Disclaimer: I don't own these characters, I just play with them. This story is rated M, and is not suitable for younger readers. Story contains violence, coarse language and sexual "situations". Please do not read if any of these things offends you.

Note: [Beta'ed by: adt216 & vasweetpea07]

Chapter 13 – Invalid

Isabella Swan POV

Dr. Cullen was a liar. Plain and simple.

It had been almost a week since the accident. I was still stuck in this uncomfortable hospital bed, and Dr. Cullen was not showing any signs of letting me go anytime soon.

I've been subjected to two additional surgeries since Saturday, one on my leg and one because of some internal damage in my abdomen. I didn't really pay any attention when Dr. Cullen explained it to me and my dad, because frankly, I stopped listening to him when I realized he was a liar. For all I knew, he could be lying about everything. So why would I listen to him?

Overall, I felt fine – at least physically. At least as fine as I could considering the circumstances. Though the pain had subsided in my leg, I was still bothered by it. If I made any sudden movements or tried to move in a way that my leg didn't agree with, I could be sure that there would be bursts of pain shooting through it. It would be painful to the point of me passing out. But that was something I quickly learned to control, and I never made any sudden movements, or any movements at all really. I never left the bed, except for the times I had to go to the bathroom, and that turned out to be a pain too – but in a different way.

The cast on my leg had gone all the way from my foot up to mid-thigh, which of course made it impossible for me to bend my knee and sit like a normal person while on the toilet, which in turn made the whole experience worse. They removed a part of the cast a few days later, so the cast just went up to my knee. Apparently the thigh-part was just for stability during the first few days.

I laid in my bed and looked out the window. Earlier this morning, it had been snowing, but now it was raining. Everything felt gray and murky, which suited my current mood perfectly.

I had yet to see Dr. Cullen today, and it was already after three in the afternoon. I figured he might have a day off, but something told me that Dr. Cullen was the kind of doctor who would rather go torture his patients on his days off than spend time with his family. But then again, I couldn't blame him if that were true, considering who his family consisted of – particularly his son.

Speaking of the devil, Edward had not bothered me since Dr. Cullen threw him out of my room on Saturday, and I don't know if I was thankful for that or not. A part of me wanted him to try to apologize like a real person and show some kind of remorse for what he did, while another part of me wanted nothing to do with him. If I never saw him again in my entire life, it would still be too soon.

On Monday, when I woke up after my first surgery since the accident, I was met by the sight of a big, elaborate bouquet of wildflowers on the table next to my bed. It was very pretty and expensive looking, and I knew instantly that it wasn't from my dad. And that assumption proved to be correct, when I noticed a woman standing by the window with a wistful look in her eyes.

Her brown hair had splashes of bronze and was gathered in a messy, yet classy, bun, and she was dressed in a casual, light gray suit. I could only see her profile, but what I could see was enough for me to gather that she was beautiful. As soon as I saw the color of her eyes, I knew who she was.

Edward's mother.

I cleared my throat to get her attention, and it felt like I was choking on sandpaper, my throat was so dry. She turned to me with a soft smile on her lips.

"Isabella…" she said, my name rolling off her lips like it was something precious. "I'm Esme Cullen… Edward's mother."

I didn't need her clarification; I already knew who she was. But something about her kept me from blowing her off and telling her to go to hell. She had an odd, loving glow about her, and her eyes shone with unveiled love and concern. Everything I needed to know about this woman was present in her eyes; she was a happy person, full of love and concern for everyone, and I almost felt dirty when she looked at me. Dirty and unworthy of her presence. I could tell she wasn't here out of pity, or out of guilt because of what her son had done to me, she was here out of concern for me, and me alone. And what made me unworthy was the fact that I did not want it. I did not want her concern.

"Oh…" My articulate side had never been proven to be more underdeveloped than at that moment. But Mrs. Cullen didn't seem to mind, as she stepped over to me and put her hands over mine on the bed.

"How are you feeling?" she asked with a motherly tone while looking at me like I was her child or something. What I would not give to have my own mother look at me the same way.

"I'm… fine, Mrs. Cullen," I replied, biting my lip self-consciously. "I'm sure your husband could have told you that. You didn't need to come all the way down here."

"My husband is under oath. He can't tell me certain things, but I still would have wanted to see you myself," she replied. "And please, call me Esme. Mrs. Cullen is my mother-in-law and she is, to be blunt, a real bitch."

My eyes widened in shock at her choice of words. Mrs. Cullen –Esme – didn't appear to be the kind of person who used such language, especially not in describing someone else. Esme laughed lightly at my reaction and patted my hand.

"She is," she said smiling, "and I sadly believe my son has inherited quite a lot of his personality from her." I could not argue with her on that one. Edward was a real bitch, if a guy could ever be described as such. And it was as if she knew what I was thinking, because she tilted her head to the side and looked at me seriously. "My son is not a bad person. Je just makes bad decisions, which more often than not, hurt people around him, even if that is not his intention."

I didn't say anything in regard to that. I didn't know Edward, not really. All I knew about him was the way he treated me, but I did not know him personally; therefore, I should not judge him.

I wanted to scoff at myself for even thinking that.

Of course I was going to judge him, no matter if I knew him or not. Edward ran me over for crying out loud! My body was broken beyond repair, and I would never be fully healed. I had every reason to judge him. He was a freaking jackass, and it pained me that his mother had to actually defend him and his actions.

The thing that bothered me the most was the fact that she seemed to believe every word she said. She really believed that her son was not a bad person, and the only thing wrong about him was that he made poor decisions. Like that would excuse his behavior and make everything okay.

Sorry, lady, no such luck.

"I'm so sorry for what he is putting you through. I always tell him to drive carefully.I know my son is a good driver, but sometimes that's not enough," she sighed sadly.

I could not help but wonder how much she really knew her son. Did she think that hitting me with his car was the only bad thing he had ever done to me? Was she aware of the bullying and the name-calling?

Of course not, why would she be aware of that? I doubt that was something that came up during their perfect family dinners.

"Hi, son, how was your day?"

"It was perfect, Mom, I gave the Goose hell for being such a waste of space and pathetic human being. I think I managed to kill the very little will she still had left to live. If I'm lucky, I'll be able to push her totally over the edge by lunch tomorrow."

Not that I really cared what people at school said about me, since nothing they said could possibly make me feel worse than I already did. But they didn't know that, and honestly, I don't think they would care if they did. They would still get a sick thrill out of kicking me while I was down, and not caring whether or not I even reacted to their bullshit. The bullying and the name-calling made them feel superior, and that was what high school was all about, right? You could never be truly happy until you were standing over someone else and making them feel like crap.

Maybe that was why my life was crap, because there simply was no other person lower on the social ladder than me.

And why was that?

I know I've never been the popular kid, but I had never been a victim to the degree I was now. There had always been someone saying mean things about me, but never as bad as now. I don't think the whole bird-related nicknames even came up until last spring.

I might not have been a popular kid before, but something changed last spring. People began to see me differently and people who didn't even acknowledge my existence before began to say "ugly duckling" to my face. And I don't know why, or where it all came from.

But that was during the time I still had a friend in my life. I still had Jacob Black by my side. Though he went to school on the reservation, we still hung out more often than never and I didn't care about what the kids at school said. The only person whose thoughts mattered was Jacob. So there was no reason for me to let the idiots at school get to me.

But of course that went out the window along with everything else in my life that was even remotely good. God forbid that Isabella Swan would be allowed to catch a break.

And now I was stuck here, with a mom who was certifiably insane – though nobody except me seemed to see it – a dad who didn't know up from down, and a leg that was broken beyond repair.

I wanted to blame my mom for everything, or Billy Black, or even Edward Cullen.

But I knew that putting the blame on someone else would not heal what had already been broken. Blaming someone would not solve my problems, and it would not make me feel better.

Esme stayed with me for a couple of hours, just talking about everything and nothing. She asked me about what I planned to do after graduation, if I wanted to go to college, and if so, where did I want to go, and what did I want to study. She asked me about my family, my friends, and if I had any pets.

I answered all the questions as vaguely as I could, because no matter how friendly she seemed, I still didn't feel comfortable talking about my life with a stranger, especially not if the stranger was Edward's mother and Dr. Cullen's wife. The eagerness she showed while asking the questions was making me uncomfortable, why was she so interested?

Dr. Cullen interrupted her visit and told her I needed my rest. She promised me that she would be back another day, and she left before I even had a chance to reply. I asked Dr. Cullen to tell her that she didn't need to visit me, and he gave me a look that indicated that he knew what I wasn't saying. I was too polite to tell him to his face that I didn't want his friendly and caring wife to visit me, and he knew that. He promised me though that he would tell his wife that I wasn't up for company rather than tell her I simply didn't want her there, and I guess he kept his promise, because she didn't come by again.

I guess Dr. Cullen wasn't totally unreliable, though I still hadn't forgiven him for not letting me go home yet. Not that I wanted to go home. There was nothing there for me anyway, but I rather be stuck in my room for the rest of my life, than in this uncomfortable hospital bed with no means of entertaining myself – daytime soaps on TV are not entertainment.

My dad popped in every day after work. He asked me how I was doing and I said I was fine. I asked him how his day went, and he said it went fine. After that, we always fell into an uncomfortable silence that lasted for an hour, before he stood up from his chair and told me he had to leave, because he had to get up early for work the next day, as though I didn't know his schedule had never changed once during the fifteen or so years that he had worked there.

But I didn't blame him. I was just glad he at least made an effort to make up an excuse about why he had to leave, in order to spare my feelings rather than tell me the truth. The truth being that he simply didn't want to be there. But I could not blame him for that because I'm not sure I wanted him there either.

The clock on the opposite wall showed that it was three fifteen. There were still two hours before I could expect a visit from my dad. Another two hours of doing nothing.

"Isabella, how are we feeling today?"

I groaned inwardly as Dr. Cullen waltzed into my room with his usual bright smile. I looked down at my hands so I didn't need to see his face. I was not in the mood for his cheerfulness.

"Just like every other time you've asked me," I sighed in response.

He chuckled and wrote something down on my chart.

"Good to hear it," he replied, as if that was a good thing. "So how would you feel about getting out of here?" I looked up in surprise, almost expecting him to wink at me and tell me he was joking. But he was just smiling genuinely at me. "You have made done great progress, and the surgeries have been successful. I know you hate it here, so I see no reason why you can't spend the rest of your recovery in your bed at home."

"When can I leave?" I asked eagerly, and he shook his head in amusement. I guess this was the first sign of excitement I've shown since… well, ever?

"I'm going to be honest with you. I'm not entirely comfortable letting you go just yet, since you refuse to talk to someone… But since you're psychically as fine as you can be right now, I see no reason to keep you. I will speak to your father when he gets here in a few hours and discuss the details. You'll need a lot of help the first few days. There will be a lot of adjustments for both yourself and your dad. Your inability to move around, because of the cast, will cause a problem for you. But don't worry, you'll get used to it sooner than you think."

I realized that somehow I had managed to block out the fact that I would still be in the same horrible shape when I got home as I was now. A part of me had deluded myself into thinking that as soon as I stepped out through the hospital doors everything would go back to normal. Just the way it was before the accident.

But that wasn't going to happen, because this was just the first step in the horrible and painful recovery I was about to endure.

"And then we have to talk about school…" he said, sounding almost hesitant.

"What about school? Can I drop out? Get homeschooled thanks to my new found disability?" I asked sarcastically.

"Drop out? Don't be silly." He shook his head and smiled as if the thought amused him. "As for homeschooling… I won't even touch that," he said with a weak chuckle. "We'll discuss it all with your father later. But it's very much up to you when you feel physically ready to go back."

"If it's up to me, then I'll never be ready," I muttered.

"Isabella, I know this is hard and it will get harder before it gets better. But you are making this more difficult than it has to be. A positive attitude does wonders for a person's recovery, and your attitude right now is just holding you back. I'm not saying that a positive attitude will have you running by the end of the week, but it might have you walking with crutches. You won't need to be confined to a wheelchair, which of course will make your life easier," he said.

This was one of those things I hated about Dr. Cullen. Sometimes, when he felt I was feeling really sorry for myself, he would go on these rants, talking about positive thinking and having an optimistic attitude about everything.

But that was easy for him to say. Everything was easy for him to say, because he wasn't the one who had a life-altering accident, which he would never fully recover from. How could he ever expect me to have a positive outlook on life after something like that, especially since I had not been in the best place to begin with?

Dr. Cullen sat down on the bed and patted my hand. God, I hated it when he did that.

He always talked to me like an equal, like I wasn't just some childish patient of his, that we were somehow friends and that he genuinely care about what happened to me. He had the same friendly and caring demeanor as his wife, though hers had been more raw and palpable. Dr. Cullen seemed to try to hide what he was really feeling some of the time, but Esme had let it all shine through her eyes, not seeming to be bothered that her feelings were exposed for the whole world to see.

That was probably more about Dr. Cullen's profession than it was about anything else. I'm sure he cared, but not in the way he made it appear. His way of closing off his feelings was probably due to the fact that as a doctor he should distance himself from his patients and not get emotionally involved. This was probably pretty difficult for him in our case, since his son was the reason I was here.

It was all a big freaking mess. And I couldn't wait for it all to be over.

Would it ever be over?

Nothing would be truly over until the day I managed to gather up enough courage to kill myself. And with my new found disability, that would probably be easier said than done. Maybe this was God's way of telling me it wasn't really my time to go, and that I had still something to do before I was done for.

Hah. Yeah right.

I'll be damned before I gave into all that religious crap and believed that I was meant for something greater, that my life was not supposed to be wasted, and that my life was precious.

What a load of crap.

Dr. Cullen was still looking at me, probably expecting some kind of answer out of me. The only answer I wanted to give him was to tell him to go to hell – but not before shooting me up with so much morphine that my body would fly all the way to Heaven… or maybe Hell was more like it, there was no way I was destined for Heaven. Not after everything.

"That's easy for you to say, doc," I replied simply. "It's not in my nature to be optimistic."

"Yes, I have come to realize that, but you do know that it doesn't have to be that way. All you have to do is be willing to get help."

That particular conversation was familiar to us both. A day had not passed without him asking me, at least twice, to go see someone. But each and every time I refused. I didn't want to bare my soul to someone who was only listening because they got paid. How could I ever trust someone like that with all my deep dark secrets? Secrets that I had been lying about for the past three months, because I knew that if I spoke them aloud, there would be hell to pay, and not just for me. But for everyone involved. By keeping quiet, I was keeping everyone safe, including myself… including my mom. Though God knows she did not deserve it. Why did I even want to keep them safe? They didn't deserve it. Maybe I was just keeping myself safe.

"We both know you can't go on like this. I know you were admitted to the hospital three months ago, and the details I've been provided by your old records are vague at best. I'm going to take a wild guess and assume that what happened three months ago is why you're refusing help now," he said, with that caring voice that annoyed the hell out of me, because it sounded so sincere, like he really did care, and not just as my doctor. He sounded more concerned about my well-being than my own father ever had. And it was annoying, as well as devastating. He sighed deeply and studied me in silence for a moment, before continuing. "Isabella, you are a bright young woman. You can have whatever future you want. You can travel the world and visit exotic places. You don't need to get stuck here if you don't want to. It all may feel as if it's too much now, but it can get better if you let it."

"Yeah? And how am I supposed to let it get easier when every fiber of my being tells me to die?" I said, almost snapping at him for pushing me like that. He made it all sound so simple, like everything would be okay if I only got help, as if the world actually worked like that.

"You'll never know unless you try," he replied softly, giving my hand a squeeze. "I understand your reluctance to talk to a professional, I get that. But you don't need to talk to a professional in order to let it out, maybe there is someone else you can confide in. Maybe a friend? Or someone in your family?"

"Yeah? Like my crazy mother or my imaginary friend who lives in the attic?" I snorted.

"In my professional opinion, I think you just need to get your anxiety out. Talk about what it is that's bothering you, what you're feeling and what you think. It doesn't matter who you talk to, as long as you do," he said gently.

"And in my personal opinion, I think you should just drop it already," I replied.

It still surprised me that I didn't feel weird about talking back to Dr. Cullen like I did. I've always been respectful to authority figures. But ever since I woke up after the accident, I have felt a surge of annoyance running through my body, and it made it impossible for me to shut up if someone pushed me enough. And that went for everybody, not just authority figures like my parents or Dr. Cullen. It was like when I snapped at Edward when he tried to apologize – or whatever it was he tried to do when he visited me – and I lied to Dr. Cullen about what Edward had said. Somewhere along the road, I had grown a spine, or maybe I was just sick and tired of everything and everyone always walking all over me.

Or maybe it was the fact that I had woken up at all that was the last straw for me. I could take a lot of crap from a lot of people, but waking up after an accident that should have killed me, yeah, that was something I just couldn't live with. And after that, everything else seemed to bug me more than usual too.

Mom didn't visit me again before Dad drove her back to Seattle on Sunday. I was partly disgruntled at that, because I wouldn't have minded being able to lash out at her and say exactly what I was feeling to her crazy freaking face, even though I had my doubts on whether or not my new found attitude was able to withstand my mother's presence. Yeah, I might be able to get out a well-deserved comment or two, but I don't think I would ever be able to really tell her what I felt. That was partly due to the fact that I wasn't really sure what I felt, since my feelings towards my mother were conflicted at best. Though I hated her, I still couldn't totally distance myself from the fact that she was my mother.

"Maybe we should drop it for today and just focus on getting you back on your feet," Dr. Cullen said, standing up from the bed.

"Couldn't agree with you more," I replied. "So what is my sentence? Crutches?"

The pain had been outrageous the first couple of times that I had tried to walk with crutches in the hallway, but that was before they gave me some pills for the pain which really took the edge off. Dr. Cullen had, of course, been reluctant to give me anything other than intravenous drugs, but not even he could fight it anymore. But before he gave in, he made a point by asking me not to do anything stupid. He didn't need to elaborate. I knew what he meant: no "fake taking" the pills, just to save them up to use later. I guess I really screwed up any chance of him trusting me with pills ever again.

"The crutches will be suitable for you at home, but the wheelchair will probably be more comfortable for you when you get back to school."

I groaned at his words. A wheelchair at school, I could almost hear the laughing already.

He gave me a sympathetic look, and I wanted to groan again – as if his sympathy was what I needed right now.

"Considering how much you need to walk around between classes at school, I would really recommend you take the wheelchair. Your leg needs to heal, and the less you walk around on it, the better. Especially in the beginning," he said.

"Why don't I stay at home until it's well enough to be walked on? Why can't I stay at home until the cast comes off all together?" I asked, and he chuckled.

"That probably won't happen for another two months, depending on how quickly the bones heal."

"Yeah, so? I could study at home and make someone bring my homework home or something."

He sighed again and shook his head.

"I'm not your dad, so I can't make any decisions regarding school for you."

I huffed and he walked over to the window. It was getting dark, and it was still raining.

"Don't isolate yourself, Isabella. The world always seems darker and scarier if you're all alone."

He threw me a look from over his shoulder, and I looked away.

The world might be dark and scary when you're all alone, but there is nothing scarier than when people you love turn on you and make you lose all grip on reality.

It took another two days before Dr. Cullen finally released me from his care, but not before making me promise that I was going to take care of myself. My dad thought it was very thoughtful of Dr. Cullen to care so much, little did he know why Dr. Cullen cared so much. He didn't think it was weird at all when Dr. Cullen said he was going to call every few days to keep himself updated on my progress.

What doctor did almost daily updates on his patients once they were released, anyway? If a patient was well enough to go home, wasn't a checkup every few weeks after that sufficient? Calling every few days seemed a little too much to me, and it was weird that my dad thought it was normal. But maybe my dad assumed Dr. Cullen's overly caring attitude was due to the fact that it was his son who was the one putting me through all this. And that made the whole situation personal to him too.

Maybe I should have asked for another doctor. That would have made everything a whole lot easier.

We drove home in my dad's cruiser with a wheelchair tucked in the backseat along with a pair of crutches. If I had my way, that wheelchair would not see the light of day and would be forever hidden in a corner somewhere. I didn't need another huge reminder of what a cripple I had become; the crutches were enough to keep me from forgetting.

And the insane pain my leg, of course. Who could forget that one?

Dad helped me out off the car and gave me the crutches from the backseat. The ground was wet and muddy from the rain, and there was no ice or snow to speak of. I wobbled my way over to the steps to our house and groaned as I felt the crutches sink a little in the mud. Dad walked passed me, carrying the folded wheelchair up to the house.

"You need any help?" he asked me, when he came back out.

"No, I got it," I replied with a huff.

Each step was a pain, but not in the physical sense. The crutches kept sliding on the ground, which of course made the walk far more difficult than it should have been.

"You sure you don't want my help?" Dad asked cautiously, as he took a step down from the door.

"I said I got it," I said between clenched teeth.

When I finally made it inside, Dad had wet a towel to clean the now muddy crutches. I smiled meekly at him as he cleaned them. He then removed the plastic that covered the cast, which was there in order to not get the cast dirty or wet in the rain.

"Thanks," I mumbled.

He just smiled awkwardly in return, before going to the laundry room to throw the towel away.

I wobbled my way into the kitchen, and I froze when I saw the pile of papers and books on the table. I knew those books; I knew those papers. But I still felt the need to ask.

"Dad… what is this?" I asked, as he came back into the kitchen.

"Oh, that's your homework. One of your friends has come over every day this week to drop them off," he said.

I don't know what bothered me the most about it; the fact that he just let the pile grow here, instead of bringing them to me at the hospital, so I could have had something to do, or the fact that he said one of my friends had dropped them off.

"Who was this… friend?" I asked, trying to keep the sarcasm out of my voice.

"I think she said her name was Alice Branden… or Brandon or something. I didn't catch it, she talked way too fast for me," he said with a light chuckle. "How come you've never introduced her? She seemed like a nice enough girl."

Alice Brandon. Since when were we friends? Just because she saved my life once didn't make us friends. Maybe she offered to take my homework just because nobody else did, and maybe she introduced herself as my friend so as not to make my dad uncomfortable or something.

I picked up the assignment that was on top of the pile and bit my lip in contemplation.

"Dr. Cullen said you were good to go back to school as soon as you felt like it, so… yeah," Dad said, and scratched his head awkwardly, and when I didn't answer he added, "I will drive you to school every morning, but I don't know how it will work in the afternoons. It would be a huge help if you could get one of your friends to drive you home. I don't think Alice would mind. She said that we could ask her if you needed help with anything."

"Yeah, yeah," I muttered, just to shut him up. "I'll take care of it, you don't need to worry."

"Go sit down in the living room, and I'll order some pizza," he said, his tone suggesting that he was half-expecting me to say no and offer to cook him dinner. But I didn't. And he seemed a little disappointed as he dialed the number to the pizza place. I guess not having had a home cooked meal in a week was wearing on him. As if the hospital food I've been forced to eat was so fantastic. Pizza sounded great in my ears, hell, even dirt would have been considered a gastronomical success compared to that tasteless hospital food.

A while later, the pizza came and we ate mostly in silence. I had nothing to say to my father, not something that would count as good dinner talk anyway. I was still mad at him for what happened before the accident. And I don't know how long it would take for me to get over it.

I knew he was really trying to help me and show me that he cared. His visits at the hospital had shown that he cared more than he let on before. But still, it was not enough for me. He still defended Mom if she ever came up in conversation, though his defense seemed to have faltered a little since she left again. I wanted to believe that it was because he was beginning to realize that Mom was wrong, at least in some aspects, and that I was not the bad guy here. But the truth was probably that he was tired of having the same fight with me over and over again. He knew I would never change my mind about her, and he realized he was fighting a losing battle by trying to make me.

When I had finished my pizza, I made my way upstairs. It wasn't as difficult as I thought it would be, as long as I held on tightly to the railing, there was no risk of me tumbling down the stairs and breaking my other leg.

While we had waited for the pizza to arrive, Dad had brought my homework up to my room, and now it was neatly stacked on my desk. I barely glanced at the pile, instead I went straight for my bed and laid down. I could almost hear my back sigh in relief when it came in contact with the softness of my bed.

Dad had asked me during dinner if I had given any thought to school, and for how long I had planned on staying home. And I honestly didn't know. A part of me never wanted to go back to that place ever again, and another part wanted to go back there just to show all those people that I didn't break so easily. Then there was a tiny, little part that wanted to know what people were saying. The gossip must be all over the place, and I was curious to see how many people were trying to pin the accident on me. I would not be surprised if the whole "jumped-in-front-of-the-car" theory was being thrown around as a fact. And I don't think Edward would be the first one in line to correct people and tell them what really happened.

It was only Saturday, and I had all the time in the world to decide if I wanted to go back to school – and when. There was no hurry. I could wait a few days or maybe even a few weeks.

Or maybe, just maybe, if I was in a good mood, I would make an appearance on Monday…