TRIGGER WARNING: GRAPHIC DEPICTION OF SEXUAL ASSAULT, MEDICAL PROCEDURES, DRUG USE. Protect yourself and your health. Don't read this story if it will be harmful for you.

National Sexual Assault Hotline (USA): 8006564673

Chapter 6 – Bruises (BPOV)

"Here you are, dear." Esme places a small tray on my lap.

Three layers of blankets shielded my legs from the heat of the dishes' contents. Somehow, despite its size, Esme had piled enough food for three on the tray. Perhaps my lack of appetite had not been apparent to Esme, or she was motivated by the little food I'd eaten since waking up in the hospital.

"Thank you." I mumble, trying not to show how much the tomato soup and cheese sandwich made my stomach churn.

"Charlie, are you sure I can't bring you anything?" Esme asks, her voice full of motherly concern. It was strange seeing it expressed from Esme to my father. "There's plenty more!"

"I ate." Charlie coughs in response, slightly awkward at Esme's doting. "Thanks."

Esme smiles in response, mumbling a remark about eating some dinner later. She leans down tucking my blanket around my feet before she exits the room.

"She's very attentive." Charlie notes after a long pause. "I guess mothers are just like that." He says, more awkwardly than before.

I enjoyed Charlie's visits, but today it seemed to drag. He usually stopped by before work to check on me and then again in the afternoon on his way to the reservation, calling Alice at least twice in-between. Alice had informed me that he was not staying at the house in Forks anymore. He had taken up a cot in Billy's living room instead. Despite Carlisle and Esme's insisting, Charlie did not want to relocate to any one of the guest bedrooms in the Cullen house. For that, I was grateful. It might have been too much to have him here.

"Are you going to eat?"

I spy the food, nausea spreading through me. "I'm not really hungry right now. I ate breakfast late."

That was a lie. Esme had served me breakfast late since I had woken up late after a particularly restless and nightmare filled night. But I hadn't eaten a single bite of it. The towering pancakes and bowls of fruit were not appetizing, and it wasn't for a lack of Esme's trying. I tried to cut up a pancake into tiny pieces to make it look like I'd eaten a bit, but I doubt Alice was fooled as she carried my tray away.

Charlie grimaces, looking saddened by my response. "You should try to eat a bit. . . Smells good."

"I will." I tell him, trying to make my voice sound confident and promising. "Later."

I stare at the tray, trying to figure out how to relocate it from my lap to the table besides me. But my wrist – fully encased in plaster – and my ribs – broken, bruised, and hurting – made the task look daunting.

Charlie must have seen my internal struggle, and he stands up and moves the tray for me without a single word.

"Mind if I check the score?" Charlie asks, and he's reaching for the remote before I respond.

The TV offers a welcome noisiness to the room that was otherwise mostly silent. With the exception of our stilted conversation – painfully twisting around recent events and relocations from Forks – and Esme's occasional entrance and exit, there wasn't much going on. The house was more silent than I was used to when I woke up this morning. I didn't have an exact tally on who was home, but it seemed to be limited to only Esme.

Charlie makes a disgruntled sound, and I glance up at the TV.

"Who is winning?"

"Oh, uh. . . Didn't get there yet." Charlie mumbles in response, his eyes fixed to the TV. I follow his gaze, looking at the screen where a pretty woman was discussing the news. "It's about Seattle."

"Oh?" I lean my head back against the arm rest of the couch, snuggling the blankets – which had warmed from the tray – closer to my chin. I was cold, and tired. I felt like the entire world was pressing down on my body, making it difficult to move and breathe and think past the pain.

"Did you hear about Seattle?" He asks, shaking his head.

"No." I hadn't put aside a lot of time to watch the news these days.

"A bunch of disappearances. . . It's been going on for a few months, but it picked up recently." Charlie explains with a slight shake of his head. "Stay clear of that area, okay?"

"Got it." I mumble, closing my eyes. I didn't have the ability to go to Seattle now. I could barely stand without assistance. And I didn't need to be in Seattle to fall into danger. It came straight to my bedroom on a normal day.

A shudder rolls down my spine as memories thaw in my brain. I swallow a lump, forcing my eyes on the TV to find a distraction.

"A kid from Forks went missing there a few months ago." Charlie sighs. He's quiet for a long moment, listening to the muttering of the TV. "I'm glad you're here, kid. I . . . I'm sorry that I'm no good at this. . . That I can't take care of you like they can, but I'm glad you're here."

I force my eyes open, blinking away the blurriness of my exhaustion. "You take care of me, Dad."

Charlie doesn't respond immediately. "I'm just. . . I'm sorry, Bells."

I offer him a small smile, unable to find words to respond and positive that if I did open my mouth my voice would crack with emotion.

Charlie reaches for the remote again, flipping the channels until he finds the game he wanted to watch. We watch in silence for a long time. Occasionally, I'd close my eyes and wake up with the suspicion I'd fallen into a light sleep for a few moments. But I was never sure until I opened my eyes to find Alice sitting casually at my feet, conversing with Charlie.

"Billy bet against me."

Alice grins. "I think it's apparent Seattle will win, especially if you look at the stats of their players and the skill of the coaches. You took a smart stance, Charlie." She glances at me, winking.

Of course, she'd know who was going to win. Her visions hadn't failed her before . . . Except for the one time they did.

Her hand is on my calf, silently offering me some comfort. I've missed spending time with Alice. I've rarely seen her since coming home from the hospital.

"You seem very sure of yourself." Charlie spies her, his eyes narrowed. "Didn't know you paid much attention to baseball."

"Emmett and Jasper talk about it all the time." Alice shrugs. "I'm not as invested as them, but I do have a killer pitching arm though."

Charlie laughs heartily. "I'll have to see that."

Alice merely laughs in response.

I let my eyes fall close again, hoping the darkness might quell the painful drumming throughout my body. My pain seemed to throb in tune with my heart, and my heart was racing much too fast for the pain to be comfortable.

When I open my eyes again, Alice has disappeared along with most of the light in the room. A few small lamps and the TV ghosted the room with dim light. Charlie is still here. He is watching baseball still, but I can't be certain if it's the same game as before or a new one.

"Good evening, Charlie." Carlisle's voice is bright, much more cheerful than I'm used to. I flinch at his voice, huddling deeper into the blankets. I didn't want Carlisle to poke and prod at me now. It felt like anytime he came around it was to check wounds or change bandages or offer me pain medicine I consistently refused.

"Hey Doc." Charlie nods, grabbing for the remote to turn off the TV. Carlisle waves him off.

"Just checking on Bella, and then I need to head out again." Carlisle explains easily. "How did the game go?"

"Didn't miss much, actually." Charlie raises an eyebrow. "I never pegged your family as baseball fans."

Carlisle chuckles. "It's an enjoyable pastime."

"Hmm, that seems to be he response." Charlie responds easily. "Beat Billy out of a few bucks."

Charlie would have a field day with Emmett and Jasper. Though, he'd never make a cent unless Alice was on his side.

"That's unfortunate for him." Carlisle sighs, shaking his head. He turns to me, concern etched into his eyes. "How are you feeling?"

I don't miss the way his voice drops, keeping my father out of his conversation.

I swallow with some difficulty, trying not to let my pain shine through. "I'm fine."

Carlisle's eyes float from my face to the cold tray of food. "Not hungry at all?"

I shake my head slowly, then wince as I immediately regret it. My head hurt too much to be moving around right now.

"Can you try to eat some? Maybe toast? As much as you can stomach."

"I'm really not hungry."

"I know." Carlisle reaches for one of the sandwiches, breaking off a small section of the bread. "Try, please."

I gaze at the bread he was offering, reluctantly taking it. It wasn't much – three or four bites at most. But it seemed like an overly daunting task for my nauseated stomach and aching head.

Carlisle waits a moment, watching me with sympathy as I force myself to swallow a single bite. It made my stomach churn in the worst way.

"I'll be back." He tells me. As he leaves, he offers a sigh at the TV when a batter strikes out. It was for all show – for Charlie.

I swallow another bite, trying desperately not to gag in disgust as I chewed. There was nothing wrong with the bread. There was something wrong with me.

Carlisle returns only a moment later, watching me for a moment with an expression of sympathy before silently permitting me to put the rest of the bread down. Carlisle was more gracious about my eating than Edward.

My eyes slip around the room, looking for Edward. I hadn't seen him since I woke up this morning and he helped me to the couch. He'd touched my face gently, whispering something I was too tired for my ears to catch, and I hadn't seen him since.

"Where is everyone?" I ask Carlisle.

He offers me a small smile. "They've gone out. I'm sure they'll be back soon."

"And Edward?"

Carlisle's eyes harden. "Hunting." His answer is short and curt, though I'm not sure why.

"Good." I sigh, slightly relieved. He hadn't hunted recently. His eyes had been dark every time I'd stared into them since waking up in the hospital. If anything, my relief seems to provoke Carlisle more. The behavior confuses me.

"Why didn't you go?" I ask, spying his dark eyes.

He offers me a small smile, though it seemed forced. "I was at the hospital."

"I thought you took time off."

"I was handing in my resignation."

My stomach flips uneasily. "What?" I whisper. "Why?"

"My family needs me right now." Carlisle answers, his voice quiet but it rings loud with conviction.

I don't respond – I don't know how to. Again, my throat fills with the pain of holding back tears. Tears of my love and gratitude for Carlisle and for the rest of his family. Tears of anger that this happened to me. Tears of betrayal that they didn't save me, that Carlisle was specifically named in the reasons for why this happened.

Carlisle sits with me for a moment, looking between me and Charlie to occasionally make a remark about the players on the screen, before he excuses himself from the room under the guise of helping Esme prepare food.

"You settling well here?" Charlie asks me, his voice uncomfortable.

I nod.

"Do you need anything? Anything from your room?"

"No." I hiss, a little too harshly. Charlie recoils slightly at my tone. "I'm fine. Thanks." I add hastily, trying to soften my tone.

He nods in response, grimacing. "Is this better for you, Bella? Being here and not at the hospital or at home?"

I pull my eyes away from Charlie, focusing on the blankets covering me. My fingers find the stitches of the hem, picking at them. I didn't want to converse with Charlie about this.

Anything was better than the hospital. Anything except being in Forks.

I involuntarily wince, remembering the day I'd come home from the hospital.

Bright, clear sunlight filtered against my eyes, making me cringe. My eyes were painfully sensitive. Cool sheets rested over my bed, and I snuggle deeper into the pillows.

Except, instead of the usual warmth and comfort I reveled in, my mind filled with shocking fear and pain. Hands pressed over me, knees digging into my stomach, hot breath on my neck, pain in my skull.

My body screams as I hurl upwards, pushing ghost hands and knees off my body. I sob, shoving the sheets off.

I can't breathe. I can't breathe.

My hands shake, my cast weighing down my arm, my body throbbing and slowing my movements.

I don't want him to touch me again. I can't breathe. God, it hurts.

I'm fumbling, struggling off of the mattress as fast as I could as walls closed in around me and pressure leans itself on my lungs.

It hurts so much. Why can't I breathe?

My limbs tangle in the sheets, trapping me. The edges of my vision were dark, and more spots speckle my vision as I drop to the hard floor. Pain radiates through me in waves so furious I'm sure I'll be physically sick from it.

I can't breathe. Why can't I breathe?

"Bella, it's okay." Esme's voice was near me, and I reach for her, my hands clawing. Where was she? I couldn't find her. Why wasn't she helping me? My hands grasp and claw at the air, finding nothing.

It hurts so much.

Where were they? Why hadn't any of them been there? Why hadn't Edward protected me?

I'm not safe. Not now.

Hands come down on my body, and my stomach churns so violently I gag.

"No." I flinch from the sheer volume of my own voice. "No, no."

I can't breathe.

Memories were running through my head – a thousand times I'd seen them, in every angle, in every combination. They flew across my vision so I could scarcely figure out whether I was in my room or Edward's. I didn't want to be on the bed.

"Get off." I scream, unsure of where the man was. Unsure of if he would be trying to get to me again. "No, no. . . I need – I – go." I gasp, my hands coming to my neck. I can't breathe. I can't breathe. I need to leave. I don't want to be here. I can't breathe. "I– get me out."

My heart was being squeezed by the same pressure that was on my lungs. The air seemed to be thinning.

I hear hums of noise. I can't seem to hear anything but the sound of my lungs dragging air through my lips.

My vision is black, and I claw at my face, trying to get my eyes to open. I don't want to be sucked in again. I don't want to go to sleep. I want to fight this time. My eyes are open. I can't see beyond the black and red splotches of color.

"You're going to be fine. Just breathe. In and out."

There's too little air for me to breathe. Too little. It's too thin. I can't breathe it. I need to go. I'm not safe.

"Good, Bella. Keep breathing." It's not Esme anymore. It's Carlisle. His hand is cold and hard as ice, and it makes me shiver. "Don't hold your breath. You're doing so good."

Carlisle murmurs words I don't catch. I clench and unclench my fists in his shirt, realizing the movement helps me focus less on the thinning air. I'm hot – feeling furiously feverish and sweaty – but shivering so hard I'm sure my teeth are chattering.

Take me out of here. Get me out.

"I don't want to go back."

"You don't have to." Carlisle responds.

I don't have to. I don't have to go back to Forks. Back to that house. The laundry is probably still in the dryer. My room is a mess still. I never cleaned it. My book is probably on my undusted desk, along with a dozen assignments for school, exactly where he put it. My bed unmade – a testament to a violent crime.

"Carlisle, please." Every breath sent searing pain down my side and stomach. How could I breathe when everything hurt so much? When each pain from my injuries reminded me of how I got them?

"Do you trust me, Bella?" Carlisle asks me, his voice soft. Carlisle grips my hand in his, not hard enough to cause me pain but I was sure my bones might shatter on their own accord.

Tears blur my vision so that Carlisle was a fuzzy figure with striking blonde hair and pale skin. Closing my eyes doesn't protect me from the bite of the needle, but the warmth that spread through my body and eased my anguish made it worth it.

I give in, again. Because it's easier than fighting. It's easier than suffocating to death. It's easier than enduring the pain while he holds me down and violates my body.

I let the darkness wash over me and consume all my agony as it does.

I'd let Carlisle sedate me. I let him give me medicine. And I woke up feeling worse than before. Carlisle promised it was the lingering effects of the medication, but it felt too much like waking up in the hospital again. I never wanted to have medicine in my body again.

"Bells," Charlie's voice interrupts me from my thoughts. "Have you given it anymore thought?"

"What?"

He swallows thickly, looking uncomfortable. "The police should have evidence, Bells. We can't convict anyone without evidence."

My heart stutters in my chest. Why was he bringing this up again? Tears well in my eyes, remembering the last time he'd talked to me about this. The conversation had been short – Alice had walked into the room and offered herself up as a distraction.

"I don't want to."

"Bella." Charlie's voice conveys his frustration and anger. "I'm not asking you if you want pizza for dinner. This could happen to someone else if we don't get him."

"It won't, Dad."

"How can you be so sure? Bella. . . What do you know?"

"Nothing. I'm tired."

"Bella,"

"Dad, I said no." I tell him, my voice a whisper. It wouldn't happen to anyone else because no one else associated themselves with the Cullens the way I did. No one else could be used as leverage against Carlisle and Edward that way I was.

It's quiet for a long time, and I pass the time by picking at the stitching of the blankets on top of me. I can almost hear Charlie trying to think of another way to convince me.

"This is the one thing I can do for you." Charlie's looking at me, his eyes pleading. "I know this is a small town and the department is small, but we have resources. I'll talk to the police up in Seattle. We'll find him."

"Whoever it is . . . the report won't do anything." I whisper. Begging was better than forcing, but I would have preferred to have neither. "Some things are just beyond the law."

"What's that supposed to mean?" Charlie snaps, his mouth set tightly in a line and I've realized I made a mistake. I shouldn't have said that. I shouldn't have suggested the idea that this was beyond Charlie and his gun.

"Nothing. Just leave it, please." I wrap my arms around my body, wishing Edward was home to save me from the rest of this conversation. He would easily have been able to walk in, change the subject and tell Charlie what he needed to hear.

He was out hunting. That was good. He needed to hunt. Despite the positive behavior, my stomach tightens. The last time he went hunting I ended up in the hospital. Only this time, I was in a house of vampires to protect me. But the vampires had a death threat they didn't know about hanging over their heads.

Charlie huffs, leaning back in his seat. "You haven't answered your phone in over a week." He finally mutters, meaning I'd be at least partially forgiven for my refusal to do a report. "So, Renee called me. . ."

"And?" I ask, my breath strangles in my throat.

"I told her you're fine. That you misplaced your phone."

"Oh." I sigh in relief. I'd forgotten about my mother. How did I forget about her? I left my phone in my room. . . "Thank you."

"I shouldn't be lying to her. . . But I figured that you should tell her. That you might have already, if you wanted her to know."

"I'll take care of it." Correction, Alice would take care of it. "Thanks, Dad."

"I should head out." Charlie stands. He looks uncomfortable and flustered. "I'll come by tomorrow, okay?"

I nod in response. He looks like he wants to say something more, but he just offers me a stilted smile and disappears from the room.

I stare at the TV screen for a long time, ignoring the way the flashing and flickering lights burn my eyes and make my brain throb. My stomach churns. I wasn't sure if it was from my conversation with Charlie or the TV.

My wrist hurts. Pressure picking at the sides, displacing my skin and crushing my bones. A hiss of pain escapes my lips as I bring my casted hand to my chest, protecting it from nothing.

"Bella? Are you alright?" Esme's soft voice is next to me. When I open my eyes, she's standing in front of me, her expression one of concern.

"I want to take a shower." I tell her. I hadn't yet. I didn't know how long I had been home from the hospital, only that I was always too tired to do anything but sleep and force a few bites of food into my stomach. Maybe if I did Charlie might stop asking me to let people collect evidence of his assault on my body.

Esme nods easily, a smile of sympathy on her lips. "Of course." She hesitates then. "Bella, I'm not sure you'd be able to shower yourself. Can I help?"

My shoulders rise in carelessness by their own accord. Esme had helped me change once at the hospital, what difference did it make now?

Esme offers me a smile, lifting the blankets away from my body. I shiver as the cold air attacks. Her arms slide beneath me, lifting me effortlessly despite her petite figure.

The movement of being carried from the living room made my stomach roll with nausea. I was more than grateful when Esme stopped in the bathroom next to Edward's room, setting me down easily on the side of the large tub.

I lean against the tiled wall, my body aching with exhaustion despite the fact that I slept all day and hadn't walked at all.

"Ready, darling?" Esme asks me. There was a chair in the shower already, a soft cloth covering the plastic seat. Esme mentions something about how difficult it might be for me to sit. I was too tired to respond.

Esme slips a piece of plastic around my cast, tying it tightly on my arm.

I watch my hands tremble in my lap. "I'm so tired, Esme." I murmur.

She helps me out of my clothes, tossing them into an empty hamper in the corner.

"I know, sweetheart. I'll help." She brushes her fingers through my tangled hair. Esme supports my weight as I stand, helping me settle onto the chair. The soft cloth beneath me helped ease the pressure of sitting on my pelvis, but it still hurt.

My eyes drop down to my body unconsciously and suddenly I wished I hadn't. My thighs were covered in layers of dark purple bruises in the shape of handprints. Long, tender strips where his fingers had grasped my thighs. Fingers pressed into my skin, etched so clearly it felt like they were still wrapped around my legs.

I shriek, pushing the invisible hands away. "Stop it."

"Bella?" Esme turns, her voice full of concern.

I look up, away from my legs to Esme. But it's not Esme I can look at. It's something much worse behind her.

A breath of air escapes me, as if I'd been punched. Worse, as if someone was on top of me, forcing air out of my lungs with pressure that broke ribs.

A small girl sat behind Esme. Her skin was white as sheet paper and disfigured with swelling. The pale undertones scarily contrasted by the deep bruises that trailed from her cheeks down her jaw and neck. The bruises didn't stop. The more I stared, the more I saw. Black and purple splotches down her side – over her ribcage, down her stomach, slipping towards her hips and back. Prints shaped like fingers, palms, knees. . . Teeth.

I could feel his hands gripping my skin, his nails digging in as they pushed my legs apart. His hands as they gripped my jaw, holding my screams within me. His knees as they pummeled into my stomach, holding me down. His hands wrapped around my neck, cutting off my ability to breathe.

"Shh, it's okay, darling, breathe." Esme's voice was close to my ear, brushing my hair from my face with her hands. It took me a second to realize that I was hyperventilating. The breaths I dragged in were released before they did any good for me. The terror in the girl's eyes reflected my own. It ravaged my head, swirling through my face and settling deep in my stomach.

The body of a girl who didn't fight. She was weak, cowardly. She gave up.

"In and out, there you go."

I follow her instructions, letting her guide me through some deep breaths to keep my mind off the memories.

"It hurts." I cry, gripping Esme's arm. The painful memories and the bruises on my skin. They both hurt. But I didn't know which one hurt more.

"I know, dear." Her eyes were full of moisture, though she couldn't cry. She lets me hang on to her for a few more minutes before she gently pulls her arm away, talking to me the entire time. She moves away from me, using a large towel to cover up the mirror. My reflection disappears. But I stare at the towel still, knowing what lay behind it. Knowing that even if I couldn't see the mural of blue, black and purple, everyone else still could.

A testament to my failure. To my weakness.

"I'm going to wash your hair, dear." Esme tells me. She guides my head back. The ceiling is perfectly white. Perfectly clean. It felt overtly clinical.

Scalding tears roll down my face, and I bite my lip to keep from sobbing. They were tears of failure, of disgrace, of disgust. I gave up. I let the darkness take over. I stopped fighting. Just like how I stopped fighting with Carlisle's sedative when I had woken up in the hospital and again when I had woken up in Edward's bed.

The water is warm as Esme directs it over my scalp. Her fingers are so tender and gentle.

She talks to me in her sweet, comforting voice the entire time about nothing in particular. She talks to me about an island Carlisle bought her decades ago and how she's never seen bluer water. She'll take me there one day, she promises. She talks to me about Edward's house in Chicago – he took her to visit it once when she was a newborn. She tells me about the pictures of his parents he'd packed away. He still owned the house and went back every so often to check up on it. She tells me how Carlisle spent years researching his life in the mid-1900s in an attempt to pinpoint his exact birth year and, perhaps, find his mother who died during his birth. He found his father's grave somewhere in Europe, but nothing more. Records were just not kept then the way they are now. She talks to me about Alice's obsession with clothing and how it had driven the family crazy at first. But, eventually, even Emmett had learned to live with Alice wanting to shop for him.

She finishes washing my hair and slowly and carefully begins washing the rest of my body. She lets me use a washcloth to put soap on my torso, but my legs and arms are much harder with my broken ribs, so she takes over. She's very careful to avoid the left side of my stomach. I have no idea why and I'm too scared to look. When her back is turned to me as she's retrieving more soap, I let my fingers glide over the area. It's covered in gauze and shockingly dry, though I was sure she'd at least let water wash over me. It's incredibly painful and I gasp, drawing Esme's attention. I feel ashamed as her eyes catch my fingers on my stomach, but she sighs quietly and sits on the edge of the tub tenderly.

"You had surgery, sweetheart." She moves my hand from my stomach, taking it in both of hers. "You'll be tender there."

"Why?" I whisper. My voice was hoarse. It was always hoarse.

She hesitates, her eyes conflicted. "You had some internal bleeding."

"What was bleeding?" Was it stopped? Did they have to take something out? I never took human anatomy in high school – I knew my prospects of working in the medical field were low considering my ability to handle blood. I had no idea what was in the left part of my abdomen. Was it a kidney? Appendixes always had issues, did mine burst? Or maybe my liver? Could I survive without my liver?

"Your spleen." Esme answers easily. She moves the spray of water to my shoulders, rinsing the soap off.

I let Esme finish washing me, almost wishing I could just fall asleep in the chair. I was so tired.

Esme's done quickly and she offers me a large towel to wrap myself in. It's almost useless, because even though I try my hardest to drape it over my shoulders, my ribs protest painfully, and my encased hand makes it impossible. Esme, understanding my pain and struggle, takes the towel from my hands and drops it onto my shoulders. She is gentle as she uses another cloth to wipe my legs dry.

I'm surprised when she holds up a large shirt. Maybe she understood how uncomfortable the pants and sweatshirts have been.

Esme does all the work dressing me in the shirt. It falls over my body, thankfully covering my thighs. I hope Edward never saw my thighs. I know Carlisle did, and now Esme. Maybe they would block their thoughts from Edward. I didn't want Edward to know what happened. I didn't want him to know how badly I was hurt.

Esme pulls my hair out from the neckline, wrapping it all in a towel to dry. Then, without a single word uttered between us, she helps me up into her arms, breezing me into the other room.

Edward's room – previously transformed with a massive bed with gold covers and a 4-poster metal frame – had been returned to its original state. The large couch had been moved back to its original spot where the bed once had been situated. The only difference was that it was piled high with blankets and pillows for me to sleep on.

My heart clenches as I realize the room is empty. Edward is not here. He wasn't downstairs and he's not upstairs. He's still out – hunting. Quenching his thirst. Feeding the part of him that wasn't human.

I wanted him here now, with me.

Esme helps settle me onto the couch and props me up with multiple pillows. Just as quietly as before, she pulls my hair to the side and begins running a comb through it until all the knots have disappeared. It felt so nice having her take care of me that I found myself leaning into her embrace and quietly protesting her lack of combing until she started again.

"What do you need, Bella?" Esme asks me, her voice soft.

What did I need? I didn't know. I needed so much, but I didn't know what any of it really was. I needed my body to not hurt so much, my mind to not feel so strangled by what happened. . . I needed Edward. I didn't know where he was. I hadn't seen him all day.

My vision flashes to the bruises. On my thighs. On my face. On my neck.

"What happened?" I feel my face burn red as I ask her, my eyes dropping to the floor.

Esme's fingers pause in my hair before they begin pulling again, tugging each strand apart and then braiding them back together soothingly. "What do you mean?"

My stomach rolls uneasily, as it had been since I'd first woken up in the hospital. This time it was different though.

He hurt me. He bruises me. Carlisle had to cut me open and fix me. He had to reset my broken bones and stitch me and fix my lungs.

Carlisle had seen everything. He had seen every battered, broken, bruised inch of me. And what he had seen, so had Edward. What the nurses and doctors who worked over me saw, so had Edward. Edward had seen more than just the visible bruises on my neck. He had seen my thighs with handprints inked onto them, too.

He made my spleen bleed. He made my chest hurt when I breathed. He ripped me so badly it hurt to sit.

And Edward knew it all.

A small bowl appears in my face just seconds before my stomach forcefully expels whatever was in it, which was basically nothing. My body heaves, but nothing escapes me. My ribs scream as I crouch over, and my back spasms with each convulsion of my torso. Hot tears roll down my cheeks, setting my bruises aflame as if they were made of molten lava.

Someone's hands are in my hair, trying to comfort me. I wanted them off. But my body was so consumed by my heaving that I was unable push the hands away.

Someone's hands are on my back, touching my ribs, feeling my stomach. I wanted to scream. I could barely breathe between the forced chokes and coughs, much less utter a sound or plea.

Esme had seen too much. She had seen my entire body. She had washed the bruises and cuts. She knew how weak I was. How pathetically incapable I was at fighting back.

What Esme witnessed, so had Edward.

My stomach churns over and over until my body is too exhausted to do anything. The bowl disappears and I'm left with the cool hands that holding back my hair. Esme wipes my face with a damp napkin, cooing soft words I can't hear.

My temples are pounding, perfectly aligned with the sobs making my entire body tremble.

Everything hurts so much that I can do nothing but cry.

I close my eyes, cringing away as Carlisle comes close. I don't know when he got here. But he's here to be a doctor.

"Drink some water, Bella." He says.

I want to reject it, but my mouth tastes awful.

He puts a straw to my lips. My jaw aches as I sip, and the water burns as it crawls down my throat.

"I'm sorry." I croak as Esme uses a clean napkin to wipe the tears from my cheeks.

"Don't be." He murmurs. "Let me feel your ribs." He presses his hands gently to my side, but even his soft touch makes me cry out in pain. His fingers run along the sore parts of my side until my vision sparkles with black dots. "You need to be careful. I don't want you displacing these fractures."

"Carlisle." Esme's voice comes out frustrated.

"Try to breathe deeply, Bella." Carlisle tells me, finally removing his hand. The reduced pressure did little to ease the pain. "You jostled your ribs too much just now."

"I can't remember it." I say to him, sobbing. "I . . . don't."

I could remember. But not enough. I remember the black, the watercolors, the feel of his hands. I needed to remember it all, but I wanted none of the memories in my brain. I needed to know how he had hurt me.

Carlisle's fingers brush over my wrist. He was not comforting me. He was checking my pulse. "Perhaps that's for the better, Bella." He murmurs quietly. "Memories can be a prison."

"What else did he do to me?" I moan.

"We don't have to talk about that right now." Carlisle suggests. "Let me –"

"No, no." I cut him off, shaking my head. It made me dizzy and I had to grab the sheets around me to steady myself. "I need to know now."

Carlisle presses his lips into a fine line. He didn't want to tell me, and I really did not want to hear it. I didn't want to throw up again.

He sighs quietly. He sits next to me – his elbows on his knees, his hands clasped together. "How much do you want to know?"

"All of it."

No more surprises. No more looking in the mirror accidentally and being terrified of the girl staring back.

He nods slowly and I take a small, shuddering breath.

"You have a concussion." He starts quietly, his voice strained. He taps the back of my head gently. "It's here. You might feel nauseous, and I know you've had a constant headache. Dizziness, too."

I reach for the back of my head, feeling the tender spot where I hit my head against my headboard.

"You have multiple broken ribs. One rib splintered and punctured your lung. I took care of that in the ER when you came in. Your chest will be sore, and you need to try to keep your breathing slow and even so it can heal."

"I remember that." I shiver involuntarily, remembering the feeling of Carlisle's cold hands against my side and the pain and the nurses talking about a rape exam.

"Yes, you were conscious when I put in a tube to relieve the pressure." Carlisle nods slowly, his expression pain. "Your spleen ruptured, and we did surgery to alleviate the bleed. There were some other minor bleeds, but nothing to be concerned about at this point."

I can feel my stomach sear with pain when he speaks. That was the surgery. To fix my bleeding organs.

"Why did that happen?"

"Blunt trauma." Carlisle mutters.

He pressed his hands and knees into my stomach to hold me down. He made my organs bleed.

"Your wrist is broken, too. It's not a terribly bad break, but it will take a few weeks to heal."

My fingers trace my cast, pressing down occasionally as if that would relieve the pain in my bones. My wrist was being squeezed. . . Too tight. Too much. It hurt.

I flex my fingers, cupping my wrist to my chest. It hurt.

"Is that all?"

Carlisle nods. "Everything else is superficial. . . Bruises, shallow wounds."

"What does Edward know?"

"Carlisle." Esme whispers, her voice warning. His eyes flash to hers momentarily, before he looks back at me.

"Everything." Carlisle whispers, almost remorsefully. "He knows it all. We couldn't hide it from him, even if we tried."

It's silent in the room except for my shallow, gasping breaths.

Edward knows everything. He saw everything. He knows what was done to me.

Esme's rubbing small circles on the back of my hand.

I want to throw up again.

It's a battle inside my head – trying to make myself stop replaying how I got each injury.

He hit my head on my headboard. He crushed my ribs with his hands. He ruptured my spleen with his knees. I remember when he broke my wrist. I remember when he gripped it so hard black spots painted my vision and shrieks filled my ears.

Where was Edward? Why wasn't he here? He hadn't been there before.

I wipe my cheeks with my one good hand. My cheekbone hurt. My good hand did, too – my wrist was sore. There was an ugly bruise wrapped around my wrist.

I hide my hand beneath the blankets, disgusted.

Edward saw my wrists, too. He saw my neck. He saw what I saw when I looked into the mirror in the bathroom. He saw me, a girl unable to fight for herself. A girl who gave up.

Carlisle lays a hand on my forearm, squeezing gently. "It's a lot to process, Bella. We can talk about it when you're ready. For now, I want you to try to relax. Your body is tired."

"I don't want to sleep right now." I argue, shaking my head. I'm so tired. I'm so, so tired. And it hurts so much. I want to sleep and never wake up.

What if I have dreams? I always have dreams. I don't want to have dreams. I don't want them to hear me talking. I don't want them to know how weak I am.

"We'll be here the whole time, darling." Esme tells me, bringing my attention to her. "We won't leave, I promise."

That only scares me more. She'll know I'm having dreams. She'll hear me talking. She'll know what I'm dreaming about. She'll try to wake me as Edward did. Edward learned not to wake me. Esme didn't know that yet.

Carlisle presses my shoulder gently, encouraging me to lay against the pillows on the bed. "Sleep now, Bella. We'll talk when you wake up."

The second my body touches the pillows, it relaxes. I hate the way it relaxes but it feels so good. I'm so tired. My eyes fall close as I hear Carlisle murmuring to me that I just need some sleep.

I dream of a blonde man injecting me with medicine. First, it's Carlisle with his bright blonde hair and gentle hands. Then it's not. Then I can feel hands on my body, pressing so hard they break bones and ink themselves on my skin. I can feel hot breath against my skin and pain exploding in my chest as my ribs crack and break. And then I feel my spleen rupturing from the force of his knees. And then I give up. Because it's easier to let the darkness consume me and to be weak than to fight.