WARNING: This chapter might be triggering to anyone who is sensitive to suicide or suicidal thoughts. Please proceed with caution.
Chapter 14
From her nest in the bed, surrounded by her pillows and her blankets, Bella sat unmoving, her face a mask of steel.
She could hear the commotion in the yard playing like music, loud and trembling, with a gut-roiling bass that made her shiver, though she was not cold. The noise of it, the clamour, made her stomach flutter with nerves, sound jumping from wall to wall like a skipping needle on an old record. She could not make out the words— unlike them, she did not have such impeccable hearing and finely-tuned senses— but she could hear some of it, and that was more than enough.
Alice's voice, so high and so furious, reigned over the others, and when Bella dared to peek out of the window, it was clear to her what had happened and it made her heart sink to her feet.
They were there, all six of them standing in a loose semicircle around a seventh— the newcomer. She could see Carlisle's hands moving, palms outstretched for a peace that would not come, and Emmett, his height making him stand out from all the others. Alice was shouting— she was close, so terribly close to that newcomer that it made Bella freeze with worry— and her voice carried, as if brought in by little birds to float through the closed window. The noise was atrocious— so sharp and so cruel— and as she rose from her blankets to watch, to listen, it was on legs that trembled like jelly.
"You will not!" cried the angry voice, and Bella made sure to hide herself, to crouch. It hurt when she felt the pull, her tender ribs still sore and swollen, but she held her breath to stave off the worst of it, keeping her ear tuned on the yard outside.
There was a murmur, and then another shout.
"I will not!" When she moved, it was with a speed that Bella could not follow, a terrible rush that she could not see. "I will not, Carlisle, and neither will he!"
At that word— that last, lonely word— Bella had heard enough and she slipped down to the floor, breathless.
In her heart she felt the sting— the aching, gnawing gap that had been her constant companion, her only companion, for months. It had come to her in those dark, cold hours she'd spent on the forest floor before she'd passed out on the ground, and had lingered like a ghost in the shadows ever since. She had banished it— had screamed herself hoarse to get it away and had clawed at it until her fingers bled— and at the very end, it had gone. On the cliff, with the wind in her hair, there had been no words but hers, no sadness but that from the weight of her own choices and failures. She had shouted her love from the clifftop, knowing that it would carry forever on the wind, and then she had leapt and when she'd been consumed by that icy water she had felt finally, gratefully free.
That ghost had been banished from her, sent back to the hell from whence it came, and Bella had hoped, had prayed, that it would stay away.
But even now,she had failed.
In the sweet, warm room with its bed of plushest gold Bella sat huddled on the floor, that great wound in her chest aching and smarting with every breath. It was not the broken bones— not the purple bruises on her chest, or the deep ache of strained and beaten muscles— but that other hurt, the bite from that beast that had festered. That bite which she knew, as she curled in on herself to ease the edges, would be the wound that killed her.
Killed her… that was a soothing thought, but before it could sink its teeth in she made sure to think of other things. The last time she had thought like this, the last time her plans had become too solid, she'd infuriated Alice and petrified Esme, though the latter was too kind to ever accuse her of any wrongdoing. She had seen Esme's grief in every line and angle, painted like watercolours on her smooth, perfect face, and it had hurt Bella, though there was no hope for it. She could not help the hurt she caused any more than she could avoid the ever-present ache, and though she longed for it to quit, for that pain to finally cease, she didn't know how to make it stop. She didn't know how to soothe it, how to ease herself away from the precipice she'd found, because she was soft, and she was feeble, and she was sad.
She hated that sadness more than anything else in the world. That sadness ate at her, left her friendless and alone even here, where she was surrounded by such inexplicable love, and no matter how she fought it or cursed it, it would not leave her. It was more than a blue mood, more than even a black mood, and it made her weak as she tried to carry it. She could not hold it— she could not even hold herself— and though she tried with aching, strained muscles, she knew that she would never be strong enough, never brave enough. It crushed her like an ant, left her flailing by herself in the dark, and all because she could not be courageous or determined. Though she felt that weight like an anvil, so impertinent and so heavy, there was nothing in the world that she could do to ease it because she was not enough. She would never be enough… would never be good enough, no matter how much she wished she could be.
All things considered, she did not quite know how she had come to be here, or more importantly, why. Further still, she did not know why there had been such gentleness, such care taken to make her well, and safe.
These people were not her family— not her true family, which had been lost forever from the world she knew. Their kind mother, one whom she loved dearly, was not her mother, no matter how much Bella wished she could be. This father was not her father— was not the one she craved or the one for whom she cried in the night, and there was no amount of wishing, no amount of longing, that could ever bring him back.
The thought of Charlie hurt like a fresh, seeping wound, and the sting of it brought tears to her eyes, though she wiped them angrily on her sleeve. She was sick to death of crying— so sick that she thought that one more tear might drain her dry— and so she squeezed her eyes shut, determined not to see. But behind her eyelids, in the cool, soft darkness, the sight of him was all that she could see and she blotted it out with her fists, scattering that bloody, reckless violence into spasms of blue and violet light.
She did not understand this, either— the sight she had seen so very near the end. She could not make sense of it even now— could not bring herself to really think on it, or examine it. She knew the logistics of it, of course… that would never leave her, as long as she lived. She remembered the blood and the odd smears it had made across the old checkerboard linoleum of the kitchen floor. Its vivid scarlet on the white, its darkness on the dull, brooding black. The shiny pink muscle of his arm, still held out in desperate defense against his assailant, and the way his head had looked, resting at such an odd, unnatural angle…
She had looked upon that violence with eyes that saw clearly, but with a mind that did not quite process. It had been the smell of it— the death, the blood— that had sent her to pieces, and when she'd started to scream, she'd wondered if she'd ever be able to stop again.
She did not know how it had all come to a close. She did not remember what had come after… only the briefest flicker of a church, the warm, sweaty arms of Billy Black around her shoulders, a kiss from his son Jacob, searing hot on the apple of her cheek. She had no idea how the ambulance had gotten to her— had she screamed loudly enough to alert the neighbours, or had she managed to find the phone herself? — and she did not know who she had spoken to at the hospital, or the police station… all she had known, from the minute it had happened, was that ragged, loose thread that had been wrenched from her heart, still pulsing with life that would never return and with an unfathomable love that would never be answered.
Her father was dead, and she couldn't understand why.
Thinking of him now, Bella shook her head, pressing her eyes to her knees to blot him out again. There was nothing else for it— it would not bring him back, and it did her no good to dwell on it— and she took as deep a breath as she could manage before her panic got out of hand. Before the crushing sorrow returned. Before she felt it again— that terrible, uncontrollable urge, so deep in her heart and soul, to tear herself away from the world and find that peace which had been so near to her in that water and which had been dragged so terribly, horribly far in the interim.
She could pinpoint it— the exact moment she had discovered that she wanted to die.
La Push— there had been a bonfire there, once, when she was very little, and she could remember the stories told around the fire. She recalled the Quileute legends, so vividly brought to life by a man so old that Bella could hardly see his face for all the wrinkles. That man had smiled at her, inviting her to sit at his knee with all of the other children though her skin had been the wrong colour, so pale and so white. The night had been cold, she remembered, and peppered with cloudy starlight. She remembered Charlie's wrinkled grin as he roasted fish over the flames with Billy… the warmth of the fire, soothing the chill of the night at her back. The roaring sea, close enough to taste, and the way the water had licked her ankles, nipping them with bitter warning.
She had chosen the spot with purpose— the very same place where she and her father had launched countless boats into the churning, rocky waves in the warmest days of summer. They had docked on the islands, had clambered perilously over rocks and hills in search of fish that wouldn't bite, and Bella had found wonder there, and peace. She had loved the sound of that water, so dangerous and so hard, and she had loved the feel of the ground beneath her feet each time she had stepped off the boat. There had been a call in her soul when she set foot on those rocky shores where there were no houses, no people. They had been alone on those islands— together in strange and gentle solitude— and she had known him there, had felt him. Bella had missed her father growing up— dad was a word she had often heard, but seldom had the chance to use— and when it had been just the two of them, alone on those islands, she had found that word again and it had been filled with love. In those places it had been her word, and hers alone, and she had delighted in the speaking of it— dad, dad, dad.
I love you. She'd cried those words before she jumped. She did not know for whom she had meant them, which ears she'd hoped they'd reach, but as she'd taken the plunge, so fast and so final, it had been Charlie she'd felt beside her, his hands she'd reached for when she finally hit the churning, icy water.
That water had taken her quickly. It had taken her harshly. She recalled the plunge, and she recalled that first and final breath— searing salt in a body that clamoured for the open air of the sky. She recalled the voice she'd heard in those last few moments before her eyes had closed and she had drifted, uncaring, on those steely, grey waves.
I love you too.
She did not remember anything that had come after, though she'd heard the story over again a hundred times. She did not recall how Jasper had pulled her, had no recollection of his hands making those terrible bruises on her chest. She could not recall the feel of his icy lips blowing life back into her, or the water Alice had described that had poured from her like a fountain. She did not remember breathing, did not remember waking, and she did not remember the kind words he had spoken in those few, stolen moments, though he'd said them over again at least a hundred times since.
She had awoken, confused and bewildered, in a house that she knew well, with people she thought lost, in a world she'd thought was dead.
She could not understand it, really… not when she stopped to think, to consider.
That seventh figure out on the lawn, so berated by his sister, had been the catalyst for the whole, terrible ordeal. She had loved him, once— had imagined herself with him forever, unchangeable and sure— and the thought of it now made her achy and furious. She was angry for the hurt he'd caused, for the damage he'd done, though he should have known better. She was angry with him for the devastation he'd wrought. She wanted to pummel him, and shun him, and take him with her over that steep, rocky cliff… but most of all she wanted to end herself for the pang she felt, for the longing in her heart at the very idea of him and the love that he'd so cruelly given. The love that she had clung to, so lonely and so naive, and the love that he'd denied her, had thrown back in her face like an insult.
Her weakness had never been more apparent, more critical, than it was when she had fallen for him. That weakness gave him such hold over her, bent her to his will at the slightest touch. That weakness had been her undoing, had brought her to her knees, for it had not been weapons or violence that had brought her so low, but words— only a few hard and careless words.
Five words had ruined her— five, short words, so cruelly spoken in the blue twilight, and so calculated and cutting that she knew they'd been meant to strike hard, to wound. They'd been the words she'd been expecting ever since he'd confessed to her his love, and the words she'd feared above all others— the words of truth he'd held in his heart and the words she'd held in hers from the moment she'd felt the pull of his love.
I don't want you, Bella.
But oh, how she had wanted him…
She had wanted him more than anything else in the world.
She would have done anything, been anything he'd wanted her to be because she was so hungry, so desperate for his love and his affection. She'd clung to every kiss, had pounced on every touch. Each whisper, each caress, had been like gold to her, tucked away in her pauper's purse where she kept all her precious things, and it had grown heavy and full. The way he looked at her, like she'd hung the moon, and the way he'd touched her, so soft and so sweet— all so treasured, so valued, and yet so feeble, like fading photographs in an old, worn album.
She could not recall the feeling of that love— the warmth of it, or the sweetness— because it was shadowed by those words of disdain. The light in the world had gone with him, snatched from the fleeing blue of the sky and leaving in its place that impenetrable blackness, the terrible, awful cold.
She had felt it then, on that first night— the niggling voice in the back of her head, the sweet and sensible suggestion that she might not have to endure it, that there was another way. There had been no plans, then— no visions of cliffs and trees— but there had been a thought, though fleeting, and brief.
No. She had not really wanted to die just then, when he had fled into the darkness of the night. She had not wanted to die when she'd found her father dead, or when she'd screamed herself so hoarse that her voice had been lost for more than a week. She did not want to die when they'd lowered him into the ground, or when all of her emails to Alice had come back unsent, but only when she'd made that phone call, the third in a long line that had gone unanswered.
"Please, mom… please," she'd begged, her heart in tatters. "Please, mama, please, please, please."
Renee had never answered.
Bella could not explain her mother's absence any more than she could Charlie's, and though there was no blood to tell of violence, no corpse to tell of death, Bella knew that that was the only thing that would have kept her mother from her, that would have made Renee so silent in her child's time of need. Her mother would not have ignored her when Bella called her weeping. She would not have abandoned her when the police had called to tell her what had happened. She would not have left her child alone, so frightened and so cold in a place that she, herself, despised, and she would not have kept her silence. Not Renee, who was so loud that her voice could fill a stadium. Not Renee, who had let her daughter go when the time had come, but who had pined for her, that one constant in her sea of change and movement.
Bella and Renee went together like yin and yang, each so essential that it was hard to figure out who they were without the other. Bella was the shore and Renee was the sea. She was the earth and her mother was the moon, spinning so high above the world in a sky all its own. They moved together, breathed together, and though Bella had cried for her, screamed for her, she had not come. There could only be one reason why Renee had not answered this final, desperate call, or why she had left her daughter so alone in the great, wide world. Only one reason for this awful silence, and that reason was because Renee couldn't answer.
Renee couldn't hear her, no matter how loudly Bella shouted. She couldn't come, no matter how desperately she reached. She couldn't hold her, or kiss her, or whisper sweet comforts, because like Charlie, Renee was gone, and there wasn't a soul left in the world that Bella dared to love.
Love had gotten her into this mess, she knew— love for her family, and love for him— and she was still so full of it that it leaked out of her like water. Her heart broke into pieces when those bonds were snapped and when she'd been alone in that house of horrors with the blood still staining the floor, she'd known that there was no other recourse, no other way. Her decision had come swiftly and with such urgency that she hardly realized where she was going until she got there, and then she had jumped, so high and so far, to find her way back to the family who loved her.
In the complete and utter silence of the bedroom, flowing over her like waves, there was a crash and she started, cracking her head against the wall. The pain bloomed strong, making her eyes stream as she hissed, and in an instant the door was open, a face swimming in front of her own.
"Are you alright, darling?" said Carlisle, and she felt his touch, his cold fingers on her cheeks. She nodded, clenching her eyes shut to stave off the sting and he reached back to feel the bump, tutting.
"Did we frighten you, with the noise?" Bella said nothing. "I am sorry… it's been a little heated."
"I heard."
He stared at her, his face unreadable.
There was something about Carlisle, about the way he looked at her, that made Bella feel at once ashamed and terribly, gratefully cared for. He was never unkind, never anything less than perfectly polite and courteous, and though she could not quite believe that he felt the same way about her, she longed for him, and the comfort he gave. He had always been intimidating to her— Edward's handsome and wealthy father, a doctor with centuries of experience and a seemingly endless supply of compassion. She knew she must seem young to him, so terribly, awfully young, and perhaps now a fool, given what she had done. Bella felt guilt when Carlisle was with her— guilt for her own weakness, and guilt for the work she'd made for him when she'd thrown herself from the cliff— but he never berated her for it, never scolded.
His kindness was unfailing, his gentleness unparallelled, and she heard the words he'd spoken to her so many times that she'd lost count. So many times, and yet she still did not quite believe him, did not understand the why or the how of those startling declarations that made her stomach writhe with nerves and her heart throb in her chest.
"You are loved," he had told her, "you are cherished. You are good, and you are kind, and you are wanted, Bella." None if made any sense. "We love you, and we are going to fight for you. We are going to die for you, if needs be…"
Shame roiled in her belly like an eel, bringing tears back to the forefront and he sighed, his mouth drawn in an unhappy frown. Edward had always told Bella that she was difficult to read, but Carlisle seemed to have no problem with it and he read that shame like a book, smoothing his finger over the crease between her brow to ease the tension.
"I wish you wouldn't," he said, and when his arms wrapped around her she leaned in, feeling his tense surprise at her willingness, her acceptance. She was so rarely receptive to his affection, so rarely open to the comfort he could give, and she knew that this hurt him, that her rejection stung worse than her words ever could. This time, though that unhappy feeling still rumbled in her insides, she did not push him away, resting her cheek on his shoulder and feeling the strong span of his hands on her warm, trembling back.
They did not need to speak, silent as they were, and Bella wound her arms about his waist to let herself settle against his angles and his curves. She shivered at the cold of him, so piercing that it seemed to sink into her very bones to freeze them stiff. She felt the blanket he grabbed, pulling it down from the bed to drape over her shoulders, but she did not budge, letting the chill of his body soothe her angry bruises while the warmth of his soul soothed her weary, ragged mind.
He touched the spot on her head again, bringing his hand up to cup the angry, pulsing bump, and when she felt his lips on her hairline she shivered, tucking herself down a little tighter.
She did not know how he did it— how he managed to hold all the pieces of her together— but he did, and he did not push her away even when she began to tremble with the cold, or when the door opened again and there was a new, louder voice.
"We won't be able to hold him, Carlisle," the voice said and Bella felt his sigh on the crown of her head. "He won't be deterred…"
"Give us a moment, would you Emmett?" She heard the rumbling assent, the quiet, careful retreat. From downstairs there were more sounds— louder, now, and more urgent— but Bella paid them no mind as Carlisle gently pried her arms away, letting the ache grow stronger again in his absence.
She did not know what he saw in her— what torment he must have made out on the lines of her face— for when he sighed again the sound was sad and perturbed.
"You must know, Bella, why we were gathered in the yard."
And at once, she felt her face go hot.
The sight of him, so near and so perfect, had made her knees tremble though she had not been standing. She had avoided the sight of him, had avoided even the thought of him until that very morning, and she felt her worry on her face in mottled, cherry red. The heat in her cheeks was scarlet, her throat suddenly tight and nervous, but when she felt the cool knuckles brush away the redness she sighed, nodding only once to show she'd heard.
Behind her ribs, she could feel each beat of her heart like a drum.
"He's downstairs, Bella," said Carlisle, and Bella turned her face away. "He is…"
Carlisle hesitated, his eyes bright.
"He is… anxious," he said, choosing his words most carefully. "He's very anxious, sweetheart, and he wants to come and speak with you."
At once, Bella was on her feet.
Though the speed of her frail human body could not shock him, Bella saw the surprise at the urgency of her movement, the suddenness. She was on her feet in hardly a second, her back pressed against the span of wall beside the window where she'd hidden, and there was a rushing now, in her neck and in her ears. Carlisle did not say anything— he only watched, his golden gaze unsettled— and when she shook her head he frowned again, reaching out his hand for her to take.
She did not, and he let it fall with a sigh.
"I will not force you, Bella…" The words came slowly, and as if from somewhere else. "I will not force you to see him, if that's not what you want…"
"I can't, Carlisle."
And that was the terrible, awful truth of it— she could not face him, not with those words still hanging between them, and furthermore, she did not want to. She did not want to look into those eyes and see the man she remembered, the kindness he would show her, the sweet words he would whisper. Rosalie's visit hung heavy in her mind, her words weighted down like anchors— he is not coming back for us— but Bella could not believe it. She could not believe that he would be here for her, that he would want her again after the things she'd seen and done, and she would not do that to herself again, would not give him the satisfaction.
Because she knew that if she let him, he would ruin her again ten times over and because she was so weak she would take it, again and again, until it destroyed her altogether.
"That's alright, Bella…" There was a commotion, a scuffle, outside the door. "That's quite alright, now…"
"Let me go, Emmett!" The muffled voice made her flinch, and there was a scratching at the door. "For God's sake, Emmett, let me go!"
She trembled when she spoke, the words warped as if she were speaking underwater. She hardly recognized the sound of it— the odd cadence, the high, thin warble— but the noises stopped at once, the hallway silent as a grave.
"Go away, Edward." The name, passing her lips for the first time since he'd left her, made an ache shoot down from her head to her toes. "Go away and leave me alone. There's nothing in the world that I want to say to you."
"Bella, please…" Her name, so sweetly spoken, made her turn, her face pinched with sudden grief. "Bella please. Just open the door…"
"Make him stop, Carlisle," she begged, and at once he was on his feet. "Please, make him go. I don't want to see him. Please, please make him leave."
The fear in the room was a tangible entity, as if the house had come to life and was squeezing, crushing them in jaws of steel and iron. Alice felt it in her bones, writhing like worms beneath her skin, and she tasted it on the tip of her tongue as if the air itself were singed with it, blackened and burned.
From upstairs, the voices rang clear.
"Bella please… Just open the door…"
"Make him stop, Carlisle. Please, make him go. I don't want to see him. Please, please make him leave!"
"Bella, love, please…"
"Don't call me that!" The voice shouted in the hush and Alice felt a thrill of vindication, of righteous, wholesome pride. "Don't you dare! Make him leave, Carlisle, please… or let me go. If he won't, then I will."
Alice was on her feet, her teeth bared as she ascended up the stairs.
On the second floor landing Alice halted, her gaze honed on that trembling form in Emmett's grip, the agonized, terrified face that earned nothing from her but scorn. Emmett's hands were immovable though their brother thrashed and pulled, and Emmett scowled at him, disapproving. Edward reached for the doorknob, his fingers scrabbling madly, and it was Alice who slapped him away just as Carlisle pulled the door open.
The tableau must have seemed ridiculous to him, so calm and so even-keeled as he was. The three of them were frozen— Edward still straining, Emmett's fists clenched tight around his arms, and Alice's fingers, curled into claws as she prepared to strike again, when her first warning blow had not deterred him. All three heads turned to see their father as he fixed them with a cold, hard stare, and when he closed the door resolutely behind him, Alice could see that the girl was turned away, her back to them as she curled up on her bed.
"You will respect her wishes, Edward," said Carlisle, and at once, their brother deflated. Emmett held him still, hoisting him back to his feet. "You heard her as clearly as I, and I know you were watching through my eyes. You know what she wants. You will not badger her."
"I only want…"
"What you want is the least of my concerns right now," said Carlisle and there was a coldness in his voice, a hardness that Alice had not heard before. Evidently, Edward hadn't either for he flinched at the sound of it, so sharp and so unfeeling. "You will leave that child alone. She's had enough to put up with in the weeks she's been with us, and I'll not have you undoing what little progress she's made."
"Carlisle I need…"
"You need to get yourself downstairs," said Carlisle, and his hand joined Emmett's on Edward's wrist. Emmett's release was slow, and careful. "You need to go downstairs and listen, for there is much to say and so little time in which to say it."
"Carlisle…"
"Enough." Father's word was final, and there was silence on the stairs. "That's enough, Edward. Now go."
Alice grinned, her sudden burst of pride lingering long, and when she heard the shaky release of breath from behind that wooden door, she knew at once what she must do.
When she entered, the girl froze, petrified.
"It's only me, Bella," she said, and at once her shoulders loosened. "It's just me…"
When the girl turned, Alice saw the roiling panic, the fear.
"You are quite safe here, you know that?" she asked, but the girl only frowned at her, turning away. "Carlisle has told him to leave, as you asked."
Her face went pink, and Alice scowled at her.
"Don't go feeling badly, Bella," she said. "Not for him. You've nothing to be ashamed of, you hear?"
"I'm not ashamed…"
"Then what?"
She sat on the bed, so soft and so careful, and when Bella put her head in her lap, Alice did not deny her. She stroked her cheek, so warm and so sweet, and waited for the careful return of speech.
"I don't know how to say no, Alice," she said. "I don't know how to say no to him."
"You just did."
"I know."
"So what's the problem?"
The girl looked at her, and there was a new worry there, an urgency.
"I'm afraid…"
"Of what?"
"Of what he might do." The word was muffled, and low. "Of what he might say to make me believe him again, and what I might feel when he does."
And like a viper in its nest, Alice's anger rose again, this time tinged with powerful, furious offense and she cursed her brother to the deepest pits of hell where he belonged. He had played this girl like a fiddle— had toyed with her and spoiled her until she hardly knew her own mind— and Alice would not stand for it. Not for another, single minute.
"You will stand up for yourself, do you hear me?" Alice whispered. "You stand up for what you want, Bella, and don't you dare let him ride roughshod over you. Not ever again, do you understand?"
"I don't know how, Alice…"
"You will." The promise was as solid as gold, as immovable as steel. "I know you will, honey, if you just give yourself some time. Don't you let him bully you… I know I won't."
"I…"
"What, Bella?" She kissed her sister, letting her lips linger on that warm, soft cheek as the girl fought for her words. "What?"
"I miss him," she whispered, and Alice felt her frown, so full of disapproval. "I miss him, and I hate him, and if I could, I'd slap him silly…"
"That can be arranged," said Alice, her fingers tingling with the threat of possibility. "That is more than easily arranged, dearest…"
"No." She closed her eyes, so tired and so thin. "No, Alice. It can't be."
"I'd be more than happy to…"
"I can't," she persisted, and Alice felt the weight of the words, their truth. "I'd do no more damage than a kitten, Alice, and that's my problem."
"You know what Carlisle offered you…"
"Yes."
"But you won't take it?"
"I don't want it, Alice." Her voice was tired, and so, so soft. "I can't want it… not now."
"I know things have changed…"
"I miss my dad, Alice."
Alice closed her eyes, her arms tightening.
"I know you do."
"I miss my mom…"
"We don't know where she is."
"Yes we do." The declaration was hard, and filled with such a terrible grief that it made Alice breathless. "Yes we do…"
"We don't know."
"Yes I do."
"Oh honey." Alice's words were thick, and hot. "Oh, Bella… I'm sorry."
Bella simply put her head down on Alice's shoulder, swallowing hard.
"There's nothing more to say about it, Alice," she sighed, and Alice squeezed her harder until she heard a little gasp of pain.
"There is everything to say, Bella," she returned. "Everything in the world. They deserve that much… you deserve that much."
Alice could hear the way she kept her breathing steady, each inhale and exhale as strong and purposeful as the last.
"I can't take what Carlisle has offered me," she said, and Alice felt the pang of sorrow in her heart. "I can't take it because if I do, I'm never going to see them again. That's all I've got going for me now, Alice. That's all I have."
"No, it's not…"
"Isn't it?"
"Rosalie told you the same thing," said Alice, and Bella snorted at this. "She told you the same thing. You have us, Bella, for as long as you need. I don't care if that's an hour, a day, a year, or a hundred, you have us."
"For now," she agreed, and Alice felt the frustration in her breast like hot, molten fire. "For now, Alice… until you get tired of me again."
She blinked in surprise.
"Is that what you think?" she demanded, and when she pulled the girl away, she felt the heat of that accusation. "Is that what you think, Bella? That we're going to get sick of you? That we're going to throw you away when we're finished playing house?"
Bella only shrugged, her eyes curiously dry, and there was a speculation in her gaze when she met Alice's, a curiosity that was at once macabre and calculating.
"You did last time," she said, and Alice scowled at her, incensed. "You left last time when you got bored, and—"
"We did not get bored."
"Then why did you leave?" Her voice was raised, now, and there was an edge of anger that Alice rarely heard. "Why did you leave, Alice, and why didn't you ever write back?"
"Write back?"
"Never mind." She laughed, and pulled herself out of Alice's grip. "Just never mind, Alice. It doesn't matter."
"Yes it does."
"No, it really doesn't. None of it matters. I just want to go home."
The word hung between them like a spider on its web, dangling precariously over their heads before the moment that it dropped. It was distasteful to Alice, and more than a little unsettling, and when she spoke again, her words were soft, and careful.
"Where is home for you now, Bella?" she asked, and the girl's eyes flashed. "Where is home?"
"I don't know."
"Do you want to go to Charlie's?"
The laugh was tight.
"I never want to set foot in that house again, Alice. Not ever again. Not after…"
"Alright." She smoothed Bella's dark hair, letting her fingers untangle the knots at the nape of her neck. "Alright. You don't have to."
She only shivered, curling herself a little tighter on her blankets.
"Phoenix?" Alice tried, and this time there was a frown. "No?"
"No."
"Jacksonville, then? Where your mom…"
"No, Alice."
Alice stared at her, her face suddenly pale.
"You're not going to die, Bella," she said, and the girl stared back with obstinate defiance. "You won't, do you understand me?"
"I want…"
"I would give you the moon, if I thought it would help you," said Alice. "I'd pull stars from the sky, or stop the sun in its course. I would give you anything and everything you could ever ask for— including my own soul, if it's still mine to give— but I will not give you this, Bella. We cannot give you this."
"I miss them, Alice."
"Oh honey I know." And she did, really. Alice did know. She knew what it was to feel the pang of loss, to know that somewhere, in the great expanse of the cosmos, there was something out there that you wanted, that you craved, but that could not be yours. She knew what it was to miss her family, to have love snatched from her by cruel and dangerous hands, and what it was to live in the darkness where there was no one left to hear you.
But Bella would never know that hell— not now, and not ever again— because Alice was here, and she would listen. She would not leave her alone in the dark, as she, herself, had been left, and she would not abandon her to her miseries and her pains. She knew what it felt like, that longing to die, for Alice, herself, had felt it too— in the darkness of that cell, where her memories had been dulled to endless, torturous black. She hadn't known why the blackness was all she knew— not until Bella had helped her solve the mystery— and in that solving, there was a closure, an end to a chapter she'd have rather left unread.
"I want my dad back, Alice," she cried, and when the tears came, they were quick. "I want my mom."
"I know…"
"It's not fair."
"No, it isn't," she agreed. "It's not fair, Bella…"
There were footsteps on the landing now, and Alice knew at once to whom they belonged.
"I miss my family." She felt the scalding tears on her neck, the complete and utter breakdown of a girl that knew too much, who had seen too much. The figure outside lingered as Alice pressed that girl so close she could feel every bone in her back, and though she was careful not to squeeze too hard, she wanted to feel present, to feel strong. Bella did not deprive Alice of that hug— did not pull away when her tears became her shame— and Alice loved her for it, loved her for the trust that she had put in her to show her truest self, and for the love that spilled out of her and onto Alice's white collared shirt.
When Esme came in, Alice knew at once what was needed.
"Here," she said, and when she offered the crying girl to her mother, there was no hesitation, no resistance. "Here, Esme…"
Bella went to Esme like a little child to its mother and though Alice knew that Esme was not the right mother, she thought she made a damn good substitute. Esme knew the love of a mother, had felt that sweet and sacred bond with a child of her own, and so she knew how best to love this girl, so lonely and so aggrieved. She knew how best to hold her when the tears fell down in floods, and how best to soothe when the sadness grew too strong. She knew how best to whisper, knew just what words to say, and Alice watched with muted pride as her mother took that girl into her heart where she would be safe, and warm, and loved.
When she slipped from the room, her feet were lagging, and by the time she reached the living room she was stormy again, her shrewd eyes narrowed.
On the sofa, crammed between his brothers, sat Edward, with a face like tragedy and such an air of such intolerable suffering that Alice felt her irritation rise like mercury. She had no pity for him, this brother who'd betrayed her, and she had no sympathy for the pains he now endured, and when she spoke it was with a coolness, a sharpness that twisted the blade that Bella had launched with her rejection.
"I hope you're proud of where your vanity has brought us, Edward," she said, and at once, there was a snarl. Jasper's answer was menacing— he would tolerate no threat to his wife, no matter what the source— and Edward was chastised, but not enough to drop his stare of fire and brimstone.
"It is not vanity, Alice…"
"Pride, then," she said. "Or idiocy. I don't care which label you use. Take your pick."
He slumped then, sinking down on the couch with such a sigh, and in the quiet of that pause they heard the sounds of love from up the stairs, the grief that poured like quicksilver. Carlisle stood near the steps, his handsome face curled in aggravated worry, and Alice knew why he lingered there, in that spot. She knew why he guarded the staircase like he did, why he did not shift his attention for even one moment from the son who had just been returned to him, and it made Alice proud to see his conviction, his dedication not to his first child, but his last.
"I miss my family," she had said, and Alice could see how that had wounded her father deeply. She missed her family, because her family had not left her. They had not up and run on the whim of a boy, had not abandoned her in her time of need because they thought they knew better. Her family had been taken, so cruelly and so quickly, and she was the one who had suffered for it, but Alice knew that if her father had any say in the matter whatsoever, that girl would have her family back, though not, perhaps, in the way she expected.
"If I could only see her, Alice, and talk…"
"She doesn't want to talk to you." This was Rosalie, now, her voice ringing like bells in the silence. Edward could not disguise his shock, his disgust at this interference, and though Rosalie did not rise to answer his anger her temper still flashed, so hard and so sharp. "You will abide by her wishes, Edward. That's the very least you can do."
"I need to see her…"
"You'll live." The dismissal was callous, its implications loud.
You'll live, Edward, without her love, and you'll do it gladly for the mistakes you've made. You will thrive in the shadow of her grief, and you will let her grow beyond you, without you. You will let her grow so tall, and you will let her grow so strong, because if you don't, you'll live, but she might not.
This thought made her brother snarl again, and when he tried to rise, Jasper shoved him back.
"You will not," he hissed, and there was such a blackness, such a rage, that even Edward looked cowed. "You will not even think of touching her, do you understand me?"
Edward said nothing to Jasper, but spoke again to Alice.
"She is grieving."
"Her father and mother are dead," spat Alice, and he flinched, as she knew he would. "Her family is gone, Edward. You heard her upstairs… no doubt you even saw her, peeping like you do…"
He cringed at that last accusation, but did not deny it. Alice had known he would be watching. She knew that he always watched when he knew he shouldn't, and she had hoped that it would hurt him.
"She wants to go home, Edward… she wants to be with them," said Alice, and this, it seemed, was the proverbial straw that broke the camel's back. She saw him fold like a bad hand of cards, watched the weight of that invisible burden crush him down like a spider underfoot, and he began to weep, though there were no tears to fall.
"I only wanted her safe. I only ever wanted her safe, Alice."
"She was safe," she returned. "With us. With her father."
"I need to see her…"
"But she doesn't need to see you." The words hung heavy, and sore. "She doesn't want to see you, Edward, and she is well within her rights. You came back to save her. You came back to fight for her, because that is what is right. You will do that much for her— you will save her from this danger, at least, and eliminate the threat that stole her family— but beyond that, the ball is in her court."
"I need…"
When Emmett rose, it was with a fiery anger that Alice rarely saw.
"It is her decision!" The growl was low and rumbling. Alice could feel it underfoot in the very fabric of the house, in the floorboards and the walls. "You will do nothing more, because what becomes of her life will be her own choice!"
"Emmett…"
"I've had it," spat Emmett, "with your simpering. I've had it with your whining. You made a choice, Edward— one that most of us spoke against, if you'll remember— and now, you can suffer the consequences. You chose to leave her, and we chose to follow. That was our folly, but the rest of it is yours."
"I never meant…"
"It doesn't matter what you meant! None of it matters, Edward, because this is what's happened!" His voice rose, and his face was white as bone. "You gave me a sister— you brought that girl to me, and made me love her— and then you tookher, and you almost lost her. You've been here all of twenty minutes, and already you're making demands! You, who have done absolutely nothing to keep her safe, to keep her well! You've done nothing, brother. Nothing for her—"
"Everything I do is for her!"
"Then do it better." The growl was menacing now, and sharp. "You need to do better, Edward, because what you've done so far? It's absolutely useless."
"I never meant…"
"It doesn't matter what you meant!"
"If I could only see her—"
"She doesn't want to see you!"
"She must—"
When Emmett's fist shot out, a blur of white flesh, it connected with Edward's jaw in a sharp and angry blow. Alice knew that he could not really hurt Edward— there was no way Carlisle would tolerate that, no matter how upset he was— but it satisfied Alice when she saw his face snap around, the gasp so sharp it pierced the air.
"You will do as you are told," Emmett hissed, and Edward kept his mouth shut in surprise. "You will do exactly as you're told, and you will do exactly what is needed, because if there is one thing on the face of this earth I care less about right now, it's the things that you want. You are a child, Edward— a simpering, snivelling child— and I will take no more orders from you."
"She…"
"Will make her own decision," said Emmett, and even Alice sensed that the word was final. "She will make her own choices, Edward, whether you like them or not, and by all the gods in every sky, you will listen."
She saw the fight go out of him as he ran his fingers through his hair, the bronze mess even more unruly as his black eyes flashed. She saw the sudden acquiescence, the quiet acceptance of what he'd been told, and when Emmett saw it, too, he backed away, his temper still sizzling.
Rosalie said nothing at all, giving Edward only a scornful, pitying glare before she rose to join her mate, letting him take her into the circle of his arms.
For a moment, the room stood still.
Standing by the staircase, nursing that angry, festering wound in her heart, Alice did not say a word as she stared at the rug beneath her feet. She could feel the tension in every muscle, could almost hear the racing fury that came from her brother, and when she closed her eyes, just as Jasper was rising from Edward's side, she felt a strange, yet familiar pull and she let herself fall.
The shock of the vision was vivid, like plunging into ice-cold glass from a great and terrible height. She felt the fall, the thrill of the ride before she hit the ground like a runner, her feet wet with snow and her face glazed with flying, angry sleet.
She was in a clearing, now, with her face turned north, and as the wind howled and the sky raged black, she could feel the ice crystals on her skin in the ferocious springtime storm. The ground around her was grey and bleak— wildflowers, just beginning to open with colour and life, had been crushed beneath the wet, icy snow, and the grass was trampled into great, muddy ruts. She did not know where she was— the clearing was not familiar to her— but she could smell her brother here, so strong and so sweet.
The quiet lasted only the barest second— just one, calm moment before the wind picked up again— and there was a noise at her back, deadly and quick. Before she could turn she saw the form of her husband like a lion on the hunt and she watched him fly as he leapt over her, his feet landing some ten yards away as he began to sprint.
There were no words here, and no sounds but the wind, and as Alice watched, confused, there came the sound of running feet. Some from behind, and others up ahead, but Alice only stared at Jasper as he ran, hurtling towards the trees at the other end of the clearing. She heard Emmett behind her, and Edward's furious pace, and Rosalie was waiting, her eyes narrowed on her husband as he chased after his brothers while Jasper ran towards the darkness of the trees.
When she saw them, emerging like spectres from the snowy, black forest, she felt her horror sinking like a cold and icy brick. They came in a rush, like a wall of skin and bones, and they were tracking, tracing Edward's scent on the path he'd taken home. They ran on legs of steel, so quick that Alice dared not even blink, and when Jasper hit the first of them, sending the pair flying into the cold, wet snow, Alice let out a cry as the world dissolved into chaos.
And right on the edge of the woods, flickering like a fire in the cold, she watched that pale, red-haired face as she stomped her foot on the frozen, blue forget-me-nots, disappearing with a hiss through the trees while the carnage raged on.
When she came back, Edward was on his feet.
"When, Alice?" he demanded, and she shook her head in shock. "When?"
"You saw as clearly as I did," she spat and the family was there, now, each as worried as the next. "You saw exactly what I did…"
"There was snow, Alice…"
"Yes."
"And a storm…"
"Yes."
"But the flowers…" Together, she and Edward both looked out, staring at the edge of the yard where a small strip of blue forget-me-nots had always grown, where there was, even now, a neat row of thin, delicate stems. The leaves were still baby green, only the tender beginnings of new growth, and they were not quite so big as they would be, but on the tip of each of those stems, still encased in their sweet green leaves, Alice could see the flowers darkening in each of the folded sepals, almost ripe enough to bloom.
A/N: So, as you can tell, I've made my decision about whether or not to include Bella's voice. I struggled to decide how I wanted to move forward, and I figured that Bella's feelings about Edward would be best described in Bella's voice, and so here she is. I hope this helped clear some things up for those of you who are a little frustrated or confused about what's up with her. I know lots of you are absolutely fed up with my version of Bella and how she is acting, so this note is just a little reminder about what this story is really about.
Please remember, no matter how angry my Bella might make you, that mental illness is a very real and very complicated issue. I know my story is fictional but I've done my best to try and make her as real as I can, with as many understandable emotions as I can. I've said it from the first: one of the things I despise most about Stephenie Meyer's source material is the lack of consequences and follow-through when it comes to the mental health line in New Moon, because depression and anxiety are not problems that someone can be talked out of. It doesn't go away simply because we want it to, and we can't control it without proper help and support. I know this story has been going for few weeks now, but in the world of the story there are only about two weeks from the prologue to this chapter. Because time is moving a little more slowly in the story than it has in real life, things are still complicated and a little out of control.
You can hate my Bella for her choices and you can hate her for her beliefs, but please don't hate her for suffering (or as some of you say, her "whining"). Mental illness isn't pretty and it isn't glamorous, and it's not going to go away in a wink so everyone can live happily ever after without first exploring some of the consequences and the fallout.
Phew. Lecture over... but now I have a question for you, if you are someone who writes for this platform. If you follow me on Twitter you may have already seen this, but I'm curious to know if it's happened to anyone else.
When I write my chapters, I use Google Docs which are then downloaded as .docx files (Microsoft Word) to be uploaded to the site. I do all my editing in Google, and only use Fanfiction's editing box to make formatting tweaks like page breaks and to add my author's notes. By the time it hits the site, the chapter is in its final version, and yet for some reason, in almost every chapter I post, Fanfiction has been deleting spaces between some of my words. It happens randomly, and sometimes I catch it before it goes out, but I don't always and it's driving me nuts.
If you have any idea why this happens or how to fix it, I'd love to know.
Thanks again for all your support. It means the world. XO
