Remember Me

Chapter Six

Coming Undone

. . . . .

You are a little brown ball of color high against the wall just under the ceiling, floating above her bed. Waiting. Always waiting; waiting all along. It's getting more and more difficult for you to remain here–a powerless, dirty mist of feeling and longing going nowhere. Not without her, never without her.

You're getting weaker; you can feel it because she isn't dreaming of you like she used to. You didn't fully understand until recently that your essence depends on her love, on her touch, on the kisses you crave and drink. It's been a long time since you've wanted more than her kiss, but you can feel time is running out. She's pushing for it, or she did. You know that once you give in, that that's it; you will consume her fully and she'll die. Only then will she fully understand who they are to each other, how much you love her. You've been so patient waiting until she was old enough to understand, to forgive.

Once she grows old enough, she'll begin to care less and less about you, she'll turn away and won't return… and you'll miss the chance to be with her forever. She didn't react as expected to the dream you pushed at her in desperation, and you are done being patient.

She knows you.

She just has to remember.

. . . . .

I stand outside the kitchen doorway and look at Mom through a film of tears. Ever since I woke up that night to find my parents staring at me like I was a stranger, I haven't felt like myself. It was terrifying to know how badly I had unknowingly hurt my parents, especially my mom, who had to get two stitches in her cheek.

Apparently Dad had a red mark on his stomach from where I'd kicked him.

I'm horrible.

I haven't been able to look Mom in the eye since that night. She'd asked me if we could talk more than once, but I just can't.

I'm a horrible person.

Silently, I turn and walk back upstairs. I'm not hungry for anything at all.

Back in my room, I'm restless. I walk from the wall of windows to my closet, to my bed and back again, over and over until I'm dizzy and even more restless.

I feel like screaming, but I won't because I don't want to scare Mom any more than she is already. What I need to do is swim, but the damn pool is closed to the public today.

I change into long shorts and a tank top, pull on heavy socks and my sneakers. When I try to sneak down the stairs, the sneakers make me sound like an elephant.

"Bella?"

I glance Mom's way as I poke my earbuds in. "Going running, be back in 30," I say.

When I hear the first strains of Bullet With Butterfly Wings on my Fighting Angry Spotify list, I take off. I should have stretched, but I don't feel like being nice to myself. Soon, all thoughts are gone. It's just staccato music beats, my feet slapping against the ground, an arid burn in my throat, all of it a beautiful hell.

. . . . .

Esme is wearing an outfit without buttons this time–a navy blue wrap dress with a chunky gold and amber-stone necklace. What looks like a pair of chopsticks sticks out from the back of her head.

"Have a hot date tonight?" I ask flippantly.

I'm still so angry.

Can't hide it this time.

Esme ignores my question and instead aims her gaze at my shoulder. That's when I realize I'm pinching my arm, and drop my hand instantly.

"Your Dad says he left bruises on your arms," she says.

"I kicked him in the stomach. Scratched my mom's face all to hell," I tell her.

"Do you remember doing that?"

I sniff and turn my face away. Her words are idiotic, and I can't stand looking at her perfectly put-together self. All I remember of the dream is a man's horrible scream. The name Annabella. A sense of loss more terrible and frightening than anything I'd ever felt upon waking.

On top of that, Edward seemed farther and farther out of reach. Sometimes I had the thought that I was punishing him, but that didn't make sense. Neither did my restlessness, which felt a lot like fatigue. The bottle of Ambien was almost gone, so I should have felt well rested.

"Bella."

I blink and there's Esme again. "What?"

"Do you remember scratching your mom's face all to hell?" She parrots my words.

"No, I don't," I grit. "I don't remember anything from that night, so it's a waste of time trying to talk about it."

"Is that why you're angry?"

I just stare at her because I don't know.

"Your Mom and Dad know that you didn't mean to hurt them," she says and tears fill my eyes.

"I'm a horrible person," I say. It was supposed to come out matter-of-factly, but my words are thin and warbly. "Am I less horrible because I don't remember, or am I more horrible? I've thought about it and thought about it, but can't make up my mind. Honestly, it's kind of driving me crazy."

"Why don't we find out?" she asks.

I raise my head from my hands. "What do you mean?"

"I can bring your parents in here right now, and you can ask them."

I'm shaking my head long before she finishes.

"Bella, this is a safe place."

Her place has plush carpet, thick, dark curtains hanging on either side of floor-to-ceiling windows, huggable pillows on the couch and chair. Just like home. "I thought my bedroom was a safe place," I say and wipe my face.

God, I'm a mess.

"You had a bad dream," she says. "You aren't responsible for what you did while your parents were trying to wake you up. They still love you and want to protect you. I doubt they think you're horrible, but I'd like you to hear it from them."

"I'm not ready," I say.

She eyes me speculatively. "Still want to punish yourself? Maybe you want to pinch your arm some more instead?"

I give her a hard look. "You're not very nice for someone who should be very nice."

She smiles wryly. "It's true: I'm more of a lioness than a lamb when it comes to my patient's well being. And right now, I want to get you out of this place you're in. It's doing you absolutely no good. I want you to feel better."

"I don't deserve to feel better," I say.

"Why don't you let me be the judge of that."

"You don't know me well enough to be the judge of that."

"Wanna bet?"

I rear back in the chair. What kind of psychiatrist is this? Esme Platt gives me a self-satisfied, optimistic look and nods sagely.

"Wait," I say. "If all you're going to say right now is regurgitated facts my parents told you, I'll know and it won't count."

"Agreed," she says.

"Okay," I shrug. "Let's see what you've got."

For a moment, I think she actually looks nervous. Her hand raises to her face and she scratches below her nose, then she sighs and straightens. "I hope I don't scare you," she murmurs.

I roll my eyes, then hold my breath when she starts talking. "Isabella Marie Swan, you created a children's story set in a world you personally could not fathom, which suggests you are empathetic, and perhaps feel guilt about your own life with all its advantages. You are an overachiever who most likely pushed others into your story's vision, which you then abandoned, and now you are overly committed to physical fitness, probably to compensate for a guilty conscience or loss of direction and goals. You are intelligent, dislike losing control, and will go to great lengths to punish yourself when you feel you're at fault."

Here, she pauses and I can breathe again. "You love your Mom and Dad terribly. And your dreams, at least while you sleep, are destroying you. What do you dream about, Bella? I wish you'd tell me."

And then I can't breathe again. What do I dream about? Nothing, lately. And that's the problem. More than that, Esme Platt apparently saw right through me. Or my parents know me more than I think, and shared everything but the kitchen sink with the shrink.

I stand and notice my legs are shaking. Dammit it all to hell. "I think this is enough brain-scouring for today," I say.

Esme exhales and nods. "I agree. I apologize if it was too much."

"Too much would have been Charlie and Renee, and a damn group hug."

She laughs, but I… don't. I'm sure I'd be a gibbering mess if I'd agreed to let my parents into our session.

Some things just aren't worth forgiving yet.

. . . . .

Later that night, I hold the bottle of Ambien and shake it; two more pills. I want to take them both, but something stops me. The restlessness has given away to heavy exhaustion and I wonder if Mom laced the mashed potatoes with a sedative. Of course, I know that's impossible. If she was going to lace them with anything, it would have been with one of her Ambien pills… which she no longer has.

I'm horrible.

And I miss Edward like crazy. What if I tried to follow my old routine? Dad confiscated the heavy canvas across my bedroom door, but the door lock is still intact, so I engage it with a loud click.

Good night, Mother. Good night, Father. Today is gone. Today was fun. Tomorrow is another one.

I set the 20-minute timer on my phone, then set it on the nightstand next to the sound machine. White noise fills the space as I light the lavender candle and begin my gentle stretches and breathing exercise. Slowly, slowly, relax. Lean into it. Feel the burn, enjoy it. It's good, it's good, it's good.

I finish before my phone dings, so I cancel the timer. I'm still good, though. My mind is more at ease than it's been a while, so I switch off the lamp and slide beneath the covers. I pull the sheet up to my chin; it smells fresh and clean, and I inhale deeply. It takes a while for the feeling of euphoria to kick in. It takes a long while because I am out of practice and not at peace like I used to be, so I have to chase it longer than I ever had to before. The scent and stillness of the sleeping colors come like they do when I call them, and I'm falling. Finally. Falling.

. . . . .

We're kissing like we haven't kissed in days. Months. Years. His fingers are hard around my shoulder and neck, digging almost painfully into my skin, but I won't complain. I want him under my skin. I want him on me, in me, hard and demanding. It's the only way I know he cares anymore.

"I missed you," I say in between kisses.

He replies, but doesn't break our kisses, so each word is slurred or snuffed. "You can't take any more pills. They coat your mind in blackness and I can't reach you." One of his hands lowers to my shirt and I feel his warm fingers against my waist.

"Reach me?"

"No. More. Pills," he says and bites my lip. It's gentle, unexpected, and when I lick at the spot, his teeth bite at my tongue. His hand moves up my waist, carrying the bottom of my shirt with it,allllll the up and just below my breast. I squirm, trying to shove my breast into his hand.

"Please," I gasp and shift my lower body into his, opening my legs. "Edward, please."

He groans and his hands drop to my hips, and he pulls me into him. On top of him, but we're seated. He won't let us lie down, no matter how hard I push at him.

"You're not ready yet," he breathes.

"Stop telling me that," I cry. "You don't know."

In answer, he bucks against me and I feel him just where I want him, and a surge of power jolts through my body. This is so, so, so very good, good, good. "Don't you stop," I tell him. "Don't you dare."

I feel his huff of laughter against my temple, his lips there, before they move down to capture my mouth again. Like always when we kiss, he's breathing raggedly like he just can't get enough, will never get enough. I'm right there with him, dizzy and on the verge of losing all control. When will he make me his?

His hand holds me by the hip, adjusts me as we move against each other, and I'm throbbing with need. About to lose it all, when his other hand finds the skin of my naked waist again. Slowly, slowly he moves it up until his fingers are bumping against the edge of my bra.

"Go underneath," I command, and he does. The tips of his fingers bump against the skin that covers the bottom of my breast, and he's less than an inch away. "Touch me, Edward."

Shiver bumps break out all along my body as the tip of his thumb sweeps across my nipple, and I cry out and arch away from him. He swears and surges against me hard, fingers suddenly tugging at my panties. It hurts, it hurts how hard he's pulling… but it's good, his finger down there feels so good, and I'm splintering. Coming undone. Am undone.

I'm still shaking and quaking when he pulls his finger away from me and sticks it in his mouth. His eyes are black, intense and angry, and then he leans down to kiss me open mouthed so I can taste myself on his tongue.

"I love you," he says. "I love you, I love you, I love you."