. But don't worry, from what dad says, it's not that bad. Just come back here if the swelling or bruising gets worse."
He places the basin on my right side. His eyes stare deeply into mine as he firmly places my hand into the hot water. His voice becomes deep and low asking, "Did my dad scare you?" His head leans forward waiting for my answer.
I shake my head back and forth, "No he didn't." I was able to see a glimpse of his demon. It's hidden by a disguise. The bitterness is concealed under layers of coarse sugar.
"The ice is for your face. Your cheek is starting to swell." He watches my lips as he places the ice bag in my left hand.
I hold the ice up to my face and cringe at the bipolarity. The two charges of hot and cold make my toes curl. The overstimulation leaves me open-mouthed and defenseless at my center. I'm open for Edward to invade once again. How do I always end up baring my chest to you? Once at the bar sitting on his lap and now with him standing between my legs on his father's exam table. My entire body feels like TV snow.
"Can you move your hand yet?"
I bend and flex my right hand's fingers and watch the staccato movements make currents in the water. His left-hand joins mine at the bottom of the basin. He plants his thumb into the palm of my hand and rubs circles over and over.
Edward takes his time loosening my rigid fingers. He pushes down on odd points that release pressure in other spaces. My eyes start to get heavy and my belly starts to get hot.
"Would you believe me if I said you can experience pleasure from pain?"
I jump at the tips of his fingers sliding back and forth over my raw, throbbing knuckles. "Ah! What are you doing?" Why are you watching my expressions like that? Moisture gathers at the bottom of my eyes. How can a gentle hand inflict pain on my knuckles and make my insides quiver at the same time?
"We injure our hands all the time. Bruising, swelling, broken fingers, scrapes, and burns all of it is normal. That's why I always wear gloves when I handle business. These are just pressure points. They release pain, but also induce pleasure."
"There is no pleasure! I only feel pain." I drop the ice bag and grip his wrist. It's too much. I dig my nails into his skin to force him to let go, but it's not enough to even reduce the pressure he has on my hand.
"I believe in some ways they are the same." His voice sounds strange. "I can help you turn all your pain into pleasure." I feel a slight popping in my knuckles before the agony is released into cool blood circulating through my fingertips.
My shoulders drop at the tension release. My grip loosens on his wrist and I look up to find him wearing a gentle expression.
"See? There's nothing to be afraid of." His cool breath washes over my eyelids. "Just like today on the pier. There was nothing to be afraid of."
My exhale makes our breathing fall in sync. I can feel his heartbeat through his working palm. Impossible to escape or resist. I wait for him to release the pressure of the next joint.
"You could've kept going. You could've kept kicking and punching until the agony gripped you so hard that it exploded into pleasure. I would've held him down until you were done having fun."
I let out an embarrassing groan as he pinched the skin between my middle and ring finger. Something about it turns my breath ragged.
"Bella, don't you want to try feeling something new? Don't you want to feel the power rush through your soundbox?"
I wail when he bunches my fingers together. My wrist bends as a call to mercy. The heat from our hands is spreading. I cringe at the electricity that runs through my core. "What have you done? Why do I feel like this?" I feel a fever spread all the way to my chest. He touched something that's making my whole body perspire. My head is spinning like he's numbed the entire right side of my body.
"I want to show you everything, not hide it. I want you to see clearly—"
"I can see just fine. I shouldn't have punched Mike. I shouldn't have come here. I wouldn't have done any of that stuff if you weren't there." My flyaways are sticking to my forehead.
"Are you sure? Both of those were pleasurable experiences. The expression behind 'shouldn't have' or 'couldn't have' builds remorse, guilt, or shame. I'm asking you to see past what you think you're supposed to feel and what's actually there. There is no need to feel any of those things. There's no need to search for comfort or relief. They don't exist. I believe you would've done those things eventually. Sooner or later you would have been pushed to the edge. There is no good or bad, darkness or evil, just pleasure and pain. The only thing that changes is the point of inflection."
I scream out as he bends my thumb into submission. My hand is left malleable, relaxed.
I swallow to clear the buzzing from my ears.
"That was beautiful. I'd love to hear you scream in pleasure."
"And there you go again, looking at me as if you have no idea what effect you have on me." He swallows hard. I watch his adam's apple bob before my attention is called back to his eyes.
"Since the beginning of time, the hand is the most powerful of all tools. It is the balance between strength and intimacy." He rests his forehead on my clavicle before whispering, "Would you hold me in contempt if I developed an obsession?" He drags his lips along the damp, exposed bone and weaves his fingers between mine.
I pull away and search his expression for a joke or admission of desire. But it scares me more to see him stare back in earnest.
"I'm sorry for making you feel unsafe. My loneliness has gotten the best of me." He is fueled by impulse. Edward's eyes stay focused on my hand as he gently towel dries each finger.
"Take me back to the pier. I need to get my truck and go home. Now." My voice is strangled and my throat is lumpy. I can't spend another minute here.
"Ok."
I sat on this chapter for a while. Y'all know how I write and rewrite but I didn't want to keep you waiting any longer. I'll try to update sooner. Is Edward anymore interesting? Are his actions predictable? Is he multidimensional or just creepy lol… Thanks for reading!