Everything belongs to their rightful owners; I own this plot (and I got permission to use certain things)
Thanks to: 12 Stones, Taylor Swift, Sheryl Crow, Maroon 5, Aerosmith, Skillet, Kelly Clarkson, P!nk, The Beatles, Trading Yesterday, Apocalyptica, and many others who got me through writing this chapter, including Nic, who's like the sister I never had. She's gotten me through some of the toughest shit lately, love ya. :) (She also reads my stuff and assures me that it's good even when I don't think it is, lol.)
(Attention: I changed the dates around; the real life situation happened in May, not November, and part of it occurred at the end of June as well, of last year.)
"I'm not strong enough to stay away
Can't run from you
I just run back to you
Like a moth I'm drawn into your flame
Say my name, but it's not the same
You look in my eyes I'm stripped of my pride
And my soul surrenders and you bring my heart to its knees.
. . . . .
And it's killin' me when you're away, I wanna leave and I wanna stay,
I'm so confused, so hard to choose,
Between the pleasure and the pain,
And I know it's wrong and I know it's right,
Even if I try to win the fight, my heart would overrule my mind,
And I'm not strong enough to stay away." – Not Strong Enough, Apocalyptica
It's been two weeks.
I've kept in contact with Emma, not wanting her brother's and my shit to interfere with our friendship. Liz doesn't think it's a good to talk to someone so close to Edward, but I need it in a way; I'm not ready to let go completely. I understand where Liz is coming from, but I also know that I've known Edward since before high school, so yeah; I'd like to keep what little I can. At first, I tried keeping myself busy, but that only last so long before I finally gave in and allowed myself to feel loss.
Thursday – November 19
My phone buzzes with a new text.
I grab it and slide it open, checking the text.
Call me plz – its important –e
I scoff.
After weeks of not hearing from him, he texts me out of the blue, asking me to call? At least he didn't leave a voicemail first.
Thursday, November 19 – nighttime
Edward rang my phone a few minutes ago; I let it go to voicemail.
However, I'm not strong enough not to check it—curiosity killed the cat and all—so I dial my number and listen to it.
"Uh hey . . . I know you probably don't want me to do this, but I have to . . . Emma's in the hospital. I tried texting you earlier today to tell you, but uh, yeah; I'm guessing you ignored it (with good reason I guess). I figured you'd wanna know since I know you two still talk. Um, so yeah . . . gimme a call or something to lemme know if you're gonna be coming by the hospital—she's at Harborview. Bye."
The message ends and I shake my head.
Should I go? Yes, I should. Because Emma's my friend and it would be the right thing to do; however, Edward would most likely hang around the whole time, and I'm just not ready for that. She would understand if I didn't make it, I think.
I feel horrible for deciding not to go, but another part of me thinks it's the correct thing to do.
Thursday, November 19 – nighttime
I'm sitting in my old bedroom of my dad's house. (I'd kept it after he moved to Germany right after retirement.) I'm looking stuff up online and listening to Long Way To Happy when a knock sounds from my window. My hands freeze over the keyboard of the computer, and I'm wary to look because I don't want to find out, not really. The knocking continues, and I'm left wondering what to do. The logical part says to just get up and answer it, but the stubborn part of me says to ignore him. Suddenly, my phone is blinking with a brand-new text.
Can U come 2 ur window plz? –e
I set the phone back down, ignoring his words. Minutes pass by, and when he realizes I'm not going to respond to his request, he sends another text.
Or I'll just unlock it from out here – ive done it be4 and I remember how –e
Shit, shit, motherfucking shit.
I should have known he would remember how to unlock the window he used to spend so much time climbing in through late at night during high school—considering he's the one that discovered that it could be unlocked from the outside in the first place.
I bite my lip and think over his threat quickly, even though there's not a doubt in my mind that he would follow through with it. So, knowing that it's raining out and that my balcony doesn't have a shield from rain, I don't want him getting sick—even though I'm trying to remain detached, I still can't help but care—and maybe a part of me doesn't want to see him turn to drugs because I turned him.
What if he really needs me tonight? I don't want it to be on my conscious if he uses—or overdoses—again just because I turned him away. I get up and go over to the window, slide back the curtains, and open the window, letting him inside. I also notice that it's stopped raining—my sole purpose for giving in.
Ha, that's funny, but you can't lie to yourself, my conscious whispers.
So maybe my other reason is that I don't want to go through the pain of turning him away. So what if that's the case? It's selfish but true; I've gone through enough in the past two weeks, so yeah, I think I'm entitled to this. Some people might wonder why I'm throwing away two weeks of being 'strong', but they wouldn't understand it if I explained it to them.
Edward takes off the black hoodie—the same hoodie I'd worn for days on end a couple of weeks ago—and drops it to the floor. It irritates me, him acting as if he owns the room or lives here, but I push it back down, choosing to sit back down by my laptop on the bed; I close the page I was looking at out. I put my focus anywhere but at Edward, who is busy running a hand through his damp hair. I settle my eyes on the file folder that holds all of my MP3s, and scroll through them. I end up choosing Here Comes The Sun. Finally, I get tired of him just standing there and tell him that he sit on the bed if he wants.
"Uh, thanks," he says quietly as he takes a seat.
He leans back against the wall, legs out and crossed at the ankles. His black jeans are torn in places, and his faded Kings Of Leon concert tee is old, but somehow still fits him. It reminds me of the shirt that I stole from him when we were nineteen; we had gone to see Skillet and he had bought a concert tee on the way out—after waiting in line for almost two hours. I'm pretty sure he knows that I took it though.
The song changes to Low by Cracker, and I noticed him smirking a little; I know why. We'd decided to get smoke a joint and listen to this song one night, and what followed was . . . interesting at best. I hate remembering the good times, the fun times, because I'll laugh at first, but then the sadness takes over and I'll want to cry; being bitter, cold, and hard is shit too though.
"H-h-ho—how. . ." I'm stuttering, not able to get words out.
He looks at me.
"You can whisper it . . . I know it's easier sometimes," he tells me quietly.
I glare down at the bed, mad that he knows me so well, knows what works to get me to calm down, knowing me in mind, body, and shit, maybe even soul.
"H-how'd you know I was here?" I whisper.
He fidgets with a loose thread on his shirt; the song changes to Aerosmith's Jaded.
"You weren't at the house—your house—so I figured you'd probably be here. When I came and looked up, I saw the light on," he explains.
I hum quietly and roll my eyes when the song changes to a lovesick one.
"Ugh, one more fucking love song and I'll be sick," I mutter.
Edward snorts.
"Isn't that a Maroon 5 lyric?"
I nod.
I click on a song and it fills the room with the lyrics to Lie To Me.
"Why?" I ask quietly, still uncertain if I actually want an answer or not.
He clears his throat.
"'Cause . . . Em's in the hospital with a case of pneumonia, and I . . . I needed someone," he says quietly.
I'm too afraid to ask if he wanted to use again, so I go another route.
"Did . . . um, did an episode occur?"
He nods, and I have to bite my lip to keep from screaming in frustration, or even crying.
He seems to think that I can somehow, magically, save him, but I can't; he can't be saved by anyone except himself, but he doesn't see that. No, he wants somebody else to do all the work for him, and to be there every time something goes wrong incase he uses—it doesn't work that way, though; he has to be the one to stop himself when the urges enter his mind and try to take over.
"I can't . . . I can't always be the one to save you," I say quietly but firmly.
He looks down at his jeans while I talk.
"Why not?" he asks softly.
I sigh and lean back against the wall that my bed is against.
"'Cause, it's killing me; do you realize that, or no? Or, do you realize and just not care?" I say bitterly.
"You've never said anything before . . . you haven't ever had a—a problem with it over the years," he says softly.
I snort.
"Actually, I have, you just don't listen. But, I'll say it again. It's breaking me, has been for a long time. It kills me every time you swallow the pills instead of coming to me—"
"I tried coming to you, but you shut me out!" he says, cutting me off.
I sigh.
"You were already so far gone that it probably wouldn't have made a damn different if I hadn't."
"Probably," he repeats.
I shrug.
"That's the past, and I can't change it. Like I said, it kills me—I die a little more inside each time you use. I keep wondering, in the back of my mind 'cause it scares me so much that I have to keep it pushed back, how long it's gonna be before you finally do end up killing yourself. How long is that gonna be, how far or near into the future is it? I don't wanna be around for that!"
He looks at me finally, and surprisingly it's not me who has tears falling, but him. He looks so forlorn, so fucking heartbroken that it chews and eats away at me, but I can't bring myself to comfort for him; he needs to understand what I go through, and if losing me—just like I lose him each and every time he swallows the drugs—then I guess so be it.
"I—I don't know how to quit," he whispers brokenly.
I bite my lip.
"Mind over matter—but honestly, it's 'cause you don't want to stop; you don't want to have to say 'no' and fight the urges. It's something you're used to doing, and I can't be there constantly to literally fight you when you've taken them," I say.
"Can't or won't?" he asks, narrowing his tear-filled eyes at me.
"Both," I say without hesitation.
She Will Be Loved begins to play.
"Why. . ." he says, trailing off.
I frown.
"Why what?" I ask.
"Why isn't me loving you enough?" he says, tears falling again.
Everything in me wants to crawl over and hug him, but I fight it; 'cause I'd be a hypocrite if I didn't take my own advice, after all.
I swallow back the nauseated feeling that is rising up from my stomach, along with the tears that want to come, and breathe carefully, slowly.
"B-because . . . sometimes, it just isn't. J-just 'cause you love someone doesn't mean you're good for them and vice versa," I say quietly.
He chokes on air, trying to get in a breath while crying, and I fucking hate seeing him like this—I'm not that cold, it still hurts me to see him hurting, and especially to know that I'm the cause of it. I can't hold it in any longer, and I cover my mouth with my hand as I finally cry a gut-wrenching sob. It gets his attention; he looks up with his sad, tear-streaked face and eyes, and sees me. He moves over the space that has kept us separated for the last hour, trying to get to me; I shake my head when he goes to touch me.
"No," I cry, shaking my head.
I curl into myself, trying to make it so that he can't hug-hold me.
He sighs-huffs and part of it fans over my face.
He listens for once though, and doesn't try to hold me; instead he settles for sitting to my left, sort of kitty corner from me.
It's quiet apart from May I playing softly from the floor.
I'm drained from crying so hard, and Edward moved back to his original spot. I pick up the laptop and go to the folder that's labeled 'the wild ones'; it's full of pictures of both Edward and I together, old and some kind of new. I click on one and turn the screen to him.
"You remember this?" I ask in a hoarse voice.
He nods, a stray tear falling from his right eye.
It's a picture of the two of us at one of his parties back in senior year; he's leaning the large rock-cave that's still there, and I'm in his embrace with his arms around me; I think we were watching the bonfire.
I click on and another it to him. He frowns.
"I don't recognize that," he says.
I nod; I knew he wouldn't.
This time we're near the water.
"It was taken right after we all threw our grad caps into the ocean," I say quietly.
He nods.
We then had to fish them back out.
Another one is of us when we were sixteen; it's of Edward and I, and we're on my bed, asleep. His arm is around me, and I'm facing away from the camera; he's on his back with his other arm on resting on my cheek; my head is on his chest.
"I don't remember that picture either," he comments.
I nod.
"Probably 'cause Liz sent it to me a few years ago—I never knew she took it," I say.
It was while everything was still 'okay'—but whom am I trying to fool; it's never been okay, not even close. When the good times—like the one with throwing our graduation hats into the ocean—came along, you learned to soak it up because they could change in the blink of an eye, or in Edward's case, from triggers. Anything has always triggered him, and I've spent so much time trying to figure out what did and didn't, would and wouldn't, trigger him that it got to the point where I finally stopped; because I figured if something is going to happen, so be it. I was seventeen then. Now, at 27-years-old, I realize that almost nothing has changed; we're still stuck in the same damn labyrinth that we were as kids, only it's more serious now, and decisions must be made, because we aren't kids anymore—and that's the scary part.
"Do you regret meeting me?" Edward asks out of nowhere.
It's 1:30 in the morning, and The First Cut Is The Deepest is quietly playing. I chew on my bottom lip, thinking. He should know the answer though; that no, I don't regret him; I don't regret anything, or at least I try not to. Because you only have one life to live, and it's awful to live with regrets.
"No," I answer softly. "You know I don't regret anything."
I'm not sure I know how to regret, to be honest.
He sighs.
"I wish I could be more like you," he says, surprising me.
I frown. "Why?"
He shrugs.
"Tell me," I prod.
"'Cause . . . you don't have any regrets; you don't carry that weight around, feeling guilty about shit—I wish I had that."
I sigh and rub my neck.
"Just 'cause I don't regret things doesn't mean I don't feel guilt, Edward. I feel tons of guilt every single day. If I could go back and change certain things, I would; but I can't, and that's mainly why I don't see the point in regretting shit. It's impossible to go back and undo the past," I tell him. "And besides. . ." I pause.
"What?"
"If I could do that, I wouldn't have some of the best memories of my life," I say quietly.
It's the truth.
Even though throughout the years our relationship hasn't exactly been ethical, I still wouldn't trade it for anything.
"You still consider me to be one of the best parts of your life?" he asks in disbelief.
I nod.
He shakes his head.
"I—I don't see why, though. All I've done is hurt you—taken you for a rollercoaster ride for years!"
I shrug, trying to show indifference.
"It's all I've ever known," I tell him.
He shoots me a look of incredulousness.
"Yeah, and that's just fucking sad," he says bluntly.
I shrug again.
"Maybe, but y'know what?" I ask, waiting until he responds.
"What?" he mumbles.
"I wouldn't want to know any other way," I say with conviction.
This causes a look of sadness and remorse to appear on his face.
"Then why are you doing this?" he says so quietly.
I could be a prick and ask what he means, make his explain in detail, just to make him suffer even more, but it would be useless and it's just not me—not right now anyway.
"Because I don't know what else to do," I say, rubbing both hands over my face.
When I open my eyes, I see that he's glaring at me.
"So, 'cause you don't know what else to do, you settle for leaving—which you promised you wouldn't do," he says.
The hurt—betrayal—is evident in his voice, and it hurts because yes, I did break my promise of not going anywhere; something I told him when he came over that night when I'd seen him in that bookstore earlier in the day for the first time in almost four years, and was scared shitless that I would lose him again, and was trying to cling on. Sometimes I wonder if he thinks I enjoy hurting him like this, because I don't.
"Why are you doing this? Wait, I get the why; it's the fact you're doing it that I can't fucking grasp," he admits.
I'm surprised that he admitted that much.
I cross my arms, a defense mechanism that's been there since I was young.
"I'm hurting, Edward," I say softly, because it's as hard for me to say any of this as it is for him to hear it. "It hurts so bad, yet I don't wanna be without you; going that route fucking kills me—but I don't know what else to do! It's either deal with it or leave. It hurts that I don't know what the hell to do—other than sit back and watch—when episodes come. I sit back and watch it all happen, and it hurts . . . it hurts so much . . . so bad." Tears fall down my cheeks and I don't bother wiping them away.
He looks torn, like he understands—grasps—what I'm telling him, but doesn't know what to do either. He gets up and crawls over to kneel in front me; he pushes my legs down to that they're flat against the bed, and then situates himself so that his knees are on either side of my closed legs—a few inches and he'd be sitting on me.
His warm hands hold my face, gently caressing my wet cheeks; more tears fall.
"Let me hold you . . . please, please, please," he whisper-begs against my forehead, and I nod, caving once again.
He holds for me I don't know how long.
He whispers apologies that torture my heart and make my head scream, and make me want to scream at him because they're useless.
"I need you," he whispers to the top of my head; my back is to his chest. "I need you. I can't fucking breathe when you're not around; you're the only thing I know like the back of my motherfucking hand. . ."
I squeeze my eyes shut in hopes of stopping the tears, all to no avail. It would be comical that he's defiling a Taylor Swift song if it were different circumstances, but it's not.
"You're my every-fucking-thing, B. I'll die if you leave," he whispers brokenly.
His every-fucking-thing, now that is comical. Am I his everything when he turns to drugs? When he's so fucking high that he loses himself, and malice-filled words spit from his mouth? How when he believes the lies that cutthroat people tell him? I'm not his every-fucking-thing then.
Him, him, him; it's all about him. His needs, what's good and bad for him, not me. He never for one-second gives thought that I am killing myself inside—it's half murder half suicide to be perfectly honest. He kills me a little more each time he allows the urges to control him, and I help him simply by letting him.
"Leave," I say so quietly, I'm not sure he even hears me.
I have my answer when his arm tightens around me, and I know that this is his way of disagreeing.
I need him to go though; it's too much having him here tonight, holding me like we're back in high school again. Like the night, we had sex for the first time when we were sixteen; we were high and round up having sex, which made it awkward for a while, until I came clean that I didn't regret it at all.
"Why?" he asks just as quietly.
I turn onto my stomach, trying to get out his hold, but it's more mental—emotional—than physical.
"'Cause . . . I need you to," I say hoarsely.
He leans closer and rests his forehead against the back of my neck.
"If you love me—or even care about me at all—and wanna make this easy on me, you'd do this," I say, hating the fact that I'm basically manipulating him into leaving.
So confused, so hard to choose between the pleasure and the pain; but I need him to go, otherwise I'm going to keep suffocating.
He brings my heart to its knees.
"I do love you, and I do care about you," he whispers into my skin, his breath and words melting into me. "I love you, I love you, I fucking love you—but you don't seem to believe me anymore."
I clench my teeth together, not wanting to cry.
"It hurts B," he says softly. "Hurts to know that you sound dead when you talk, like emotionless nowadays."
I inhale a shuddering breath and then slowly exhale it.
"You gotta show it too, though," I tell him quietly.
"There have been good things, you know that," he says reverently.
I sigh shakily.
"Sometimes, the bad cancels out the good—no matter how hard you try, it just happens that way," I whisper emotionlessly.
"Why—how—is it so fucking easy for you to leave before?" he asks, ignoring what I just said.
He still doesn't get it.
None of this has ever been easy; I can't believe he's trying to say that it's easy for me. Nevertheless, it's Edward, so it is sort of believable.
I give in and answer him like he wants.
I've done too much of that.
"Tell me to go and I will," he says suddenly.
The promise is strong in his tone, but what's stronger is cockiness, as if he thinks I'm going to say 'stay'.
"Go," I tell him in a clearer voice.
He stills the hand that's on my shoulder, clearly taken by surprise or shock.
Then, he lets go of me, saying, "Okay . . . if that's what you want."
I nod. "Yeah, it's what I want."
Neither of us says anything else as he shuffles on his hoodie and then proceeds to climb out my window, shutting and locking it.
I bury my face into the pillow and cry, immediately feeling the loss of him once again.
This is what I cannot deal with; constantly losing him over and over again, then getting him back for a bit, just to lose him once again.