"I know I'd never let you walk away
So why do I push you 'til you break
And why are you always on the verge of goodbye
Before I'll show you how I really feel inside?" Why, Jason Aldean
All rights belong to their rightful owners. ;)
Y'know how I keep promising HEA? Well, keep repeating to yourself, because it's gonna happen. ;)
I just have one thing to say – Life isn't pretty; it's not sparkly unicorns and rainbows. It's suffering, pain, stress, and sometimes loss—and somewhere in middle of it all, happiness occurs. Sometimes people do horrible shit (like cheating), and sometimes more often than not, they lie because they it's what's best, or some are just cruel like that. I've been through what Bella goes through during this story; if you don't like it, then I understand.
Later in the night – his room
I'm in his room with him, but he's on the bed and I'm sitting against the locked door. My stomach is still twisting and turning from an hour and a half ago; it wasn't walking away that made me sick, it was the words I'd said to him, and the worst part is, I don't regret them. I've always held my tongue—held back from screaming at Edward—because I was always afraid that he would finally do something that would send him off the deep end, but tonight was different.
I feel his eyes on me, but I can't bring myself to meet his gaze.
I shouldn't feel guilty, I know that I shouldn't, but I still do.
"Why didn't you tell me the truth?" I ask quietly.
I finally get the courage to look at him, and I see that he's looking anywhere but at me now.
"It's—it's dumb," he whispers.
I roll my eyes and let my head fall against the door.
"It can't be any worse than leading me to believe something 'more' happened," I tell him tiredly.
He's quiet for a moment, but eventually speaks.
"I . . . I guess I jus' wanted a way for you to leave without fucking things up further." He stares at the wall ahead.
My head snaps up off the door, and I stare at him incredulously.
"That makes . . . absolutely no sense," I say, narrowing my eyes.
He sighs.
"I wanted to stop hurting you," he says quietly. "Plus, I was hurt by what had happened—I know I know, it wasn't you, it was Angela."
"Ookay. . ." I trail off. "Why'd you OD?"
It's several moments before he answers.
"Because I realized that I was wrong."
"What," I snort. "You can't handle not being right?"
He shakes his head and picks at something on his comforter.
"No, it's not that. I just . . . I realized how wrong I was to believe what wasn't true; to think that you'd say something like that, especially over text. Also 'cause I-I kissed Liz, and when that set in—the reality of what I'd done, that I fucking cheated and pushed it into your face—I-I freaked out. So, I went out to Port Angeles, and got the usual," he says.
"But, why; what—I still don't get it," I say quietly.
He clears his throat once.
"I wanted to finally let you be free, to stop all of the shit that's gone on since high school, and to let you just live your life like you should," he tells me in a hoarse voice.
His words hit me hard.
It's as though he actually wanted to succeed, and that feels like a kick to the heart and stomach; I can't take it, and finally allow the tears to fall.
"Shit," I hear him mutter.
And before I know it he's kneeling in front of me, trying to remove my death-like grip on my hair; I shake my head.
"No, no, f-f-fuck no," I mumble repeatedly.
He finally gets my fingers to release my hair, I look up at him, and I can tell that he's on the verge of crying-breaking; my hand goes to the back of his head, and I thread my fingers through his hair.
"Why, oh God, why," I cry.
I pull at his hair and he doesn't try to stop me.
"You h-honestly thought th-that by l-l-leaving me, dying, it would make me hurt less?" I yank his hair tighter, crying.
"How stupid can you possibly be," I ask.
He leans closer to me and I shake my head, not able to deal with this, and feeling like I'm going to explode.
"Stop—please, please, stop," he whispers, his right hand resting on my neck.
It's then that I realize that we're both close to panic, an anxiety attack.
I release his hair and pull him to me, finally falling apart from tonight. He falls easily into me, and eventually we resituate ourselves so that it's me who is sitting on his lap, and not him on mine. We sit like this for I don't know how long; we both cling to each other, and even though he's right here, the anxiety doesn't dissipate at all. He kisses my forehead.
"C'mon, let's move to the bed; my ass and feet're going numb," he says against my forehead.
I don't fight him or say anything as we stand up and he pulls me to the bed after shutting off the light; the blue light from the Christmas lights that are still here in his old room glow in the otherwise dark room. He climbs onto the bed first, taking the side near the wall for a change, and I immediately follow, as if I'm on autopilot. He lays his right arm out and then wraps it around me from underneath, and wraps his other arm around me, caging me in.
Minutes pass which feel like a lifetime.
All the while, he holds me to him; I can't stop the tears, the body-shaking sobs that wrack my body and the bed, and I'm sure his as well. Neither of us says anything though; he just lets me cry—occasionally he whispers soothing words in my ear.
"Breathe baby," he whispers.
I choke on a sob and try to move into him more, getting impossibly closer; he squeezes me so tight, so good.
"T-tighter," I choke-whisper.
He complies, squeezing tighter until it feels as though the circulation in my arms is going to be cut off; I don't care though, because I need this; he always gets what he wants from me, I always give into his tempting ways. For once, I need this to be about me and not him.
"I'm sorry that I hurt you all the time," he whispers.
It's the middle of the night, and we haven't moved from the bed.
His apologies are sweet, but they also torture and kill every time they're spoken. They kill because although I know that he's sorry (and he truly is, I never doubt him when he apologizes, never have), it hurts and I die a little each time because he and the situations never change; they continue with the same story, the same middle and ending, the same fucking dialogue each time. Something has to change eventually, because I'm scared that one day, he's going to succeed in killing himself—whether that's intentional or not next time is up to him, and I don't want to find out, but I also can't bring myself to leave him for good; just the notion of saying goodbye tears me up inside. I spent time away from him back in junior year of high school, twice; the first time was easy, I was pretty pissed off at him. The second time, all I did was wish for him to return—actually, the second time he walked away from me, and it hurt like hell. People have told me all along that he's not good for me, that I should just let go and move on, forget about him; but I'm not a computer, I can't just delete somebody from my life; but I still wonder if those people have ever had someone like Edward; somebody who they love with all their heart, mind and soul, so much that it consumes their every thought and all their dreams.
"I-I . . . I c-can't k-keep doing this," I whisper.
I'm facing him now, with my face in his black t-shirt covered chest. I feel him tense at my words, but he sighs.
"I know," he whispers.
I'm about to say something when he continues, so I shut up and just listen.
"And you shouldn't keep getting hurt. As much as it would kill me to do, I'd let you go so you wouldn't continue to hurt yourself . . . eventually maybe kill yourself," he says quietly.
His words cause another round of tears, and I shake my head, gripping the back of shirt in my hands, pulling myself closer; he squeezes me so good; but little does he know (or maybe he does know), I'm already killing myself; hell, I'm already so far gone, it would just completely end me to stop now.
In fact, I'm surprised it hasn't completely ended me yet.