Stockholm Syndrome

2book

Synopsis: The first time I saw Edward Cullen; he had pummeled Mike Newton to pulp and was methodically licking blood off his fingers. Like Mike was a cake and his blood was the icing on the top. I had no idea then that this was my downfall into eternal damnation. [AU/AH]

Disclaimer: Everything belongs to S.M.

Stockholm syndrome is a term used to describe a paradoxical psychological phenomenon wherein hostages express adulation and have positive feelings towards their captors that appear irrational in light of the danger or risk endured by the victims.

"'And I pray one prayer--I repeat it till my tongue stiffens--Catherine Earnshaw, may you not rest as long as I am living; you said I killed you--haunt me, then! The murdered DO haunt their murderers, I believe. I know that ghosts HAVE wandered on earth. Be with me always--take any form--drive me mad! only DO not leave me in this abyss, where I cannot find you!

--Emily Bronte, Wuthering Heights

I woke up to hear a steady beating, a sound that I had, through countless experiences, came to associate with a hospital. Charlie's face was a blur in my semi-consciousness and I could vaguely hear him calling my name. My head felt heavy and the world around me was spinning but gradually, things cleared.

Charlie was peering at me intently with a very worried look on his face. Even through the slight haze, I could see the folds in his forehead and the telltale signs of white in his hair. I guess having to constantly worry about me- and constant it was given my unbreakable attraction to the hospital's emergency wing- could not have helped either.

"Bella?" Charlie said, again. "How are you feeling?"

It took me awhile to respond. I tried to sit up and strangely enough, my body felt weak. Charlie saw my pathetic attempts and helpfully gave me a hand, propping some hard hospital pillows behind my back at the same time.

"I'm… I'm fine," I croaked. I reached out for the glass of water I saw on the table beside the hospital bed and after nearly knocking it down, I drank it, but not without spilling half of the glass on my shirt. Cursing slightly under my breath, I tried to wipe it dry only to spill more water.

Charlie snorted under his breath. "You're still the same," he said, in a moment of uncharacteristic gentleness. "I… I… was…"

Saving him from unpleasant emotion, I cut in and said, "I'm fine, Dad." I gave an awkward smile.

"The doctor says so too. A little bit of a concussion from when you fell and knocked your head but other than that, you're okay," Charlie rambled, "You're okay." That same relief again I saw every time I woke up with Charlie peering on top of me.

"When can I go home?" I asked. It was getting a bit awkward now because Charlie was now shuffling about and shifting his weight from left to right and I knew that he was nervous or that he had to do something he did not want to.

Charlie said, "they want to keep you for observation for one more day, and after that you can go home."

I groaned. I hate hospitals.

"Bella," Charlie said abruptly, "what happened? I don't want to ask now but it's my job and… well, when I went to the alleyway… and I saw you and," he paused, "Mike Newton lying on the ground…"

I knew this was the closest Charlie would ever get to telling me that he had been scared out of his mind, not just for Mike but especially for me.

"And Mike Newton just woke up but the doc says that he needs some rest first so I have to start with you," Charlie finished. He flashed me an apologetic smile. Sometimes, I forget that Charlie was a policeman- the only policeman- in town. It was hard to reconcile the man that liked his beer and fishes and baseball with a man in blue.

Images flashed through my head. The intent look on the green-eyed stranger's face when he stared at me, stared through me. Mike Newton slumped on the ground, more blood and bones and muscle and breathing corpse than the arrogant asshole he was. The thick material of my school skirt rubbed between my fingers. The pink, curling tongue.

My heart started to pound again and my fingers became balmy. How could I tell Charlie about him? How do I tell Charlie that that stranger in the alleyway, perhaps only slightly older than me, had scared me more than anyone or anything ever had in the seventeen years of my existence? Or that when he looked at me, I knew, I just knew, that he was the most dangerous person I could ever meet?

I couldn't.

"I… I was walking home, and I realised it was late," I started, hesitantly. "So I took a short-cut."

Charlie groaned. "Bella, I told you so many times-"

I cut him short. "I know, Dad. But I didn't want you to worry, okay? So I took the short-cut… and I saw… him."

"Who's him?" Charlie half growled. I could see his knuckles turn a pearly white.

"I don't know his name," I admitted. I deliberately kept my voice even, even though every part of me wanted to shake and shiver. "He was beating up Mike," I continued, "beating Mike up like a robot…" my voice started to crack, "and there was so much blood and I didn't know what to do. I tried, Dad, I used the pepper spray like you told me to but it didn't work! And he kept beating Mike and and…"

I could hear his voice in my head. "You have done enough. You can now tell whomever you want to tell that you tried your best. You tried to stop me. You even attacked me, however pathetic it was. Don't worry, Bella Swan who reads books for fun, you tried and your conscience is clean."

Before I knew it, I was crying, shaking as silent sobs wrecked my body. Charlie looked like a deer caught in the headlights. He awkwardly patted my shoulder and after a slight pause, pulled me closer towards him. I leant in just as awkwardly, but at the same time, glad to feel him beside me.

"Did he say anything to you? What did he look like?"

I sniffed, trying to stop the tears. "He didn't say anything," I lied. The words flew out of my mouth unbidden. Why didn't I tell Charlie about the bizarre conversation I had? What strange force prevented me from saying the truth? "He… was tall. Messy hair, couldn't really tell what colour. Around my age. Lean and muscular," I continued. Green eyes peering right into me. "And… he had green eyes." And a pink tongue.

"Did he touch you?" Charlie growled.

I shook my head urgently. "No… no, he didn't," I said, "he didn't touch me at all."

"So what happened after?" Charlie said. "After you tried to pepper spray him?"

"Nothing," I said, "he walked away. And I wanted to help Mike… but then…"

"You fainted," Charlie ended for me. I nodded my head.

I think Charlie sensed that I was unraveling. The anger left his face suddenly and all I saw was weariness. I could see his head whirling and I could imagine him running through all the boys in town trying to match the description I gave him. He was slipping into policeman mode.

Suddenly, all I wanted was to slip underneath the blankets again, close my eyes and pretend that nothing had happened. I faked a yawn that sounded artificial even to me. However, Charlie seemed to buy it. Or maybe he wanted to escape the oppressing hospital room as much as I did.

"I'll go talk to the doctors," he said, "and I need to talk to Mike as well." He watched as I slid down lower into the bed and closed my eyes.

I could hear his footsteps across the room as he walked to the hospital door. With some hysterics, I fancied that the rhythm matched the constant beep coming from the machine next to me. I didn't stir, however, and I could sense Charlie's gaze on me for a few seconds that stretched on.

"Rest well, Bella," he said before the door closed.

Before I fell asleep again, into a restless slumber, I couldn't help but hear his words again in my head.

"Don't worry, Bella Swan who reads books for fun, you tried and your conscience is clean."

Why was it then that I felt so utterly guilty?

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I woke up a few hours later. Physically, I felt much better but mentally, my mind was in a mess. Charlie was sitting in an armchair beside my bed again. A quick glance at my watch told me it was near evening and I had been sleeping for a large part of the day.

I deliberated whether or not to wake up Charlie when he gave a yawn, stretched and blearily opened his eyes. "You're awake," he said, his voice sounding exhausted. "The doctor said you can leave tomorrow morning."

I let myself feel a momentary disgruntlement over that news when Charlie's voice cut through my reverie.

"Bella," he said with a start. He paused for a while, as though he was uncertain whether or not to tell me something. Charlie had stood up and was now pacing around the room agitatedly. He wasn't looking at me and that was never a good sign.

"We talked to Mike," he blurted out suddenly, "and Mike… doesn't want to press charges."

The shock came slamming in followed by a very loud "WHAT?!".

Charlie just looked tired. There were thick eye bags around his eyes and I knew it wasn't from staying up late to watch baseball.

"I talked to him while you were asleep," Charlie said, "Mike," his lips were curled into a half sneer. Even when Mike was beaten up black and blue, Charlie still could not summon enough sympathy for the boy that had broken my heart. "He doesn't want to press charges. Tried convincing him to. Told him it was his civic duty. Hell, even his parents tried but the boy won't budge. Insane fool," Charlie rambled.

My heart started pounding again. Why that irrational fear? Somehow, thinking that the green eyed stranger would be arrested had been something I had been clinging on to and now it was gone. The thought of him being left to prey on society made my blood chill.

My voice shaking- I started playing with the edge of my blanket again, much like I played with the edge of my school skirt- I asked, "Did he say why?"

Charlie groaned. "No, just muttered something about it being his fault and for the better or some rubbish, refused to say why and refused to press charges."

Half afraid, I said, "So what happens to him?"

Charlie knew immediately whom I was referring to. "Nothing," he said. "If Mike doesn't want to press charges we can't hold him on anything. We don't even know who he is right now anyway. He didn't touch you," I saw relief, "and Mike is being stupider than normal, so we've got nothing."

I knew right then that I had to talk to Mike, convince him otherwise, tell him to do something, needed to try to stop the fear that started burgeoning in my chest.

"I'm going to talk to Mike," I said determinedly.

Charlie frowned. "You need to rest!"

I shook my head. "I'm fine, Dad. I need to talk to Mike!"

Seeing the insistent look on my face, Charlie caved in. If anything, he knew that I was stubborn as hell and once I made up my mind, I wouldn't change it. "He's just down the hall, two rooms from here," Charlie said, "He was awake when I left him."

I got out of bed. My body felt light, like it was made on air, and as I walked to Mike's room, I couldn't help but feel as though I was still in a dream. It didn't escape me that Charlie was still hovering like a mother, making sure that I was okay.

I could still see him frowning. "I don't like it," Charlie tried again.

I sighed. "Just because he was an asshole to me… and everyone… doesn't mean he deserved that happening to him, Dad." Charlie looked like he was going to protest. I knew there was a reason why he didn't look particularly upset that Mike didn't want to press charges. "Dad!" I exclaimed.

Charlie grumbled a little under his breath. "Fine," he said. "I'll be around."

I stared at that door for a while. I knocked the door and when I heard a muffled "come in", I walked in.

Mike was lying on the bed. Or what I thought was Mike.

He was swathed in bandages; his right arm was in a cast, as was his left leg. What was not covered in bandages was covered in bruises, which lined his body in fresh purple, as did a smattering of cuts. The way he was lying down seemed strange uncomfortable and that was understandable because the green-eyed stranger had said that Mike's ribs were broken. His hair, normally gelled to perfection, was lying flat. And I couldn't be sure, but it seemed sparser than normal, as though chunks of it had been pulled out.

I couldn't help the gasp that came out from my mouth and I had to swallow the urge to cry.

Even if Mike Newton was the greatest asshole that ever walked the town of Forks, the sight of him lying in bed, crushed to death made tears spring into my eyes.

He looked up. "Hi Bella," he said. His voice was broken, as was the look he gave me. He looked defeated, like a dog that had been kicked one too many times and could now no longer stand up. The arrogant smirk that normally lined his face was wiped off and replaced with a tentative wince. His eyes, usually mischievous and flirtatious were dead.

"What happened to you Mike?" I breathed. Stupid question. As though I didn't know what had happened.

Mike didn't answer. He turned his face away to face the window. In fact, it looked like he was looking everywhere except my face.

I walked to the chair beside his bed, pulled it and sat on it. For a moment, we didn't say anything, just sat there in awkward silence.

Finally, Mike broke it. "What do you want, Bella?" he said, his voice coming out a bit harsh. "I thought you never wanted to see me or talk to me again?"

I winced a little as Mike used his words on me. But then again, I had meant those words when I said them and even now, I couldn't get over what he did to me. But it wasn't a time to bring up the past, and especially not now, when there were other things at hand.

"This is not the time," I said firmly, "we can talk about that later. Why don't you want to press charges, Mike?"

Mike sneered. "No 'how are you' or 'I'm glad you're alive' Bella?"

I was taken aback for a moment. "No! Wait, I don't mean, no I'm not glad you're alive or no I don't care how you are but but…" I realised I was starting to ramble. Mike just stared at me unnervingly.

"You were always a frigid bitch anyway," he said calmly.

"Mike, are you seriously going to bring that up now?" I asked incredulously. Of all the times to bring up that same argument again, it was going to be now, when we had already broken up and he was lying in a hospital bed beaten up?

That ugly sneered again. I never liked it. "You just refuse to admit it," he said, "that you are a cold frigid bitch and you deserved everything that happened."

I felt like smacking him. "So you're saying that I deserved getting cheated on just because I refused to put out?" I felt like smacking him. Or breaking his other uninjured arm. And his uninjured leg. And all the unbroken ribs. "Do you even know what you're saying?!"

Mike looked away. I realised suddenly that he wasn't looking at me- hadn't been looking at me at all, and his accusations didn't have the same anger that they usually did. He's evading my question, I realised. He just doesn't want to answer me.

All my initial fury fled me and my murderous thoughts came to a screeching halt. "Why don't you answer my question Mike?" I asked firmly.

Mike didn't reply. He looked jittery.

I repeated my question. "Why don't you want to press charges?" I was getting more worked up this time. He had to press charges. He just had to. I needed him to press charges.

Mike finally looked up. Again, that broken expression. "I can't, okay?" he said finally, pitifully, "I just can't."

I was confused now. What had been done to Mike?

"What happened, Mike?" I asked finally.

A few seconds of silence before Mike replied. "I… I was rushing to meet Jessica," he said. I scowled at the sound of her name but Mike continued on. "It was late, and I wanted to take a short-cut. I bumped into him in the alleyway." Without giving details, we both knew who him was. Just the fear in Mike's voice when he said that dreaded word and the matching fear I felt course through my body was enough of an indication.

"I… I said some things. Some things I shouldn't have said. I… I was a pain in the ass. Rude. I shoved him. He rightfully shoved back." Mike's words were clinical, emotionless, like a line that had been drilled into his head time and time again.

I scoffed at him disbelieving. "That wasn't a shove!" I exclaimed. "Mike… that was no way near a shove. A shove is when someone pushes you in one direction with a bit of force. A shove is not someone beating you until you're in the hospital!"

"It was my fault," Mike said stubbornly, "I said things I shouldn't have. I shouldn't have shoved him. I don't want to press charges. It was my fault. It was my fault…" his voice started to trail off.

"Did he tell you to say this?" I asked disbelievingly.

Mike shook his head furiously. "It's the truth!"

Lying in bed, his voice dwindling, half his body wrapped like a mummy, his eyes broken… I didn't recognize Mike Newton anymore.

"It wasn't entirely your fault, Mike," I said again, "even if you did say… something… he didn't have to retaliate… the way he did." Mike didn't reply. "You should press charges," I urged. Please, say you will press charges. My heart was thumping wildly.

"No." Mike was resolute.

"You're too much of a coward!" I said hotly.

Mike suddenly looked straight into my eyes, his own gaze hard. "Chief Swan said you were there," he said, "he said that you saw parts of it. Said that you saw him."

I nodded my head. I should never have taken that short cut.

He was still looking right into my eyes. "Then you understand why I'm not going to press charges," he said.

And right then, I knew why. I knew it just as I knew night from day. Because the green-eyed stranger was haunting me again. His intense green eyes. His mechanical attack on Mike. The way he licked his fingers. The way he said "I'll kill him." And just as I knew then that he was the most dangerous person I'll ever meet, I still knew that now, and I still believed he was being truthful when he said he would kill Mike Newton. And when the weight of all of that sank into me, I knew, with that sudden epiphany, why Mike Newton wasn't going to press charges and why no amount of cajoling would force him to do so.

I nodded my head. With a movement that even shocked me, I reached out for Mike's bandaged hand and held it gently. After awhile, I felt the same pressure back. And for the next few hours, I sat beside Mike, holding his hand, hearing his dry sobs, even though he had once broken my heart and shattered me.

Because we were in this together. Because no one could understand either of us and we only had each other. Because we were all alone and there was no one to help us face the green eyed demon. Because he was the only one to understand the irrational fear that coursed through my veins when my thoughts flew unheeded to that tongue and those emerald orbs and that cold, emotionless voice. And because I was the only one that could understand why Mike Newton did not want to press charges.

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When I stumbled back to my hotel room much later, I noticed a parcel on my bedside table. It stood out from the bouquet of flowers that some of my friends in school had left me (Ben and Angela, probably) and from the teddy bear that was lying forlornly on my bed, its beady plastic eyes scaring the heck out of me.

It was an innocuous parcel wrapped in brown lying on my bedside table and for some reason, looking at me caused my heartbeat to race and fear to bubble.

I walked towards the incriminating parcel. It was unmarked and the wrapper was smooth. With hesitant shaking fingers, I unwrapped the parcel. A book slipped out.

It was a brand new copy of Wuthering Heights.

My heart was racing so fast, my chest started to hurt. Who had given me this book? I flipped open the cover page. The world around me became a blank as nothing existed but the book that was before me and my urgent, beating heart.

Wuthering Heights. My favourite book.

A note fell out.

My dearest Bella,

I heard our first meeting gave you a shock and you're recovering. I'm sorry that it turned out this way; I didn't mean for it to happen.

I thought you would like to have some fun while you're in the hospital. I hope you enjoy it and escape the rest of the world.

Rest well.

The note was unsigned but I knew who it was from immediately. If I thought my heart was pounding before, I was mistaken, because it was beating so hard I felt like I was going to explode from within. My body started shaking and was overwhelmed with fear-

How had he known where I was? Why did he give me the book? And how on earth did he know that Wuthering Heights was my favourite book?

It was too much to take.

I started to scream.

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A/N

Thank you for all the reviews from the previous chapter, and to all the people who added me on story alert/favorite stories list, I'll really really love to hear what you think about this story and any comments you have to give : )

Lalaalaaa: Bella's 17 and Edward's around there too! :) & I'm probably more insane and more mad for writing it in the first place hahahah

Blackwolf2dragoon: Yeah it's my first fanfic, I'm glad you like! I don't want to give away too much but I planned on using 'Stockholm Syndrom' metaphorically. But you have to wait and see!!

And thanks to all the other people that reviewed: xox-Twilight-xox, britxfluva, , Tulipp, luvin-jazz, inmyownworld01 because you guys made my day!

Hope you like Chapter 2! And tell me what you think haha