I hoped that I was fainting, but, to my disappointment, I didn't lose consciousness. The waves of pain that had only lapped at me before now reared high up and washed over my head, pulling me under.
I did not resurface.
My sixth grade English teacher once told my class every story had to have three things: A beginning, a middle, and an end. She’d always been kind to me. Allowing me to stay in the safe respite of her classroom when the lunchroom was too noisy, or the loneliness too hurtful to be faced with. It was never her fault I could never make friends. I was different in that way, I guess.
She always encouraged my writing habit. I would write her little things- letters, poems, paragraphs. She would give me sheets of stickers and I'd write about the unicorns printed on sticker sheet, filling the bland reams of paper with stories and color. I was very sad to leave her classroom, to move on to the hated seventh grade. On my last day, I left the stickers. I kept the writing, though.
Her words remain true to this day. A story needs to have a beginning, a middle, and an end. A story with no beginning does not exist- if you refuse to write one, then the middle becomes the ending, you see? The same goes for the middle. Refusing to write one bleeds into endings and beginnings, and you’re right back where you started. Only by refusing the concept of story all together do you evade this- to not write anything at all.
Maybe that’s what would’ve saved me from this. When faced with Forks or Jacksonville, given the option to set the pen down writing my existence- Maybe I should have agreed to sun.
Hindsight is 20/20, and there is no room for regrets in my death.
I did not speak for two weeks.
Charlie originally refused to believe I was unharmed. He was convinced, utterly certain, something had happened to me. I’d been injured, hit my head, possibly tripped and fell in a way that altered my cognitive function- and simply forgotten it.
Really, though, what was he supposed to think? I was nothing. I was the last dregs of life. I breathed, I continued to exist; but I did not live. I was a coma patient, I was dependent on external factors to keep me going. The heartbeat underneath my skin was no more wanted than the bite mark on my arm. (The mark was probably wanted more. I ran my fingers over it often, too often. It was my only reminder this was real, that all of this was real.)
When I think back on those days, on the raw, bleeding days- I can’t help but wonder how much it hurt Charlie to see me like that. Unresponsive, unthinking, un…alive.
I can’t help but wonder if this will hurt less or more.
Those were the worst days. I call them the bloody days, because really, I think about losing you like I think about a gunshot wound. (Except, every day is a bloody day. There will not be a moment in my life henceforth where I am not bleeding out at your memory, at this gravestone of a love you’ve left behind. You left to save my soul, but all you did was take it with you.)
I do wonder how you will take the news, if you ever hear about this. You once told me you envied Romeo; his ability to die. Is that how we will end up? Loving ghosts, together at last? When I asked you to turn me, you tucked a strand of hair behind my ear and told me I deserved to be so much more than a corpse. I want to say it’s ironic- Becoming the reason for the thing you tried to prevent.
I am three pages into my suicide letter and all I can wonder is if you’ll find this too cliche.
Despite my snark in this written expose, Edward… I do not blame you. I do not blame myself for loving you, I do not blame you for falling in love with me (No matter how improbable it felt.) Because despite your black-and-white framework of the world, in this story, I do not believe there to be any villains. I believe there only to be tragedy.
They said comedy is tragedy plus time, but I do not think I can ever laugh again.
How many things shall I add to my list of the things you’ve stolen from me? The ability to smile? My cooking skills? My eyes that used to flicker between shades of cerulean with pinpoint accuracy, and now all I see is gray.
I promise I’m not angry.
After the bloody days, there was the scabbing days. As compared to the bloody days, I had regained just enough consciousness, enough awareness to understand you had left me. I almost want to call these days the bloody days, because the second I could fathom it I dug untrimmed nails into my skin until I involuntarily screamed. I convulsed and sobbed in my bed, attempting to pull back the raised skin on my arm. Convincing myself, in my delusion, That I could dig my fingers into the blood where you removed the venom from me- finding a small deposit, a cache you’d missed, and turn myself.
After the first week of this, Charlie tried every possible solution he could think of. He tried to talk about going to a shrink, to a facility, and when I ignored him, he was silent. Not even the police chief of Forks could force himself into sending his daughter into a mental facility.
I do wonder what would’ve happened if Charlie had, though. Would I still be in there today? Kept compliant under the use of pills as big as the fangs that sunk their way into my skin? Would I float amongst the narcotics, blissfully unaware of feeling? Would it be a kinder fate than the one I found today?
I try to tell myself I’m not angry at you. It doesn’t work.
I try to tell you I’m sorry.
It doesn’t work.
Your phone number rings a pizza place in Wisconsin. Your email, apparently, does not exist. Your student ID number erased from all databases. There are no financial records under your credit card information. Your house has been sold. You’ve gone so far as to remove any proof of your existence from all the libraries within a 100 mile radius of Forks. I wonder how much time you spent trying to erase yourself from me, as if it could ever work.
You are unforgettable.
I have been stalling for far too long. I think a foolish, childish part of me is hoping you'll come back. I feel it in my fingertips, the way they caress the cotton sheets of my bed pretending it's your skin. I lie awake at night waiting to feel your presence arrive.
By the time the sun rises, I am left with nothing but sleepless bags under my eyes and the festering feeling there's nothing here left for me at all.
Today is the day I have marked on my calender.
Every story must have a beginning, middle and an end, right? I almost want to think of my life in two seperate categories; before you and after you, but it doesn’t work because ever since you’ve left I don’t feel real. Maybe the end has already happened. Maybe this is my bitter epilouge.
There are marks over the bite on my arm from the frantic scratches i’ve dug into the skin. You can barely tell there’s a bite there anymore.
And with the last piece of you gone, so am I.
Charlie has fallen asleep, and today is the day i’ve had marked on my calender for the past three months.