A/N:

Susan and Kim deserve all of the awards.

I'm not a fan of tissue warnings because I hate being told how to feel. That said, I have this uncontrollable urge to tell you that this chapter is kind of dark. And now I'm shutting up.

See you in two weeks.

-Honest Liar-

CHAPTER THIRTEEN: SHE LEAVES

The Town

After

I am honest.

I am what my wife has always been, except she hates me for it. She will, once she finally lets herself hear me.

She was already crying. Before. But those were a different kind of tears.

I tell her this truth for the first time. There is no going back. I have taken it all away from her. I have taken everything. Her eyes are hell on earth and they will never forgive.

There is so much that I want to say. So much more than this confession. But I can no longer force myself to speak.

I couldn't tell you. I couldn't be who you wanted me to be. I couldn't say no. I couldn't break you. I couldn't be more than this man.

Her face is in her hands and I hate what I've done.

She stood by me when I told her a different truth. She has to stand by me through this one too. She has to.

Sitting in the center of our bed with her knees up to her chest, her sobs fill the room. I want to pry her fingers off of her eyes and force her to look at me. But I can't move. I can't fucking move.

Her cries turn to screams and I'm the reason. I am her hurt and her rage.

And although she is perfect, even in her anger, I can't survive knowing that her pain is because of me.

I watch her from my spot in the middle of our bedroom. There is nothing to lean on. No furniture. No lies.

I want to wrap her up in our quilt and protect her. But I cannot be the one to protect and the one to harm. Even I know that it doesn't work that way.

My mind is so loud that I don't even notice that her screaming has stopped until she is gone from the bed, pulling her clothes from our closet and shoving them into a bag.

And now I'm finally in motion. I am the one screaming. I am promising everything that I want to be true. I can't hear any of it. Nothing.

My heart is pounding in my ears, my arms flailing. I grab her by the shoulders. I have to stop her.

"Do not touch me!" she screams. Fierce and angry. Teeth and claws.

She looks at me like I'm a villain. She sees me. She fucking sees me and I am powerless to stop her.

I let go of her without meaning to.

I watch my hands as I frantically start pulling her clothes out of the bag, throwing them around the room. To the floor. Against the walls. They don't make enough noise.

The screaming won't stop.

I grab hold of her again and I swear I can feel her heart beating through her skin.

"How could you, Edward? How could you do this to me?"

"I don't know."

"Let go of me," she demands, too calm for what is happening.

"I shouldn't have told you." I don't recognize my own voice.

"You shouldn't have told me? You should have told me from the start! You shouldn't have done it. I'm your wife. All of this time..."

"I love you."

"You don't even know what that means," she spits back.

"I love you."

"Stop it."

"I love you."

I pull her to me, holding her as tight as I can, my fingers pressing into her arms. She is rigid under my touch. And I can feel it. She's not mine anymore.

She was never mine.

I don't know how long I've been on my knees. I don't know anything. Except what it feels like to have my face pressed against her stomach.

Please.

Forgive me.

Please.

I am grabbing and holding on because I know this is it. I know it's too much to forgive.

I know.

"Let go of me. Now." Her voice catches in her throat. And I have to see her. I have to see her face. She won't look at me. Her glassy eyes are staring at the corner of the room, where the wall meets the ceiling.

Look at me.

Her eyes trained on that corner, her lips twist around her words. "If you ever loved me at all, you'll let go. You'll let me go."

I can hear it in her voice. I can feel it in her skin. I can see it in her tears that refuse to fall. I am dead to her.

"Let me go," she whispers, her expression like stone.

I hold her tighter. I can't stop.

"I love you."

"I..." she stutters. "I... I don't even know you."

"I'm sorry," I plead, my face buried in her shirt. "Bella, I'm so sorry."

"I hate you, you fucking liar."

It bites and burns and bleeds me dry.

I think I let go. I think I do. All I know is that I'm not touching her anymore. She is gone from my grasp, picking up her clothes that are scattered around the room.

I turn around, facing the window. Refusing to watch her walk away from everything that she promised we could be.

I listen to her feet on the hardwood. She doesn't cry. I listen to her feet and count her footsteps as she shoves her clothes in that bag.

Her feet go quiet. Mine feel heavy. Like they're bolted to the floor.

But they're not. Because I'm facing her now. I'm watching the way her hair hangs down her back as she walks away. With a bag slung over her shoulder.

She pauses in the doorway to our room, her eyes trained on the hardwood. I watch her reach out for the shirt at her feet. Her favorite shirt. My shirt. The one from high school.

But she leaves it there, on the crooked floor.

I follow her from our room, down the stairs, to the front door. I wait for her to look back.

I wait and I wait and I wait.

I wait until she's gone. And I am left with exactly nothing.

The door stays open, creaking slightly. The sound makes me want to rip it from its hinges.

The sun is low behind the trees, shining in through the open door. It's blinding.

The longer I stare, the more I swear I can see her, standing in the driveway. Twirling around.

Until it's the darkest dark and she is nowhere.

She left. And she's not coming back. She left. And I let her.

There is a pack of cigarettes in the bottom right kitchen cabinet where we keep the odd shaped pots and pans. It's all I can think about. I'm in the kitchen before I can stop myself.

I pull everything out, letting the pans clamor to the ground. I hold the full pack in my fist. I stare at my tangled hands and I can only see the devil in my fingers.

I can't smoke them in the house. I stare out the foggy glass of the back door. I can't smoke them. In the house.

I don't have a lighter, just a matchbook from the Puerto Rican restaurant downtown.

I hold the matches in my traitor hands, accidentally ripping out two instead of one.

I'm pathetic.

I sit on the cold back steps with my cigarettes until the pack is gone and my fingers are burned from holding on too long.

My entire body is swaying, lost at sea.

I walk back in through the kitchen and straight to the still-open front door. Holding the doorknob in a tight fist, I slam the door closed, shaking the whole house, making it scream.

And when the door swings back open, refusing to catch, I am the one who is screaming. With my lungs and my fists.

I am living, breathing rage.

And I can't stop. I can't stop that swinging door from slamming again and again until it feel like the entire place is going to come down like a house of cards.

I take the stairs two at a time. They shake and protest under my feet.

I turn right instead of left. There is only one thing that can take this all away.

My fingers are fire as I try to pry up the floorboard in the guest room. My seventh place.

It is nailed down too tight. Because of a moment like this. Because I know myself and hate myself and gave myself an out.

I run back down the stairs, the sound of each creaking stair taunting me. I rummage through the garage until I find the rusty crowbar.

I take the stairs too fast. I know it, but I can't stop myself. And when I trip on the step that's too tall, I hate the world just a little bit more. I hate this house and this life. I hate her.

The board comes up easily now. It lies face up with two ancient nails bent in odd directions.

I snatch the little box from its hiding place, holding it in my palm before shaking it. The sound brings a lone second of relief.

I don't count them. There are too many to count. I don't waste any time.

In the bathroom, in front of the mirror, I do things with those pills that only junkies do. And I know exactly who I am.

I see myself so clearly. So very, very clearly.

With my hands holding on to the sink, I look into that mirror. I stare at my reflection. And I am nothing but a fucking liar.

It doesn't take long before I no longer recognize my own body.

My arms feel too long and my legs too short as I trip down the stairs. I need to lie down. Just for a minute.

Nothing is real. Nothing.

I fall. I think.

I'm in the dining room. On my back, staring at the peeling wallpaper.

I feel like there are shards of glass in my veins, saltwater biting at my skin. Like I'm lying on the beach, just at the edge of the water and all of my blood is slowly draining from my body, seeping into the wet sand, staining it red with sin.

I hope the waves take me away. I hope they carry me out to sea and rip me apart.

My eyelids are too heavy, my heartbeat too thick.

The pain fades slowly, and then all at once. It feels like kissing in the rain, putting a ring on her finger, peeling off her clothes. Like laughing in the dark, rolling in the sheets, tangling my fingers in her hair.

My eyes refuse to open. And it's okay.

I am nothing without her.

Death couldn't possibly be worse.

-HL-

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