A Constant in The Darkness

Chapter Thirty - Her Voice Still Haunts You

Darlings,

Thank you readers for sharing your thoughts. I'm so thankful to be able to share this story with you. The end is quickly approaching and I'm still so very humbled and amazed at your dedication to these characters, despite how difficult it is to read sometimes. I'm carefully crafting these last chapters and may not be able to respond to reviews. Please know I read them all and appreciate your honesty.

Amers is my window into all things psychological. Thank you lovely for taking the time to answer my questions.

The charismatic n7of9 is beta. You're a genius and I love you. Thank you from the spud.

...

EPOV

I stared at the long line of workers meandering their way through the pheromone path they had created along the polished wood of the coffee table, the remains of dessert calling to the foraging society. They swarmed around the dish, climbing and pillaging, each one frantic with purpose and drive, fueled by desire to fulfill their given lifelong task and obsessed by their unanimous goal: survival. Find food or die.

I laughed at their stupidity, a quiet internal chuckle. Stupid fucking ants. This is their life, this is their existence, a trail leading them to a three-day-old cup of leftover chocolate mousse, when there really was no point. No matter how many times they cycled back and forth along the path, Rosalie was still going to come along eventually and douse them with poison. And they'll all be dead.

My chuckle turned into gasps and I felt it seizing again, simmering and pulling and gaping, the huge fucking hole in my chest where she should be. It all flashed through my head like some sick, demented slideshow of the past year of my life: her lips, her scent, her touch.

And then, nothing.

Nothing but a fucking envelope I didn't have the guts to open.

For three days I have sat on this fucking couch, leaving it only to take a piss once in a while. I haven't eaten, I haven't slept, I haven't wanted to breathe. Unfortunately, the body takes care of that one on its own, and so I just waited, thinking that maybe she'd come back, that this couldn't be happening, and begging for some kind of reprieve from the constant fucking turmoil that was my life.

And so I sat.

Begging for her.

Her lips, her scent, her touch, please, please, please.

Nothing. Nothing but a fucking envelope.

I sat on the shitty old couch watching the ants accumulate, the envelope glaringly bright. I refused to open it and instead lingered in parchment purgatory, the possibility of what might-be more enticing than the definitive answer I would surely find scrawled across the page. I already knew why she left, I didn't need to read it.

Bella had lived internally all her life, protecting herself, medicating herself, trying to offset the erratic influence of her disgusting mother, trying to find self-worth when all she knew was abandonment. Bella had been battling these external factors internally since she was ten-years-old. She was tired. She didn't give up on me, she gave up on herself.

I should have seen this coming, I really should have. I knew she felt like a failure, like she had failed me. She carried that guilt, affixed it to her very soul, and wouldn't let anyone else share the burden. Damn! I should have taken it from her. I should have paid more attention. I should have done something more.

She'd had some pretty heavy blows to recover from; losing her father and then losing a baby only to be told she will never get a chance at having another, it was all too much for her. It didn't help that Rose had decided to name her kid Charlie. Rose was just trying to do something nice and it was a very gracious way to celebrate Charlie, but it must have ripped through Bella and I hadn't even noticed. I was too busy making fucking mousse and thinking about New York to even recognize her distress for what it was. God! I'm such a fucking asshole. And now she's gone, and alone, and I can't help her. Panic started to expand in my chest again. I can't protect her, I can't save her, I can't love her…

I need her to come back. I need her. None of this makes any sense without her. I don't make sense without her.

I heard a car pull into the driveway and I sighed. It was them. I didn't want to see them, any of them. They'd open that letter and then I'd see her, her handwriting, her liquid chocolate eyes, her dark hair striking against her pale heart-shaped face, and those lips, those fucking lips…

I suppressed another wave of panic as bile rose in the back of my throat and I clutched the couch for support, the splintering in my head causing dizziness to invade. I closed my eyes and still saw the line of ants marching across my lids while little quasars of light interrupted their steady stride. My body was exhausted, used and tormented, my mind battered beyond belief, and I pulled at my hair, knocking my fists into my head in an attempt to stop the pounding in my brain.

The doorknob jostled, it was unlocked. I knew it was them but I couldn't snuff out that little spark of hope.

The door opened and my sister bustled through the door carrying an armload of Rosalie's shit.

"Hey, Edward!" she said excitedly as she marched up the stairs without a second glance. Jasper followed behind her, his arms full as well, but as soon as he saw me he stopped in the foyer. He eyed me carefully as he stepped into the living room, placing the packages on the floor and shoving his hands in his pockets. His eyes drifted to the ants on the table, and then he saw the envelope. His eyes darted to mine. He knew. Fucking intuitive bastard!

He held my gaze until I looked down at my hands on my lap.

Emmett helped Rosalie through the door with one hand around her waist and the other carrying little Charlie in his carrier seat thing. He led her to one of the chairs and gently helped her ease into the seat.

"Hey," she muttered as she held her stomach, adjusting herself in the big cushy chair.

"Whoa! Shit, look at all the ants! Do you have spray?" Emmett asked, putting down the carrier next to Rosalie's chair. The baby was sleeping, his tiny head rolled to the side and his little lips pursed.

"Don't use the spray, use Windex or something. That poison shit is bad for the baby," Rosalie said. "Edward, what's the matter with you?"

"Where's Bella?" Alice asked, her black boots clunking down the stairs. My eyes were glued to the envelope on the table, my leg bouncing in agitation, my heart pounding in my throat, that hole in my chest gaping, widening, flooding.

"Edward…where is she?" Alice's soft voice trembled as her eyes followed mine to the letter perched on the table. The rectangle seemed to swell and grow bigger and bigger until Emmett reached down to touch it.

"No!" I shouted. His hand about to touch that letter, my letter, caused something in my head to snap. "Don't. Don't fucking touch it," I said through clenched teeth.

"Edward, dude, it's okay. I'm just going to see what it says," Emmett said calmly as his hand slowly and gently reached down to pick up the white envelope, and I growled at his fingers wrinkling the spotless paper.

"Emmett, do not fuck with me right now. Put it down." He was ruining it, his big fucking clumsy hands were ruining it, the paper rustling and creasing where his fingers had been. It was mine. It was all I had left of her and he was fucking defiling it.

"You need to read it. She wanted you to read it. There might be a good reason for-"

No! Don't say it, don't you fucking say it. I was quickly on my feet and charging toward him, his face apologetic and startled. Rosalie screamed as Jasper grabbed my arm, coming between my cousin and myself. I wasn't going to hurt him or anything, I just wanted the letter.

"Give it to him," Alice gasped at Emmett, tears spilling over her cheeks. Jasper moved to comfort her but she moved away from him and wrapped her arms around me instead. My arms hung at my sides while hers wrapped around my waist, her earthy smells swirling around me, herb and spice and tobacco.

Emmett held the letter out and I hesitated in taking it from him. I didn't want to feel it, it would be real if I felt it, if I felt the crisp paper between my fingers. I didn't want this to be real yet, I didn't want it to be real ever, but I carefully took the envelope from his hand.

Alice pulled away and sat on the couch, her arms wrapped around her body as she sobbed into her shoulder.

My eyes blurred as I ran my fingers over her looped handwriting and I imagined for a moment it was her. I imagined silk under my fingers, the feel of her in my arms, and I craved more. Shaking, my hands pulled at the corner of the envelope and made a jagged tear along the crease. I pulled out the slip of paper, the black ink thick and smeared from splattered tears on the page, and I couldn't distinguish if they were hers or mine.

Edward,

I love you. I am so sorry. Please understand, this is the only way I could be sure that you would get the life you deserve. I'm so very, very sorry to do it like this, but I wouldn't have the strength otherwise.

Please, please don't come after me. It's not what I want. I'm not good for you and I've taken advantage for far too long. You have saved me more than once and I can't keep asking that of you. It's not fair, it's not right and I hate myself for the pain I've caused. Thank you for all that you have done, all that you have given me. Please, I beg you, let me give you this freedom in return. No guilt, no regrets, no what ifs.

Please tell everyone I'm sorry and that I love them, especially Alice. I can't bear it if anyone else has to hurt because of me, especially her.

Edward, this is important. You must go to New York. This is the only thing I can ask of you now, and I know I haven't the right to ask for anything but please, do not give up on yourself. If you loved me at all, please, you have to go. For me.

I love you. Forgive me.

Bella

I let the paper fall from my hand, the letter landing on the parade of ants and sending them into a panicked frenzy.

"Freedom. She wants me to be free," I choked out, pressing my palms into my soggy eyes and my hair and pulling sharply. There wasn't anything in that letter that I hadn't suspected. I succumbed to the pain. I felt the loss, the sob in my chest gasping, and I didn't recognize my own voice, the wretched sound choking in my throat as I felt the panic-bubble finally explode.

My head seared again and I pounded at my forehead. Two fists pounding against my skull. Stupid Edward. Stupid, stupid, stupid. How could I have been so blind? How could I let this happen? How could she do this to me, to us, to our plans? How could she just give it all up? Didn't she care what I wanted? Didn't she care what I thought? I liked being tied to her. I would save her over and over again, I wanted that shackle binding me to her always. Anger burned in me, the frustration turning to fury as I looked for someone to blame, but the truth quickly hit me in the fucking face.

This was my fault. I pushed her too hard. I had frightened her with all the talk about marriage and adoption, and she wasn't ready. I had no one to blame but myself.

I am such a fucking idiot. I disgusted myself, I wanted to disappear, I wanted to forget, I wanted this all to be over.

And I wanted the bomb. Numb, delusional, trapped, I needed it. The room swayed around me and my eyes came to rest on the dish, that fucking chocolate mousse still calling to those damn greedy ants. With shaky hands, I picked up the shallow bowl, a few of the pests crawling onto my skin. I watched them as they tickled my hand, their tenacious spirit still searching and mocking me, and I heaved the stained bowl against the wall.

The room erupted around me and I saw my family gliding gracefully, like in underwater slow motion, as the shattered pieces of my future chimed against the wooden floor. Emmett and Jasper floated toward me as I looked for something else to destroy: television, lamp, clock, they would all suffice. Rosalie struggled to stand, crouching protectively over the now-wailing infant, and Alice dashed to her side.

I grabbed the next thing I could reach, destruction still my priority, and I settled my hand on the neck of the lamp just as Emmett's massive shoulder collided with my chest and we toppled to the ground. The impact knocked the wind out of me and forced the lamp from my fingers, and it shattered against the hardwood floor. Language was indiscernible, a symphony of muffled screams and shouting as Jasper picked me up off the ground and dragged me toward the door as Emmett scrambled to his feet. Jasper shouted at Emmett and held his hand up in protest, and Emmett backed up. Adjusting his shirt, he moved to check on his family, the baby now in Rosalie's arms. Alice hurried toward us as Jasper continued to drag me onto the porch, my exposed back scraping against the metal doorjamb and then against the cold concrete, tearing at my skin, the abrasions sending stinging pangs down my spine.

"Edward, look at me. Come back." Alice grabbed my face, her green eyes swollen and red, and I struggled against her hands, my muscles straining as I tried to break free of Jasper's grip.

"I'll let you go when you relax," Jasper said calmly, and I instantly resigned, heaving and panting as I rolled to press my forehead to the wet cement, trying to stifle the urge to vomit as my whole body shook with devastation. Alice knelt beside me and put her arms around my waist and helped me to my feet. I sobbed against her small frame as she shared my grief with her own tears on her cheeks. Jasper, running his hands through his hair, watched us as he caught his breath. I couldn't stand for them to see me like this, broken, shattered, like that dish smashed against the wall.

Emotions pummeled my being: shame, guilt, fear. My mind was a hurricane of confusion. I saw my sister's distorted face before me and knew I couldn't let her see me collapsing in on myself. A dying star dense with despair. I had to get away from them.

I pushed her away and stumbled down the short steps, away from my family, away from that house, away from that letter, and I ran. Her voice sounded out through the quiet street, panicked and desperate, but I ignored her in my craving for an escape.

I ran as my heart beat in my chest, my thoughts incoherent and fading, the rhythmic hammer in my brain loud and invasive and dulled only by the sound of my bare feet hitting the pavement. The ground was ice beneath me and the concrete quickly turned to needles, sharp pangs driving through my heels and up my shins, the flannel pajama pants allowing the cold weather to bite at my muscles. I was only wearing a t-shirt but sweat began to dew on my forehead and scalp. The muscles in my legs seized and I faltered in my step and tripped on an uneven lip in the sidewalk. I fell, my arms flailing out to absorb the impact, and I felt the agonizing pain jolt up my arms as my face and shoulder ground into the cement.

My first inclination was to get up and keep running, but I hurt. Everywhere, everything hurt. My feet were numb and my body shook as I lay on the wet sidewalk, gasping and out of breath, my thin clothing quickly soaking up the moisture. My shirt was ripped where my shoulder had hit the pavement and I had a thick, tender scrape on my skin and dots of blood where the gravel had ground into my flesh. I felt the side of my face, my cheek course from the abrasion, and I winced as I touched the exposed spot. I just wanted to go home.

But my home was gone. I didn't know where I fit in now, in this family, in this town, in this world. I was like a stranger in my own skin and I had no idea what to do. I tried to remember a time when I didn't have her with me, when I didn't define myself by her. I tried to remember who I was before her, when I was satisfied with the void and fulfilled by the emptiness.

But I was gone. That person no longer existed. I had to start new, cope as best I could, and there were only two ways that I knew how to cope: sautéing and sedatives. And I sure as hell didn't feel like cooking.

Just as I was picking myself up off the sidewalk, a familiar silver Volvo narrowly missed the curb and screeched to a halt beside me.

"Get in," Alice ordered, and I obliged because, really, I had nowhere else to go.

"Jesus! What the hell did you do? You're a mess!" She turned up the heater and I ran my hands over the vents, the warmth beginning to thaw my frozen flesh.

"I felt like running," I muttered. "Where are you taking me?"

"We're going to see Carlisle." She spoke in a low calm voice but her hands gripped the steering wheel. "When? When did she-"

I sharply turned my head, trying to convey the deep, deep disinterest in talking about this right now, but she just sighed.

"This isn't just your loss, Edward," Alice mumbled. "I know it's not the same but I love her too."

I ran my hands through my hair, my shoulder aching as I rest my head in my hands. I didn't want to think about all this, I didn't want to talk about it or share it with anyone. Just like the letter, the grief was mine, the pain was mine, the truth was mine.

"Please? Edward, please?" Alice begged, her hand wiping at her face. I sighed. As much as I wanted to keep this all to myself, I knew Alice was right. This was her grief too, and she was obviously in pain. She may as well know the truth.

"She left on Sunday morning. I don't know what time, but it was after one and before eight. I woke up and she was-" I swallowed. I couldn't say it.

"Three days ago? Why didn't you call us?" Alice asked, exasperated.

I didn't answer. It didn't really matter. What could they have done? Track her down? Follow her scent? I didn't even know where she would go. I had thought maybe she would go to see her mother, but I didn't know why the fuck she would want to do that. She had cash, she could go anywhere.

Graduation was only a month and a half away. She would still need to graduate from high school. I hung my head, all our plans ripping through me again and again. New York, my mother's ring, for as long as you both shall live…. I couldn't breathe as the reality settled in my chest and tightened around my heart and lungs. I needed air and my numb fingers searched for the switch on the door, frantically trying to roll down the window. I couldn't find it so I tried to open the door instead, desperate for oxygen that the small confines of the car was not offering.

"Edward! Stop! What the hell are you doing?" Alice swerved the car into the gravel ditch on the side of the highway.

"I can't breathe Alice, can you roll down the fucking window or something?" She stared right through me, her chest heaving as she pressed the button that operated the window. Cool air flooded the space and I gulped it in, filling my lungs as it cooled my chest.

I leaned back against the headrest, closing my eyes and letting the cold invade. Alice said nothing as she pulled the car back onto the highway.

She parked in the driveway of the big white house and I looked up at the large building, a place I once called home. I didn't know if I could do it again.

I knew why Alice was bringing me to Carlisle. She was worried. Stressful situations really aren't good for us, people like Alice and I, people predisposed to brain dysfunction. It can be a trigger, allowing that influx of chemicals to alter everything, making way for a sweeping paranoia and crippling psychosis that would take over and consume everyone around us.

I laughed, the sound of my voice filling the dead air. Was it happening already and I hadn't even noticed? I didn't feel any different, aside from the devastating crater in my life where she had been. Maybe Carlisle would put me on meds again, and I wouldn't fight him this time. I longed for the numbness now.

As soon as we entered the house, Carlisle and Esme were upon us. Someone must have called them. Esme wasted no time and immediately pulled me into her arms, inspecting the abrasions on my face and shoulder. She dragged me into the kitchen and forced me into a chair, Carlisle vanishing up the stairs to get his bag. Esme pressed a cool washcloth to my face, brushing the hair from my eyes before delicately cradling my cheek. I could see the distress in her face, her eyes wrought with worry, her lips drawn tight, and I had to look away. I always knew this would kill them.

Carlisle returned with antiseptic and he dabbed the liquid onto my skin. I let it burn, I didn't flinch, I accepted the biting sting and felt the pain as the alcohol seeped into my broken skin. The throbbing in my heart eased at this pain, and I felt myself able to relax as Carlisle tended to the scrapes.

Not a word was said the entire time and I almost drifted off to sleep right there, sitting at the kitchen table. They didn't know what to say. I didn't know what to say. I was depending on Carlisle to figure shit out, to tell me what to do. I didn't want to think anymore and I was handing myself over to him, putting myself fully in his care. Drugs, house arrest, mental institution, it didn't matter. I didn't matter; whatever they decided, I would accept.

Finally, Carlisle spoke in a calm and quiet voice as he packed up his things. "Edward, it seems we have some things to discuss. I would like you to get some rest first so you are able to make sound and informed decisions. You need to sleep, you need to eat." He placed his hand on my chest, directly over my heart. "This…cannot heal if you aren't taking care of your most vital needs first, do you understand?"

I nodded. I knew this. This was like Chicago all over again.

No. This was worse than Chicago. Everything I remembered about Chicago was tinged with dread and unease; my father's disease, my mother's detrimental devotion, their sham of a life and horrific irony of a death, black and white and gray, blurred and faded, the details indistinguishable from the whole.

But she, she was bright red tomatoes and green basil mixed with olive oil and garlic. She was sugared pink berries spooned over crisp white sponge cake. She was smooth chocolate mousse drizzled with strawberry glaze. She was lavender and mahogany, earth tones and ivory and blushes. She was vibrant hues splashed across a monochrome existence, igniting the sky and the earth and blazing her prismatic path through my universe, leaving a smoldering smear of heavenly color behind.

She was my happiness, a love I couldn't shelter, a love I couldn't protect, a love I was never meant to have. I had always said I would accept her for as long as I could, until summoned by the confines of mental disease. I thought that by the time she left me, I wouldn't recognize the pain, that I would be too preoccupied with psychosis to realize what I had lost. I thought I would be gracious and let her go, appeased with the time I was allotted because I knew I was more of a hazard to her than anything else on this planet.

But this was unlike any hell I'd ever known, knowing she was out there somewhere, drowning in guilt and harboring self-hatred and slowly wasting away to nothing, and knowing that there was nothing I could do about it. Succumbing to the solitude and distorted reality of schizophrenia would be a fucking relief compared to this.

I walked the familiar stairs and head straight into the messy room on the second floor. I knew where Alice kept it; a small cedar box by her bed with Botticelli's Birth of Venus glazed onto the lid. She was still down there giving Carlisle and Esme all the gritty details, so I didn't even bother to be discreet. I opened the box, an astounding array of greens and browns wrapped in suffocating plastic. I sort through the ziplock bags until I found what I was looking for. I clutched the small baggie which housed four carefully crafted joints and snagged one of her pink lighters before trudging upstairs to my old bedroom.

Once inside, I barricaded the door and opened my window and settled into the leather couch before pulling one of the joints from the bag. I brought it to my nose, the organic bitter smell slightly nauseating. I hated pot, I really did, but I needed to feel nothing, to feel free, like she had wanted me to. I twirled the thin roll between my fingers. It was perfectly rolled, tapered on one end, a twisted sphere at the other. Alice had rolled these, the little round globe was her signature.

I placed the tapered paper between my lips, my shaking hands igniting a blaze and bringing it to meet the rounded end. It lit quickly and I inhaled deeply, pulling the miserable smoke into my lungs, relishing in the burn, the weed burning as the paper crackled and hissed under my nose. I coughed, my lungs out of practice and fighting the invasive fumes, a horrible hacking stutter as bile caught in my throat. Once I recovered, I took another long drag, my body more accepting this time, and I kept the smoke in my lungs as long as I could before exhaling. It didn't take me long to finish the joint and I licked my fingers and snuffed out the roach before placing it back into the plastic bag. I shoved the bag in a sock and wrapped it into a ball before stashing it in my nightstand drawer. Esme never looked in this drawer. I had some shit in there from Chicago, books, pictures, cards, and she knew that stuff was private.

The bed hadn't been disturbed in weeks and I quickly yanked back the comforter and climbed into the tumbled sheets, my head crashing to the pillow and my whole body sinking into the pitiful comfort. I opened my eyes and stared at the stark whiteness. I was beyond exhausted and my eyelids were heavy, my eyes filmed over and scratchy, and I let calmness invade. Free from reality, I allowed myself, for one fleeting moment, to visualize her face and to think her name, and I let the word slip past the brick wall I had surrounded myself with.

"Bella."

I may have said it aloud, I couldn't tell. My mind swirled with detachment and my body froze with paralyzed solace. She was there, her head on the pillow beside me, her long lashes dancing over liquid eyes, her full lips pulled into a pout, and I brought my hand to rest on her transparent cheek as her face dissolved, the cloak of incapacitating sleep stifling all awareness.

…

I awoke late into the night. The room was dark and I pulled at the sheets next to me, the big bed silent and empty, and then I remembered - she was gone. Loneliness invaded. My heart was pounding in my chest and I wondered how it still beat. The erratic thumping in my chest hurt with each pulse it throbbed, and I was sure the cavity would cave with the pressure. I clutched one of the fluffy white pillows to my chest in an attempt to silence the pounding. I pressed my face into the cotton as I sobbed, the white case becoming saturated with salt and saliva. And I couldn't numb her out.

So I smoked another joint, and I felt better. Not good, but better. My stomach erupted into growls and I left the confines of my room to silently sneak into the kitchen. Flicking on the light, I searched the fridge for food and decided on a grilled tomato and mozzarella sandwich. The necessary ingredients pulled from the fridge, I set them on the cutting board. I washed the tomato, the plump red fruit glistening as I pulled a large knife from the wood block on the counter. The silver blade pierced the tender flesh, a clean cut right through the thin skin, and I marveled at how the blade slid so easily through the tomato, the red seeds spilling onto my fingers. For a fleeting moment, I wondered if the same blade would pierce my flesh as easily. Would the cut be so clean through my calloused skin, would my blood spill as the seeds had, the slimy mess smearing onto the cutting board, red mixing with red? Would it hurt? Would it be more painful than the lonely panic I was suffocating in, like a plastic bag of guilt pulled over my head while I tried to suck air from the vacuum?

My eyes blurred as I pulled the blade through the tomato again. The edge slipped on the wet surface and sliced against my palm and produced a thin line of red from the middle of my hand and through my wrist.

The knife dropped from my fingers. I had yet to feel pain so I investigated the wound more closely. Pulling at the skin, I exposed the white flesh beneath, blood now dripping from my hand onto the cutting board. I watched the wound drip, the blood splattering onto the tomato and across the sharp blade of silver. It swirled with the seeds from the tomato, pooling in the middle of the board and making odd patterns as the slippery fluids swirled together.

"Edward?"

I turned to find Jasper, his eyes squinting under the bright fluorescent lights. A warm trail of blood from my hand streaked down my arm and splattered onto the floor.

"Edward…what are you doing?" he asked suspiciously, his eyes scanning the kitchen and widening as he noticed my hand.

"Making a sandwich," I answered.

"You're bleeding," he nodded toward my hand and I looked down at the gash.

"Yep," I answered, watching the droplets of blood splatter against the floor. Drip, drip, drip. The circular splashes began to puddle, bright red against the hardwood floor.

"Are you high?" Jasper asked quietly.

"Yep," I snorted. Jasper grabbed a towel from the counter and quickly wrapped it around my hand and wrist, applying pressure to the gaping wound as I watched.

"Edward, what the fuck are you thinking?" Jasper muttered as his eyes scanned my face apprehensively. "How could you do this to your sister? And to Carlisle and Esme. Fuck, this would kill Bella-"

"Wait, what do you think just happened here?" I asked, narrowing my eyes at him, her name piercing through my foggy awareness, the misunderstanding evident in the hesitant calm of Jasper's demeanor. It was the kind of calm you get in an emergency, when your instincts take over and you just do instead of think.

"I think it's pretty obvious," Jasper said, pulling me by my arm to the kitchen table and pushing me into the chair.

"Jasper, I wasn't committing…suicide." I pulled my hand from his grip, readjusting the blood stained towel and holding the cut closed.

"Did you or did you not just take a big-ass fucking knife and cut your own wrist?" Jasper paced in front of me, the panic now catching up with his emergency-induced calm. He was going to freak out, I could see it coming.

"Dude, sit down. Take some deep breaths or something. You're making me nervous." Jasper looked like he wanted to take that knife and stab me himself as he froze in front of me.

"I'm making you nervous? Oh, that's…that is rich, that is fucking hilarious," Jasper said through exasperated scoffs. But he did sit down, his elbows propped up on the table as he settled his head in his hands.

"It was an accident. The knife slipped and cut my hand. It's happened dozens of times," I said, trying to focus. I could feel the burning pain in my hand now and I leaned against the table in an attempt to stave off the wooziness now invading.

Jasper eyed me skeptically, doubt plain in his features. "An accident? And you just happened to be high, too? So, were you trying to numb out or man up?"

"Does it matter?" I asked.

"It might matter to her," Jasper retorted.

"Nothing matters to her. There is no her. It's done, over. She's gone," I spat.

"You really believe that? That it doesn't matter to her?" Jasper asked, shaking his head.

"I don't know what I believe anymore." I leaned back into the chair, my head slumping against the wooden slats.

"Yes you do. Your beliefs are just clouded by emotion right now, man. And it doesn't help that you're completely stoned, either," Jasper said.

"I smoked a couple of Alice's joints," I confessed, my head pounding now as I closed my eyes.

"Dude, those are one-a-days. You know she puts her best shit in her joints," Jasper responded.

"I know…I just needed…something," I slurred. I could hardly hear my voice, my mind quieting as the pain in my hand throbbed, my pulse thudding through my body. Thud, thud, thud.

"Alright, you sit tight. I hate to do this, man, because I ain't a rat, but you're seriously fucked up right now and you might need stitches. Don't move," Jasper demanded, his voice hollow and fading as I sank even further into the chair. I just wanted to go back upstairs to my bed and sleep but I wasn't sure my legs were going to work.

I heard them before I saw them, the thundering of their feet pummeling down the stairs. Their hands now on my forehead, now lifting my arm, they removed the towel from my hand and the wound gaped as a chill crawled through me. I shivered.

"Edward, can you hear me?" Carlisle. Bright light. I winced and pushed the hand with the agonizing beam away.

"Jasper, can you hold his arm." A grip on my bicep, a piercing pain in my wrist. Panic in my chest, paranoia seeping in. I couldn't react.

Soft tugs pulled at my hand. The pain numbed and I relaxed into the chair, engulfed in a dreamlike awareness as I listened to the assessments around me.

"He's stoned. But I'm pretty sure it's only pot." That was Jasper, I think, his grip on my arm tightening with inflection.

"Do you think he did this on purpose?" Alice now, her charmed voice tinged with despair.

"No. He said the knife slipped. I just think he's really out of it. I mean, can you blame him?" Jasper again.

"Um, Carlisle…you don't think…" Silence. Goddamn, fucking silence. Like a slap in my face, his silence was sharp and deserved.

"No. Edward's behavior is typical of a nineteen-year-old who's going through a traumatic experience," Carlisle, finally. "Besides, he's always been a bit overdramatic."

More silence. And then Carlisle spoke again.

"But we'll keep a close watch, just in case."

...

I lay in my bed, absentmindedly tugging at the black stitches laced through my hand and I winced at the pain, only slightly aware of how it had gotten there. I had awoken feeling groggy and disoriented and my head feeling dull from a pounding ache, and I had to remind myself where I was. My hand throbbed and the pain allowed recollection to seep in. The pot, the knife, the tomato, it all began to make sense, and I quickly remembered that Carlisle would be coming to visit me this morning. This was our routine: I'd fuck up, he'd let me sleep, and then we'd talk. Sometimes, Carlisle would be angry and he'd come at me with guilt-laden insults which I'd never disagree with. I preferred those interactions because, while his remarks were sometimes biting, they were easy to forget. It was the empathetic discussions that left me stewing and contemplating my decisions, forcing me to reevaluate what I had accepted as truth. These lectures were what filled me with dread. I didn't want to think about all that right now, I didn't want to make any decisions or reflect on my behavior. I just wanted it all to be over and done with.

I waited in my room for him. I waited all day, skipping breakfast and neglecting lunch, sunken into my soft bed and engulfed in pillows and blankets. I stared at the ceiling, making patterns out of the raised texture, her lips, her shoulders, the curve of her breasts, but when her eyes appeared I looked away.

Finally, late into the afternoon, there was a soft knock at the door and Carlisle entered my room. He sat on the leather couch, his face soft and calm. Fuck, he was playing introspection today.

I sat up in the bed, the heavy down comforter pulled across my legs, and scratched at my head, my hair flat across my scalp from the frozen position I'd held over the last twelve hours. Carlisle finally spoke.

"Would you like to tell me what happened?" he asked.

"You already know," I responded, my voice hoarse, my throat dry.

"Yes, I know what Alice has told me about it, but I think you'd have a very different perspective on the matter," Carlisle countered. "I'd like to know what you think happened."

"What I think happened? What the fuck does that mean?" I snorted.

"Edward," Carlisle warned. Maybe he would be throwing insults after all.

I sighed. I was reluctant to talk about this but I knew Carlisle wouldn't leave until I did. I also knew that if I was developing schizophrenia, I couldn't keep secrets. This was something Carlisle and I had decided on long ago, when I had been worried about the bomb; don't hold anything back, we'd agreed. So I told him that I had woken up at Bella's house alone and that I had found her letter and I'd sat on the couch for three days and watched the ants. I told him that I threw the dish and about my fight with Emmett, and that I had then taken off running down the road. I told him everything because if I was dangerous, he needed to know.

"And the knife?" Carlisle asked, his body leaning over his legs and his elbows resting on his knees. Assessing, evaluating, searching, Carlisle was trying to figure shit out.

I shrugged and forced myself to remember the foggy details. "It slipped. I promise. I wasn't trying to kill myself."

"And the drugs?" Carlisle asked, leaning back against the back of the sofa.

"I just wanted everything to stop. I had all these thoughts running around in my head and I just needed it to stop," I muttered.

"Thoughts? What kind of thoughts?" Carlisle delved. He was searching for signs, looking for clues to the impending psychosis.

"Look, why don't we stop with the charade, okay? I know what you're doing. No, nobody 'told' me to do anything and I'm not hearing voices," I said, a little perturbed at how Carlisle was treating me, like he was trying to trick me into saying something incriminating. I mean, fuck, I'm the one who thinks this illness is going to get me in the end. He could at least recognize that I can handle this shit instead of poking around in my head and trying to trick me into exposing myself. I wanted to be exposed. At least then we'd all know.

"You're right. I apologize. That wasn't fair," Carlisle agreed. I looked at him for a moment trying to assess whether or not I really wanted to continue the conversation, a bit afraid of what Carlisle would say once I finished recounting the events.

We sat in silence, Carlisle thoughtful and contemplative while I picked at my stitches. It really was a terrible looking cut and I could see why they had thought I was suicidal. I don't know, maybe subconsciously I was and this was just the way my true desires were manifesting themselves. Or, maybe it was just a combination of my incoherency or an awkward twist in my wrist and an exceptionally waxy surface that just caused the knife to find its way to my skin.

"So are you going to put me on pills now?" I asked, the silence beginning to thicken around me.

"Is that what you want? Do you think you need medication?" Carlisle asked quietly, his blue eyes worn and tired. "What do you think you need, Edward?"

Her. I just need her.

"Edward, I know this is hard and I know you're under a terrible amount of stress right now, but I want you to know that you are my primary concern and I think you need some time. This has all been very sudden. I won't force you into anything this time, you're an adult, but I want you to know what all of your options are. I have a colleague, a friend really, that I can refer you to, if you're interested." Carlisle was making it my choice. This friend was probably a psychologist and the thought of telling all my shit to some stranger made me uncomfortable. But this friend might also be able to prescribe something more potent than pot.

"I'll think about it."

…

"Fifteen two, fifteen four, and then a run for five, six, seven," Alice murmured as she laid her cards on the coffee table. Moving her little red peg seven spaces on the board, she gathered the cards into a small pile and tossed them toward me. She picked up the four cards in her crib and fanned them out before her, her lips pursed and eyebrows furrowed in concentration. She was notorious for missing points and always exerted great effort to not make the mistake.

"Nothing. I've got nothing." She threw the cards on the table, exasperated at the bad hand. Cribbage really is a game of luck, sometimes you just get the right cards.

"You must have shitty Karma or something, Alice. The card Gods do not like you today," Emmett said from his seat beside me on the musty velvet couch. His eyes were fixated on the screen, his Xbox controller in his hands as he expertly maneuvered his digital Diablo across the pavement.

It was the end of June and graduation had come and gone. I spent the last few weeks of high school in a haze, hiding out with Alice in the fucking girls' restroom. It was fucking pathetic too, the two of us smoking cigarettes or whatever else she had in her tote, and just pissing the day away until we could finally go home. She never said anything about my all-of-a-sudden smoking habit because she really had no room to talk. We basically worked out a mutual non-snitch policy and instead puffed in silence. The restroom was a link to her, and I sometimes imagined she was with us, her smoke becoming mine and swirling around me in the small room, like a tornado of emotional instability.

I had completely blown my perfect grade point average, but really, what the fuck did it matter? It's not like I was going to a university or something where they actually gave a shit about how well you memorized useless information. Carlisle had been pissed but he let me off the hook with a pity lecture. He felt bad about what had happened with...her. He took responsibility for not being around, for not pushing for an intervention, but he really had acted with the best intentions. He thought I had it under control, but he overestimated me. He knew I was having a tough time with this and didn't want to upset me further, so he gave me a blank check for fuck-ups. I didn't know how long it was going to last, but I wasn't about to sit around waiting to find out.

I didn't have a party or celebratory camping trip for my birthday or for graduation. I didn't even go to the ceremony. Why in the hell would I want to plaster on some dopey fake grin to shake some fucker's hand and parade across some stupid stage in some mundane rite of passage? It was all fucking pointless and a waste of my time.

I stood up from the couch, Alice's eyes following my movement as her eyebrows furrowed together. Rosalie was at work and Emmett was taking care of Charlie today, who was currently upstairs in his crib sleeping.

"Where are you going?" Alice asked as she cleaned up the cards.

"Out."

"Out where?" she pressed. Man, she has been on my fucking case lately.

"I don't know, the market? I need some stuff," I mumbled.

Alice nodded. It was a lie. I just went to the market yesterday. In fact, I spent a great deal of my time at the market, walking the aisles, searching. I don't know what I was searching for. Well, yes, I did know what I was searching for, I just didn't want to let myself think about it. The moment I thought about it I felt a searing panic and I couldn't see, I couldn't breathe. It was utterly paralyzing.

But I couldn't stay away either. I filled every day with things that reminded me of her: cigarettes and peppermint, lavender and chocolate, the school day-smoking restroom, the market. I'd even taken to dealing with a screaming baby every night so I could sleep on her couch, wrapped in her afghan. I carried her letter with me everywhere, every day, a tangible part of her that I could physically connect with, something that she had touched, that she had wept over. And I carried her ring, the looped gold secured in my pocket, a constant reminder of what could have been. In this way I concocted a delicate balance of numbness and consciousness, never allowing myself to be fully aware in any given moment. It was almost tolerable this way.

I had visited Carlisle's doctor friend with the hope of procuring a prescription, but quickly dumped those meetings when it was evident he wasn't going to prescribe anything. After some tests and questioning, he determined I wasn't having a schizophrenic episode, not yet anyway. He said I was just depressed and that I obviously had residual issues stemming from my parents' death, but that I was completely capable of dealing with this shit on my own. I just had to laugh at the irony. Fuck, four years ago they had wanted to put me on drugs for every tiny little infraction, and I had resisted. Now that I craved to be numb they denied me, telling me to get over it, and prescribing exercise and hobbies instead as a way to get my mind off my ex-girlfriend.

But they didn't understand. She wasn't just a girlfriend. She was everything. My whole universe compacted into one fragile human being. How the fuck does someone just get over that?

So I sought the numbness on my own. Sometimes I would run until I thought my heart was going to explode, gasping for air and pushing the limits of my body. I would suffer the following day with aching muscles and sore joints, but I found solace in the discomfort. I found solace in my sister's cedar box, stealing her joints for a quick smoke on the porch so I could sleep. Sometimes I would forget she was gone, especially after a particularly vivid dream, and wake up in a panic, only to relive the whole nightmare again, realizing exactly what I'd lost all over again. On more than one occasion I'd found one of her hairs on my sweatshirt, one long solitary brown strand, and I'd wrapped it around my finger until it restricted the blood flow and the digit went numb, and I poked at the purplish pulse. That usually led to invading Carlisle's liquor cabinet or persuading Emmett to go to the liquor store up the street. He looked a lot older than he was and they never carded him there. I'd get fucking plastered and spend the night curled around the toilet. Twice, I had told Alice I had the flu, but I was running out of excuses. It was a little easier living with Rose and Emmett. Sometimes Emmett would join me for a smoke on the porch or a drink on the couch; I think he found it a bonding experience, or maybe he just needed to step away from fatherhood for a minute. That wouldn't last much longer though, he was going back to Pullman soon.

I stepped into my shoes and tightened the laces, Alice's eyes on me the entire time, before I grabbed my keys from the small table by the window and opened the front door, almost slamming into some mail courier about to knock on the door.

"Hello. I'm looking for Mr. Edward Cullen or Ms. Rosalie Hale," the courier said, glancing at two large manila envelopes in his hands.

"I'm Edward Cullen," I responded. What the fuck was this? No one would be sending me anything. What the hell was going on?

"Can you sign here for me please?" He held out his clipboard and I signed on the line as he handed me the envelope. It wasn't that heavy, probably a letter of some sort, and I immediately looked for the sender's address.

Jacksonville.

Oh fuck. Fucking Jacksonville. Fuck! My hands shook as I stood in the doorway imagining what this envelope held, imaginary words playing over and over in my head and causing the room to sway.

I heard her voice, clear and sharp: I could die, Edward.

"Sir? Sir?" The man's face blurred before me.

"I'm Rosalie," Alice said beside me, signing on the line and quickly grabbing the package from the man's fingers before shutting the door in his face. She turned to me, her eyes on the print.

"Jacksonville, Alice. It's from Jacksonville," I murmured.

"Do you want me to open it?" she asked me, and I shook my head. No. I could do this.

I tore through the paper. Inside, the envelope was almost empty, and I had to really look for the contents. I pulled out the thin slip. It was a cashier's check made out to me for forty thousand dollars with a note attached to it.

Please. For me, was all it said.

At first, I was relieved. The possibilities of what it could have said were literally making me nauseous, so this wasn't so bad really.

Then, I started thinking. She was in Jacksonville, which means she was with her mother. She knew I'd be here, she was thinking about me, at least. And she wanted me to go to New York. Alone. She wasn't coming back.

Yeah, fuck that! I couldn't stand the thought of going to New York now; that whole future burned to the ground when she left. That would be the very embodiment of torture, living our life and our future all on my own. No. I wouldn't do it. The lettering blurred on the check as I held it up in front of my face to see her signature looped across the bottom, and I choked back a sob. Breathe, Edward, fucking keep it together.

Oh shit, please don't let me crack right here in front of them again, please.

I shifted my gaze to their curious stares and I didn't know if I could get the words out. "It's money. For school," I mumbled, tossing the check onto the coffee table and pocketing the note, the slip of paper joining the other mementos.

Alice picked up the check, her eyes calm as she surveyed the writing.

"You can have it," I said. "I'm not her fucking charity case." I felt it bubbling again, the anxiety simmering beneath the surface, my skin getting itchy and my heart beginning to pound in my throat. I mean, who the fuck did she think she was, sending that shit here, demanding I go to New York? It's my fucking life. She left, she has no say in what I do with it now. And right now, I craved sedation.

Alice ripped open Rosalie's package, dumping the many items onto the coffee table. Two more checks like mine fluttered from the envelope and a thick packet of papers, on top of which was a note.

"The house belongs to you and Emmett now. I had it transferred to your names. Thank you for everything. Love, Bella." As soon as her name was out of Alice's mouth, my heart ripped open. I hadn't heard it spoken aloud in so long and the sound of it triggered that grief, the assault quick and without warning.

"There's also a check for me and one for Jasper. For school." Alice's eyes filled with tears as she blinked, trying to keep them from spilling over her cheeks. "What is she doing?"

"She's giving up," I muttered, the truth so vibrant as the last thread of hope binding our connection snapped. She'd never have to come back here now. She knew we'd all be taken care of and she'd be free to wither away in Florida, her mother draining her already guilt-sodden spirit. Oh, God, I felt sick. She really was never coming back.

"I'm going out," I said through blurred eyes and made a beeline for the door. It was like she was leaving me all over again. Up until now, I had just been detaining the distress, keeping it at bay because I had this little tiny festering speck of hope that she might return, that maybe, just maybe, she was suffering as I was, and when she realized her mistake, she would rush home to find me. I would forgive her immediately because I knew this wasn't about her love for me, it was about her love for herself.

But now all hope had been crushed by a puny mail courier at the door, and a signature on the dotted line. She was cutting her ties here, absolving her associations to anything in Forks, including me, and I figured I may as well do the same.

"Edward! Wait, don't leave, not while you're like this," Alice cried. She grabbed my arm and I shrugged her off, unable to look at her destroyed expression. Instead, I flung open the door and raced to my car. I peeled out of the driveway, my sister on the porch screaming and yelling as Emmett pulled her back inside. I knew he'd take care of her and she'd be just fine. She was a lot stronger than anyone gave her credit for. But she didn't need to see me like this.

I sped down the highway, not sure where I was going, but knowing I couldn't stay here, knowing I couldn't stay in that fucking house any longer, her handwriting burning a hole in my pocket, the ring heavy and digging into my thigh. Tears blurred my vision, the lines in the road becoming indiscernible, and I felt anxiety thick in my chest, choking, suffocating, a vice restricting my breathing, my heartbeat fucking pounding in my head.

I wanted it to stop. I needed the pounding to stop. I drove erratically, my foot heavy on the pedal, until I saw a sign, a bar with a row of motorcycles parked out front, a grimy and shady-as-fuck place. They probably wouldn't check I.D.'s there and I was tall enough to pass for twenty-one and hadn't shaved in days, my neck and chin covered in bristle, making me look older than a mere nineteen.

I skid to a halt outside the bar, my wheels spinning in the gravel and clouding the air with dust as I killed the engine. There were some guys hanging outside just smoking and bullshitting, and they eyed me as I walked up the path but I looked right through them, my quest to silence the pounding my only concern.

Inside smelled like piss; peanut shells covered the floor, a jukebox was radiating classics, a handful of patrons were drooling over glasses in darkened corners. I quickly made my way to the bar to a heavy set balding man drying glasses behind the counter. He looked like he could handle himself in a fight and he probably had a shotgun stowed beneath the counter. I don't know, maybe I've seen Roadhouse one too many times.

I sat down at a barstool as he assessed me carefully. I wiped at my face. I probably had sweat and tears streaked across my cheeks, so I avoided his eyes.

"Well, you look like shit," the bartender growled, and I looked up at his weathered face.

"Thanks," I snorted. Fucking asshole.

"What can I get you?" he grumbled, his arms crossed in front of his chest.

"Jack. Straight up," I muttered, resting my head in my hands. For a split second I didn't think he'd pour me the shot, but without another word he set the tumbler before me. A double. I quickly brought the glass to my lips and tossed back the liquor and let it burn down my throat and heat in my chest, tasting the burnt wood aftertaste on my tongue. I welcomed the fire, letting it drown out the pounding in my head, hoping it would burn up my pitiful excuse for a soul.

"Again," I mumbled to the bartender, the old man shakily spilling the liquor onto the counter as he refilled my glass. No wonder he didn't check my I.D., he was probably drunk too. I downed this glass as I had the first, the delicious burn a smolder this time, and I was beginning to feel the effects, the numbing warmth bleeding into my limbs. I felt my arms get heavy and a glaze filming over my eyes as I pushed the empty glass toward the bartender. One more. One more and I'd be perfectly detached.

"Again."

"Naw, see, you gotta pay for them two first, son," the bartender drawled.

"I'm not your son," I slurred, whipping out my wallet from my back pocket and emptying it of cash. I didn't know how much was there, but I'd drink whatever it could afford. "Like I said, again."

He gathered up the bills and I watched the amber liquid splash against my glass. I watched my fingers wrap around the cup, the whiskey sloshing as my hand brought the rim to my lips. Fire down my throat, warmth in my chest and the bartender refilled the glass. Pour, drink, repeat.

With a dull awareness, I tuned in to the music playing from the jukebox. Are you fucking shitting me? Karma fucking hates my fucking guts.

A charming piano cut through the grimy fog of this stuffy room and I heard that voice, the melodic vibrato too beautiful to be in this place: "She went to Florida, and left you here with your father's gun alone…"

I stood up in disbelief. How? In all the places, of all the songs, why fucking Joni Mitchell? Bracing myself on the back of the chairs, I made my way over to the jukebox. I pressed my forehead against the dust covered machine, letting the tears slip from my eyes, seeing her heart-shaped face, her liquid eyes, imaging her lavender smell. I was too drunk to fucking care that the handful of people in here probably thought I was insane, hugging a fucking jukebox and crying like a fucking baby. I just wanted to be close to her.

How much more shit could I handle? Why hadn't I snapped yet? My father snapped under far less pressure. Why, with tragedy after tragedy, had the bomb not taken me? God, I was so fucking confused. She wanted me to be free? Free from what? Free from my father, free from mental illness? From her? From our past, our lost child, our lost future? I would never be free from that shit, it was a part of me now, just as she was, just like my parents, a divot in my soul that could never be filled.

I had always taken care of things, I had always made things better, either by braiding my sister's hair, filling my family with nourishment, or by loving her. Bella, her name a swift cut. I had just wanted to make things better by loving her. And now I had no purpose. My sister no longer needed me, my family now had families of their own and she…she had chosen her disease over me. Even fucking schizophrenia had abandoned me, left me here to deal with this affliction rather than wrapping me in a protective covering of mind-numbing delusion.

The song ended. I wanted to hear more so I fumbled in my pocket searching for a quarter, a dollar, anything. Then I remembered I gave all my money to the bartender and desperation locked its teeth around my arm. With a swiping blow I cracked the glass of the jukebox with my fist. I heard the bartender yell but I cocked my fist back and was preparing to strike again when the large man yanked me back by my shirt. I swung wildly, trying to make contact, stumbling into a table and knocking it to the floor before losing my balance and falling to my knees. This time when the man grabbed my shirt he dragged me all the way out the door. The sky had darkened now, it was dusk, and as I squirmed trying to get away from the fucker, a shockingly massive fist collided with my jaw, my mouth filling with blood. I spat, a bit of my tooth gritty in my mouth, and I spat again, my tongue feeling the hole where my tooth had been.

I scrambled to my feet and ran to the Volvo as it blurred in front of me, the twilight sky casting tricky shadows on the silver paint. I quickly started the engine, trying to clear the dizzying intoxication from my brain. I slammed the gas and peeled out of the gravel drive and onto the highway. I blinked, my eyes a fucking mess of color and distortion, the objects in front of me hazy and faded as I tried to operate the vehicle. I was straying to the shoulder and I swerved back onto the road, trying to correct my steering as my car shot through the oncoming traffic of white lights and blaring horns, and I saw a tree getting closer and closer before the sound of metal twisting and an explosion of white canvas knocked into my face, a shocking blow to my chest, the breath forced from my body as I was thrown over the center console.

And then, silence. It seemed to go on forever. I attempted to move. I pushed the airbag out of my way and tried to open the door. I fell out of the car. I didn't think I was hurt anywhere. I looked at my hands, my right fist bloodied along my knuckles, but it didn't hurt. My chest was sore, probably a rib injury, and I felt my face with my hands. I could still taste blood in my mouth and I licked my upper lip feeling a sting and a split, and I touched it with my fingers. I suddenly felt woozy and I stumbled to my knees before I heard the shouting.

"Sir! Sir! Are you okay?" I looked up at the screaming woman, a cell phone in her hand. I nodded but was unable to speak.

In a matter of minutes I heard sirens and saw lights flashing red and blue and yellow as the medics checked me out. My car was totaled, I had lost a fucking tooth, quite possibly broken a rib or two, and my hand was beginning to throb. The police would come. They would do a chemical test and they would see the various toxins in my blood.

I was so fucking fucked.

…

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