-| Glitch continues |-

I sit and stare at the sketch of Edward.

He stares at me back.

Those light-colored, maybe-blue-green-gray eyes bore into mine with an unerring accuracy. I've always known that Alice is talented; I've never grasped to what extent. Edward's gaze is so full of life that it makes me uncomfortable, jittery, like he can read my mind, like he knows exactly what I'm thinking. I shift my weight to the right, to the left, but I cannot escape those eyes.

They are unsettling.

They are intense.

They are sad.

This man-child is looking at me like I'm something he needs, like I'm something he can never have. Hold the sketch in front of my face, and he's me, his expression a mirror of my own. Except that his side of the mirror is perfection personified. I don't even know how this is possible—taken individually, his features aren't perfect. Eyebrows are a little heavy, nose a little thick, lips a little thin. Yet in the sum of these imperfections lies perfection. His face is imperfectly perfect.

Too perfect.

No one looks like this.

No one would look at me like this.

The question is: Am I even looking at Edward? Or am I instead looking at Alice? Did Alice draw me the picture of the perfect man, a manifestation of her own delusions, of her own insecurities? Am I looking at Alice's emotions, Alice's pain shining from those soulful eyes?

I can't know.

But what I do know, of what I am absolutely certain, is that this sketch sitting on my bed—it can't stay here. As much as I would like to have it sit and stare at me forever, as much as I would like it to be the first thing I see when the sun comes up and the last thing when it goes down, it can't be. Like Edward himself, it can't be present. It can't be visible.

I can't risk my parents seeing it and asking questions.

I can't continue to allow myself unrequited hope.

So I begin re-working the wrapping paper in a clumsily facsimile of Alice's handiwork. As with all re-wraps, the edges don't line up right, the corners aren't crisp. The last thing I see before folding down the final flap is the woe in those eyes.

I bury the sketch deep in my closet, in a shoebox filled with remnants of my childhood.

The symbolism doesn't escape me.

Here I am, putting Edward away, just like I would childish things. I can't keep running after him like a toddler with arms forever outstretched. Even if he sees me, he's not picking me up. He's not comforting me. He's letting me fall.

I have to catch myself for a change.

I'll make my move on Christmas Day.

I don't know—maybe the holiday cheer, the goodwill on earth, the eggnog will help diffuse the bomb I'm about to drop on my parents. I've told the Mount Sinai of lies, I've convinced Alice that I don't believe that Edward and Jasper are real. Now it's time for Moses to come down from the mountain; I must share my message with the rest of my world.

To start, I cook an extra-special holiday dinner, replete with the almond bark candies that Charlie so loves at this time of year. I encourage Renee to make her special figgy pudding and even moan in a facsimile of delight when I take the first bite.

Renee entertains us with stories of her and Charlie's first Christmas together. Apparently, candles had been all the rage that year, and Renee had gone overboard on the trend until the house resembled a liturgy service in a Catholic church. Needless to say, they didn't make flame-retardant Christmas trees back then.

I've never seen Charlie laugh so much as he recounts how the fire extinguisher coated the living room with "snow." Beaming like this with his eyes all crinkled, he looks like the young rascal my mom fell in love with.

After today, I may never see him smile again.

"More cranberry sauce?" I ask "More pie? More eggnog?"

This moment—I don't ever want it to end.

Of course, it does.

Too soon, Renee can't eat another bite. Too soon, Charlie suggests we move into the living room. They want to watch the end of It's a Wonderful Life, which Renee had playing in the background through dinner. Ambiance, she said, when really, she just wants to skip the sad parts. I haven't watched that movie since I was little.

I wave off their attempts to help me clear the table, bartering for time that has almost run out. As I clank plates and pots around in the sink, soaping and scrubbing, I hear their laughter like silver bells. I hear George Bailey proclaiming Merry Christmas as he cavorts down the street. I hear Clarence get his wings.

I try very, very hard not to think about Edward.

Alone. In the cold. As always.

Maybe some angel came down from heaven and wiped Edward from the face of the earth. Maybe he's watching me right now through a kitchen window leaking yellow into the dark, remembering some alternate reality I've forgotten in which he and I had been friends, lovers even. Maybe he's seeing me smile, and, in some perverse twist of the movie playing behind me, is realizing that my life is truly better without him in it.

Please don't let that be the moral of my story.

Of our story.

I can't think about Edward.

I can't think about Edward because of what I'm about to do.

When the last dish is rinsed, the last pot polished to a gleaming dry, I take one last look out the darkened window above the sink. I see my reflection, cheeks pink with exertion and lingering laughter. Try as I might, I can't look past the reflection.

So I turn and stand at the fringe of the living room, drinking it all in. The contrast between this year and last is extreme. A year ago today, this room was filled with nothing more than the sounds of sports, the smell of frying fish and beer, and a Charlie Brown tree in the corner, replete with a single, oversized bauble.

This year, lights dance from flickering candles, from winking strands of tree lights, and from black-and-white scenes of a Christmas classic. Scents waft from the fresh pine Renee insisted we chop ourselves from the Crowley's tree farm, from the cinnamon in the garland and the spice in the fruit cake and everything else nice.

I stand and bask in this bubble of warm, happy family a long moment, for two, for three.

Then: "Mom, Dad, I need to talk to you," I say. I say this just as the credits roll, just after good ol' George has reminded us yet again that the world would be a dark place without us in it.

Charlie and Renee crane to look at me, their faces still alight with hope.

I walk into the living room and turn off the flat screen. Although I don't think that I will have any problem keeping my parents' attention once I get started, I need them to know that this is serious. They exchange wary glances. Whatever they are expecting me to say, they can see from my face that it's not necessarily something pleasant. I stand in front of them, exposed, the coffee table between us my meager podium.

I take a deep breath.

"I have something important to tell you," I say. "Something about Edward."

Instantly, my parents freeze, mouths open, hands and feet still. Their eyes say, Oh no, please tell me we're not about to go on this merry-go-round again. I can almost see the holiday spirit drain from their sobering faces.

"It was never schizophrenia," I say. My words register in Charlie's expression in an instant, though he still looks wary. Renee remains foggy, still trying to smile despite her frown, so I continue. "I was doing drugs."

The d-word.

The last word any parent ever wants to hear out of their child's mouth.

"What?" Renee thinks she heard me wrong.

"My hallucinations about Edward," I say, "were chemically induced."

"But…but…" Renee sputters. Charlie's eyes harden, and he looks past me, toward the dark, empty TV. "But you were tested…you said on your medical history forms…"

"I lied," I lie. "I'd been clean for weeks. But I had been using for a while when this all started."

I watch as this information visibly impacts each of my parents. Charlie sags back against the couch, as though he can't stay upright any longer.

"Drugs…" Renee says faintly, her face blanching like she's going to be sick. "My daughter…"

"Why didn't you just tell us?" Charlie says, still staring into the TV as if he could somehow reach out and recapture the magic of only a few moments ago.

This is the hard part. This is the question that I'd been afraid that Charlie himself would ask, in just this way. That distant stare, that overly calm face, that tremble in his tone.

"Because I didn't want to disappoint you."

Renee jumps in. "So you thought it would be better for us to think that you had an incurable mental illness? That you were going to end up like my mother?" she demands, her face tight. "What in the world were you thinking?"

"I wasn't thinking…I never expected things to go this far."

Renee stares at me. Charlie stares away from me, which is ten times worse.

"Oh, Bella," Renee moans, standing to pace. "Do you even understand the ramifications of what you've done?"

I do. I had thought through the repercussions of this particular lie more thoroughly than any other. And I know that the consequences I'm about to experience are going to be some of the most painful in my life. I only vaguely listen to Renee enumerate the consequences as she sees them.

She says, "We've run up a small fortune on our insurance."

She says, "Your teachers and peers are never going to look at you the same way again."

She says, "This will go on your permanent medical record. You can kiss your chances of a college scholarship goodbye. You might have difficulty getting a job…"

I listen to her say these things, but I'm waiting for the other shoe to drop. The shoe that matters. The Charlie shoe.

Renee continues worrying about the ways in which people will perceive her and me and the Swan/Dwyer name, and I stop listening altogether. I just watch Charlie, who seems to be watching phantom images flicker across the screen.

When Renee is finally spent, like a child crying itself to sleep in its crib, I see that Charlie is finally ready to speak. I hold my breath.

"This is serious, Bella," he says, still to the TV.

"I know."

Silent, I can only wait.

"I'm ashamed of you." His soft tone hits me with the force of a thousand battering rams. I nearly stagger under the weight of it. He continues speaking—quiet, deadly. "I'm ashamed that you would ever have even considered putting an illegal substance into your body, much less do so. I'm ashamed that you lied to cover it up. But most of all, I'm ashamed that you waited so long to tell us the truth."

My head is too heavy; my chin drops to my chest. I'm ashamed of myself as well. Charlie is silent for a long while, steeping me in my shame.

"So this is what we're going to do. First off, you're going to apologize. You're going to apologize to your doctors, the other kids you went to therapy with, everyone who knows. Everyone who has been affected by this."

My stomach sinks, but I nod. I was hoping that I would be able to fade off everyone's radar. Stop going to therapy, stop interacting with my former friends. And I guess I can still do that—after I lie to them all one more time.

Charlie isn't done. "And I'm going to need to know details. I'm going to need to know which drugs, how long, and from whom."

For the first time, fear shoots through my body like an injection of liquid nitrogen. I'm prepared to answer which drugs and how long, but I don't know how to answer the "from whom." I so desperately want to take the easy way out. I want to give Charlie the name of someone who I know probably deals drugs and who is high often enough himself that he likely won't remember that he hasn't, in fact, dealt any to me.

I want to say Eric Yorkie.

But although I am nearly positive that Yorkie deals drugs and that he's offered them to me in that offhand way of his on more than one occasion, I can't in good conscience take him down with me on this. This is my crash and burn. I don't want to shatter anyone else in the process.

I raise my chin to Charlie. "I'll tell you whatever you need to know. The only thing I can't tell you is from whom I got them."

And Charlie looks at me for the first time. He looks at me, but not like I'm his daughter. He's glaring at me like I'm a hostile witness.

"It's a felony to sell or give out drugs period, much less to a minor."

"Yes sir," I agree helplessly, already wilting under his stare, a stare that I've never before seen directed at me.

He barks, "You are going to tell me who gave you those drugs so I can get that person help if it's a kid or put them in jail if it's an adult."

He stares me down, and I do my best to continue meeting his eyes. As I've said, lying is all in the eyes. But my eyes don't even have to lie to be scared now. Charlie the cop is the scariest thing I have ever seen.

"I can't tell you," I whisper.

"Can't, or won't?" The words are slap one, two in my face.

I turn my head away. I thought that I couldn't feel more shame, but I can.

"Was it Alice?" he asks, teeth clenched.

"No!" The word explodes from my chest. I'm shocked and dismayed that he's even gone there. "Why would you even think that?"

Charlie and Renee look at each other for a second. Then Renee says, "Alice has been on medication for her own…illness."

Alice had mentioned medication, but only medication in Italy. She hadn't said anything about medication recently. Nevertheless…

"Alice has nothing to do with this."

"Dr. K thinks that Alice has a lot to do with this," Renee interjects.

"Yeah, well. Dr. K also diagnosed me with schizophrenia, so…"

Renee is quick to jump to K's defense, of course. "He didn't have all the information—"

"Was it that York character?" Charlie interrupts.

I freeze.

Now is the moment of truth. Or not, depending on what I decide. How very easy it would be to move my head up and down, once. I wouldn't even have to say anything at all, and I would be saying everything.

"No," I say firmly, showing him with my eyes that I speak the truth.

And Charlie's eyes show me that he doesn't believe my truth. They show me that he is angry and hurt and sad. But, most importantly, they show me that he no longer trusts me. They show me that he might never trust me again.

"Go to your room," he says. "I don't want to see you right now. And you're grounded for…the rest of your life."

As far as consequences go, this one is by far the worst. Not the grounding, of course. But the fact that the sight of me pains my father. And the fact that I've lost his trust—perhaps forever.

Later, I sit in the eternal darkness of my room. It doesn't matter what time of day it is. It doesn't matter if the sun or moon holds vigil outside my window. It doesn't matter if it's Christmas or New Year's or any day in between. It doesn't matter anymore—the darkness is always here.

And in the darkness, I say my final farewell to a creature who has forever relegated himself to the darkness of my soul.

My farewell is thus: "I hate you."

The darkness does not respond.