Disclaimer: "Twilight" and its characters do not belong to me, except for the OC.
SOMEONE YOU LOVED
I'm going under and this time
I fear there's no one to save me
This all or nothing really got
a way of driving me crazy
I need somebody to heal,
I guess I kinda liked the
way you helped me escape.
.
The beginning of the new day hit me like a punch in the face with a brick glove.
My father had decided to leave for one of his new potential deals for his company, established in Forks, so it wasn't surprising, but it was a relief for me not to have to see that graying man at home. What was overwhelming was that he didn't even leave me a crumb of bread to eat, but it was more terrible not being able to close my eyes all night. Nightmares about my future and the memory of the day I lost my mother were starting to weigh a little more.
The high school returned to my daily routine, though I was immensely grateful that God decided not to send another damn rain to the already overcast weather. During lunch, I was once again sitting with Amber and another girl from the team. Fortunately, the sports-loving imbeciles decided not to show up.
As the pampered girls started talking about their usual luxuries, I began to feel isolated, not just because it was another day where I didn't bother playing the talkative girl, but because of the inexplicable void that had settled in my chest since yesterday.
It was as if I had turned into the Cullens, as I looked at my food tray and only felt nauseous. I hadn't eaten anything, but the draining feeling had taken away any form of hunger.
For the rest of breakfast, I decided to ignore the emptiness and tried to clear my mind. Suddenly, the bell rang, and all the students began to get up from their seats. As usual, my group was the first to leave, and unfortunately, I was the last to follow. It was strange and ironic, considering I was the captain, yet I was trailing behind like the black sheep that had just joined the flock.
I took a turn in the opposite direction of the cafeteria before arriving at the Trigonometry classroom. Mr. Varner was standing at the door with his typical look of anger. I didn't even have the slightest concern when I saw the last boy of the class entering and Mr. Varner closing the door. My steps were calm, as if a tortoise was taking a morning stroll. The truth was, deep down, I knew it was pointless to rush, even if that man hated me and would leave me outside even if I arrived early.
I tightened the straps of my backpack when I was already in front of the classroom door and, without much enthusiasm, raised my hand in a fist and knocked loudly. My motto was: "If a teacher doesn't let you enter the class, at least make your best entrance."
Immediately, the door opened, and Mr. Varner peeked out, looking at me as if I were his worst enemy, and probably I was.
"Miss Slater, you're late," he muttered under his breath.
I forced a fake smile, baring my teeth.
"I'm always late for you, sir," I replied dryly, causing the man to scrunch up his grumpy face even more. "Besides, you know that if you don't let me in, the administration might think something's wrong."
Mr. Varner's face could have turned as red as a tomato from the fury that formed on his countenance. I couldn't help but feel triumphant.
"Go in. I hope this is the last time, Miss Slater," he said, almost spitting out my surname with distaste as he stepped aside.
I rolled my eyes at his attempt to scold me and simply entered the classroom.
The desire I had for the class was the same as my enthusiasm for Trigonometry. However, I was grateful that the sky didn't share my internal lamentations. I didn't want another rainy day; although, I wasn't a fan of overcast weather either.
As Mr. Varner started talking as usual, I sat among the first rows, almost far away from all my supposed friends. I was emotionally unstable to want to keep up my reputation at that moment, and truthfully, I could even feel Amber's mocking gaze, so going with my group wasn't an option for my bitterness.
Everything was like a horrible headache, finding similarities between Trigonometry and my life. While Mr. Varner got lost in a sea of formulas and theorems, I immersed myself in my own world of dark and chaotic thoughts.
I could barely hear the murmurs of my classmates, the noise of the chalkboard being filled with equations, and the occasional giggles of those who apparently understood what all that was about. It was exasperating to think that while I struggled to keep my head above water in a sea of emotions, the rest of the world continued to move forward, as if nothing mattered to me.
Amber, from her seat closer to the back of the classroom, sent me furtive glances that seemed to say, "What's wrong with you, Lizz?" It wasn't surprising that my classmates considered me distant, mysterious, or simply weird.
At that moment, while Mr. Varner talked about the properties of triangles, I felt more lost than ever. I could almost see the ghosts of the past floating around me, reminding me of moments I'd prefer to forget.
The teacher's voice sounded distant and blurry. I took a moment to breathe deeply and looked out the window. The sky was gray and threatening, as if I could feel the storm approaching. A reflection of my own internal storm.
I thought about my father, always so busy with his company, leaving me practically to my own devices. Did he ever stop to wonder how I felt? Whether I needed help or just some company?
I sighed and looked away from the window, focusing my attention back on the chalkboard filled with incomprehensible equations.
"Miss Swan, do you know the answer?"
The harsh tone of the teacher, mentioning that hated surname, snapped me out of my thoughts. Slightly and with much subtlety, I turned my head back to find a embarrassed Isabella Swan looking at Mr. Varner as if he had caught her in the scene of a crime.
"I... Can you repeat the question? I couldn't hear it well," she replied as if trying to maintain her composure.
Mr. Varner sighed bitterly, then formed a cynical smile that disgusted me.
"How long is the length of the hypotenuse, Miss Swan?"
Silence filled the classroom, which was unusual. I curiously raised one eyebrow as I looked at the polyester girl; the huge bags under her eyes and her exhausted face made my chest feel strangely tight. I wanted to make a face, but I just decided to look away and ignore the show. After all, the situation wasn't something that concerned me.
"Six?" Bella blurted out, unsure, breaking the silence.
"Are you really paying attention in class, or are you just here to make a fool of yourself?" Mr. Varner asked, almost spitting out each word with hatred. "That answer is incorrect."
This time, there was no silence, but laughter from the guys in the entire classroom began to resonate in my ears. I clenched my teeth, not to hold back laughter, but due to the lack of amusement I felt in the situation. I should be laughing, yet my true morals prevented me from even moving from my seat. I tried to ignore the matter and once again thought that it wasn't my problem.
"Miss Swan, next time, don't stare so much at Miss Slater if you want to answer a simple question in my class," Mr. Varner snapped sternly.
Immediately, upon hearing his words with my last name included, my eyes widened to the max. The laughter from the class intensified as I felt my cheeks starting to burn. Now it practically was my problem. Anger began to rise, and I furrowed my brow when I turned sharply back, meeting my gaze with those fearful brown eyes. For the first time, I could sense that Isabella Swan felt scared of me, although I couldn't tell for sure as her face had turned tomato red.
"It seems like the cheerleader captain is a lesbian!" mocked Matthew Miller, one of the most despicable guys in the whole damn world.
Despite the murmurs and unpleasant looks filled with concern from Bella, I couldn't help but shiver at the word 'lesbian.' Not because I thought that sexual orientation was wrong, but because the idea of them thinking I was one posed a danger to me. I didn't want my father to hate me, or my school reputation to be reduced to being the flea that hides under the benches to avoid the start of harassment. Damn it, I knew that the combination of Trigonometry and the polyester girl was a damned nefarious sum of bad luck.
"Look, Slater has gone quiet!" Matthew taunted again, causing the murmurs to increase.
I clenched my jaw and shot him an angry look.
"If you mention that disgusting theory again, you won't live to tell the tale, Miller," I retorted sharply.
I wanted to run out of the classroom as soon as I heard a collective "uhhh" from everyone. I straightened up in my seat and looked forward, trying to hide the nerves overwhelming me.
"Silence!" threatened Mr. Varner menacingly. That jerk always intervenes when it's already too late, and I feel like he does it because he enjoys seeing me humiliated. "If you disrupt my class again, I'll send you outside."
I let out a low laugh since what I wanted most at that moment was to go outside and disappear from that embarrassing class. However, I couldn't allow Matthew and his hateful attitude to control me.
Before the tension could escalate further, the bell rang, saving us all from the torment of Trigonometry class. It was a relief to escape from that hostile environment, at least for a while. Quickly, I gathered my books and headed towards the door, trying to avoid any eye contact with Isabella Swan or the group of idiots in the classroom.
I decided to take a different path to reach the class where exercise was the only important thing. It didn't even take me two seconds to reach the locker rooms and put on the horrible uniform. Upon exiting, the teacher was standing, dividing all the students into two groups. Immediately, I thought about how much I hated playing volleyball. However, I walked over and positioned myself next to Amber, who seemed to be hoping not to be added to an unwanted group, fully attentive in class.
"Slater," the teacher pronounced, catching my attention. "You're going with group number two."
I raised an eyebrow, glancing at the infamous group. I didn't know if I was condemned to bad luck, but I felt a surge of disbelief as I saw Isabella Swan standing among the less successful boys in group two. I really wished lightning would strike and split me in two at that damn moment.
Nevertheless, I kept the internal complaint to myself and walked over to that group, distancing myself as much as possible from the polyester girl, and trying to ignore the mocking whispers from the popular group as the teacher continued placing the last students.
"Well, guys," the teacher spoke again, looking forward before taking out his whistle and hurting my eardrums, "take your positions; the game begins."
We all positioned ourselves in the middle of the field, occupying the court in two divisions with the net in between. Despite feeling the mocking glances from my friends on the other side, I placed myself on the right side, trying to avoid eye contact with the polyester girl. Ever since Trigonometry class, it had been a spectacle, and I would prefer to vomit in front of everyone rather than go through another embarrassment like that, especially if she was the cause.
The game began, and both teams moved swiftly; each serve, spike, and block posed a challenge for the other. The ball barely reached me, but I managed to hit it three times during the first half of the game. Adrenaline ran through my veins, but I tried to keep it under control.
Then, something unexpected happened. In the middle of the game, when tension was at its highest, Matthew Miller looked at me disdainfully and uttered a word that seemed to pierce my heart: "Weak."
That word echoed in my head like a deafening reverberation, and suddenly, I found myself caught in a whirlwind of painful memories. The eyes of my mind were flooded with images of the hospital, the long corridors, and the cold room where my mother fought against cancer.
My breathing became shallow, and I felt a lump in my throat. My hands trembled, and my vision blurred as tears threatened to fall. I felt trapped in a trance, unable to disconnect from those painful memories.
In that vulnerable state, I was barely aware of the game continuing around me. The ball was coming in my direction, but I was too overwhelmed by the wave of emotions to react.
However, in an instant, I saw Isabella Swan running towards me. Before I could comprehend what was happening, she positioned herself in front of me, protecting me from the ball that was heading towards me. She took the hit directly, and a cry of pain escaped her lips.
I felt a whirlwind of mixed emotions. I blinked several times to snap out of the trance and realized how close we were, with our noses almost touching, and her breath against my face. Our eyes briefly met, and in that moment, I could see concern in her brown pupils. But Isabella didn't even flinch or realize how close we were at that moment. Instantly, my return to reality was awakened along with my fear as I heard the whispers and laughter from the others. It was evident that the situation had become the center of attention.
Unfortunately, my discomfort mixed with a negative feeling towards Isabella, which prompted me to gently push her away and take two steps back, distancing myself with my head lowered. I could sense her confusion and guilt, but I refused to look up.
"Don't touch me, Swan," I said sharply, and without giving her time to respond, I turned around and almost ran away from the place.
This was too much. I couldn't stay there any longer with all the murmurs in the background, Bella looking at me like that, and my nerves almost leading me into another embarrassing situation. I always tried to keep control over my panic attacks, which occurred when I heard certain things that reminded me of the day I lost my mother.
The experience taught me that it was better to hide everything if I wanted to have a normal social life, but now it seemed that all my efforts had crumbled because of the damn polyester girl.
[...]
The afternoon was fading in Forks as I walked back home with a knot in my stomach. My encounter with Bella Swan at school had been disastrous. Anxiety had overwhelmed me, and I just wanted to disappear. Upon arriving home, I found my father, Robert Slater, sitting on the sofa in the living room, engrossed in his work reports.
"Why are you coming home early from school today?" he asked sharply, without even looking up.
My voice trembled as I replied, "I felt unwell, and I couldn't stay there. Does it even matter to you?"
His face hardened, and he retorted, "You should be at school fulfilling your responsibilities, like every other day. You can't escape every time you feel uncomfortable."
Rage and pain swirled within me, and I couldn't hold back. "Responsibilities! You've never been there for me, always busy with your company, and you never care about how I feel or what I want. How can you talk about responsibilities?"
I immediately took two steps back as my father stood up, crossing his arms. I knew that was not a good sign; it had become an everyday occurrence.
"Don't start that again, Lizzie. I've worked hard to give you a comfortable life, and all you think about is your fantasies of becoming a singer. That's not a real job."
My hands clenched into fists, trying to contain the flood of emotions that overwhelmed me upon hearing his words.
"You don't understand! Music is the only thing that makes me feel alive, the only thing that helps me escape all this pain inside me."
"Coldly, he said, "Your mother had dreams too. But she's not here anymore to pursue them, and neither should you, because you killed her."
Tears welled up in my eyes at his cruel words. I had carried the guilt of my mother's death for so long, and now my own father threw it in my face. I held onto my anger to shield myself from the pain.
"I can't believe you're saying that," I whispered, struggling to keep my composure. "You abandoned her too. You were always caught up in your own affairs, and she felt lonely and scared. But, of course, it's easier to blame me."
The room fell into tense silence. My father seemed to struggle internally, and he finally sighed, but he didn't come any closer to me.
"I didn't mean that, Lizzie. It's just that losing your mother was difficult for both of us. I dealt with the pain the best way I could, and perhaps I didn't always do right by you. But you also need to understand that pursuing a career in music is pointless and unrealistic."
"You've never supported me in anything!" I exclaimed, letting my tears flow freely. "You never believed in me, and that's why I pretend to be someone I'm not at school, trying to fit in. But even then, they always see me as a weirdo."
He looked at me indifferently, and his attitude only confirmed what I already knew: my father never loved me. I mentally reproached myself for feeling broken and abandoned again when I was supposed to have overcome that phase years ago.
"I don't know how to do this, Dad. I feel lost, but you never try to understand," I admitted, my voice choked with tears.
He just shrugged and said, "That's not my problem. Do whatever you want."
It was like a dagger to the heart. Without another word, I turned around and ran to my room, where I could cry in peace. My father wouldn't understand me, wouldn't support me, and that left me even more wounded. I felt like a shadow, invisible, and misunderstood.
When my body touched the bed, I collapsed, and my gaze returned to the routine of staring at the ceiling. The tears were drying up as minutes passed while I immersed myself in my thoughts once again. My happy memories seemed so distant at that moment. I can remember having two loving parents and a genuine smile on my childish face, but then a white flash arrives and destroys those memories as if they had never happened.
Firstly, it seemed foolish that the only thing I remembered from the night I lost my mother was white flashes and then nothing. It's as if my mind decided to block everything to keep me from feeling more miserable than I already was, even though I was still the same crying girl who can't overcome stages and always tries to fit into someone else's puzzle.
I used to be the girl who spent her time reading fantasy books, dreaming of wizards and dimensions. I was that kid who stuck cliché posters on her wall and used to draw silly things. Now my persona is reduced to the typical girl who acts for the acceptance of others, the one who comes home and spends time sleeping to avoid thinking anymore. There were even days when I couldn't sleep, and I would stay awake at midnight, feeling tortured by my past.
In a matter of seconds, my gaze was completely lost in the textures of the ceiling, allowing me to immerse myself in my memories. I relived a scene I preferred to forget, where a younger version of myself lay on the floor, with eyes tightly shut and hands pressing against her ears ears, trying to block out the world. As I turned my head, I found myself facing two familiar figures: my father and my aunt, my mother's sister.
"So, you want to take my daughter away from me?" my father asked bitterly, his eyes devoid of any affection.
"We've already discussed this, Robert. You're not in a condition to take care of Elizabeth. You couldn't even take proper care of your own wife," my aunt replied firmly.
My father's cynical laughter filled the air.
"I did everything in my power to make her happy, Kate. I gave her everything a woman could desire. And now you judge me as a bad father, incapable of taking care of my own daughter? Well, let me tell you, I couldn't care less," he snapped abruptly. Watching this attitude in my recollection confused me; perhaps it was his way of denying the truth. Gradually, his laughter faded while my aunt Kate maintained her firm expression.
"I judge you for who you are. I don't know why Ema married you or why you think Elizabeth will be fine with you. You don't love her. You never paid attention to her even when Ema was alive. It was always about money and your disgusting company. You didn't even accompany your daughter to the hospital on the day your wife died! You haven't set foot in the hospital since Ema was diagnosed with cancer," my aunt said, releasing all her frustration and pain.
Hearing my mother's name in that discussion clenched my chest tightly, as if a ton truck were crushing my heart.
"I just couldn't find the perfect moment," my father excused himself abruptly. I looked at him with hatred, unable to comprehend his words.
"You just had to love her!" my aunt exclaimed desperately, with a tone filled with anger and pain. I watched her, as she desperately tried to maintain her composure. "You should have been an excellent husband, spent her last days by her side, and been a perfect father to Elizabeth. But you didn't do any of that. And now that she's gone, you want to play the role of the perfect man," she concluded bitterly.
The scene left me stunned, wishing to stop remembering, but my eyes continued to observe the drama unfolding before me.
Kate West had always been a brave and determined person, a tireless fighter who had challenged my father from the day she crossed paths with him. My mother used to tell me that they just argued like all friends do, but I always knew that my aunt and my father hated each other. Things seemed to have improved when I was born, but then my dad started coming home less and spending less time with me. He didn't even show up for two of my birthdays. Despite that, he still showed that he loved me. I knew that since my mom was gone, I had become what he hated the most. My aunt was aware of that and constantly tried to take me with her, but it always ended up in an argument with my father, where I could only witness shouting, and he repeatedly blamed me for everything. Nevertheless, my aunt kept fighting to get me out of that hell. Her love and protection towards me were unwavering, and her presence always filled my heart with warmth and hope.
Everything continued like that until my father kicked her out of the house, and I never saw her again.
"And are you the perfect example for her? Let me remind you," my father thundered, pressing his lips together and smiling ironically. "I doubt that a damn prostitute who sleeps with any idiot is a role model for a ten-year-old girl," he said disgustedly. Seeing that, I clenched my fists to calm my anger.
"Unlike you, I love her. You only see her as a burden," she whispered, lowering her gaze.
"She is a burden," he replied emotionlessly. "But at least I can provide her a good example and an excellent future."
My aunt chuckled softly.
"You only want her to inherit your filthy business. To you, she's just another object, not your daughter, isn't that right?" she asked defiantly, with incomparable hatred towards my father, who rolled his eyes as if he found what he heard amusing. "A girl needs the love of a family, Robert. If you can't give her that, why don't you let me take her? Or are you such a coward that you can't bear to see your own daughter happy?"
In response, my father gritted his teeth and gave her an angry look. The tension was palpable, and I felt the need to mimic my younger self's position, who still pressed her hands against her ears to stay away from it all.
"Do you want to take her to teach her to be a damn prostitute like you?" he snapped back with another question, leaving my aunt frozen. "How are you going to pay for her education? By sucking thousands of dicks a year?" he continued laughing. I couldn't help feeling powerless, hearing him and seeing my aunt's spirits starting to crumble. "I wouldn't be surprised if she ends up in a brothel like you at..."
The sound of a slap interrupted his words. She had slapped him. I opened my eyes and took two steps back, seeing the situation. My father, surprised, raised his hand to his slapped cheek. When the slap echoed in the room, my world stopped for a moment. Pain and surprise were reflected on both their faces. My aunt, with her hand still raised, trembled, fighting against the storm of emotions overwhelming her. My father, still surprised, held his reddened cheek, and I felt tears threatening to overflow from my eyes.
My aunt remained motionless in her place, and it took only two seconds for my father's gaze to fill with immeasurable rage.
My father's disdain for my aunt filled me with anger, but also fear. I felt that I was the cause of it all, the reason for that hatred consuming my family. My heart was breaking in every moment, wishing things were different.
Desperation filled the air as tension escalated to unimaginable limits.
"Get out of my house," he growled through gritted teeth.
In a matter of minutes, my aunt's expression changed to one of regret, and she slowly lowered her hand. I could see her starting to feel guilty.
"Robert, I..."
"I SAID GET OUT!"
My aunt flinched at his shout and stepped back, like a cornered prey. My father's shout also echoed in my ears, resonating deep within me.
Then, I felt it.
I knew she was going to leave when she looked at my younger self with a hint of surrender and regret. However, I closed my eyes as she sighed and headed for the door without looking back. Without protesting. Kate West was giving up.
Coward.
That was the only word that ran through my mind when I returned to reality, and my eyes saw the ordinary ceiling of my room again.
This was my fate.
I felt trapped between anger and sadness, wanting to change the course of events, wanting to be stronger. But at that moment, there was only loneliness and pain enveloping me like a shadow.
I couldn't even cry. I felt as empty as a spilled glass. The times I allowed myself to be weak were at night when I knew my father couldn't hear me cry.
Anyway, who cared? Not even my aunt had the courage to stay. My destiny was to be what my father expected of me. No matter how hard I tried. Besides, I didn't want to lose anyone else and be alone again.
Nothing would change. Everything was a false joke. Nobody was going to save me. Nobody was going to heal me. I couldn't even break free from this cycle or console myself.
Simply put, the world is nothing. This is the only empty path left for me to take, and I am more than willing to continue down that same path.