"If only I don't bend and break
I'll meet you on the other side
I'll meet you in the light
If only I don't suffocate
I'll meet you in the morning when you wake." – Bend And Break, Keane
All things belong to their rightful owners.
When I wake-up the next morning, the night comes rushing back.
I remember begging him to love me, and he did finally.
And suddenly, I feel weird, almost awkward.
I get up and use the bathroom after changing back into my clothes—sans Edward's black hoodie—and then make my way downstairs.
Emma is already down there eating, and raises her eyebrows when she sees me.
"Just . . . shut it," I mutter, going straight to the fridge.
I pull out a diet coke and pop it open, and sip it; all the while, I can feel Emma's eyes on me.
"Are you OK?" she asks quietly.
I'm sitting at the other end of the island, still nursing the diet coke; I shrug.
"Why?" I ask.
She rolls her eyes.
"'Cause I'm sure I could guess what happened after you two disappeared last night."
I don't answer her, and look up just in time to see Edward make his debut into the kitchen in nothing but boxer shorts.
He looks at me hesitantly.
"You alright?" he asks.
I nod and focus back on the can of coke.
He goes over to the fridge and pulls something out, then closes it. He then comes behind me and cages me in; I have to work hard so that I don't tense up at his nearness.
"How're you really?" he whispers into my ear.
I meet Emma's gaze as I answer.
"I'm fine, honestly."
He hugs me from behind for a moment, and then says that he's going to shower. Emma waits until he's upstairs and we hear the bathroom door shut to start into me.
"He doesn't deserve to be lied to," she says pointedly.
"I wasn't lying."
She rolls her eyes.
"You're either not fine, or you're not going to be, which is gonna freak him the fuck out, B, you know that."
Lies only bring trouble in the end,
And make us sick to our stomachs,
But they also make us feel better
When it's exactly what we want to hear. . .
After telling Edward that I need to go home for a bit to grab a few items, I drive home with my mind in a messy haze. I keep thinking about last night, and I'm honestly not sure how to feel. Thoughts of it being too soon, and we both weren't ready, and the worst one: It's only going to bring trouble later on . . . all of it flutters through my mind as I pull up to my house and go inside. Luckily, the media isn't around right now.
.
.
.
A lie, lies, more lies. . .
They only bring trouble.
One, two, three more times,
And I'll be just like you. . .
When nighttime comes and I'm still not on my way back to his house, Edward calls, worried. I tell him that I would rather spend the night at my house; it's easier since I'm already here.
"Oh, okay," he says, surprised. "Do you want me to drive over?"
I bite my lip as I readjust the towel that's holding my wet hair in place.
"B, are you there?"
I put the phone back to my ear, apologizing.
"Sorry, I was taking my hair down from the towel," I explain.
I feel as though I'm apologizing for much more than just setting the phone down for a moment.
He chuckles.
"I gotcha, it's fine. So, should I come over?"
I'm not stupid; I can hear the hope in his voice.
"I'd prefer to just be by myself tonight," I say softly, and then add, "If that's OK?"
It's quiet for a moment, and then. . .
"Yeah, sure, sweetheart. But um, are you sure you're okay?"
No, I think to myself.
"Yeah, I'm sure; I just have a headache is all," I reply.
"Alright . . . you'd tell me if it had anything to do with . . . with last night, right? 'Cause I—I liked it—I've missed you in that way, but . . . I don't want you to be uncomfortable, y'know?"
His insecurity mirrors my own, and it kills me to lie, but I still do it.
"'Course I would," I say.
I'm not you in that way, I silently add.
The sad—horrible—part of it all is that he buys every word I just said, and we hang-up shortly after. I unplug the house phone and put my cell on silent. I take my laptop out when I get into my room, and put on some music. Maroon 5 fills my ears, and it takes me back to being that age, seventeen and eighteen, and all the shit that went on.
Midnight – her house
It's late, and I've been surfing the internet for hours, and trying to write, but nothing comes. I turned off the light thirty minutes ago, but I still can't manage to fall asleep. When I can't take it anymore, I get up and go into the bathroom where I keep certain medicine at—like my anxiety and other stuff for pain. I take out the Tylenol and Valium—Edward would never touch Valium, always saying that it never works, so I keep it in here because I know he won't ever touch it. I pop one of the blue pills along with four 500mlg pills of Tylenol, swallow them with some tap water, and then shut out the light.
I climb back into bed after grabbing my iTouch and putting in the earphones; I scroll through songs until I come to one.
Not Strong Enough by Apocalyptica plays on repeat, and I'm hit with dozens of emotions all at once.
I am him—I'm turned into Edward, I cry to myself.
Popping pills is something that I did in high school on and off, trying to deal with everything going on; it took the edge off the anxiety and allowed me to get some sleep.
When I get up to pee at around 3am, I stand in front of the bathroom mirror and stare at myself after flushing the toilet. My own reflection scares me, because my eyes are incredibly dilated even the harsh light of the room; there's almost no green to them right now. I'm dizzy as I lean on the counter for support, and the meds are definitely doing their job; I feel light, floaty, like I'm on a cloud. However, I also feel sick, and like I might cry. Staring at myself in the mirror, I see myself for what I am: A hypocrite.
You're a hypocrite, my conscious laughs.
And it's right, I am a hypocrite.
I yell, swear, and bitch Edward out because of what he does, with how he's tearing everyone apart with the constant drug usage, but am I really any better? I don't think I ever have been, if I'm being honest with myself; I've always taken something to try to calm my nerves, and with that have always given the age-old excuse 'it takes the edge off and helps me deal', when in reality it makes things so much worse. Still, a part of me can't help but think that he caused this to happen; that I wouldn't be this way if it weren't for him, and maybe that's true.
Without giving it a second thought, I grab the nearest razor that's on the counter and sit down on the toilet, and press the cool metal to my skin; I slowly slide it across the skin of my thigh, feeling the relieving feel of the sting from the blade. I pull it away after a moment and look; the slice isn't deep by any means, but it's enough to make it drip blood. I immediately clean up the blood and keep a washcloth pressed against it as I make my way back into bed, reveling in the relief that is brought upon from a taboo and frowned at action. I also feel the guilt beginning to settle in, the feeling of regret from slicing my own skin, and not being able to take it back.
I jus' wanted it to stop, stop hurting, I silently cry.