I couldn't get out of bed the next morning. I couldn't will my body to. The phone rings, though, and I force myself to reach for the phone.

"Hello?" I mutter weakly. I'm in so much pain right now.

"Hey, Bella, it's Edward," says the person on the other end. "Do you want a ride to school again?"

"Oh, I won't be in today," I say. "I don't feel very good. I'm just going to sleep for most of the day."

"Oh, okay," he says. "Do you want Carlisle to come check on you."

"No, I'll be fine," I lie. I can't say, No, Edward, I can't let Carlisle see me 'cause I'm so cut up, beat up and screwed up, can I?

"Okay," he says. "Um, call me tomorrow and maybe we can work on the project again. Oh, and Carlisle said to make sure you put ice on your wrist."

"Alright, sure," I say. "You should get to school."

"Yeah. Bye, Bella."

"Bye."

We hang up, and I put the phone on my bedside table. I lie there for a little longer before sighing. I should go clean, make Charlie's pie, shower, ice my wrist and then sleep. But I don't wanna . . .

I force myself to sit up. Then put my legs over the side of the bed. Every movement I make feels so automatic, like it's all programmed and I have no choice but to go along with it. It's so robotic.

I force myself downstairs, limping slightly. I step into the kitchen and choke up at the sight of blood on the floor and walls. It'll take a while to clean up. I find a rag and get out a bucket. I fill it with warm water and mix in some soap. This is going to take forever.

I sit the bucket down on the floor next to the pool of blood from two days ago. I start scrubbing as hard as I can, watching as it comes off. The floor's actually turning a pristine white as I scrub. I decide to do the whole floor just so Charlie might be pleased.

I sigh. He's never pleased so who am I hoping to kid? I guess myself. I feel the need to lie to myself so I feel better. But it's so hard to feel better. It's almost impossible.

I sigh again and sit back on my heels. This is going to be a long day . . .

By the time I'm putting the pie in the oven, my wrist feels like it's throbbing. It hurts so much. And I'm trying not to cry.

I once heard that it's not a sign of weakness when a person cries, but a sign they've been too strong for far too long. I wonder if that would apply to me. I've been dealing with this for five years, and yet I'm still strong. Well, strong enough to not do anything.

But I'm also too scared. I'm afraid that if I tell, Charlie will kill me. And I'm afraid that if I do die from Charlie, that everyone will shun me even if I am dead. I'm afraid that death holds no peace, that life holds no meaning – that I'm simply stuck here with no real purpose.

Maybe I don't have a purpose. When I was younger, before everything happened, I had dreams of being the next Picasso, of being a famous artist. But then I remembered that most artists became famous after they died, and I was content with simply being an artist and selling paintings when I could, living as a "starving artist".

But now . . . I don't know. I don't want to be an artist that everyone whispers about, saying she was abused when she was younger. I don't want that. I don't want my work to be influenced by everything I'm going through.

I sit down at the kitchen table with a bag of ice rolled in a towel on my wrist. My stomach growls, and I force myself back up. I need to eat something. But then I stop. What can I eat? I'm not allowed to take food unless it's an apple for my lunch or given to me by Charlie, which is really rare, but we're out of apples. I used the last on the pie.

I sigh, inhaling the scent of the baking pie. I guess I won't be eating today . . .

The phone rings again, and I pick it up.

"Swan residence," I say.

"Hello, this is Mrs. Cullen, is Bella home?"

"This is she," I say. "Hey, Esme."

"Oh, Bella, dear, how are you? Edward said you were sick," she says with real worry.

"Oh, I'm doing better," I lie. "I got some good sleep."

"That's good," she answers. "I made some chicken noodle soup for you. Would you mind if I dropped by to bring it to you?"

"Oh, um," I glance around the house quickly. There's nothing here that would suggest . . . wrong things. "Yeah, that'd be fine. My dad shouldn't be home for a while, anyway."

"Alright, dear," she says. I give her my address and we hang up. I quickly drag out a light-weight jacket to hide my arms and body. I check my face in the bathroom and touch up a few bruises that were showing through and a few of the new ones.

The doorbell rings about ten minutes later.

"Coming!" I call, limping down to the stairs and hoping down quickly. I limp to the door and open it to see Esme holding a bowl in her hands.

"Hello, dear," she says. She gives me a one-armed hug, and I fake a few good coughs. I feel bad about this, lying just to get some free food.

I take her into the kitchen, and we sit down. She pushes the bowl towards me, and I get up again to find a spoon. I fake a few more believable coughs, and they sounds really good.

I sit down and start eating the soup. The soup is amazing. Esme is such a good cook.

"What's cooking?" she asks as I slurp a noodle into my mouth. "Bella, manners."

She's treating me like her own kid.

"Huh? Oh, an apple pie for my dad," I say. Then I lie again, "He's had a hard week at work, so I thought this would cheer him up. When I woke up from my nap, I made this for him."

"That's really sweet of you," she says, smiling softly at me.

If only you knew, I think sadly. I take another spoonful of the soup and swallow.

We start talking, and I still fake some coughs. Before long, I'm thinking that they are real. Why am I so good at this?

"You need to get some more rest," she says. She gets up, gives me a light hug. "Bring the bowl over whenever you can. There's no rush, dear."

I watch as she leaves. I'm almost done with the soup, but she didn't stay. Huh. Whatever. I finish as the pie finishes. I get up and pull it out. It smells so good . . .

I place it on the table to cool as the door opens. I hide the bowl quickly as Charlie enters.

"Good, bitch," he says, noticing the pie. He loves calling me a bitch. He starts inspecting the floor. "You missed a spot."

My stomach sinks and I see where he's pointing. There's a few spots of dried blood in the corner. Oh, God, I hope Esme didn't see that.

"I'm sorry, sir," I say. "I'll clean it up immediately."

He gives me a kick in the small of my back as I get on my knees to clean it. My face hits the wall, and there's a sickening crack. I bite my tongue and hold a hand to my nose. There's blood gushing from it.

"Clean it up," he hisses. "And where's my dinner?"

Crap. I was too busy eating my dinner to remember his.

"Sorry, sir," I say. "I'll get to it once I finish here."

I pull the rag off my wrist and hold it to my nose. I'd rather have a throbbing wrist than die of blood lose. That'd be a crap way to die anyway . . . a nosebleed. I almost laughed at the idea. Almost.

Once I finish, I stand again, and now it doesn't look like I've missed anything.

"Get me a beer," he orders.

"Yes, sir," I say. I grab one from the fridge, pop it open and take it to him. I notice him eyeing the pie and grab a plate, fork and something to serve the pie with. I do that.

"Good," he says. "But you did promise me this yesterday."

"Right, sorry, sir," I answer.

I continue to prepare his dinner of hamburger and a baked potato. I hope he doesn't mind.

"Would you like cheese or bacon on your potato?" I ask politely.

"No," he replies curtly.

"Alright, sir," I say.

When I finish, he eats dinner, some of the pie and then smacks me. I don't even know what I did. And of course, he continues with it until I'm passed out from pain.

The next morning, I rolled over to see a note stuck on my bedside table. I read over it, and apparently Charlie would be out for the day, fishing with Billy Black. You know, come to think of it, I haven't seen Jacob for a few months. Maybe I'll call him later. But first, I need to work on that project.

I reach for the phone, but stop. I don't have permission to go anywhere (and I hurt way too much at the moment, anyway) and he'd kill me if anyone came over. Maybe I could just tell Edward I still don't feel good.

And, as if he read my mind, the phone rings, and it's the Cullens' number. I pick it up.

"Hey," I say.

"Hey, Bella," says Edward on the other end. "How are you feeling?"

"Better," I lie. "That soup Esme brought over was really helpful."

"Chicken noodle soup does wonders," he agrees. "Anyway, wanna come over? To work on the project, I mean."

"Oh, um, I still don't feel up to getting out of bed much," I say. And I'm not lying. I need to take a shower, but I really don't feel like getting out of my nice warm bed.

"I can come over, then," he says.

"Um, yeah," I say. "Sure."

"Okay, I'll be there in a little bit," he says.

We hang up and I force myself to get out of bed. I dress, but it's so painful. I end up in a sweater and a pair of clean sweats. God, I barely bother for anything, anymore. I go into the bathroom and check on my face. I wash it real fast and then apply makeup .I brush my teeth right as the doorbell rings. I'm rewrapping the bandage as I go down to open it.

"Hey," says Edward as I open the door.

"Hi," I answer quietly.

He lifts his bag. "I've got everything in here."

"Okay, cool," I say. "We can work in my room, I guess."

"Sure," he says.

I lead the way, and take a seat back on my bed, propping up the pillows. Edward sits at the foot of my bed, getting out everything. Then he stops and looks at me hard, squinting his eyes.

"What?" I ask.

"I thought . . ." He moves closer and wipes away the makeup on my cheek. "I knew it. Where'd you get this bruise?"

"Huh? Oh, I tripped and hit my cheek on the banister downstairs," I lie quickly. I practice these lies, making up ones for all of them.

"Then why'd you cover it?" he asks.

"It's an ugly bruise," I say.

"Oh," he says.

I nod and he goes back to organizing.

"Did you want to see some of my paintings?"

"Oh, yeah, where are they?" he asks.

I get up and walk as naturally as possible to my laptop. I grab it and come back, lifting up the screen. I hit the power button and wait for it to turn on.

"I've sold most of them on the Internet," I say. "I have an eBay account, and people bid on them often. I've got an online gallery, too, where I can post new pictures of the work, and even the in-between process."

"Sweet," he says.

I pull up the gallery and hand over the laptop. I scoot over so I can see what pictures he's looking at.

As he flips through, he makes little comments about them, the ones he likes, asking about the materials I used on it. I tell him I mostly use oil paints.

"Do you have any for sale right now?" he asks.

"Yeah," I say, taking the laptop back. I go back to my eBay page and show him the current items that are selling.

"Rose would like that," he mutters about one of them.

"Hm?" I ask.

"Oh, I'm just thinking about Christmas," he says.

"But Thanksgiving's still two weeks away!" I cry.

"Yeah, but you can never start too early, and look at the bids on it," he says, gesturing to the screen. "And I might wanna start soon."

"There's still a week before I close down the bidding and sell it," I say.

"I'll have to talk to Carlisle and Esme," he says.

I nod and put the computer back on my desk, plugging it in. I sit down on his left side and pick up his sketch.

"It's really not that bad," I say.

He laughs. "It sucks compared to what you've done."

"But we're not comparing."

I put it down as he picks up the stack of papers with everything we're supposed to complete.

He moves it over so I can see better.

-Detailed sketch of a human skeleton

-Labeled bones

-Larger, 3D model of the skeleton

-Creativity is a must

-Use whatever products you deem necessary, but no help from an adult

-Report about how you would change how it was done if you were to do the project again

"Okay, so I don't have anything that can be used to make the 3D model," I say, putting the list down.

"What about paint brushes?" he asks.

"No," I say, shaking my head. "They're kinda expensive."

"Oh, okay."

I get up after thinking about that box of clay in my closet. I open the door and get on my knees, digging through piles of random magazines, some clothes, a bloody t-shirt, and some more art supplies. I find the clay and sit back up, looking back at Edward.

"We can make it with clay, and then paint some designs on it like the Mexican Day of the Dead skulls and skeletons," I explain, getting back up, wincing as I move my wrist wrong.

"Awesome idea!" he says with a grin. "Think that'll cover the 'creativity is a must' part?"

I laugh. "Hopefully. But We'll probably have to get some more clay. I don't think I have enough for the whole skeleton."

Edward nods.

I shoo Edward out of the house at a little before five. Charlie will probably be home soon with the day's catch and I'll have to clean the fish and make something with them. And store the others.

As I'm doing the dishes that have piled up for a while, I get another phone call. I feel popular.

"Hello?" I answer.

"Hi, Bella, it's Jacob," says the other person.

"Hey, Jake, what's up?" I say, leaning against the counter.

"Oh, not much," he says. "MY dad and Charlie haven't shown up yet. Normally they're home by now."

"Oh, really?" I say, feeling suddenly scared for Billy, but so relieved for myself. Maybe I'll get the night to myself.

"Yeah," he says. I hear fabric shift in the background. "But I think I say Charlie bring a tent with him, so they may be camping. I already tried his cellphone – no answer."

I can't help but start smiling. I shift slightly against the counter as it digs into that cut on my back.

"I'll check real fast," I say. "I know where he keeps it."

"Okay," Jacob responds.

I walk to the small closet in the kitchen and open it. Random object fall out like always, but I don't see the tent.

"Yeah, he took the tent," I say. "It's not in here."

"Oh, okay," he says. "I was just kinda worried about them." I hear the fridge open on his side and the sound of a bottle opening. "So what's up with you?"

"Not much," I lie. "I've been working on a school project with one of the new kids, Edward Cullen."

"Cullen?"

"No."

"Oh, okay."

We keep talking for a while before I hang up, lying about eating something. Instead, I go take a shower. I wash the cuts and poke a few bruises, whimpering. I'm such an idiot.

As I get out, I hear the door downstairs open and close. I wrap a towel around my body and poke my head out of the bathroom. I look down the stairs to see Charlie looking at me with such evil eyes.

"Get down here. Now," he hisses.

I walk down, wincing slightly as I move my wrist wrong. As I step off the last stair, he smacks me hard in the face. I stumble backwards, falling onto the stairs. My hand slipped away from the towel and it slipped off.

The creepiest grin I've ever seen flickered across his face.

"No, please," I whisper.

But it's too late to do anything.