Edward and I spent our date in a very awkward state. We went on a boat ride, had dinner and then sat at the table for about an hour, not looking at each other or talking. We said that we enjoyed it, but we might not do it again until we have more to talk about. But I saw how Edward was upset with this. I say he likes me. I win!

But I really don't.

"Bitch," Charlie says one morning from my doorway towards Christmas. I'm painting, but drop everything to turn to him.

"Yes, sir?" I ask.

"I'm going to be gone for a week, over that damned holiday, and James will be babysitting you," he informs me.

Then he turns and leaves before I can say anything. I drop to my knees, suddenly not knowing what to think, to feel. I'm suddenly so numb inside. I can't focus on anything, but staring at the wall in front of me. I vaguely hear the door open and close twice, once by Charlie, and I'm assuming the other time by James. Wait, James!

"Fudge," I mutter, looking around. I hear footsteps coming up the stairs and run to my window. I throw it open and slip out of it just as James enters my room.

"Get back here now, bitch," he hisses. He rushes forward as I freeze. I'm too afraid to even sneak out. He grabs me by the shirt I'm wearing and throws me on the floor inside.

"Please," I beg, "please don't hurt me."

"And where would the fun be there, beautiful?" he asks, pulling me back up.

Every day except Christmas was the same with him: wake up, shower, make breakfast, get hit, go to the Cullen house, lie, go home before dinner, make dinner for James, get abused for about two hours and then raped. And on Christmas the time spent going to the see the Cullens and lying to them was spent painting. I was still sick as hell, puking a lot. Any time of day. I hadn't thought anything of it and the tiredness that came with it. I just thought it was from Charlie or James's doing.

"Your heart's like a piñata," James whispers to me one night. He has me tied up, but in my underwear and a t-shirt. This is his sick way of getting me on edge. "And as it is that way, I can do whatever I want with it, with you, really – I can beat you as long as like, take you candy and then rip you to shreds. And all without being bothered."

I shut my eyes, jerking my head away.

"Oh, don't be like that," he says. He puts his legs on either side of my hips, still fully clothed. He places his hands on either side of my head, pushing the pillow down. He leans down, and his disgusting breath fills my lungs. He places his lips on mine, and there's nothing but forceful anger through that "kiss". If you can call it that.

Later that day, he leaves and Charlie takes his place as my "master". I've learned to just shut my eyes and go numb. That's all I can do in this situation. There's no use fighting. That just brings more pain. I don't want any more pain. He tosses a small box at me when he was finished.

He leaves and I stare at the box. The Cullens had given me small things for Christmas, and they were hiding in my closet. I pull of the brown paper on the box and pull it open. A collar . . . I force myself to wear it, sliding the black leather through the loop and forcing the metal prong through a hole. I go to the bathroom and look in the mirror. I guess it doesn't look that bad. But I sigh. I don't like this.

When I'm making dinner that night, the night before school starts again, I steal a small kitchen knife. I'm just so tired of this crap he puts me through. And I've heard it's helpful. That releasing the pain through your own will was a positive thing. I've heard that cutting can do wonders. But I don't know. I'm slightly skeptical. I mean, this could kill me. But why am I afraid of that? Death would be welcome at this point.

I go up to my room after he finishes his nightly beating. I sit on my bed and pull up left sleeve of my shirt. I dig the blade out of my jeans pocket and look at it then my wrist. Am I really going to do this?

My brain starts yelling at me, but my fingers say otherwise. They quickly position the knife on my wrist and yank down. I suck in a sharp breath as I watch the blood start coming to the surface of the wound. It starts as tiny droplets and then starts to form a river of sorts. I stare at it, thinking of what I've done. My hand is shaking that I hold the knife with. I raise it again and thrash over my arm, up to my elbow. The cuts aren't deep enough to kill me, but deep enough to bleed for a while.

Maybe I should have gone deeper. Stop all this crap that happens endlessly. But the cutting . . . it felt good.

I sigh and stick the knife into a box in my closet. I'll just use it later.

At school the next day, I'm feeling better. Maybe it's the cutting or maybe it's a mindset I've worked myself into, saying everything is better now that I have some control over the scars on my body, the blood that I shed. But it doesn't matter – I'm better, that's what matters.

"You're in a good mood," Edward comments at lunch.

I shrug. I reach over and steal part of Emmett's lunch. He doesn't stop me but Edward does.

"I need to talk to you," he says, stopping me from eating his chicken nuggets. And I know why. He saw my wrist.

"Sure," I say like I have no idea what he's talking about.

We step into the empty halls, and I lean against the wall, crossing my arms over my chest. But he breaks them apart, yanking my left arm out.

"Please don't be so rough," I whimper.

His gaze softens and he apologizes. But he rolls my sleeve up past my elbow. I'm just glad the bruises faded.

"Why?" he asks so softly, running a cold finger over them. I shiver and look away.

"You wouldn't get it," I answer. I'm not lying this time.

"Bella, I just wanna help. I told you that when I first found out. Please."

I slide down the wall, pulling my knees to my chest.

"I don't wanna talk about it."

Edward kneels down in front of me.

"This really isn't healthy though."

"Hold that thought," I say and get up. I dash to the girl's bathroom, vomiting what I had eaten earlier. I straighten up and flush the sick away. Then I feel something missing from my back pocket. Something very important.

*Edward's POV*

As I watch her run off, I notice a piece of notebook paper flutter out of her pocket. I get up and walk over. I bend down and grab the little piece of paper. I unfold it, feeling like I'm probably invading so much of her privacy, but I'm too curious.

I take in what she's written and feel like crying myself.

"You can't always see the pain someone feels.

HOPE isn't there – LIES surround me – GUILT is pulling me down – Why should I LIVE? – Everyone HATES me, even secretly- CRYING is all I do – LIFE is a lie – TRUST left long ago – I want to DIE – Lost in a world of HATE – The TRUTH is never told – LAUGHTER isn't heard – PRIDE never existed – I have no FAITH – PAIN is all too familiar

My heart doesn't beat so I can live – it beats to cover up my lies

I live because I'm told to

Explain happiness, please"

There was next a little stick figure with a one hand holding a heart, and the other holding his chin. He was asking what the heart was.

"Not all wounds heal

Why bother praying?

You left me here, alone – I need you to be HERE – but you don't get it – that I've died inside

I cry because of you

Not all scars show

My life's fucked up enough

They say my life is the way it is because it's my fault

Shit happens – mostly to me though, so don't worry

I don't need sex. Life fucks me whenever it gest the chance

Every day I lie

Too sad to give a shit

Pain doesn't hurt when it's all you've ever felt

I hate myself

SICK OF CRYING, TIRED OF TRYING, YEAH, I'M SMILING, BUT INSIDE I'M DYING"

That's what the paper read. But the words were splayed randomly across it, except for that last phrase. It was written in the very center, in large letters, underlined furiously and bubbled around. Everything else was in smaller print and less furious.

"Bella," I whisper. I need to help her. I need to talk to her. But she just rips the paper from my hand when she returns.

"Never say anything," she hisses.

"But-"

"Never," she says again and heads back to the lunch room, faking everything.

Something's up.

A/N: I would have had this up last night, but I've decided I need a certain amount of reviews before a new chapter's posted. The number's three, though, so don't worry about some GIANT insane number. Yes, I am a bitch, why do you ask?