(Seven)
I'm a ghost haunting my old life: the offices of the Seattle Times, my family, my apartment, myself.
I should let go of whatever's keeping me here, but instead of moving on, I'm standing outside Swedish Medical—a place I haunted at my worst.
Cracked ribs, a broken jaw, blood poisoning, overdoses—I'm a familiar apparition in the ER.
Even so, Ally's face turns white the second she sees me.
"What are you doing here?" Her eyes dart around to see who's in earshot. She lowers her voice. "You can't be here, Edward."
"I want to talk to you." I shrug, and she silences the pager on her hip, tucks her hair under her scrub cap.
"I don't have time for this. I've gotta go." She spins on her heel, but I reach out and grab her wrist as gently as possible. The last thing I need is the attention of the wanna-be-cop security guard. We're old friends.
"Ally, just give me one minute." I can see in her eyes that I'm tearing her in two: the sister she was, and the sister who's trying to pretend she doesn't have a brother.
"I can't. You can't be here, E. You should go home." She tugs her hand away and disappears through a set of swinging doors. Frustration and something that might be sadness, spreads under my skin, threatening to swallow me whole. I stalk out of the waiting area and into the restroom.
I turn the faucet on full and rest my hands on the edge of the sink, watching the water disappear down the drain. I feel twelve years old, pissed as if Ally's hogging the remote and won't let me take back control of the game.
I face the stranger in the mirror again. He looks like hell. Again. He smirks, and I wipe it right off his face with my fist. The mirror shatters, slicing into my knuckles. The water turns red. It makes me feel better—the pain, not seeing myself anymore. I know Ally will be annoyed, but maybe she'll talk to me now. I wait until the worst of the blood gushes out of the cuts, then I walk back and take a seat.
It takes a while. I lose track, wishing I'd had a smoke. Blood has dripped and congealed on the blue linoleum. It's caked on my hand, my jeans. People are looking when they think I'm not. I wonder what they see? A fucked up mess. A trouble maker. A ghost.
When she finally reappears to call in the next patient, her eyes flick over me, resting on the bloody mess of my hand. Her anger is forgotten for a second, and she rushes over, the concern in her face pulling at the hollow in my chest, the place where my heart used to be.
"Oh my god, what the hell happened?" She inspects the damage and looks at me closely for the first time in a long while. "Did you do this?"
"No." It's a half truth—at least, only one half of me is lying. "It was an accident."
"You'll need stitches. Wait here." She heads over to reception, and shuffles through the paperwork. Finding nothing, she speaks to the girl behind the desk, gesturing over to me as she talks. The blonde peeks over the computer—her eyes linger a second too long, a moment that could end up with discarded clothes and rumpled bedsheets. Or more likely, burns on her back from rough alley bricks.
My thoughts hit a dead end—Red Lantern blocks their way. It's a change I don't have time to register as Ally returns.
"Come with me." She doesn't wait, marching through the double doors and whipping back the curtain of an empty bay. "Sit." She points at the gurney and then turns her back on me, preparing to deal with my superficial wounds.
She isn't as gentle as I know she can be. Her lips are trapped between her teeth as she works. I think she enjoys making me hiss in pain, so much so, that she does it again when the wounds look clean enough to me. "Stop moving," she orders, preparing to stick my skin back together. To mend the cracks. The ones within her abilities as a nurse.
With her concentration on her job, I take the chance to get her to talk. "You okay?"
"Yep," she says, ripping open a package of gauze and avoiding my eyes. She looks well, happy, with the exception of the frown on her forehead. It's a permanent crease when I'm around.
"You heard from Jasper?" I wince when she presses hard with the cotton swab.
"Yes, he called last night. He's out on an operation now, so …" She trails off, and tension lifts her shoulders with the words she doesn't say.
"He'll be back soon."
"Oh yeah?" She turns her back on me again, taking her emotions out on a roll of tape, slapping it down on the metal tray when she can't find the end. When she turns back around, she locks me in her sights. Tears balance in her brown eyes. "Does that mean you'll be back soon, too?"
"Ally …" I should reach out to her, but I don't. I can't be the one to make the tears fall. She's done enough crying for me. I say the words even though I know she doesn't want to hear them, even though they're another lie. "I'm here."
"Yeah," she says, finishing up. She's softer now, pausing to trace a scar across the palm of my hand. "I remember this."
I nod, smiling despite myself.
"I told you not to climb that high." She passes her finger over it again then steps back, gripping her elbows to stop herself from doing something as careless as hugging me.
"I never did listen to you."
She swipes at a tear that's too heavy to hold back. "I wish you would."
"I know." I can't give her anything else. But I remember each any every time she begged me to get help, when she cried and yelled, whispered and coaxed me to stop. I remember her face every time I turned away—hurt, anger, disappointment, pain, grief. Now, she won't give me anything. She's a blank sheet of paper.
She starts tidying everything away; the intercom is calling doctors every five seconds. It's giving me a headache.
"Is everything okay with the baby?"
She places her hands on the small bump hidden under her scrubs; a tiny smile flickers on her face before it goes out. "Yes." It's all she gives me.
"I want to be there for you … both." I know it's the right thing to say, but panic scrambles after my words to take them back. I wouldn't let me anywhere near a kid. I'm the worst kind of person. The worst kind of role model. The worst kind of influence. Here, kids, if you really want to fuck your life up, take a look at Exhibit A: Edward Cullen.
My omission shifts some of the ice, and she's my little sister again, if only for a second. "I want you to be there, too." But then she steps back and pulls the glacier back around her. "But not like this."
She doesn't let me fight, she just walks away. I wouldn't have had anything else to say, anyway, because she's right. She's always right.
I walk out the double doors, and light up a smoke. Ruby Tuesday. Weak cocktails, suave assholes, and dark corners. I feel its pull—hands and lips, heavy breaths and quick hits—but I let it go. It disappears, replaced by another pair of hands, short sharp bursts of humid breath against my neck, the weight of her body, the look in her eyes. I recognize the way she looked at me. If I saved her once, maybe I could do it again. Maybe I should try to save myself. We could keep each other alive. Our own version of a fucked up love story.
It's probably the worst idea I've ever had.
I sit in an empty pew, the mass at St. James over. Candles flicker and incense burns, but it's not my mother's church. I'm not sure why I came. I don't want to talk to anyone. I don't even want to talk to myself.
My soul can't be healed. My sins can't be repented. It's too late for that. Perhaps I'm hoping I'll be struck down for daring to enter, but that hasn't happened yet, either. He's biding his time for me—death. The devil. He gives me these moments of peace. It's a trick.
I wonder if He sent me her. The devil was an angel with a death wish, after all. My mind wanders to her more than it should. I've started to let it.
I'm giving her the red flags. She doesn't realize what she's dealing with. She doesn't know the power she could wield over me. If she did, and she was fucked up like me, we'd both be ruined.
The last few church goers leave. They offer me smiles or glances. I drop my head. I'm tired today. My bones feel heavy. Before, I would float them in liquor. Powder them with coke. I can't do that anymore, so I sink.
It's times like this I take out the guilt I carry with me. I hold it in my hands. I turn it over and over. I try to find flaws, ways to make it smaller, but it never changes.
My mother insisted on an open casket. She made sure he wore his best suit, most expensive watch, silk tie. She spent hours choosing flowers that choked me with their scents. We stood beside him, before and after the service, while people gave condolences.
I wanted to vomit the whole time. I wanted to shred the flowers and slam the coffin shut. I wanted to murder my mother. The priest. The endless buzzing of sympathy. Instead, I forced a smile, made small talk, and tried my hardest not to look at my dad.
But even then, I could see the scar and the staples that held his body together. Imagine the heart stuffed into his chest, broken and unfixable. Sliced and diced in an attempt to slow the damage. Damage I'd done to him. Damage I can't mend.
I press my hand to my own chest. My heart beats loudly as if someone's turned up the bass in their car outside. It's intrusive. I want it to stop.
AN: I think we might need a group hug with Edward in the middle.
Love to you all for reading and reviewing.
Heaps to Kim, Choc and Cat too.
Sparrow xx