Grandaddy's truck swerved on the road, and Isabella thought all four tyres would buckle and run off.
She hadn't ever seen it go so fast, and as if tempting fate, cranked it into its last gear– the dead zone, if it was to have a name. The engine choked in response, its heart hammering 30 miles over the limit– its nostrils blaring out black smoke, hissing like a snake and charging like a bull.
Eddie, we're comin for ya'!
As the street curved, she jammed the wheel and grimaced, feeling the road melt like toffee beneath the heat of the cab– taking up Mothman Lane and its row of cute little boutique shops.
Mannequins and their flowery, presentable dresses waved at her now– stood beside dapper gentlemen and price tags that sailed way into the thousands. She resisted the urge to spit in their pretty direction as she drove on, nearing the church, the bakery, and then the bus-stop.
A scream, a groan and a thud echoed.
Isabella's blood ran cold.
She swerved the truck and slid in the leather cab, almost missing the brake through slamming it in time to see four huddled bodies, and one tall other.
Paul had brought the whole gang.
They danced like shadows, diving in and out of the spotlight lamp that glitched beside the bus stop pole– a flickering mess that highlighted a flash of skin, a torn shirt and blood.
Lots of blood.
Isabella gasped in horror as Eddie Cullen fell back a few steps, his face an array of bruises and blood– a pair of eyes barely visible under so much swelling. His shirt was tattered, and the tattooed, haired stretch of his chest held cuts and scrapes. Its maker– a dull blade, held in the hands of Paul Swan himself– slashed forward, and Eddie drowsily slid to the side, missing it narrowly.
Two of the four boys were writhing in pain on the ground– witnessing the brunt of Eddie's primal rage, now licking their wounds. Paul's other accomplice, a much shorter guy– possibly Billy Wilson– was circling in skeptical sways. Not wanting to harm– or too scared of getting hurt, Isabella wasn't sure.
Though as Paul dove forward again, this time getting a hit with his knife, Eddie roared out in pain and fell against the metal pole, holding his chest.
A wrecking ball of fear smacked into Isabella's stomach, and throwing her fist down, she sounded the horn. Paul leapt back and skidded as he did, dropping his blade. Eddie's head snapped up like a wild animal, adrenaline turning his eyes a fearsome black.
She kicked open the passenger door and revved the engine, looking helplessly to Eddie as Billy Wilson scrambled to try and pin him down. Now scared of the mouse getting away.
The Cullen kid was quicker.
He dove forward and kicked the curb in a sprint, all but throwing himself into the cab of the truck and shouldering into Isabella's side. She wasted no time– firing off and leaving a goodbye skid-mark on Mothman Lane, hearing Paul scream as the truck roared off.
The passenger door on Eddie's side still swung gleefully open, saluting the boys in a sarcastic wave as Isabella jerked the stick into second gear, and then third, aiming for the road beyond Forks. Eddie used the remnants of his strength to shut it, clearly thinking Paul had superhuman strength to run for them now– hitting 70mph, now 80.
"Are you okay?" She heard herself ask, not quite watching the road.
He didn't answer.
"Don't fall asleep. Don't… look into the light." She stammered. "There's a hospital just south of here, okay? We'll be there soon–"
"No hospital." Eddie spluttered, trying to withstand his pain.
It was now coming in waves– drowning what remained of the adrenaline, his skin now a bloodless white.
"You're bleeding out!" Isabella protested.
He spoke through gritted teeth. "No fucking hospital."
She didn't argue again.
The truck kept going for another ten minutes, the thrum, wheeze and screech of its noises filling the panting silence between them– their shallow breaths drifting to eventual fear, and then a hangover from what happened.
Straining through a migraine, Isabella began to understand what she had done– what Charlie Swan was going to do when his eldest son returned home, and said she had kidnapped the Cullen kid.
The one that had tried to murder them all.
Her palms began slick on the wheel.
"Drop me off at the next bus station." She heard Eddie say, capturing the anxious wisps of her attention. Isabella looked across the cab, finding him nestled against the cool window, slick with sweat, his shirt covered in blood. She wouldn't forgive herself if she dumped him for dead, knowing the maggots and rats would eat at him before logic ever could.
She spun the wheel, heading down the next cut-off road– one that aimed toward Westville.
Westville was known primarily as the 'less evolved Forks' by those who lived in Forks, though from what she could remember, it had a slew of old motels and 24-hour shop-and-go stores.
She at least wanted to get him patched up before he caught the next bus.
As they pulled into the carpark of a petrol station, Eddie looked up, the fizzing lights reflecting against the beads of sweat on his face.
"What is this?"
"Stay put."
"Have you lost your mind?" Eddie panicked. "I need to get moving."
"I said 'stay put." Isabella affirmed, pausing to intensify the seriousness in her words. They shared a look, and the incredulous splash in his eyes dialed to frustration.
He looked away.
Isabella fished a handful of notes from the truck door, counting thirty– possibly thirty five if that was a real dollar and not one of Seth's prank ones– that Charlie had left in case of gas emergencies.
There wasn't a better time to blow it.
She headed into the store and kicked at her blue dress, avoiding the stare of the cashier as she wandered down the drug and beauty aisle. There, a row of bandages, painkillers and sanitary products were found.
She gathered what looked necessary and made a beeline for the till, stopping only as the liquor section came into view. Then, a bottle of Russian XS made its way into her arms.
Thankfully, the cashier didn't ask for any ID. Possibly because underage drinking wasn't as frowned upon in the south, or maybe because her dress line was sloping low. Though she took her receipt and paper bag gratefully, disappearing back into the carpark where she hoped Eddie hadn't died.
The passenger door was open, and he was sitting with his feet planted on the pavement, half-in-half-out.
Below, a few droplets of blood dirtied the tarmac.
"Are you okay?" Isabella asked as she approached. She scooped low and put the bag on the floor, opening its contents with one knee down.
Above her, he studied the bandages and alcoholic wipes– silent.
"Let me help." She furthered, reaching out a hand.
He recoiled.
"What are you getting out of this?" He asked, that Irish accent thick.
She frowned. "What do you mean?"
"This… helping me, saving me." Eddie's eyes narrowed. "It was your brother who did this."
"Are you forgetting that you held me at gunpoint? I'd say we're even enough to disregard family drama."
He had no answer for that.
Isabella took a moment before approaching, and then offered the bottle of vodka.
There was no quarrel between them when alcohol was on the table, and Eddie took it gladly with a screw, pop, flick and swallow– finishing a quarter before Isabella could even get the bandage packet open.
"Give it here," he said, irritated. He swiped the plastic off of her and bit through it with his teeth, keeping the vodka bottle on his knee as he did. With one shrug, his shirt was off, and then he lobbed a cupful of Russain XS across the slice in his side– making a pink puddle on the pavement.
Isabella stared, dumbfounded.
Eddie patched up the wound and held out a hand for surgical tape. All Isabella could find was duct tape, and despite the look he gave, he used it regardless.
"The hospital honestly isn't that far."
"You think I have money for an American hospital?" Eddie observed his bandaging, not looking up. "If I go there, I'll get slapped with a few thousand dollar debt and your family will know exactly where I am, what clothes I'm wearing, and what my star sign is. I'm safer dying in an alley."
Eddie Cullen wasn't wrong, though Isabella flinched at the thought.
"Besides, the cut wasn't that deep."
She thought his comment came from a place of ego, though as her eyes traced the haired planes of his torso, she mentally jotted the silvery gashes and old malforms that had been covered in tattoo ink.
A knife wound there, a smashed bottle in the hip to the left - and now, a sign left by Paul– by Forks.
Somehow, on him, it didn't look ugly.
"I'm sorry." Isabella whispered, faint though detectable.
A moment of silence passed between them, and as she watched him from the comfort of the pavement, he studied her from above– the broadness of his shoulders swallowing the moonlight that came from behind, making everything seem dark. Making it all seem hopeless.
"Hey." Eddie urged.
Isabella looked up.
"Don't ever apologize for someone else's actions. You did summit' good."
She all but rolled her eyes.
"This town is like a tumor, corrupting everything that ever tries to enter it." Isabella brushed the dirt off her hands, rising to a stand. "If I had a shred of sanity, I'd up and leave."
"Why don't you?" Eddie lifts the bottle, sipping without so much as a grimace. "All it would take is motivation."
"I don't have any of that left anymore."
"To experience things?"
"To live."
The moment those words left her mouth, she felt a surmountable ache of guilt. Though not for herself, but her mother. This woman had carried her, dressed her, fed her… and all she wanted to do was run away.
Too empathetic or stupid, Isabella couldn't read her own head.
Eddie said nothing, though swilled the liquor in his mouth like it was water– his throat now hot, the pain in his side no longer giving him jip.
"Where will you go?" Isabella asked.
Eddie shrugged. "My rucksack was left behind at the bus stop, I have no money to my name. I guess I'll just see where the wind takes me."
The idea seemed freeing, though only more guilt surfaced in Isabella. This time, it was for Paul and his pathetic actions.
"You can have what's left." Isabella extended a hand, a rolled up bunch of dollars and coins on offer. Eddie shook his head, though the generosity seemed to warm him further – a little wall knocking between them.
"Don't be stubborn." Isabella sighed, stepping forward to take his hand, pushing the money into his grip. From a height now he seemed less threatening– no shadows to cast her in, or leverage to make her feel small. He looked up then, his jaw set and liquor handy– the last person her daddy would want her to be on dark night with.
And alas, here she was.
"You're really going back?" He then asked, a little quieter, a little confused.
"Yes."
"Do you want to?"
"That's not the point."
"Isn't it?"
"Moving on isn't so easy when you have a family like I have." Isabella said, resentful.
Eddie laughed– a 'huh' sound that indicated otherwise. He lifted up the fist of cash she had given him, his knuckles white. "Imagine this being able to ruin a family rather than a little blood. My life depends on green paper."
Eddie stood and emptied those coins into the side-door of the truck, pulling the shirt back over his head.
If he was drunk, she could scarcely tell, though half of the vodka was gone, and that, too, followed its way into the door.
"Thank you very kindly for your help, Isabella. You saved me from bleeding out on a street corner, and for that, I'm grateful." Eddie said stiffly, passing her in an attempt to begin his trek somewhere–elsewhere–anywhere. "I'll be seeing yer."
All she did was stare.
All she could do was stare.
Eddie dipped past the light of the 24-hour grocery store, and kept going until he was out of sight.
All the while she settled back into the truck, her hand sitting absently on the wheel. The engine still as dead as the motivation to go back home was.
Home. Huh.
The idea was about as friendly as Paul's knife, now knowingly planted in her back. The idiot had most probably riled up Charlie and Honey with tales of the unexpected. She checked her phone just in case.
Two missed calls from Asshole.
She dialed and waited.
"You bitch!"
"Hi, Paul."
"Where is he? I'm going to kill you!"
"He got on the train twenty minutes ago. Eddie Cullen is long gone."
"Yeah?" Paul snapped, spitting a wad of saliva. She envisioned him pacing the street, his cronies equally as pent up and angry, despite being knocked down 1-4 by an Irish outsider.
The smile threatened to tweak on her lips, though she submerged it.
"Don't bother coming back, Isabella."
"Sure thing, Paul."
"I mean it. We don't want you here."
She hesitated.
He didn't mean that.
"You know what mama said when I told her you ran off with that Cullen kid? She said ``oh well." Paul scoffed. "That kid tried to off you with a gun, and mama didn't even bat an eyelid."
Isabella's eyes welled slightly, though she didn't let it reach her voice.
"You're a real asshole, you know that?"
"Whatever, Isab–"
"Tell mama I'm not coming home, and tell her you're one of the reasons why."
Isabella hit end and threw her phone so hard, it bounced off the glove compartment and clattered somewhere under the seat. The draw popped open, and from the corner of her unfocused gaze, she saw the poster she had kept.
The one for Wildetown.
It made her scoff, tears trickling and drizzling off her chin– coming now whether she liked it or not. Alas, Isabella didn't give into a true, chest-bursting cry, knowing he didn't deserve it; though she couldn't stop the hurt melting out of her like warm rain.
With one punch, she slammed the wheel hard enough to sound a honk, and another that juddered the trunk– hating home. Hating them. Hating the skin she found herself imprisoned in.
She wanted to rid herself of the eyes her mama had given her. The nose she inherited from her grandmother. The anger her father had poisoned down the family line.
She had a hatred for them that was as real as an organ, throbbing, pulsing and hissing like a tumor that had made itself at home– nestled between liver and lung, heart and head. Forks burrowed like a creature and intent on staying.
Though no longer.
Not now.
Not ever.
Fuelled by something stronger than anger, she revved the engine and kicked the gas pedal, tearing out of the car park. The full moon now staring beadily onto Westville.
The cab smelt strongly of him– of Eddie. A mixture of sweat, cologne and alcohol tainting all the age and peppermint of her grandaddy's truck. An urge, or a warning sign? She wouldn't know.
Though as Isabella swerved the wheel, his tall outline came into sight, lit only by the street lamps that fizzed unpredictably. He was heading to a hotel it seemed, or a lone bench.
Cringing at the idea, Isabella hit the horn to catch his attention.
Eddie's head snapped, a narrow gaze watching over his shoulder as she parked up to the curb.
She reached over to wind down the window.
"Get in."
"I'm not going to any damn hospital." He shook his head.
"Come with me, Eddie."
He had stilled entirely– from walking, from blinking, or maybe even from breathing.
"Where?" She heard him ask.
Isabella's eyes flickered down, meeting the poster in the glove compartment.
Through the light in the truck, the painted lights and glamor of another life stood out to her.
"I'm heading South." She tried to persuade through gritted teeth. "I'm going to Wildetown."
Eddie licked the sweat off his upper lip and laughed, the sound reflecting his thoughts– about what a bad idea this was, about the danger that lied ahead. A hand came up, and he scratched the back of his neck as he looked elsewhere, thinking, deciding.
As he turned back to the truck, something else flickered in his eyes– a little ounce of humanity.
"I'm not looking after you." He stated. "I'm not responsible for anything you do or don't decide to do."
Isabella swallowed."Likewise."
Eddie nodded, slow and tense, though eventually climbed back into the cab.
It was past Midnight before they reached the motorway.