Fugue Forgotten

Chapter 5

Disclaimer: S.M. is credited with the Twilight Saga and associated characters.

Thanks to PTB for the wonderful beta-ing.



From what I can tell, it's late morning or early afternoon. Today is my day for physical activity in the recreation room. By physical activity, I mean walking slow laps around the rectangular room by myself. But no one is touching me, and for that I am thankful.

The room is cold. Unlike my room, large windows run from floor to ceiling in attempts to brighten and liven the room. I think they just make it colder, harsher. It's the middle of winter and the view is that of endless brown woods. The leaves have all fallen, leaving the forest looking like a barren landscape save for the evergreens that are growing interspersed throughout the brown.

The room is barren like the woods. For a recreation room, there isn't much to do. There's a single wooden chair against the wall and a table in the opposite corner. That's one of the reasons why I spend my allotted time here walking laps around the room.

I follow the beat of my slow and uneven shuffle in my head, the sound of my worn slippers against the filthy tile a common sound.

I let my mind, working as slowly as my walk, wander back to yesterday. I'm still unsure about the stranger – Dr. Cullen, I think – who offered up what could just be another empty promise.

I reach the wall of windows when the pounding in my chest bothers me enough to sit down. I'm slightly winded and my heart is racing. It's clear I don't get the chance to move around nearly as much as I should.

Looking towards the locked door, I can see that there's not an orderly or nurse in sight, so I assume I still have hours left in here. I turn my attention back to the windows. They're a bit difficult to see through; years of grime have built up on the glass, making each shape slightly distorted. I smile a little and wince when it pulls at my chapped lips. It kind of reminds me how I see everything, especially on the days when I really have trouble separating my mind and reality.

My finger reaches out and touches the dirty window. I watch as flowing patterns appear in the oils and particles trapped on the glass. I'm almost surprised when clean glass is revealed from underneath my finger. The difference between the clean and dirty areas is apparent, and, for some reason, I find beauty in it.

I can't tear my eyes away. Is that all it took? With just a swipe of my finger I am able to remove years and years of dirt and dust and oil. Looking through this part of the glass makes everything clear. The abstract is gone.

I want to do the same with myself. I want someone to erase the delusional thoughts. I want someone to break the bridge that allows me to float away from reality.

I sigh and look at my hands, which have fallen into my lap. The one finger that had been tracing the window is stained an ugly brown-grey.

I resume my gaze out the window. I let my eyes wander aimlessly across the sedated landscape. Sedated indeed. An appropriate setting for that of a psychiatric institution.

The sound of metal against metal breaks my train of thought, and I snap my head around to see what's causing it.

The beautiful blonde stranger is standing in the doorway. He's smiling.

Someone who looks like that shouldn't work here.

"Hello, Bella."

His smile is so warm. I feel a dull ache in the back of my throat, almost as if I'm going to cry. But my eyes are dry and my mind is unemotional, for lack of a better word. I can't figure out why this man evokes any sort of feeling from within me.

I've been kept on my regimen of sedatives and antipsychotics. I shouldn't feel anything, but this man that almost glows as he enters the room warms me. And it disturbs me.

He's dressed well. He's wearing black dress pants with a light blue button down shirt tucked in. Mustn't forget the white coat. It's odd seeing someone who works here so well put together. The nurses and orderlies wear drab, ill-fitting uniforms and Smith wears the same two shirts with the same three pants every day.

Dr. Cullen, on the other hand, doesn't have a thing out of place. His pants still have the creases in them from being pressed.

As much as I am pulled to him, I fight the urge to continue staring and turn back to the window.

I listen to his footsteps as he walks from the doorway to the lone chair in the room. He sits, but doesn't speak.

I'm starting to feel like a trapped animal. Had I not the medication, I'm sure the feelings of entrapment would be ten times worse than it is now.

"I talked to Dr. Smith about possibly lowering the dose of your medication."

I listen closely but don't look to acknowledge him. The subtle undertones in his voice of… something I can't identify catch my attention.

"He and I aren't quite seeing eye to eye on your treatment, but I'm confident that, once your care has been transferred over to me, we can change things."

I finally turn to face him. I'm taken aback slightly as I force my glazed eyes to meet his clear ones. They're gold. The striking beauty of his eyes in conjunction with the rest of him unnerves me a little. Who is he?

"Why?"

I almost don't recognize my own voice. What I hear is gravelly and quiet – different than how I knew my voice to be. But I want to know why he feels so compelled to help me.

Charlie threw me in here to get rid of a problem. Smith does the bare minimum and labels me as a difficult patient.

What will I be to this flaxen-haired stranger?

"I help people, Bella."

God, why does his voice have to be so soothing? I feel like prey being lured by the predator; deep down, I know something is not quite right, yet I can't turn away.

"Why me?'

He smiles at me again with a face so pure I can't help but to trust him, to want him to help me.

"I'm the new ER doctor at the hospital next door, but more recently I've specialized in psychiatry. You were brought to my attention by… several people. I want to help you."

He keeps repeating that phrase. I don't understand it.

I stare at him like I've been raised without manners and social grace. I yearn to dig and figure out the true meaning behind him coming here.

I wasn't necessarily content with Smith; he sure as hell wasn't helping me. But accepting this perfect stranger who looks like he could be my savior is hard for me. He is throwing my imperfect and frozen world off kilter.

It spins wildly out of control like an unbalanced tilt-a-whirl. First I'm pulled one way, then another. I'm like a fucking ragdoll, helpless and flaccid. My fingers turn white as I grip at the windowsill, desperate to stop the phases that I tumble through at a dizzying pace.

It's not just my mind that is dizzy, but my fatigued body as well.

I inhale trying to ground myself when the smell of cinnamon and paper whites overwhelms me. A cool, stone hand is pressing on my shoulder. It's something I've not felt before – the combination of an icy cold touch with that of a rock-hard appendage.

"Bella?"

I tilt my head back to stare up into the enchanting golden orbs of my stranger.

My stranger?

No.

"Don't touch me!"

I back away into the corner, my cry a feeble attempt at warning him to stay away.

I feel adrenaline battling with the drugs in my blood stream, causing me to run jittery one moment and sluggish the next. What a fucking mess.

I'm breathing hard with the exertion of the past few moments.

I'm surprised I haven't drawn a gaggle of nurses with my cry. Then again, I am with staff.

Just as my body was caught in a mêlée between adrenaline – fight or flight, and sedatives, my mind is struggling as well. Despite my disillusionment, with my experience of how things in my life typically turn out, I want so desperately to trust this man before me.

He's kneeling, unmoved from when I lashed out at him like a cornered animal.

The numbing effects of the sedatives have long since dissipated in my bloodstream, and while my mind is still hazy, painful emotions have returned with a vengeance.

For once I find myself craving the blissful oblivion that the drugs provide. Then maybe I wouldn't have to feel the raw stinging in my chest that has been present, albeit concealed with chemicals, since my own flesh and blood abandoned me.

In a despondent attempt to run from the pain that runs haphazardly through my chest, I push myself further back into the corner. I can feel the chilly pressure of the cinderblock wall on either side of me through my thin shirt, and I shiver.

I'm overwhelmed. To go from unfeeling to emotionally besieged is like being thrown in an ocean without knowing how to swim. I paddle my arms and kick my legs and strive to reach that breath of air. Just one breath.

I yearn to be my six-year-old self again. Freud would call this regression, I believe. My desire to retreat back to a time when I was happy, safe, ignorant of the depressing and confusing aspects that haunt my daily life now, stems from my need to feel taken care of for once in my goddamned life.

Is that what my stranger is offering?

"I want to help you, Bella," he whispers in a harmonious and sweet voice. He's like an angel calling me away from the darkness that is threatening to overcome every essence of my being.

"But you need to trust me before I can."

Trust? I most certainly have fucking trust issues. How can I not, when the person I trusted the most threw me away, rejected me as his malfunctioning child.

Sorry, Charlie, no refunds or exchanges.

Too bad life doesn't work that way.

My stranger moves slowly and sits where he was previously kneeling. He doesn't attempt to move any closer. In fact, he looks quite comfortable sitting with his legs crossed on the stained tile floor.

"Maybe I'm asking a bit much. May I tell you about myself?"

I feel myself nodding before I realize I'm even doing it.

"My name is Carlisle Cullen…"

His words flow from his mouth like honey, and I sit enraptured. He tells me he's twenty-seven, but something – maybe the wisdom in his voice or the knowledge in his eyes – says otherwise.

As he speaks, I daydream. I allow his voice to paint a picture for me. He's married to what sounds like the world's most beautiful and caring woman. If I were to have had a mother, I would have wanted it to be this woman. He says her name is Esme, which means loved. His golden eyes light up as he tells me about her. Love at first sight.

As young as they are, they have five children, all adopted and all teenagers. Emmett, Rosalie, Jasper, Alice, Edward. They seem the epitome of the perfect family. And as I've been for my entire life, I'm stuck on the outside staring in. Just like when I'm caught in the throes of an episode, stuck outside looking in on my life.

I want to bang my fists on the invisible glass that keeps me separate from normalcy.

Am I not allowed to have that?

Sometimes I panic when I think about the future. I used to, before this happened, imagine a life that would eventually lead to marriage. Not necessarily kids, because I seriously doubted I could even raise a dog without screwing it up somehow. Now… now when I think about the future all I see is an indefinite stay in my gray cube of a room.

My stranger has finished speaking. I now know about him, yet I can't help but feel that something is missing. All is not as it seems.

When he realizes I'm not going to say anything, he continues on. "I know about you too. You're Isabella Marie Swan. Your father, Charlie, is the one who had you admitted. You're seventeen years of age."

I'm seventeen? Jesus Christ, I really have been here forever. I could've sworn I was fourteen when I first arrived. Three years may not be a lifetime, but it definitely felt like it. To spend three years of my teenage life growing up in a psychiatric institution was pretty fucking shitty.

I look at Dr. Cullen, at his perfect face, his flawless life, really. I'm envious, but more family. What makes them so perfect?

I chance a quick glance into his eyes before turning my gaze to the floor.

"I'd like to hear more about your family."

I can tell he's surprised that I've spoken to him by how he cocks his head to the side and his eyes widen slightly.

He smiles again. "Of course. Anyone in particular?"

"Edward."

I'm at a loss as to why I answer with his name.

My muscles relax as Dr. Cullen begins speaking again.

"Edward is my first son. He's your age, actually. While music is his passion, he has hopes of attending medical school."

"He likes music?" My voice is barely over a whisper, but Dr. Cullen hears me and nods.

"Classical especially. He's quite good at the piano."

What a perfect son.

I'm envious of the goddamn perfection Dr. Cullen enjoys every single day of his perfect fucking life. Has he ever felt pain? Has he ever lived in fear, or in despondence?

I highly doubt it.

I am so unused to feeling any sort of emotion that my anger catches me off guard. It's intense and fiery and overcomes the powerful feelings of jealousy that were just previously manifested deep within my chest.

Suddenly, Dr. Cullen's face is right in front of mine. His golden eyes are bright with concern. I want to hit him, to make him not so perfect anymore. I want to pull the worry out of his eyes.

No one has worried for me before; no one needs to worry for me now. I don't need and I definitely don't want to see Dr. Cullen everyday, to see what will most likely be intangible for the rest of my life.

I back away from him before staggering up. Sitting for so long leaves me dizzy on my feet.

"Bella?"

"Get away!" The harshness of my voice surprises me, but Dr. Cullen doesn't flinch. Instead, he moves closer.

"Get away." It's more of a wail of desperation this time, a sound that mirrors the envy and ache that sting with each heartbeat. I can't stand to stare at the perfection I'm missing any longer.

I angle myself away from him and move backwards towards the door. I need to escape. I'm always needing to escape.

Hands grab me from behind. They're not the cool hands of comfort I've more recently experienced. They're clammy and tight around my arms.

"What-"

"Don't worry, Dr. Cullen. She's done this before. Bella can be quite a handful."

I want to struggle, to throw the moist hands that make me nauseated off and run. Hell, even my room would be a welcome sight right now.

My sleeve is being pushed up my arm. I fight back the urge to look at Dr. Cullen, to beg him to make them stop. I don't want more drugs. But I can't look. For some reason, I'm afraid I'll see fear or disappointment in his eyes.

I already care about what this stranger thinks of me.

I see out of the corner of my eye that he steps forward, an arm raised. "That's not necessary. Just-"

It's too late. The needle is deep in my arm before he can say any more. I wilt in their arms, my flaxen haired stranger a mere outline in my fuzzy vision. He is no longer perfect.


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