Chapter Seventeen

Bella

Bang . . .

Bang . . .

Bang.

"Mom!" I screamed, leaping from the floor and running into the bedroom. "Mom!"

I noticed her first, face down on the floor with blood pooling around her. I ran to her, falling down beside her. "Mommy," I cried.

The blood came from her back, soaking her shirt and my hands as I pressed against the hole. I looked up, finding Phil in the corner—more blood pooling around him, but from his head. My body ached, wrist throbbed as I pressed against Mom's back.

"No, please, no," I whimpered. "No!"

"Bella!"

My eyes shot open and I jolted up in bed, panting with tears on my cheeks. Charlie sat beside me—concern etched on his face as his hand froze, reaching out for me.

"Are you okay?" he asked.

I took a deep breath. "Uh-huh. I'm s-sorry."

He shook his head and wiped the tears from my cheeks. "It's all right, Bells. Do you wanna . . . talk?"

"No, it was the same."

He nodded. "How 'bout some water then?"

"Yeah, okay. I don't think . . . you know, I can go back to sleep."

I looked over at my alarm clock, dreading what it'd say. It was after five in the morning at least, which wasn't as bad as usual. With a soft sigh, Charlie nodded and stood up, leaving my bedroom.

I turned my light on and dried my eyes as I looked around the room—my room. This wasn't the tiny apartment back in Phoenix. It was warm and cozy and home.

At least I wanted it to be.

It hadn't even been a month since I lost my mother, and I almost felt wrong wanting all of this. I felt like I didn't deserve the amazing father Charlie was, not when I'd barely opened up to him.

"There were some brownies left, so I brought milk instead," Charlie said, walking back into my room with a plate and two glasses.

Tears welled up in my eyes again as he sat on the edge of my bed, scooting the plate toward me.

"Does this count as breakfast?" I asked, picking a brownie up.

He shrugged. "I'm still having breakfast in an hour, so let's say no."

"You don't have to stay up with me."

"Eh, I'd be up soon anyway."

He dipped his brownie in his glass as I bit into mine, quickly following it up with milk. We sat in silence, eating brownies and milk at five in the morning. Once again, I felt undeserving.

"She wasn't dead," I said as his head shot up. "Not right away, I mean. I could hear her breathing as it slowed and slowed. I can still feel her blood on my hands."

I looked at my hands—the left still covered in the blue cast. I could remember it all so clearly. Charlie didn't speak, either unsure of what to say or knowing I had more to tell.

"Do you know why they fought that night?"

He nodded and his eyes glassed over. "The police told me what you'd told them—at least some of it."

"She was finally making him stop," I cried. "She told him she'd go to the police, and he . . . h-he lost it. Beating the shit out of us wasn't enough to go to the police, but . . . doing that . . ."

"She was scared, Bella," he said. "I've seen domestic abuse victims stand up for their abusers—tell me it was okay because they didn't know how else to live."

"But she did! She had . . . she had you. Why did she leave? Why did she . . . never tell you."

He sighed, looking down at his lap. "She didn't love me, and she hated Forks. I don't know why she didn't tell me about you. Maybe . . . she knew I'd want you—both of you. I wish I'd known about you, Bells. I wish I could have prevented all of your pain and that monster had never gotten his hands on you."

"I wanted a dad so badly—all of my life," I cried. "But I knew that wasn't him from the first time I met him. I'd given up hope of ever having one."

He reached out to me, brushing my hair behind my ear. "I know it's late, but you have one now. You're not a little girl and I don't know the first thing about being a father—especially not to a teenager—but I'd do anything for you."

"Why? You don't know me."

"I know you're my daughter, and that's all I need to know right now. I'll learn the rest, and I want to. I'm not, you know, the best with emotional stuff, but I'm a damn good listener. I might not say the right thing, but I'll try."

Without a second thought—and completely disregarding the plate of brownies between us—I reached for him, wrapping my arms around his neck. He held me tightly as I just cried, and it felt good to be in his embrace—a little awkward at first, but . . . right.

"Thank you," I said as I let him go. "Can I . . . talk a little more?"

He nodded with a soft smile. "Talk until you feel better."

I told him about my mom, about that night, and about things Phil had done. It wasn't everything. I wasn't even sure I could tell anyone everything, but it was enough for now. It made my heart ache a little less, which I didn't understand, but felt good. He just sat there, listening to me without interrupting. His hand even found mine and held it softly.