A/N: Thank you for the reviews! A few notes – this will be a HEA, I'll be sure to add more trigger warnings to prevent surprises, and trust me, the storyline (besides the healing) is VERY important. As I said before, please let me know your thoughts by reviewing! Also, not every chapter will be Bella's POV. I have some in Edward's chapter, thought I'm not currently planning to do any other POVs (that may change though!)

TRIGGER WARNING: recovery from Rohypnol, mentions of rape kit

Chapter 2 – IV lines

I was aware of the coolness covering my body before anything else. It seemed someone had covered me in a sheet of ice – perfectly molded to fit every crevice and curve of my body. Ice unable to melt against the warmth that once existed in my skin.

There was a buzzing in my ear that was entirely aggravating, but unable to be quelled by anything. My body felt absolutely fatigued, and my mind dragging sluggishly after it.

Moronically, and quite morbidly, I wondered if this was what insects felt like when put in the freezer. Sluggish. Fatigued. Dead.

I wondered if I'd ever slip past the fatigue long enough to get up and grab a blanket. Maybe I could call Charlie and he would grab one for me. If Edward was with me – and perhaps the source of the ice – he would get me one faster and more silently than Charlie could. But if Edward was the cause, why didn't he notice me shivering?

With a bitterness I despised, my mind races to our previous conversation. He was hunting. Of course, he wasn't here now.

I could just curl up into a tight ball and try to sleep. Then no one – myself included – needed to be bothered with grabbing the blanket.

Just like those poor insects, I was well on my way to death, it seemed.

"Isabella, darling, can you hear me?"

Yes, of course I could. You were practically screaming in my ear. Did no one understand the concept of talking at a reasonable volume? I thought we'd all learned that in preschool . . .

"Open your eyes, dear."

So loud.

But I try. Because if I could open my eyes, then I could open my mouth and tell the voice to shut up. My muscles are slightly more cooperative than I expect, considering that I was a frozen bug on my way to death.

When I do open my eyes, I'm faced with a dark room. Everything was blurry – all the shapes and colors blending into soft hues. The dull colors hardly quaked the nausea I suddenly felt. The room was shaking like an earthquake was ravaging Forks, Washington.

That was strange.

I was elevated – the surface beneath me folding up to prop my torso up – and now that my eyes were open, I could see that there was no ice covering my body. I was just cold.

"Ah, it's good to see those eyes open." The same voice from before said. It was much quieter now. I turn my head, wincing immediately at the pain I felt as I did so. Blinking as the pain receded, I watched the colors separate into slightly distinct objects. White walls. Pink vinyl chairs. Tan doors.

A woman was standing at the foot of my bed. She was holding a strange, grey-colored binder. Her blonde hair was pulled tight, her face in a strange sort of scowl that enhanced her wrinkles.

"How are you feeling?" Her voice was not soft, and I flinch.

My mouth feels like someone stuffed cotton balls into it. I run my tongue over my lips, noticing how dry and cracked my whole mouth felt.

"You took a long while to wake up." The woman says. She was wearing mint green scrubs. "Don't move your shoulder."

I blink slowly, my thoughts a flurry as I process her dramatic words.

What happened to my shoulder?

The bluntness of her voice wrapped up with her scowl makes my stomach twist.

I stare at her, remembering her scrubs. Was she a doctor? A nurse? Has she introduced herself? I couldn't remember.

Did she tell me what happened to my shoulder? I hadn't broken it, had I?

"Water . . . Please." My throat burned, and my voice was hoarse and slurred. Judging by the lack of response, I'm sure I was hardly comprehendible and much too quiet. Did my shoulder injury impact my throat? Or maybe the other way around. . . How would my throat break my shoulder?

I never paid enough attention to the anatomy section of Biology. I was more focused on getting sick.

"You gave us quite a scare." The woman says, though her voice is curt, and the words feel strange coming from her. "Well, can you tell me what happened?"

What happened? I swallow thickly, grimacing as I realize the pain was present again. I didn't remember being sick or having a sore throat or breaking my arm.

I gave her – or, rather, us – quite a scare. I didn't know what she could mean.

My eyelids fall shut, realizing with an exhausting breath that I was both confused and tired. It was difficult to focus on being confused when I was this tired. But it was difficult to let myself be tired when I had questions.

The woman with the scowl also had questions, and she wasn't letting up.

"Isabella? It's imperative that I know what happened." I open my eyes, but they fall shut again. She wasn't looking at me. She was looking at the binder, and talking mostly to herself. The words faded in and out. "Luckily you haven't showered . . . Collect DNA . . . You were unconscious before. . . Didn't need consent. . ."

My shoulder. Something with my shoulder . . . I open my eyes, blinking as I try to clear away the distorted colors again. The colors were shifting, moving.

"Maybe some more morphine. . . and then I'll get the exam done easily." The woman taps my arm. "Are you in pain, Isabella?"

"Nurse Wicker, I can take this from here."

I blink again, watching as a new person with striking blonde hair and pale skin entered the room. Carlisle.

The woman – the nurse – jumps, looking startled. "Oh, Dr. Cullen, I didn't hear you come in."

He smiles in response.

"I just need to take her vitals." She continues, reaching for something beyond my head. My eyes shift to Carlisle, he's watching me with a cautious expression.

"I can do that, thanks." Carlisle offers in a gentle, yet firm, voice. "Is this her file?"

The nurse looks defiantly at him, her fingers curling around the binder more tightly. She seemed to have abandoned the thing she was reaching for. "I'm assigned to her case."

Carlisle pauses, smiling. "I appreciate that. I'll page if you're needed."

The nurse huffs as she hands over the binder, turning on her heals. I watch her body get blurrier as she walks away, her mint green scrubs blending into the tan and white of the walls. The door shuts loudly behind her when she leaves, and I flinch again as the noise pounds into my head.

Carlisle moves closer to me, pulling up a chair and sitting down. "I must apologize, Bella. I intended to be here when you woke but I was caught in a meeting." Carlisle shakes his head slowly. "Though, I believe, Nurse Wicker had something to do with your waking when I was busy."

I stare at him, quizzically, not understanding his words. I was too tired to ask him to explain, though, when he continues.

"Let's not worry about her for now." He frowns, his eyes flickering to mine momentarily.

Carlisle reaches past my field of vision, procuring a plastic cup with a white straw. Relief floods through me as I realize how dry my mouth and tongue feel, and he guides the straw to my mouth.

I sip greedily, trying to ignore as my throat protests with each gulp. The water is room temperature, and does little to soothe my throat.

Carlisle's hand sweeps across my forehead, and I shiver against his cold touch.

"You were running a slight fever before, but it seems to be going now. That's a good sign." He murmurs gently. "Are you in any pain?"

My throat. My throat hurts. I want to immediately blurt it out, but my muscles feel like molasses. I really didn't want to speak.

"You had surgery, Bella." Carlisle says, as if he could read my mind. "The breathing tube will have made your throat a bit sore."

Had Carlisle and Edward switched gifts recently? Moreover, how was he able to read my mind?

"Esme is making you some soup to help the soreness." He continues, moving the cup away. "I'm sure she'll bring some by soon. We certainly did not expect to have you awake so soon, but I'm pleased you are."

"It doesn't hurt that much." My voice was a horse whisper. My wince coinciding with my words must have given my lie away.

"She's not put out, Bella." He smiles, chuckling quietly. "How do you feel?"

For a moment, the only sound in the room was the steady beeping of monitors. My head was hurting – perhaps from the annoyance of the sounds.

"My shoulder. . ." I whisper, though even I heard the disbelief in my voice. My shoulder didn't hurt. Nothing hurt – except my head and my throat. "She said. . . I don't remember. . ."

Carlisle smiles softly, reaching to touch my arm. "It's just a blood pressure cuff." He murmurs. "You must have been moving when we were trying to get a reading."

The Velcro makes my head pound as it's stripped off itself. Then Carlisle slides the cuff off my arm, showing it to me.

"Oh." I mumble, feeling utterly ridiculous and slightly embarrassed. A blood pressure cuff. "The beeping . . ."

"Heart monitor." He responds gently. Maybe he understood my frustration at the beeping because he eventually reaches above me, turning the monitor off. The room dims as the illumination of the monitor disappears from the room.

"Oh." I swallow thickly, feeling even worse. "I thought – she said not to move."

I close my eyes, wishing I understood more of what was happening. I had been in the hospital plenty of times – but I don't ever remember waking up in one with little recollection of why I was there.

I open my eyes, watching Carlisle as he watches me with tightened eyes.

"Bella, do you know where you are?" His voice was casual, and he leans back in his chair slowly. My eyes crawl over the vinyl chair and then back over my body under the ice blanket.

I blink once, and then again and again. Nothing quite made sense. "Forks Hospital."

I felt strangely queasy. I didn't smell blood, though. Still, I took slightly more tentative breaths, prepared to hold my breath if needed.

Carlisle reaches out, touching his fingers to my wrist. "Yes, you are." His voice masked with pain. Carlisle couldn't hide his compassion if he tried, and he rarely tried. "Do you know why you're here?"

My thought flicker back to the nurse and her warning not to move my shoulder. It was just a blood pressure cuff, though. Not at all what I imagined it was.

I tried to remember – what had I done? What landed me in the hospital with a stay that required surgery and left me with a splitting headache and a sore throat. The pounding of my head was almost mocking me – nearly encouraging me to try and think and make it hurt more.

A fuzzy memory popped into my head – Edward, standing before me, instructing me not to get hurt.

I moan, closing my eyes. If my eyes stayed closed, the room stopped shaking. "Edward is going to be so worried." I open my eyes, trying to glance around the room. I could barely make out anything behind Carlisle. "Where is he?"

"He's on his way." Carlisle tells me easily. "He was hunting."

"He told me not to get hurt." I grimace as I speak the words. Of course, this would happen. Of course, he would leave me, and I'd end up in the hospital. He wouldn't ever let me out of his sight again.

"Do you want him to come here?" Carlisle asks slowly, his eyes slightly bewildered.

I shrug, then wince as pain rushes through my body. Now something hurt other than my head and throat. Everything hurt. I glance at my body nestled beneath the blankets. Nothing looked strange or out of place – but it was not the normal, sore pain I was used to with my frequent accidents and clumsiness.

"Bella?"

"No, it's better that he comes. He'll be anxious."

"And you?"

I stare at Carlisle, not understanding his question or his baffled tone. "You have to take my vitals." I murmur finally, wanting some sort of distraction for myself and for Carlisle. He was watching me. Waiting for me to speak, to answer his question.

He nods, rearranging his features to remove any signs of his confusion. "Yes, I suppose I do need to do that." He stands up, reaching for the binder that was placed on the foot of the bed. He pulls a pen from his jacket, scribbling some notes onto the papers. "Are you in any pain?"

"My throat." I mumble, and then I immediately flood with embarrassment. I had already complained about that once. "My head, too." I add quickly, as if that would pull his attention away from my repetition.

I lift my wrist, reaching up to touch my head. But my hand and wrist were covered in a thick white cast, shifting my attention from my headache. A small breath of shock escapes my lips.

Carlisle moves to my side instantly, gently taking my encased hand in his.

"You have a concussion, Bella." He says slowly. His fingers rub small circles on the exposed parts of my fingers as I stare at my hand.

My fingers tremble slightly, and my stomach churns. "You said – the nurse. . ." I whisper, feeling hot tears pooling in my eyes.

"It's a small fracture in your wrist. It will heal easily."

I shake my head, trying to will the tears away while also trying to remember how I'd broken it. My mind seemed utterly blank. Void of any memories connected to my wrist.

"I don't – I can't. I can't remember." I whisper, almost frantically. "Why? Why can't I remember?"

"What do you remember, Bella?" Carlisle asks me gently.

I swallow thickly, feeling overwhelmed by the confused emotions rushing through me. I close my eyes, a strange sense of betrayal washing over me as my tears fall onto cold cheeks. They made my vision blur in a way that discomforted me immensely.

What did I remember?

The nurse. With her cold eyes and thin-set lips and curt voice. My headache – splitting and heated. The icy coldness of my body as I awoke. Watercolor images. Pictures blurred together in a strange way.

"Watercolors."

"What's that?"

How did I explain the dull colors that made no sense? I look at Carlisle, opening my mouth to explain, but I wasn't quite sure how to. Looking at him, through my tears, sends my heart into a frenzy. It takes me a moment to realize that the drum in my ears is not one Carlisle is playing.

With a jolt of pain in my stomach, I dimly remember the blonde hair of someone else. And the pain I begged to disappear – begging Carlisle, begging Jacob, begging someone else.

I pull my hand from Carlisle's grasp, feeling as if he was squeezing it too hard. My wrist seared with pain, though his grasp was light and easily pushed away.

"Bella," Carlisle says gently. "Breathe."

There was an erratic beeping in my ears. I wanted to pound my hands against my ears to make it stop. I yank my hand furiously, wanting to wipe the traitorous tears from my eyes. Except there's a tugging on my hand that is entirely unpleasant and makes me freeze in place.

A thin, clear tube was running beneath the layers of bandages wrapped around my hand.

"Take it out!" My throat burned with every word, but my head hurt more. Pressure threatened to make my entire skull explode with every word I screeched.

The memories flood back into my brain. A tsunami of pain, of fear, of helplessness. The look of enjoyment and the depth of peace in his eyes as he tormented me. And watercolors. Dulled, watery colors. And a drug that induced them.

My hands fly to my stomach, feeling a pin-prick pain before I remember the drug is in my hand now.

"Take it out!" I plead, my casted hand hovering over my other, my fingers grasping the tube. Carlisle's cool fingers pull them away. "I want to leave." My voice trembles with the shivering of my body. "Take me home. Carlisle, take me home."

But not home. Don't ever take me back to that house. I never want to go back.

"Bella, listen to me," Carlisle urges, his finger on my chin so I'd look at him. I wanted to rip the tube out myself, and I could barely scrape my eyes away from my hand to look at Carlisle.

"Take me home. I want to go." I beg, my sore throat a long forgotten pain. I wrathfully wipe at my cheeks, brushing away stinging tears as quickly as they were falling. My hands were shaking – my bones turning to ice within my body and freezing me from the inside out. I wanted to scream – I couldn't see with my tears and I couldn't brush them away with my shaking hands.

"There's no needle, Bella. It's just a plastic tube, that's all." Carlisle professes knowledgeably. His fingers stroke my cheeks, helping me wipe away my tears. "It's saline to keep you hydrated and morphine to help with your pain. Nothing more."

"I don't want it." I plead, hiccupping a sob. "Take it out."

Carlisle was lying. There was no way I could be in this much pain if I had morphine in my IV.

The air around me seemed entirely too hot, and each breath scorched my lungs. I shove his hand away from my face, crying out as it hurt to move so suddenly.

Carlisle eventually nods slowly, his golden eyes watching me pitifully. "Alright."

His resignation shocks me for a moment, and then I turn immediately to desperation. I shove my hand at him, and he reaches for the tubing connecting my hand to the IV bag, detaching the two.

"No." I protest, shaking my head, feeling the betrayal return with uncontrolled force. "No. All of it. Carlisle, please. Take it all out."

Carlisle hesitates now, looking pained. He grasps my hand in both of his, squeezing. I flinch, violently yanking my hand back.

My stomach rolls with nausea as phantom fingers crawl over my broken wrist, squeezing it until pain explodes within. My head hurts then, at the back, as if I'd banged it against something hard. I knew I hadn't moved, though.

I wrap my IV-ridden hand over my cast, rubbing it to push the pain away.

"Bella, the IV is so we don't have to constantly inject you with needles. You need pain medicine and antibiotics."

"No." I shake my head, ignoring how much the movement increased the churning of my stomach. "No medicine."

He was wiping my face again. I'm not sure why – I was crying so much it didn't help at all.

"You had surgery. You need it or you'll be in pain, sweetheart."

I flinch at his words. Sweetheart. Had he ever called me that before? I couldn't remember. I squeeze my eyes shut, as if that'd push away all the hurt and pain.

"Please."

Carlisle looks reluctant, but he caves. His fingers start working at the tape and gauze holding the tube in my hand. A sob of relief escapes my lips, and I feel my head drop against my pillows in pure respite.

"Better?" He asks softly. I pull my hand to chest, grateful that the tugging of the IV tubing is gone, replaced only by a slight stinging where it once had been.

I nod, swallowing thickly. No more medicine. No more needles.

My chest hurt, but the air seemed to be cooling. I close my eyes again, wanting the darkness to envelop the pain the way it enveloped me before.

"I want to go."

"I think that's wise." Carlisle says quietly after a long pause. "Your father will be coming soon. He should see you first."

"Don't take me back." A shudder rolls over my spine, thinking back to my room. It had been my sanctuary. My space. The place Edward and I grew to know each other. I never wanted to go back there again. I open my mouth to clarify – don't take me back home, but please take me out of here. But Carlisle responds before I can.

"We won't." He promises. "Bella. . ." He hesitates, battling himself. "Do you remember?"

My stomach churns. "It's blurry. . . watercolors" My voice is strained, and my eyes hazy with tears again. My fingers kneed at my cast, rubbing away the pain.

Carlisle is silent for a long time, and I have to open my eyes to ensure he's still in the room with me. He's a statue, on the chair, watching me.

"You should get some rest." He finally says. "Your father will be here shortly."

My heart beats with a bizarre feel of rejection. His response – even delivered in his soft voice – still rang with dismissal.

"Carlisle?"

He looks at me, waiting.

"You said . . . With the nurse. That this was her fault."

He grimaces, turning away as he speaks. "I apologize, Bella. I shouldn't have spoken ill of her."

"Why?"

He turns to me, looking remorseful. "I suspect she wants the inside information before anyone else."

"She won't . . ."

"Your file will be safe in my office – away from prying eyes." He offers reassuringly. "It'll remain there, and I'll have her off your case immediately."

"I remember . . . talking . . . before." I cringe, remembering the muffled words that carried.

Carlisle nods. "Yes – I've spoken to them already. Both Edward and Alice are confident they can be trusted. If anything gets out, we'll know."

"Alice?" I feel the blood drain from my face. I exhale sharply. Why hadn't Alice seen what happened? Why hadn't she helped me. "She didn't see. . ."

Carlisle frowns, squeezing my fingers in his reassuringly. "She didn't know what happened until you were already here."

I gulp. My mind racing through what I could remember of being here. I shiver, remembering the loud voices and the anger vibrating from Jacob's body to me. "Jake?"

"He left as soon as I took you from him."

I close my eyes, feeling the fatigue stronger now.

He left. Jacob left.

"Sleep, Bella. We'll have time to talk later." Carlisle tells me tenderly. He pats the blankets around my trembling hands.

Neither of us say anything more.

My mind is scattered with fragments of pain and screaming, reflecting images of a pale man with blue eyes against my closed eyelids.

I'm unsure of whether Carlisle has left the room until he's pressing a warm towel to my forehead and mopping tears I hadn't realized I was shedding with a soft napkin.

I'm not sure when the images bridge to dreams, but they hold me captive in terror either way.