A/N: First off, I don't own the Twilight Saga. Also, if you didn't read the last chapter, GO BACK. I know I'm updating quickly.

So anyway, here is chapter 54 of Static. I will admit, writing this chapter was a challenge. Even though the first part was adapted from an old fanfic of mine, My Best Days (2013, holy shit!), I still didn't know what to do. Last chapter, I didn't plan on having Paul come into Bella's picture, but I'm glad I did. I would feel wrong for leaving him out of the picture this chapter, too.

My Best Days was originally going to be a part of Static, but at a very different point in the story, and at a point that really didn't mean anything. The narrative Bella (pre-flashback) of that Static and the Bella of this one are pretty different people. But still, I wanted to touch upon Bella more, especially in her mental illness that she's been living with for the entirety of this story, whether you've noticed or not. The hardest part about writing Static (among many hard parts) is that even though the story is in the 3rd person, I always have to be in my character's heads. Their issues cannot go unnoticed for too long. And if you're a hardcore Emily fan, you're probably wondering why this rule of mine doesn't apply to her. Believe me, though, it does. Emily is just not one of the main characters.

Rambling aside, here is chapter 54 of Static. I was in a weird place while writing it, and the formatting is kind of weird since it has a big flashback right in the middle, but in the end, I hope it gives off the intended intimate effect I was going for. This story means a lot to me, and hopefully you'll see that.

Warning: this chapter contains mentions of rape and domestic violence.

Enjoy.

LIV.

it's all happening

It was the moments like these when Bella wished she wasn't such a fucking klutz. She'd been one all her life, but it was just killing her now. Life shouldn't have to be this embarrassing for her. She shouldn't have to embarrass herself in front of herself. That was an all-new low, and today was clearly not one of her best days.

She wouldn't have dropped it if her hands hadn't been so damn sweaty. It being a bottle of vodka that Paul had swung by for her this morning. He was a good friend. They would be good friends.

But still, she wasn't okay. She was far from it. Her hands were perspiring, her heart was racing, and her head was spinning. It was all too much. Too much, too much, too much. The worst thing about this was that she wasn't even hot. Her insides were burning like she had just run a mile, but on the outside, she was cold. She was a fucking ice cube in an igloo in the middle of Antarctica but also in hell.

I'm going to fucking die.

Or no, maybe being cold and sweating wasn't the worst thing—maybe the worst thing was that she had spilled the last half of a bottle of vodka onto the carpet of the motel room, and she would never, ever get it back unless she put her tongue to the carpet and committed a desperate act. She would. Oh, man, she would, but she couldn't move. She could barely breathe. Was she even thinking? Maybe a ghost of her was thinking. Maybe she was having a grand old time in this useless, screwed-up head of hers.

Maybe I'm already dead.

But why was she hurting so much? This wasn't what she signed up for.

Her anxiety was acting up again. She didn't like to think of it as an attack because this was truly all on her. Nothing was attacking her besides her own brain. Her anxiety had never really disappeared, just like her depression. They had just been sitting idly, minding their own business. But she fucked up today—she fucked up bad. This was not one of her best days.

Back in Phoenix, before she'd started flushing her old pills down the toilet because she was tired of feeling senile, her old therapist had taught her about the AWARE method of getting through attacks like this, but Bella was such an idiot that she was embarrassing myself even further. She was supposed to use this clever little acronym before the attack set in, before the storm came rolling in. She was supposed to accept the anxiety, be watchful of the level she was at, act normally, repeat the steps, and expect the best. That was supposed to make her aware.

And she'd accepted it. (She was going to die.) She'd watched it. (She was at an 8.) She'd acted normally about it. (Until she wasted the vodka that Paul had so kindly scavenged for her.) She'd tried to repeat the steps to get through it. (But there was no vodka left.) She was expecting the best out of it. (It was a shitty expectation.) She was aware. She was perfectly aware that this was bullshit and she couldn't breathe and nothing was okay. This wasn't one of her best days; this day was absolute shit. It was only ten-thirty in the morning and she'd managed to embarrass herself.

Trying to focus on controlling her breathing, she thought of the days that hadn't been so bad.

Even her best days without Edward Cullen were nothing in comparison to the worst ones with him. Even though today she hated his guts, hated his ugly words and his ugly face and his uglier habits, he had been something else back then. He could have been the worst and still have been the best. That was a given. That was also why he was attending Dartmouth and she wasn't, and why she was having an anxiety attack in a fucking motel room in Forks and he wasn't, and why she was hanging onto a heartbeat that was going too fast and he definitely wasn't. He had been divine. He had been perfect.

Lucifer had once been an angel, too.

She couldn't believe she was still surprised at Edward's betrayal of her.

The attack was supposed to peak by now. It was supposed to have Bella screaming on the inside, wanting to burst from her own body and mind, wanting to not only die but to disappear. There was going to be a moment where she didn't feel like she was breaking, but that she was already broken. She hadn't gotten there yet, but she was waiting and she hated it. That was the worst part of an anxiety attack: waiting for the anxiety to peak just so she could know she was at least halfway there. She squeezed her eyes shut, but the insanity continued to dance around her vision.

She gave up on controlling her breathing and inhaled only to hold it in as long as she could. It as in her breath, her last bit of sanity. And there was nothing. Nothing at all but—

But—

Silence.

(Mostly.)

Th-thump. Th-thump. Th-thump.

With a beating in the background.

Th-thump, th-thump, th-thump.

She could count backward from one hundred—no, she should count backward from one hundred, by threes. She should recite the presidents, recite her favorite song, her favorite poem if she had any. She should do a lot of things, but she couldn't—

Ththumpththumpththumpththumpththump.

—remember her heart beating this fast in a while. Or she didn't choose to remember the last time. The last time she could think of her heart threatening to burst out of her chest was when she had first met Edward, or bumped into him, really. She'd always found it wildly cheesy when people said they met the love of their life by bumping into them, mostly because it sounded fake, but that was really how they had met.

It had really all begun when Mike Newton had asked her, "What are you doing tonight?"

It was her first summer in Forks since she'd been little, and she was just fifteen. She would be sixteen in September, and she was still in surprise at her being able to snag a job at the Newtons' Outfitters store in town. She hadn't been especially likable back then (assuming she was somewhat likable now), but she rolled with it.

She smiled politely, not showing her teeth. She knew he liked her, but she wasn't focused on boys. Just the April before, she had been diagnosed with a panic disorder and major depressive disorder, and she didn't want to somehow project that onto others. It was June now, and she hadn't changed her mind about that. She didn't even like herself; why would she let someone else try to do that? It was selfish.

"No," she finally told Mike. "I'm not doing anything. What did you have in mind?"

"There's a party going on," he said. "It's gonna be massive. A sweet sixteen."

"Whose party is it?" she wondered. She didn't know anybody in town besides Mike and a couple other employees at the store, but it wouldn't hurt to ask in case some shit went down.

"A rich kid," Mike said. "Filthy rich. His name's Edward Cullen and he goes to a private boarding school in Oregon during the school year, but he comes home every summer since his family lives around here."

"You're an insider," she observed.

"Nah, that's my mom. They're our best customers once they go camping the second Edward's home for the summer. So, anyway, his party's tonight. He always throws parties, but get this: this one's a masquerade."

Bella wasn't a party-crasher. She didn't go to parties, period. "Okay," she said. "Are you crashing?"

"I think I have a better idea."

"And what would that be?"

"We're crashing."

She bit her lower lip and thought about it briefly. She did want to remain friends with Mike even though he was one of the small-town kids that she didn't care about, but—who was she kidding? What would she do at home tonight, anyway? Wallow in her sadness a little more? She could certainly try to crash a rich kid's party, and even if she didn't like it, she wouldn't have to try it again. She could do it. She could give it a shot.

"Okay," she told Mike in agreement. "I'll go."

His smile was so big that she couldn't help but smile back. "Yes!" he said excitedly. He could almost hug her. "It's gonna be so much fun."

"The crashing or the party?" she asked.

"Both," he promised. "Definitely both."

Wearing a cheap red mask from the party store and a plain black dress she had only worn once (when she had first tried to kill herself), she told Charlie she would be spending the night at Jessica Stanley's house. It was a plausible lie since the girls sort of knew each other but not all that well. Bella eventually went with Mike and his friend Eric to raise a little hell and have a little fun. They were on bicycles, and Eric had brought his younger brother's bicycle for her to use. Pedaling into the night, her illnesses were the least of her worries. She almost felt normal.

The Cullens' house was deep in the woods, and wearing a mask in the darkness didn't do much for her vision. It took a while for Mike, Eric, and Bella to arrive at the party, but once they got there, they hopped in with a large crowd that was already entering. Pressed up against strangers, Bella focused on getting in successfully. It wouldn't be hard to. She had a mask on. She was dressed up. She was nobody and somebody at the same time.

Bella had never attended a party, but this had to be a prime example of one. It wasn't a sloppy teen party; she didn't see anybody throwing up or knocking over anything. This was a masquerade. This was classy. She suddenly felt like a sore thumb, sticking out in her barely-passing dress and cheap, plastic mask. The party also didn't feel like a sweet sixteen at all. She'd watched enough MTV to recognize a sweet sixteen—especially one thrown by someone as rich as Edward Cullen. Who was Edward Cullen, anyway, besides a spoiled boarding school kid who still managed to know people from his hometown who would celebrate his birthday with him? From all she'd heard, he was starting to sound fictional.

She'd spent most of the night with Mike and Eric, and at one point, she'd found an open bathroom that happened to be upstairs. She hadn't had to walk through any bedrooms, thank God, but once she got to that bathroom, she realized she didn't even have to go; she just needed to get a sense of mind. Then again, it was kind of hard to retrieve something she didn't have.

This had been a bad idea. Making rash decisions had never been good for her, and this was one of them.

She needed to breathe. She needed to breathe and get it together before things got really bad. She definitely needed to go home, but she'd taken a bicycle. She had also left said bicycle in the woods with her partners in crime, and there would be no way to find it without them.

She was stuck.

Once that settled in, she discovered another thing.

She was lost. Lost in a tight, limited place.

She was sitting on a toilet cover in a big bathroom at a party meant for the beautiful, her face in her hands, barely breathing, regretful, stupid, and—

Not alone.

There were seven knocks on the door, and she quickly got up to get herself together.

"I'm sorry," she called to the person on the other side of the door. It was the easiest thing to say; she was always sorry. "I'll be out in a second, I just—" Her sentence broke off. "I'm sorry," she repeated.

Without looking in the long mirror, she smoothed out her dress and adjusted her mask. Her hands were shaking and her heart was beating so fast that it pulsed in her ears, louder than the music playing downstairs, louder than her thoughts. Her palms were so sweaty she was afraid she wouldn't be able to open the door, which would have been overly embarrassing.

But she did open the door. She did. And she tried to dash out without having to look at the person she'd kept waiting only to bump right into them. Her clumsiness always prevailed. She was short, and she didn't meet another pair of eyes; she met a chest, and from the firmness she'd felt only so briefly, it had to be a guy.

She finally looked up, and it was.

He was pale and had bronze hair. He also wore a black tuxedo like every other guy at the party, only he wore a black shirt and red tie. His mask was black and red, and it looked something Bella could buy with maybe seventeen paychecks if it was on sale. If she had seen someone like him at this party before, then she'd forgotten, which would be impossible. This guy was Edward Cullen, and he looked down at her with a crooked half-smile that whispered danger and go back now.

Bella told him, "I'm so sorry," at the same time that he said, "How original."

"What?" she asked, standing still. "What's original?"

"Juliet crashing Romeo's party," he said. "That's really original."

"My name's not even Juliet," she blurted out before she realized what he was referring to. "And that analogy was super cheesy. My name's Bella."

"And mine is Edward," he told her, "but it's not like it matters. I don't think I know you, Bella."

Shit. "Don't you?" she asked, trying to not blow it. "I mean, you invited me."

"Quite frankly, I wouldn't invite someone who got their mask from somewhere as cheap as the Thriftway."

Either her heart was beating so hard she couldn't feel it or it had stopped completely. She felt myself blush, and then she took a deep breath. "So I crashed your party," Bella admitted. "I'll leave as soon as you let me out of your way."

"Oh, I'm not kicking you out," Edward said. "People crash my parties all the time. How do you like it?"

She resented his confidence. Second by second, she resented him more and more than was necessary, but she couldn't stop playing along. "I don't," she replied honestly. "I don't like it at all."

"Well, what's wrong with it?"

"The food isn't that good, everyone looks bored, and the music is straight garbage. I've been to funerals more fun than this party."

"I appreciate your honesty," he said.

"Why?"

"My mom organizes these sorts of things. I don't like them that much. At least someone else doesn't."

Refusing to let him in any further, she said, "That's too bad."

"Ouch," he said. "I thought you'd at least have some sympathy."

"I'm not a sympathetic person."

"You know what, Bella?"

She didn't understand him at all. "What, Edward?"

"Neither am I."

Slowly, carefully, he put his hand to her jaw, and she didn't stop him. She wasn't freaking out anymore. She couldn't feel her heartbeat, but she wasn't freaking out. She didn't feel hopeless, either. She didn't feel anything at all.

Edward subtly cocked his head to the side, and then ever so slightly brought his lips down to hers in one move, like he'd been doing this all his life. She could believe it. She inhaled sharply, and then let herself feel them together. She didn't know whether this was right or wrong.

She didn't know anything.

He then pulled away, much too soon, and she gasped and stumbled back into the bathroom. He shut the door behind him and hoisted her up on the counter where they would be a little more level with each other. He was tall. He had to be at least six feet. She wrapped her legs around his waist, her dress coming up a bit, and put her fingers in his soft hair. He didn't kiss her again; he only stared at her as she waited for him to do something, and she could see that, through his mask, his eyes were green.

"Let me see you," he commanded.

"I'm right here," she replied.

"No. The mask is in the way."

"Do… do you, really?" she asked.

He nodded, and with that, she pulled off her mask. She could see him better, but she still couldn't see all of him.

He didn't say anything. He must have been stunned at her plainness.

"I'm sorry," I said. It was the only thing she could say; she was like a little doll. Pull the string and she would sulk about muttering, I'm sorry.

"Sorry?" he asked. "Why would you be sorry?"

"I just—"

"Bella, you are exquisite."

Then Edward kissed her again. He was kissing her. A boy was actually kissing her. For the moment, she didn't want to be dead anymore. She felt like a normal girl with a normal brain.

Again, too soon, Edward pulled away and straightened up. She stared at him, her legs hanging cold off the counter. Wasn't she supposed to see him, too? She'd given him something; wasn't he supposed to reciprocate the action? She would later come to learn that this was just his behavior. He would take as long as he could without giving, and once he did give, he would expect something in return.

He gave her that crooked smile again and made his way to the door. He swung it open and looked back at her over the shoulder. He told her, "I'll meet you again, Bella."

Then he was gone. That fucker.

Bella still hadn't liked herself; she'd hated everything about herself. And maybe Edward hadn't ever liked her, either. But maybe that had been the key to their relationship of over three years: she hadn't liked her, and he hadn't liked her, but they had both been in absolute love with him.

That had been one of her best days.

She opened her eyes and she was in the motel room. She exhaled. She was not fifteen anymore; she was twenty. She had gone to hell and back with Edward Cullen, and while her life wasn't ideal right now, it wasn't the worst.

Her anxiety attack couldn't be over already, though. It was only paused. That was the thing about Edward: he had never calmed her down or made the anxiety or even the depression go away; he had only paused it—froze it in the middle and made her forget that it was all happening.

Cold sweat dripped off the edge of her nose and onto the dirty carpet with the vodka. Disgusting.

The chills she got were starting to make my stomach hurt, too. She was shuddering and convulsing so bad that she could feel the vodka coming up her throat, and it wasn't even her imagination. She swallowed it back down. Fucking disgusting.

On some of her worst days, she would throw up. At least it hadn't come down to that—yet. She should be happy. She should be grateful for the normal.

It was pretty awful how the memory of a monster like Edward could make Bella calm down, even a little bit. She didn't want to see him ever again, and she hated herself for even thinking of him. Yes, she had come crawling back to him a couple of times, sober or not, willing to trust or not, but it didn't mean anything anymore.

Bella wished that she had never known him.

As her throat began to open up a little more and she could breathe a little easier, she started to think about how different her life would be if she hadn't crashed Edward's party, if he hadn't crashed her life. She probably wouldn't get high so often or enjoy getting high at all. She probably wouldn't like alcohol so much. She probably wouldn't be so weird about sex. She would probably have friends—real friends she didn't conveniently call up just to cover for her shitty mistakes—and would probably know how to make friends.

If Edward hadn't been around, she might not have been raped by someone she thought she trusted. She might not have been robbed countless times. She might not be a victim of domestic violence. She might not wake up every morning wishing she was dead, either. And even worse, without Edward, she might just know a little something about self-worth.

So she took it back. Her worst days with Edward Cullen had been hell. And she couldn't think of her best days right now—only the repercussions—but at least he hadn't been a part of them. She could pride herself on that one.

An hour later, Bella called up Sunshine Childcare. She told her boss, Lisa, that she had to stay home sick. The place was so understaffed that Lisa couldn't even be mad at Bella in the moment. If anything, Bella felt worse for the kids. Some of them adored her and looked forward to seeing her every day.

Five minutes after that, Bella called up Paul. She'd heard a lot about him, especially in the form of complaints. Leah, who always claimed to know Paul better than anybody else (as if knowing someone since the dawn of time deserved a prize), found Paul to be wild. Careless. Asshole was second place to the universal full of shit. Jacob was really similar to Leah in his opinion of Paul, except his word of choice was annoying. Bella supposed he had less history with the guy.

Bella didn't like gossip. Being the topic of a lot of shit-talk around here, it had no value to her. Talk was cheap, and she would rather see the truth in someone herself before hearing the biased reviews of them. Living in the badlands, the thing she knew the most about the people here was that they were bored, and that they were always stirring the pot.

So she called up Paul to get her own opinion of him. Leah and Jacob and everyone else always made him out to be unavailable, both verbally and emotionally, but maybe Bella was different to him. He was at her motel room in a matter of minutes.

"I know I'm asking a lot for someone who almost killed you," she said the moment she opened the door, "but can I have one more thing?"

"Yeah, what is it?"

"Your time."

"This Edward guy does sound like a dickbag," Paul said, "but why'd you guys finally break up?"

"Which time?"

"Last time."

They laid shoulder to shoulder next to each other on the vodka-soaked floor, staring up at the plain beige ceiling of the motel room as they kept their hands to themselves.

"Because we were finally through," she said. "I guess after he beat my ass and took all my money, he decided I wasn't worth it anymore. We weren't really together at the time, anyway, but he acted like I owed him something."

"For getting you and Leah and them out of jail," he assumed.

She nodded. "Yeah. He always acts like I owe him whenever he does something for me. Like when he raped me"—the words sounded wrong finally leaving her head—"he thought I owed him sex for taking me out that night."

"Over a fucking ring."

"Over a fucking ring," she emphasized.

"Bella?"

"Mm-hmm?"

"Was I the first person you told?"

"About being raped or about being beaten?"

"Both. Either," he clarified.

She tried to blink back the tears. "Yes," she said.

"Why?" he asked.

"I guess I've never had an actual friend to confide in before." She paused. "I guess I took advantage. I'm sorry."

"Quit being sorry," Paul said. "I've never had friends, either." He could hardly admit to himself that he was embarrassed.

"Why?" she asked.

"I guess I'm not around that much. People forget about me all the time."

"I won't forget about you," she promised. "As long as you don't stop being my friend."

"We're friends, Bella," he told her. "We're friends."

They were silent, but it wasn't awkward.

"Why aren't you scared of me?" he began. "Besides the fact that I'm your only friend."

"What do you mean?"

"Your ex-boyfriend beat you up, but now you wanna be friends with a guy who beat up his own dad."

"Because..." She took in a deep breath. "Because I know it was for the right reasons. Also, I know that you wouldn't wanna beat up your only friend."

"Okay."

"Was that good enough?"

"I was expecting something a little more sappy," he admitted, "but that's good for now."

"Please. You don't even know me."

"You're always telling somebody they don't know you, Bella. Who actually does know you?"

"You're that curious?"

"Yeah."

"Nobody really knows me," she said. "Shit, I don't even know me. But you—you know the most about me."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah."

"I'm so fucking glad we're friends."

A/N: The chapter was a bit long and I'm sorry about that, but thanks as always for reading. Up next: more with Kim. I'll try to update quickly.

Thoughts?

HS