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Chapter 10: Company

Raegan's Point of View

That night I had nightmares, of monsters. Distorted images of werewolves and vampires filled my mind, throughout the night. Werewolves, impossibly large and hunched, with eyes that glowed with a malevolent yellow light. Vampires, pale and fast, with white teeth dripping with an unnatural, viscous black fluid, hissed promises of eternal suffering. The images were distorted but they seemed real.

I woke up in a sweat, heart hammering against my ribs like a trapped bird.

I knew that werewolves shouldn't scare me, they protected the reservation from vampires, but in my dream, they were distorted, evil and scary. The images clung to me, a residue of fear that refused to dissipate even in the morning light.

But, werewolves and vampires were real. I found that out yesterday. And the fact that they were real wasn't scary, but illuminating. It was the answer to why Kim, Paul and the rest of my friends seemed like they were hiding something.

I got up from bed and walked to the washroom to shower off the sweat from my body, grabbing a towel on my way. The cool tile floor was a welcome shock against my bare feet. Stepping under the hot water, I let it wash away the remnants of the nightmare, trying to focus on the reality, not the distorted reflections of my fear.

Yesterday.

Yesterday had changed everything.

I'd seen Paul and the other boy phase into wolves before my very eyes. First the boys were fighting, hand to hand combat and then boom, they were wolves. Apparently it was called phasing. And then I fainted. Later that evening, Paul had explained everything to me, every single detail.

I hopped out of the shower and wrapped a towel around my cold frame. I shivered as I looked at my reflection in the mirror.

Then last night, after I learned the truth about the legends, Jacob apologized to me. It seemed insincere at first, short and like he was leaving things out, lying by omission. And then he kept talking, kept apologizing and his apology seemed real, honest, mostly truthful by the time he was done speaking.

Then he had touched me.

When he touched me it was like sparks had flown. Not just a tingle, not just a warmth. It was a white-hot jolt that shot through my entire system, short-circuiting my rational brain. My breath had hitched. The dusty air seemed to crackle. My heart had hammered against my ribs, a frantic drumbeat echoing the chaotic symphony erupting within me. I had felt an immediate attraction, an immediate connection.

It was utterly illogical, completely absurd, but undeniably real. I was captivated, held in place, barely drawing in breaths. My carefully constructed world, built on logic and practicality, suddenly had teetered on the edge of collapse.

When he had pulled away, I felt instantly hollow, deserted, abandoned. It was fleeting but I weirdly, instantly missed his touch. Why? Why did a simple brush of skin against skin unleash such a torrent of forbidden emotions?

I had looked up, finding Jacob's gaze fixed on me. There had been something in Jacob's eyes… a knowing, a mirroring of the intense energy that crackled in the air between us. Perhaps, I thought with a growing dread, I wasn't the only one affected.

I looked into the mirror, as I stood in my towel, looking at my reflection. Why? Why had I felt so drawn to Jake's touch? Was it simply a physical reaction, a primal instinct I hadn't known I possessed? Or was it something more, a subconscious recognition? Or was my depression and anxiety, becoming a stronger mental illness than I even knew I possessed?

I touched my finger to my cheek, trying to recreate the feeling, but it didn't happen. My wet fingers traced along my wet cheek. The touch of my skin though, was a reminder of that brief, electrifying encounter. I should have dismissed it, labeled it as a fluke, static from the couch, causing an electrifying connection, a current, or an overactive imagination. But I couldn't. The memory of that touch, the way it had resonated through me, refused to be ignored.

Our touch, it had resulted in sparks flying. Not just a tingle, not just a warmth. It was a white-hot jolt that shot through my entire system, short-circuiting my rational brain. My breath had hitched. The dusty air seemed to crackle. My heart had hammered against my ribs, a frantic drumbeat echoing the chaotic symphony erupting within me. I had felt an immediate attraction, an immediate connection.

Why had our touch resulted in that sensation? Why had I felt a pull towards Jacob? Why had I wanted to keep touching him, let his hands wrap around me? I had only just forgiven Jacob. Only just started calling him Jake instead of Jacob, only just began to somewhat tolerate him.

So why, when my feelings and my head and the completely rational part of told me that I didn't like Jake—-like that, enough to feel a magnetic pull, a supernatural connection, did a part of my mind, a part of my senses, my touch, tell me to keep holding on to him, that I needed his touch—that I wanted him.

I walked back to my bedroom, my thoughts still a tangled mess. I pulled on a pair of baggy blue jeans and a ripped black top with frayed edges that hung off my shoulder. Then, I pulled on a pair of long white socks and just sat on the edge of my bed, my thoughts so chaotic I felt like I was in limbo. If my room was a mess, I'd clean it, just to do something. My mind was racing and I'd do anything to stop it. I looked around my room. The walls were bare, my bed looked plain and white, my room looked new and boring. I wanted to redecorate.

I decided I'd take Paul up on his offer. It was still early morning, but since finding out that he needs less sleep than us normal humans – courtesy of the whole werewolf thing – I thought I'd give him a call. I dialed Paul's number and put my phone to my ear. The phone rang for a while, each ring amplifying my anxiety, but eventually, Paul picked up.

"Hey chica," Paul said in a tired, deep voice.

"Hey, are you doing anything today?" I asked him, trying to sound more casual than I felt.

Paul yawned, the sound rumbling through the phone.

"No, nothing today. I'm busy tonight though."

"Are you tired?" I asked, wincing internally. Maybe I was calling too early.

"Yeah, pack meeting last night at like 3am, barely got any sleep, especially since you just called and interrupted my nap," Paul said, chuckling. The humor in his voice set me more at ease.

"Oh, I'm sorry. You wanna go back to sleep?" I asked Paul, already feeling guilty.

"Nah, I'm good, chica," Paul told me.

"What'd you wanna do today?" He asked.

"I was hoping to take you up on your offer to go down to Port Angeles or Seattle together and look for stuff to redecorate my room?" I asked, hopeful. The idea of escaping this house, the reservation, even for a few hours, was intoxicating.

"Yeah, I'm down. You need my truck for the ride or you miss me?" Paul asked, the teasing tone clear in his voice.

"Both," I giggled, a genuine laugh that felt foreign.

"I'll be over in ten," Paul told me, his voice suddenly energized.

"Thanks," I said and then hung up, smiling. A genuine, hopeful smile.

The thought of faded posters, vintage lamps, and maybe even a funky rug filled my mind. Maybe, just maybe, I could make this empty room, and myself, feel a little less lost. The drive itself would be a welcome distraction. I stood up, feeling a sliver of excitement break through the gloom and confusion that filled my mind.

I walked to the living room and grabbed my raincoat from the hook and put it on. I slipped my wallet into the left-hand pocket. I still had maybe seven minutes until Paul would arrive in his truck. I decided to pop a waffle in the toaster and eat something for breakfast.

As I chewed on my waffle, I realized I still had time until Paul would arrive. A decision solidified in my mind. I bolted upstairs, grabbed my stash from its hiding place in the sock drawer – a small jar of green, a trusty grinder, a lighter worn smooth from use, and a pack of rolling papers. No time to be precious about it. I practically flew through the back door and into the small patch of woods that bordered my property.

The dappled sunlight filtered through the leaves and painted shifting patterns on the mossy floor. I found a fallen log, its bark softened with age, and quickly set about my task. The rhythmic grind of the weed, the careful folding and tucking of the paper, the flick of the lighter - it was a ritual, a small act of rebellion whispered against the backdrop of the mundane.

Well, there was nothing mundane about this life I lived anymore. The first inhale was a breath of relief. As I smoked, the forest seemed to deepen, the sounds of birdsong becoming more distinct, the scent of damp earth more profound. My anxiety, that constant companion that clung to me like a shadow, began to loosen its grip. The way Jacob had looked at me last night while I sat on the couch, his touch, the electrifying sensation, seemed less important, less worrisome. My general feeling of unease, the one that had been gnawing at me for awhile, started to fade into the background hum of the natural world.

With each exhale, I felt lighter, more grounded. The confusion surrounding Jacob and his touch started to recede, replaced by a quiet sense of calm.

When the joint was finished, I carefully extinguished the roach and tucked it away. I took a deep breath of the crisp forest air and made my way back towards the house. The birdsong seemed to follow me, a cheerful chorus bidding me farewell to the woods and hello to Port Angles, or Seattle or wherever we might go.

Back in my house, I quickly stashed my supplies. The bag of weed and the rest of the supplies went back in my sock drawer. Then I sprayed a quick spritz of air freshener, just in case anything smelled. I walked back downstairs, a ghost of a smile playing on my lips.

And there it was. Paul's beat-up truck, parked haphazardly in front of my house. The engine was still running, a throaty rumble that vibrated in my chest.

I took another deep breath, a genuine one this time, free from the tightness of anxiety. I walked outside, the morning sun warm on my face.

Paul was leaning against the truck, grinning like a loon.

"Ready for an adventure, chica?"

I hopped into the passenger seat, the familiar scent of sawdust and motor oil filling my nostrils. I buckled my seatbelt and turned to him, smiling.

"Ready!" I said, my voice clear, calm and energetic. My anxiety was gone and my worry had melted away. I was ready.

…

Paul and I spent the day going to thrift stores in Port Angeles and quirky antique shops tucked away on the side streets. Paul, surprisingly, had a good eye. He'd point out the potential in tarnished gold picture frames or the understated beauty of a chipped, brich wood bedside table. I, on the other hand, was drawn to anything shiny and new, a habit I had from living in New York City.

As we hunted for the perfect rug in a dimly lit shop, the scent of ancient wool and dust filling the air, Paul launched into a story about the pack training from the previous night. The words "training" and "pack" still felt surreal coming from him.

"It was…intense, but fun to watch." He said, a smile growing on his face, a smile of excitement, eagerness.

"They were at it for hours in the clearing. The Cullens showed us what newborns attacking would look like, how to defend against them, what moves and angles work best when attacking them. It was all about knowing where their weakness's will lie and where our strengths will prevail." Paul said, describing the training in the clearing.

I shivered, not from the chill in the rug shop, but from the image he painted.

"Fighting each other? Like… actual fighting?"

"Yeah, Just the Cullens though. We observed." he confirmed.

"Controlled, though. No one got hurt. It's necessary. We need to be ready." He added hastily.

"Ready for what?" I pressed, suddenly uneasy.

He hesitated, running a hand through his perpetually messy hair.

"Well, that's the other thing. We got intel from one of their psychic vampires. You know how I told you the other day that some of the vampires have gifts. One can see the future, just glimpses of it though. She saw a coven of newborns heading towards Forks, LaPush, from Seattle. Soon. Within days weeks. Her visions aren't perfect."

"Newborn vampires? Coming here? What does that mean?" I asked.

"Newborn vampires are the most dangerous kind. Fast, new, reckless, and fueled by insatiable bloodlust. They are basically fast killing machines. But we can take them. We have a plan, a strategy."

Paul explained the plan to me, the Cullens and the pack working together, he told me everything about their strategy.

The weight of his words settled over me. We were redecorating my bedroom, choosing between antique furniture and considering the merits of different rug patterns, while a coven of newborn vampires was hurtling towards us, Forks, LaPush.

Suddenly, shopping to redecorate my room seemed terribly unimportant. Paul must have noticed the shift in my mood. Fear must have been plastered on my face.

"Don't be afraid, chica. You heard our plan. You'll be safe in the reservation and I'll definitely be safe while getting to kill some leeches." He said will a grin.

"Don't be afraid." He said more serious.

"You'll be safe, I promise. The fight that's coming, means you'll be kept out of harms way." He said while gently squeezing my arm, his warm hand a comforting, grounding force.

"Let's keep shopping for your room, chica!" Paul said eagerly, trying to bring a smile back into my face. And it worked.

The redecorating project seemed insignificant now, but somehow, the normalcy of it offered a small comfort. Maybe, just maybe, amidst the chaos and the danger, I could hold onto some semblance of our old lives, Paul too.

As we left the rug shop, Paul carried the rug I'd picked out for my bedroom as we walked towards his truck. The sun was setting, casting long shadows on the pavement, and I knew my bedroom, with all of the new objects I chose will Paul's help would become a beautiful haven. My bedroom would soon be a place to find solace in a world that had become irrevocably, terrifyingly, supernatural.

And I knew that my friend, Paul, was no longer just my friend. We'd become eachothers confidants. He was also not only a protector and a wolf, but he was a friend, maybe even my best friend and he was standing between me, Bella, the town of Forks, our reservation, and a pack of ravenous newborn vampires. And that, more than any rug or posters we'd picked out, was more comforting than anything I could buy.

But the whole day, despite being so happy in Paul's company, I couldn't help but think back on Jacob's touch and how it had felt.

I oddly missed Jacob, despite having no emotional connection to him. I longed for him, it was a longing embedded in an urge to touch him again.

It wasn't a longing for romance, or even friendship. It was something more... elemental. A primal pull, a recognition of something familiar in the unknown. Like a homing pigeon drawn to a destination it's never seen, I felt an unexplainable urge to search for him, to understand the fleeting connection we'd shared.

…

The rumble of Paul's truck was a familiar comfort, a low growl that vibrated through me as we cruised along the highway. The Olympic rain was a relentless curtain outside, blurring the world into streaks of emerald and grey. Inside, the warmth of the cab was welcome comfort after being outside all day.

As we neared LaPush, the familiar scent of salt and pine intensified. The reservation was starting to smell like home. The rain eased up a little, allowing glimpses of the crashing waves against the jagged coastline.

Finally, Paul pulled to a stop in front of my grandma's small, weathered house. The paint was peeling, and the porch sagged a little, but it was my home now.

"I'll help you carry in all the stuff you bought today." Paul said as we exited the vehicle.

Paul easily picked up my new rug, thrifted CD's and posters, fairy lights and new bedsheets inside my house effortlessly with his supernatural strength as I held the door open for him. He brought them upstairs and placed it all gently on my bed.

"Thanks, Paul," I said, pulling him into a hug. He squeezed me tight, a reassuring weight against my smaller frame.

"Seriously. I appreciate it." I told him.

"Anytime, chica. Have fun making it your own." He grinned at me and then he turned around to leave but then he turn back quickly and put is palm to his face in annoyed motion.

"I forgot to tell you, I'm usually on patrol or at Sams but you should come by Sam's tomorrow, when you're free. We'd all love to have you there. And, Kim will be there." He asked me, hopeful.

"Sure, I'll come by. I remeber where Sam's is." I said with a smile.

He gave me one last grin, that familiar flash of warmth in his eyes, and then he left my room. Seconds later I heard the front door clicking shut behind him as he left my grandma's house.

With a sigh of contentment, I surveyed the chaotic landscape of my room. It had been bare and sterile ever since I'd moved in, a blank canvas screaming for personality. Now, the work could begin.

First, the rug. It was a vibrant, slightly worn Persian rug I'd found at a flea market, a kaleidoscope of reds, blues, and golds. Unfurling it, I smoothed out the wrinkles, the feel of the soft wool grounding me in the space. It immediately added a touch of warmth to the blank floor.

Next, the fairy lights. I carefully untangled the delicate strands, feeling a childlike thrill as the tiny bulbs winked at me. Climbing onto my rickety desk chair, I painstakingly pinned them along the ceiling, creating a constellation of shimmering light that transformed the room from a box into a haven.

Then came the posters. They were a motley crew, a testament to my love for classic films. A faded print of "Casablanca," a vibrant "Pulp Fiction" poster, and a hand-painted "Singin' in the Rain" piece all found their homes on the walls, lending the room a vintage, cinematic charm.

Finally, I arranged my CDs on top of my bookshelf, a curated collection spanning genres and decades. From classic rock to indie electronica, each disc held a memory, a mood, a story waiting to be re-told and listened to.

Stepping back, I took it all in. The room was a reflection of me, a chaotic but comfortable blend of old and new, bright and subdued. It smelled faintly of dust and old vinyl, of dreams and possibilities. The setting sun cast long shadows across the floor, highlighting the vibrant colors and softening the edges.

It was perfect.

I collapsed onto my newly made bed, the soft sheets a welcome contrast to the hard floor I'd sat on for hours. The fairy lights twinkled above me, casting a gentle glow over the room. I closed my eyes, breathing in the scent of home, finally feeling like I belonged. Paul might have had the supernatural strength, but I had the vision. And together, we had created something truly special.

After a long day of shopping and hearing about the newborn vampires coming to Forks, to LaPush, I suddenly felt so exhausted.

My mind, instead of winding down, was suddenly a battlefield. Anxiety, a persistent, nagging foe, charged forward, dragging Depression in its wake. I just wanted to sleep. To shut out the world, the worries, the growing unease that was creeping up in my mind. But sleep remained a distant, unattainable.

The weight of them was suffocating. The newborn vampires, the potential danger they represented, amplified every fear that already simmered beneath the surface. Since Paul's comforting presence had left, my anxiety began to heighten. What if Paul, the rest of the pack got injured or hurt in the fight? What if… the possibilities spun out of control, each one darker and more terrifying than the last. And Depression, the heavy cloak of apathy and despair, threatened to pull me under completely, convincing me that fighting was pointless.

I tossed and turned, the cool cotton sheets doing nothing to alleviate the heat that burned in my chest. Breathing became shallow, ragged. My thoughts raced, a chaotic torrent of negativity and fear. I was trapped in a loop, replaying anxieties, reliving past mistakes, anticipating future failures.

Finally, I reached for my salvation – my earbuds. Slipping them in, I fumbled for my phone, navigating to my go to playlist for nights like these. The first notes of Bon Iver washed over me, a melancholic melody that somehow felt both comforting and cathartic. Next Lana Del Rey's voice, raw, melodic and honest, seemed to understand the turmoil that churned within me.

I closed my eyes, focusing on the music. Each note, each lyric, was a tiny anchor, grounding me in the present. The world outside—the threat of vampires, the anxieties of daily life—began to fade, replaced by the gentle rhythm of the music and the soft ebb and flow of the waves crashing against the shore.

Song after song played, a curated soundtrack to my internal storm. The music didn't magically erase my anxiety or banish the darkness of depression, but it did something more profound. It created a space for me to breathe, to feel, to acknowledge the pain without being consumed by it. It reminded me that I wasn't alone in my struggles.

Slowly, gradually, the tension in my body began to ease. My breathing deepened, becoming more regular. The chaotic thoughts began to quiet, replaced by the soothing rhythm of the music. The weight on my chest started to lift, ever so slightly.

As the last notes of a particularly haunting melody faded into silence, I felt a strange, fragile sense of peace settle over me. The exhaustion, no longer battling the anxiety, finally claimed its victory. My eyelids grew heavy, and I drifted, finally, into sleep.

The dawn would bring new challenges, new anxieties, and the ongoing threat of the newborn vampires. But for now, lulled by the music and the gentle rhythm of the ocean, I was safe, lost in the oblivion of sleep, a temporary refuge from the storm within and the storm brewing on the horizon.

Word of The Day:

Torrent: an overwhelming number or amount.