"It's the circle of life, and it moves us all through despair and hope, through faith and love, till we find our place on the path unwinding." - Elton John
An: Beta'd by Buff82
Chapter 1
It had already been five years since her death, the night I often referred to as the beginning of the end. Or you could call it the night that my father phoned to tell me of her accident, only a month after I had moved from my home town of Forks to Seattle; she had been on her way for a surprise visit.
Her absence from my life, while greatly upsetting, was not what eventually made me the person I had become - a failure. No, the credit for that lay with a man who meant more to me than my own life ever could. He was my fellow circus performer, the prince to my princess, and the hero of my stories.
It would be a fairytale to say that he’d gone on to be something great, that he’d made a difference in the lives of many. And, while I know he affected those around him in indescribable ways, he never had the chance to show everyone the wonderful man he really was. He was gone, never to find and achieve his dreams, and it had all been my fault.
Memories of that night flashed behind my eyes - the look on his face, the blood, the screams.
I shot up in bed, the sound of my shrill voice piercing the peace of early morning. The sound stopped as I gasped for breath, my hand clutching at my chest as my heartbeat thrummed away in excessive speed. It took me several moments to calm down, just as it did every morning, and I knew there was no going back to sleep.
Glancing at the clock, I saw that it was just after six a.m., and I groaned in frustration that I had yet to wake up at a reasonable hour over the last several months. The nightmares prevented me from acquiring the sleep I so desperately needed.
I threw the covers off my now sweating and sticky body, craving aspirin for my forming headache.
I also needed a damn drink.
Stumbling my way to the kitchen, I rubbed at my eyes as remnants of my dreams, or rather – memories - threatened to break into my consciousness. It was always like that after I’d woken up, and I knew I’d need something to calm myself down soon.
Popping two little white tablets into my mouth, I quickly spotted my favorite drink on the coffee table, and snatched up the half empty bottle, drinking a generous amount of the bitter liquid. The burn that coated my throat was instantaneous, and I relished in the feeling of the pain. I deserved worse - much worse, but I would take any form of pain that was thrown at me.
The warmth of the alcohol flooded throughout my body as it coursed through my veins, creating a false sense of numbness that I relished - my ever present buzz a welcoming side-affect. I wasn’t drunk enough to make the thoughts stop invading my mind, however, and they beat at me, unwanted, and completely relentless.
It was my fault, after all, that he was gone. My fault his family would never see him again, get to tell him how much they loved him. My fault that he’d never have a future to plan and look forward to. So, yes, I deserved worse than any emotional pain a few memories might inflict upon me.
Flopping down on the couch, I flipped on the TV, bottle still in hand. The news program informed me it was Monday, and there were only three more days until Thanksgiving. I realized I had yet to make any effort to call my father; it was still too hard to speak to Charlie, there was no way he could ever forgive me for what I’d done.
A knock on my door broke me from my thoughts, and I growled at the interruption. Who the hell is here this early in the morning? I asked myself, irritated. Looking at the clock on the wall I realized I had been sitting there for four hours already.
The bottle was now empty.
My thoughts turned more frustrated, knowing that someone was bothering me, mid-morning, on a Monday. They just didn’t get the point. What part of ‘leave me the fuck alone’ did they not understand?!
The knock sounded again -more insistent than the first time, and I stood, swaying slightly on my feet from both the sudden movement and the abundance of alcohol in my system. “I’m coming,” I called out in the direction of the door, my somewhat drunken self, giggling at the unintentional innuendo of my words.
I grasped the side table for support, swiping another half-open bottle as I walked around the couch, the room still shifting around in my vision with each step I took. Perhaps I drank more than I thought, I mused.
When I reached the door I tightened my grip on the bottle of tequila in my left hand. I had half a mind of who it might be, so I shrugged my shoulders, knowing the situation could be easily handled, and opened the door anyway. The piercing violet eyes of my friend stared back at me, surprised, fist poised as if ready to knock again.
I watched her eyes shift from my face, down to my hand where I clutched onto the bottle tightly, bringing it to my chest and caressing it with my other hand as if she might actually try to pry my liquid companion from my fingers. Over. My. Dead. Body.
Concerned eyes found mine again, eyebrow quirked, her expression stern, though she had yet to say a word. My eyes remained unblinking as I stared back at her, my buzz allowing me to remain immune to her intimidating stance. “Well, I see you’re doing better,” she muttered sarcastically when I didn’t speak. I rolled my eyes.
An annoying tapping sound made its way to my ears, and I glanced around erratically, irritated by the noise. It was then that I realized it was her foot pounding against the floor impatiently, waiting for me to step aside and invite her in.
“Gee, Rose, why don’t you come inside,” I bit out, my voice cold and cruel towards my once closest friend. She had never been, nor would she ever be my best friend—that was what he was. He would always hold that title.
She shot me a scathing glare as she strode in past me, and I recoiled slightly in response, slamming the door shut behind her. Ignoring her presence in my apartment, I walked around her and reclaimed my seat on the couch. My feet were propped up on the coffee table, the low music I’d turned on earlier playing in the background. I sighed, closing my eyes, and took another sip of burning liquid.
My entire body relaxed, welcoming the blissful haze that kept the memories at bay. I could feel myself starting to nod off when someone cleared their throat, and I suddenly remembered that I had company. I poked one eye open, squinting in Rosalie’s direction, but she was still gazing around the room with wide eyes. It didn’t take a genius to figure out what she was staring at, I knew my place was a mess. Take out boxes littered most surfaces, laundry all over the floor, empty bottles lined up along the counter.
“Wow…,” She let out a low whistle, eyes landing finally settling on me. “When was the last time you cleaned up around here?” Not allowing myself to squirm under her questioning stare, I lifted my chin up defiantly.
“There’s nothing wrong with my apartment. If you don’t like it, you know where the door is.” Once again my words were cold and harsh, but I reminded myself it was for her own good. I was keeping her from getting too close, from getting hurt.
I heard her scoff, but I chose to ignore it. The continued buzz the alcohol was giving me was much more pleasant than the idea of putting my energy into arguing with her. “What do you want Rose?” I finally asked after a few moments of silence. She still hadn’t moved from her standing position at the edge of the living room. I would have invited her to sit down, but I really didn’t want to give her the invitation to stay longer than she already had.
“You smell,” she stated simply. “Actually, this entire place smells.” Her nose wrinkled in disgust, and I chuckled a little. It was hollow and bitter sounding, even to my own ears.
I let my eyes slide closed again, essentially telling her the conversation was over – she apparently didn’t get the memo. I felt, rather than heard, her stepping closer. I groaned, knowing she wouldn’t allow herself to be dismissed so easily. Bringing the bottle in my hand to my mouth I tipped it back, ready to receive more of my liquid courage. My eyes flew open, however, as the bottle was roughly ripped from my hand.
“Rose!” I shouted, half-drunk and pissed as hell. She merely gave me her, “Don’t fuck with me” stare – she was pretty good at that. Instead of fighting an uphill battle against her, I opted to go find something else to drink. There had to be something else here other than nasty, stale tequila. The kitchen … I thought to myself, that’s where I keep the good stuff. I stood, hoping to make my escape, but sadly, Rose followed me, this time letting her words flow freely.
“Bella, listen to me, you can’t keep doing this to yourself. I mean, look at you!” My not-so-best friend, Rosalie, stood across from me, only separated by my small, kitchenette counter, waving her hand in a gesture that indicated she was eyeing my apartment with distain. Her voice softened as she continued, “You’re wasting away.”
Without response I continued searching through cabinets, bending down to glance in one before frowning when I didn’t find what I was looking for, and then slamming the door shut. Apparently I’d gone through my stash of goodies much faster than I had thought. I stood, taking the few steps towards the remaining cabinet, the only one I had yet to search, but this time my Cheshire grin gave away my victory.
Vodka.
It wasn’t the good stuff, but it was plenty good enough. Quickly twisting off the cap I lifted the familiar bottle to my lips, feeling the intoxicating liquid pour into my mouth and a pleasant burn coated the back of my throat. With my second gulp I tossed back a couple aspirin; my head was killing me, again.
“Are you even listening to me?” Rose shouted, the shrill sound gathering my attention momentarily. My head continued to drum on, my vision hazy from the drug and alcohol cocktail I’d just taken.
I faced my friend, the only one who ever bothered to visit anymore, trying my best to focus on her face. “What?” I asked, blinking my eyes as she continued to stare at me, mouth agape as if ready to speak.
Taking another swig, I waited for Rose to respond, but her mouth merely snapped shut, her expression stern. “You know what? Don’t even worry about it.” I drunkenly watched as she gathered her things, slinging her purse onto her shoulder. “See you Bella.”
The door echoed with a resounding click as she left. If I had been sober, I would’ve caught her pained expression and the tears in her eyes.
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