Facebook Status: Apparently there's no such thing as a nervous breakdown. I Googled. It's true.
The shadow. The weight. The terror. I shook myself off like a wet dog, trying to force the visions of Phil on top of me to dislodge themselves from my cerebral cortex like droplets of water. Epiphanies sucked ass, especially when they hit you in the throes.
Could I tell Edward I was in the midst of a nervous breakdown? Nah. My Sex-hair was too smart for that shit.
I gasped and coughed, choking on the strange sorrow hanging in the air. My throat tightened as if an elastic band constricted my esophagus, but still I tried to breathe slowly and deeply. I tried to remember how to calm myself through yogic breathing exercises as he stared at me, eyes wide with disarming innocence and absolute terror.
"Just . . . wait . . . need to catch . . . breath."
He chewed on his index finger, bewildered.
I still couldn't breathe properly. He probably expected me to say something, but my lungs wouldn't inflate. Maybe I was dying. Maybe I was having a breakdown, even though there was no such thing.
No such thing.
Anxiety, depression, stress, psychosis - all real enough conditions. But stress never reaches a breaking point, a proverbial cliff where it peaks and falls like an orgasm. That would be kinder than living in the shadow of constant terror.
I'd never had a nervous breakdown - not even when I decided to die. I wasn't having one now.
My psychiatrist back in Phoenix - who totally sucked balls, by the way - told my mom my dalliance with suicide was all about drawing attention to myself. The thing was, when I lived with Renee and Phil, the last thing I wanted was attention. I wanted to be left alone.
Which begs the question of why the fuck did I attempt to slit my wrists? Honestly, I didn't see any logical way out of my predicament, and I was just fucking exhausted from pretending what was happening didn't matter. I called it teenage angst, depression, boredom, because I couldn't very well put a name to what was really wrong.
But the second I felt Edward's body, hot and slick against my own, I knew the difference. I could put a name to it. What happened with Phil wasn't a product of our combined perverse natures, as he liked to wax psychotic about. I didn't want it. There was no part of me that wanted that.
It was rape. I knew it was rape; somewhere in the back of my mind, I knew.
Why didn't I put a stop to it? I couldn't fathom telling him to stop. Telling him to stop would require coming to terms with what was happening. It was easier to be nonchalant; to pretend it didn't really matter.
Who was it hurting anyway?
Questions and half-formed answers fired in my brain as I curled on the bed into a ball, like a hedgehog who'd forgotten her spiky armour.
"Bella?" Edward finally seemed to have finally mustered the courage to speak again. He jerked his shorts over his hips and pulled me into his arms, obviously beyond his depth.
"Don't touch me while I tell you this." Not because I didn't want his hands on me; I always wanted his hands on me. Context proved to be difficult at the moment, and I didn't want to relapse and start screaming "bad touching" like a psychotic rape victim. If I was a rape victim, I certainly was not psychotic.
This wasn't a breakdown.
Post traumatic stress syndrome was a crutch for the weak - totally another fallacy created by Pfizer. I loved Valium as much as the next depressive, but sometimes I wished people would just suck things the fuck up.
"This is obviously not a normal reaction," I finally said. "Please don't think you did anything wrong because you totally didn't."
"I- I don't know what to think. I'm a shit."
"You're not a shit." I ran my fingers through his damp hair. "This has nothing to do with you."
"You freaked out after we had sex, so I gotta assume it has something to do with me." He grabbed my hand and pulled it away from his head. "You said you didn't want to touch. I think that's probably a good idea."
"Don't be a cunt, Edward. I'm having a breakdown-slash-breakthrough, so get your ego in check for a second while I bare my soul to you."
"I don't have an ego," he said petulantly, and I snorted.
"You think you're bigger than Jesus."
He seemed to bristle at that, his telltale jaw flexing angrily.
"Fuck!" he spat, and his anger seemed to bubble over. "I'm taking you home, Bella. Put your clothes on." He grabbed my jeans and shit off the floor and threw them at me. "I've had enough of your bullshit."
"Wait!" I jumped off the bed without thinking and felt the worn carpet burn my knees as I prostrated behind him, wrapping my arms around his waist. "Please . . . I have something very difficult to tell you and-"
"I can't believe this happened again," he interrupted, not listening to my blather. He untangled himself from my hold and stepped into his pants. "Do you enjoy making me feel like a rapist?"
"Stop, wait! It wasn't . . . I didn't mean . . . you're not! Please, just listen to me?" Still shirtless, he cringed away from me when I grabbed his arm. His skin felt cool against my hot fingers.
I shouldn't have asked him not to touch me. What if he never touched me again?
"Say whatever you have to say already. I hope to hell you have a good reason for making me feel like a-a . . . douchebag twice. I mean, I didn't want to . . . I said we should wait, but you have this choke hold over me. We shouldn't have - I knew it wasn't right. But fuck-"
"My stepfather sexually abused me for several years," I blurted before I lost my nerve. "No one knows except for Jake, my therapist, and possibly your father. I wanted it to end, so I made a half-assed attempt at killing myself. That's why my mother sent me to Forks . . . to be with my dad." I lowered my head, taking a deep breath to steel myself against another panic attack. "Sometimes I'm okay and stuff. I can pretend it didn't happen. Other times . . . not so much." I stopped speaking and looked at him. His eyes were wide, but they betrayed no emotion. "Um, I'm working through it, but sometimes I get a little lost. I'm very . . ." I tried to find the right word to explain how I felt most of the time, settling on, "sad."
"You . . . what?" Edward asked dumbly.
"I'm sad," I repeated. "Depressed. Lonely. Alone."
"Your stepfather hurt you?"
"Yes." I swallowed thickly, trying not to sob, trying to be clinical. "Continuously for four years."
His jaw flexed, his full mouth setting into a grim line. "My father . . . knows?"
Why wasn't he moving? That certainly wasn't a good sign.
"There's a chance I told him when I was running a seriously high fever, but I don't remember. He hooked me up with Dr. Banner."
"He- he knew and didn't tell . . ." Edward's brow furrowed, and he took a couple of clumsy steps back until he collided with the bed. "I mean, he should've told the police or something, right? This guy - your stepdad - needs to go to jail. He needs to . . ."
"It's okay." I pushed him down so he was sitting and crawled into his lap. He didn't move. "It's okay," I repeated, running my hands over his shoulders. "I love you, okay? It's going to be okay."
"Bella," he said softly. "I can't make this go away." He caught my hand and squeezed it. "Shit . . . I wish you told me before-"
"Before you fucked me," I interjected bitterly. "Because you wouldn't have."
He looked away as a terrible pain burned in my chest. "It wasn't the right thing to do," he admitted hoarsely, shaking his head. The words cut through me, but I had the perverse impulse to pick at the wound.
"You wish we never . . . did it? You don't want me?"
"Stop. I'm trying to process this. I care about you-"
"I love you!" I screamed. "I want you to love me too."
He nodded like a zombie and placed his hand limply on the small of my back. "Shh, Bella. It's okay."
"No," I choked. "Tell me . . . tell me . . ." The words wouldn't come out. A keening sob pushed through my lungs painfully instead.
"Shhh. I'm going to help you, sweetheart. Okay?" Finally, his arms tightened around me. "Lie down, pretty girl."
"Will you hold me?" I didn't want to let go of him. I didn't want him to disappear. He was slipping through my fingers like sand, and I couldn't stop it. "Please don't leave me?"
"I'm not leaving, baby. Close your eyes."
Obediently, I crawled off his lap and lay down. I felt him shift beside me; he pulled me so my back was flat against his front. "I've got you," he whispered. "Don't cry."
"Can't . . . help . . . it," I managed between hiccups.
"I've got you," he repeated, holding me firmly. His hand gently rubbed my arm as he lulled me by whispering soothing platitudes. My eyes grew heavy.
"Do you think I'm a freak?"
"No, sweetheart."
I rolled over and looked at him. "Prove it."
"How?"
"Kiss me."
He brought his lips gingerly to mine and offered me a chaste peck, which was ridiculous since I was naked. He withdrew, and that pissed me the fuck off. I grabbed him by the base of his skull and pushed his head back to mine, bumping my forehead in the process.
"More," I begged.
Just like always, we were like magnets. Only now, he was repelled by me instead of attracted.
"Bella . . ."
"What?"
"I'm not fucking you again."
"Like, never?"
He shook his head. "That's not what I meant."
I dug my fingers into his arm so hard I left marks on his pale skin. "Don't do this, Edward. Please? I just want to go back to how things were . . . before I told you." I threw my leg over his hip and dragged my crotch over his. The friction burned. "Please don't leave me?"
"Stop." He winced, steadying my hips. "I'm not leaving you. We can't do this though. It's not right." He extricated himself out of my vice grip and rolled me onto my back.
"You're not leaving me?" I asked pitifully, barely concealing the warble in my voice.
"I'm not. I promise." He offered me a weak smile. I felt his hand gently brush my hair away from my face. I ground my fists into my eyes - irritated from my tears - and cuddled into his chest.
"Okay. I believe you . . . Edward?"
"Yeah, baby?"
"I don't want you to think I didn't enjoy it . . . you. I did. I love it when you're inside me."
He chuckled lightly. "I'm pretty fond of it too, pretty girl."
"It's like we're made to fit each other." I yawned.
"A perfect fit," he agreed.
"I'm going to want to do it again."
"Me too." His voice was husky, and his hand settled on my hip, pushing me fast against his side.
"Edward?"
"Yeah?"
"I love you . . . it's okay; you don't have to say it-"
"Love you too, babe," he mumbled, a soft snore immediately following.
-({})-
The buzzing of my cell phone woke me up. It had stopped ringing by the time I got my wits about me. Blindly, I groped the space beside me on the bed for Edward but found a small piece of paper in his stead.
If you wake up before I'm back, don't freak out. I just went out to get us breakfast. I hope you take your coffee like you take your men ;)
Like I took my men? What did that even mean? It was probably a lame joke that had something to do with cream. Unless he was also bringing back a bottle of whiskey. I mean, his last name was Cullen. I could take both my men and my coffee Irish.
My phone buzzed, and in my idiotic stupor, I answered it without thinking.
"Yeah?"
A terrible, rasping noise replied. It sounded like a loon that was too hoarse to sing but kept trying anyway.
"Speak, fucktard, or forever hold your peace." I stifled a giggle at the answering squawk.
I was about to hang up when I heard my name in a deep whisper. I pulled the phone away from my ear and looked at the call display.
"Dad?" I whispered.
"Bella," he repeated, openly sobbing.
A/N - aren't I bitch for ending the chapter there? I'm having the second of my mouth surgeries on Friday so I hope to write the next scene nice and high. The angst makes me twitchy.
I think I might have missed sending out a few previews. If I missed you, let me know. I'm not sure what I'll do but it'll be silly.
Reviews make me less twitchy.