I own nothing Twilight.
Chapter 12 - New Year's Project
Edward's first letter comes about a week into my rehab.
I'm sitting on my bed when my roommate Rosalie comes walking in, hand full of mail. She doesn't say anything, just tosses the letter at me. Her and I seem to have developed an unspoken agreement in which we only speak to each other if absolutely necessary. I'm curious as to why she's in here, but I know better than to ask. My first night here, she got into a fight with another girl in the cafeteria. It did not end well for the other girl.
She's a tall, beautiful, leggy blonde and I wonder how her life could possibly be that bad. The only thing I've managed to find out about her is that she hates other people, secretly loves daytime soap operas (I once walked in on her intently caught up in an episode of Days of Our Lives), and that she has nightmares so bad, she wakes me up with her screams.
She plops down on her bed, picking up the book she's been reading since I arrived. I gently pick up the letter, my first communication from the outside world. My hand shakes as I open it, not because I'm nervous but because I'm still withdrawing from the OxyContin. They have finally weaned me completely off it, but I still have bouts of nausea that get so bad, I pray for the sweet release of death over having to feel like that any longer.
Edward's penmanship is much better than I would've expected, having grown accustom to the chicken-scratch writing of Jacob and my father.
January 4
Bella,
I hope you don't mind my writing you, your mother gave me the address of where you're staying. 'Seattle's House of Hope & Wellness' sounds kind of like a spa. Are you really getting therapy up there or is this some guise and you're actually getting a bunch of massages and pedicures? Sorry, bad joke.
Life in Forks in pretty much business as usual, but I figure you've lived here your whole life so you probably know how monotonous everyday is. Happy New Year, by the way. You missed Tanya's party, but I suspect you're not heartbroken over it. Let me summarize for you: Mike Newton puked all over Tanya's mom's new carpet; Angela Weber and Ben Cheney got caught going at it in the laundry room; and around 2 a.m. Alice decided to serenade the entire senior class with her own rendition of 'Bohemian Rhapsody.'
Speaking of Alice, she wanted me to apologize to you for not coming to visit you in the hospital. She feels really bad about everything and didn't have the courage to face you. You should really forgive her, Bella. I know she can be annoying and stubborn, but she is one of the most incredible people you will ever meet. And I'm not just saying that because she bought me a burrito from Chipotle and begged me to talk to you for her.
Anyway, I'm sorry if I've gone on long enough and I don't even know if you're still reading this even. Don't feel obligated to write back, I understand if you don't want to. I hope all is well.
Edward
Remember, Bella, you are the outline of everything you will become.
It's the most Edward has ever said to me, even if it is in writing. I don't know why he is being so nice to me, why he has clearly gone out of his way to show me that he's thinking of me. For some reason, he feels like he needs to keep talking to me. A part of me thinks he feels responsible for my accident, for not trying harder to keep me from leaving that night. I don't want his pity.
I fold the letter back up, putting it into the envelope it arrived in. I set it in my nightstand drawer.
I don't respond.
OoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoO
His second letter comes about a week later.
I started group therapy on Monday, a small room of five of us all sitting around in a circle. There's a bulimic, an anorexic, a cocaine addict, Rosalie and me. They all spend the entire hour talking about their problems, their thoughts, their feelings. Rosalie and I sit there in silence, as though we're having our own personal contest over which of us can stay quiet the longest.
The first couple of weeks I'm here, I'm convinced she hates me. Mostly because she hates everyone here and why would I be an exception?
She wakes me up one night, thrashing around in her bed and repeatedly screaming "no" over and over again. I call her name, trying to get her to snap out of it. When she does, she has broken out in a cold sweat and there are tears streaming down her face. I hand her the glass of water from my table. She says nothing, but takes it and gulps it all down, watching my face the whole time.
The next morning she asks me if I want to go to breakfast and then pushes my wheelchair for me to the cafeteria. To anyone else, it might seem like a girl just helping her roommate to get some food. What I realize in that moment is that I am slowly cracking away at the carefully constructed shell she has built around herself.
January 13
Bella,
The lake has finally frozen over. Alice insisted on ice skating, because she never got to when we lived in Chicago. She lasted about five second before falling flat on her face and chipping a tooth. It was on a Saturday, so she had to spend the entire weekend looking like that. Every time she said a word that began with the letter 's', she would whistle through her teeth. We were all surprised when Emmett asked to make Sunday night dinner, until we realized he had cooked only foods that began with the letter 's'. Spaghetti, Swedish meatballs, sweet peas, sauerkraut, salad. For dessert: strawberry shortcake with soft serve. It was the most disgusting, hilarious dinner we've ever had.
I don't know if Alice ever mentioned it, but we were in Forks once before, years ago. It was summertime then and we were just kids. We only stayed for a couple of weeks, right after the lake house was built. Sometimes I wonder if we ever met then, passing each other on the street. That's silly, isn't it? We would've been so young at the time. It's funny how different the world looks when you're young and everything seems to have so much possibility.
It's okay if you don't write back, but I wish you would.
Edward
I read over the letter several times, trying to understand it. Why it went from something so happy to such an abrupt, odd ending. As though he realized he was saying too much, revealing too much about himself. How weird that the Cullen family had been in Forks before, so long ago.
I'm confused, not sure what to make of the note. I don't know what Edward wants from me.
I fold the letter back up, putting it into the envelope it arrived in. I set it in my nightstand drawer.
I don't respond.
OoOoOoOoOoOoOoOo
A third letter doesn't arrive for another two and half weeks. This letter isn't from Edward, it's from Alice.
Rosalie and I have become partners in crime, the two of us just fighting to survive in this depressing, soul-sucking environment that sells people on the idea of hope and wellness. In reality, everyday is filled with hearing miserable story after miserable story. If I wasn't running for the razors before this, I certainly would've been now, if it weren't for Rosalie.
"If I have to hear Bree talk about 'finding herself' one more time, I'm going to take Dr. Randall's pen and shove it directly into her eye," Rosalie rants as she continues drawing on one of my casts.
I laugh, her sarcastic remarks always funny to me. I find myself laughing more and more everyday, thanks in large part to Rosalie. She is the true friend I never had, who doesn't care about appearances or popularity. She's real and honest and if I have a piece of food stuck in my teeth, she doesn't hesitate to let me know.
"So," she says, suddenly incredibly interested in the tree she's drawing. "Have you thought anymore about testifying?"
I lean my head back against my pillow, closing my eyes. My parents had been up the previous weekend, talking to me about the case that was being built against Jacob. He is guilty, he'd already admitted that. My testimony will just bring more weight to what punishment he would receive. I couldn't do that to him, couldn't be the one who sent him to jail for however long. Couldn't see the look in his eyes as I sat up there, in front of everyone, and described everything he had done to me.
"You know now it was never your fault, right?" she asks, look up at me from the foot of the bed. "I mean, I'm not trying to get all therapeutic on your ass, but the fact that you think that is pretty fucked up."
I look at her, smiling softly, knowing she isn't just talking about me. I can still remember the night she finally told me what happened to her.
"Get off! Get off!"
My eyes flew open, everything was black. All I could hear was the sound of Rosalie in the bed next to mine, crying and moving about. I quickly hobbled over to her bed, having learned how to maneuver myself a little better over the last week or so. I sat, putting both of my hands on her shoulders to stop her movements.
"Rosalie," I whispered. "Wake up, wake up."
She sat up suddenly, pushing my hands off her. She looked around frantically, as if she thought she was somewhere else. She looked at me, slowly a look of recognition coming over her face.
"Bella?" she said, pulling me into a hug.
It was the first time she'd ever initiated any type of physical contact with anyone, let alone me.
"It's okay," I hugged her back, the act of hugging someone was foreign to me as well.
We stayed like that for a few minutes as her breathing calmed and the tears stopped. She pulled away, wiping her eyes with the backs of her hands, embarrassed that she had let me see her like that.
She never talked about herself, not to me and not in therapy. I was beginning to wonder if she would be a lifer-someone who would spend the rest of her days behind these walls.
"I always thought I was invincible," she said, her eyes stared blankly ahead. "My friends and I would do stupid, reckless things. Partying, drinking, drugs. It was a little over a year ago, I was at a party some kid from school was throwing. Everyone was getting smashed, doing lines in the living room, bong hits in the kitchen."
She wasn't in the room with me anymore, she was back at that party, reliving that night.
"I wasn't going to go, but my friend Charlotte convinced me. She practically dragged me out of my house," she laughed. "Everyone was fucked up by the time we got there, Charlotte immediately started playing catch-up. I went into the kitchen to get a drink."
I scooted closer to her, placing my hand on her knee to show her that I was there with her. She wasn't alone.
"Royce King was the most popular guy at my school. All-state football player, student council president. Everyone loved him," a single tear fell down her cheek. "He came up to me and gave me a drink. I didn't even know he knew I existed. We talked and talked and everything started to get blurry and hazy."
She paused, taking a minute to think about her next words.
"When I came to the first time, he was on top of me. We were on a bed in a room I didn't know. I started screaming, he put his hand over my mouth and told me to shut up. That I wanted it. Everything went black again and when I came to the second time, the room was completely black. I thought I was safe to leave, but when I tried to move everything spun. I threw up on the floor and then it all went blank."
I didn't speak, knowing she needed to tell her story.
"He raped me two more times that I can remember, it all becomes a blur when I think too much about it. When I finally could move, he had already left. I put my clothes back on and walked home," she became silent and I thought she was done, but then she continued, "No one believed me. I was the crazy party girl and he was the Homecoming King. I had to leave school because the torment became too much. I stayed home, too afraid to leave. Too afraid to run into him at the grocery store or at the movie theater.
"It was a Wednesday when I decided to kill myself. My parents were both at work. The pills the doctor had given me to help me sleep were lined up in front of me. I took them, one by one, and lied down on my bed, waiting to fall asleep and never wake up. As I drifted off, all I could think was, 'I'm finally free.' My mom came home during her lunch break that day to pick up a USB flash drive she had forgotten. A PowerPoint presentation saved my life."
We sat in silence for a few moments, the only sound was the ticking of the clock in the hallway outside our room.
"Why are you here? Why don't you just talk to them and get out of here?" I asked the question that had been on my mind for a month now.
"Because," she smiled at me, sadly. "He can't get me in here."
Alice's letter was brief, containing one small paragraph and what appeared to be a burned CD labeled B Sessions Volume 3. I set the CD on the bedside table, opening the letter. There, in Alice's loopy handwriting, is a name, a location and a date.
Edward Masen, Sr.
Chicago, IL
October 24
There's nothing more. I stare at it, attempting to figure out what she's trying to tell me.
OoOoOoOoOoOoOo
Three days later, Rosalie and I are granted a day pass to leave the facility for five hours, on our own. She protests when I tell her I want to go to the library.
"Seriously, Bella?" she whines. "We get one free day like, once a month, and you want to spend it inside a library?"
"Please Rosie, please. Just for an hour and then we can spend the rest of the day doing whatever you want," I beg, mostly because I need her help getting around anywhere.
"Anything?" she smiles, and I swear I see a glint in her eye.
"Let me rephrase," I start. "Anything that doesn't involve jail time."
"Alright, alright. We can go to the library, but just for an hour. I'm going to be keeping track of time," she taps the watch on her wrist.
We take the bus, not an easy feat when you're in a wheelchair, to the Seattle Public Library, a giant building covered in windows. It's intimidating in size, you could easily fit the Forks Public Library in here at least ten times over. I make my way to the public computers section, choosing one in its own personal cubicle. Rosalie goes off to the magazine rack, probably catching up on all of the fashion trends she's missed out on in the last five months.
My fingers tremble slightly as I type 'Edward Masen, Sr., Chicago' into the Google search engine.
Several results pop up, but the one that sits at the top startles me:
Business Tycoon Kills Wife, Self
I click the link, which takes me to an article from the Chicago Tribune.
(Chicago, IL) A startling tragedy struck the city of Chicago in the late hours of October 24th. Business Mogul Edward Masen, Sr., CEO of Masen Enterprises, brutally murdered wife Elizabeth before turning a gun on himself. In what appears to have started out as a domestic dispute ended in a murder/suicide. Police responded to a 911 call from a neighbor, who reported shouting and other loud noises coming from the couple's Michigan Avenue apartment at around 6:24 p.m.
When they arrived, police discovered the bodies of both husband and wife, as well as the couple's only child, Edward (age 8), hiding in his closet.
I put my hand to my mouth, gasping at the words in front of me. I click the next article listed.
Edward Masen, the Man With Two Faces
(Chicago, IL) Investigators are beginning to uncover the true story of Edward Masen, Sr. and his hidden life as a verbally, physically abusive monster to both late wife, Elizabeth and surviving son, Edward.
There's a picture in this article, of a family sitting together at some sort of event. The man and woman are smiling at each other, but the little boy just stares off, blankly. The green eyes and bronzed hair are all I need to see to confirm that Edward Masen, Jr. is Edward Cullen.
When Rosalie and I finally arrive back to the center hours later, I am still in shock. Trying to digest everything, realizing I've never really ever known Edward Cullen. Never given him the chance.
"Hey, are you sure you're okay?" Rosalie asks for the fiftieth time. "You've been acting really weird ever since the library."
"Yeah," I reply, shaking my head. "I just need a nap or something."
"Okay," she doesn't believe me, but doesn't press the issue. "I'm going to go grab a snack in the cafeteria, I'll catch you later?'
"Yeah, of course. I just need to sleep, to clear my head."
We go our separate ways, her to the cafeteria and me to our room. I enter the room, going straight to the table that sits next to my bed. Opening the drawer, I pull out the burned CD Alice had sent along with her note. I put the disc into my player, slipping on my headphones. The CD has only one track. There's muffled silence before the song begins, Edward's voice filling my ears.
She had a history of killing herself,
I had a habit of dying.
I think she gave me something to live for,
I guess I helped pass her time.
But I had vision of seeing things straight,
She had the heart of a liar.
Well, I never saw her leave me once,
But she never felt me beside her.
And it's cruel but,
She's got a good hold on me.
The song ends with a few more strums of his guitar and it's not until then that I realize I am crying.
I roll over to the desk Rose and I share, pulling out a sheet of paper and a pen, and begin writing.
February 5
Edward. . .
A/N: Thank you for all of the reviews, they are greatly appreciated. Please let me know your thoughts on this one.
The song used at the end is Dashboard Confessional's Hold On. Chris Carrabba is awesome and I own nothing of his either.