This story is pretty much based on Ellen Hopkin's book, Impulse, so it's themed very heavily around suicide. But there are no other intense themes. Remember, this story is rated M for a reason.
Please review and tell me what you think.
I took out my iPod from my backpack, plugged my headphones in my ears, and blasted it on high. I wanted to forget school. Forget life, forget people, forget pain. Isolation was a bitch, and I hated it. But it was all I had.
It says something about yourself to want to commit suicide. It says a lot about your dreams, your personality, the ways you think. What you think about.
It just says a lot, when you take all of those pills and are off into dreamy sleep land forever.
When you pull the trigger to a gun.
When you cut your wrist just a little too deep this time.
It's all about the impulse.
Can you do it? Can you pull that trigger? Can you cut that deep? Pop those pills? Can you fucking do it? Or are you just going to live with it-the guilt, the hate, the fear, the rejection? Live with it all forever? Can you fucking do it?!
Suicide says more than any person could ever, because it's like royally fucking the world off, just because you didn't care what they would say.
Have I ever thought of suicide?
Because why not be truly invisible, to the people who treat you like shit anyway? Why not just leave-permanently?
Why the fuck not?
My life was never perfect. I was Edward Cullen. According to my name my life should have been more perfect than the fucking Mona Lisa. But no. It never was. Never. No matter how much my family strived for it. And I could have lived with that. I could have just lived.
But they wanted it to be something so tremendously amazing that it just couldn't be. It couldn't. It was impossible. Their standards were just too high, and if they tried to take me with them, I would die.
But they took me anyway.
And they never wanted to accept something that was so easy.
My father was a highly esteemed brain surgeon. Carlisle Cullen never made mistakes in the operating room, he was just that perfect. He was young, only thirty eight, and the head surgeon at the hospital. Everything was perfect where we lived in Seattle, Washington. Everyone in the entire city knew who my father was. He operated on wealthy people and famous people, just as he did the people who lived on welfare. He was just a nice, caring person.
But I wasn't perfect enough.
My father was married to my mother, Esme Cullen. She was an architect for big companies in Japan and Australia, spending most of her time in those parts of the world-instead of home. Instead of here, watching her kid grow up. I may have been awkward, but I was still her kid.
Did I sound like a needy kid?
Just wanted a family.
Was that too much to ask?
My sister's were even more successful than my parents. Rosalie Cullen was a lawyer. Yep. She was only nineteen, and her success rate was ninety eight percent.
She was on fire.
She was a shallow human being, taking pride in her wealth and fame, not really paying attention to those who were closest to her, like her fucking family, but those she prosecuted and put in jail for the rest of their lives. She cared about that more than anything because it cleared her conscience. Because it made her feel better. Never mind the family at home. The little brother she used to play with.
And then there was little Alice Cullen, my other older sister. Fresh out of high school with her own major fashion line. She designed bridal gowns for people like, Eva Longoria Parker and Julia Styles. Eighteen year old Alice Cullen was also rich and famous, living far away in LA. Didn't matter to her that I was alone.
Nope. Didn't matter to her that I sacrificed my sleep for three years to stay up late with her because she was scared of the fucking dark.
Thank you, Alice. For caring. Thank you Mom, for caring. Thanks Dad, for being there. And I won't even waste my time with sarcasm for Rosalie, because I really didn't want to thank her at all. That was useless.
I picked up my camera from my nightstand and left my bedroom to the back yard.
Haven't heard from my mother in six months.
Ah, yes, my entire family abandoned me.
But instead of a close knit relationship with my father, I always got This is good Edward, but you need to be great. Don't settle for your best when you can be the best. Don't give up. Be like your sisters. Your sisters never gave up. They never settled. Why can't you be like them? Why can't you be a good son? A better son?
Of course, that was all a low blow to the belt. But this was my father. I couldn't just sit there in front of him and cry and tell him that I couldn't do it. I couldn't be that way, because that would be settling, and I couldn't do something like that.
So I turned to the only thing that worked in my favor.
It didn't matter which girls. It just made me feel better to know that I could be used someway. Even if it was some cheap, meaningless sex with the head cheerleader I already fucked so many times before.
It just didn't matter that way anymore. I needed some substance of attention in my life.
And it wasn't like it was hard for me. I was a good looking guy. I worked hard for my body, and I had a pleasant face-or so the girls thought so. Green eyes, unkempt hair, good body. I had it good.
So what the hell right?
I was just fed up.
And what happens when you get fed up? What happens when that attention gets old and your ego wants more?
When girls, and sex, and porn, and everything you ever knew just goes away completely?
You stop everything.
And take the impulse to take all of those pills and are off into dreamy sleep land forever.
When you pull the trigger to a gun.
When you cut your wrist just a little too deep this time.
Because you know, it's all about the impulse.
And you have got to take the initiative to either do it, or don't.
Alice, Rosalie, and my mother were home for the holidays. They always were. Always. They brought gifts and fake ass smiles and hugs, trying to make us seem so fucking perfect. But we weren't.
Because Rosalie was anorexic. Alice was OCD. My mother was a cold bitch whether anyone wanted to mention it or not, and my father was more oblivious than anything. But they all stood there and pretended that Rosalie was healthy. Pretended that Alice was itching to straighten the picture frames. Pretended that my mother loved hugs. Pretended that my father noticed.
Pretended that I wasn't there.
I snuck out and walked along the city streets for a long while, taking pictures of the rain and of girls with purple hair. Little kids with sticky faces. Because it rained a lot in Seattle. And because I had nothing better to do.
So I walked for a long while, wishing that something would fall out of the sky and into my lap-something other than rain, please.
But no, my requests weren't good enough. Not good enough for anybody at all.
So that night, when the house was all quiet, and my never appearing mother and father were tucked away in their beds, my never visiting sister's were asleep in their overworked bedrooms, I wrote them each a lovely note.
Something to remember me by? No. Just a simple note so they knew what went wrong.
Downstairs, my father kept a stash of all sorts of drugs. Easy for a person to just take a whole bunch of colorful pills and overdose into a calming death.
Very easy for a teenage, seventeen year old, suicide committing son to do it too.
So I popped all sorts of pills. Red ones. Blue ones. White ones, orange, green, yellow, purple, teal, pink, and aquamarine.
I downed half a bottle of vodka.
I stumbled back up to my room.
Drunk, high, sleepy, wired.
I felt like flying.
Sounded like a good idea to me.
I was processing everything to fast. I was thinking to fast. Everything was moving in circles.
I collapsed on the floor, breathing hard. I felt like I was suffocating.
Was this what it was like to die? Because if it was, I wanted it. I wanted it so bad.
Cutters got to feel pain when they wanted to feel something. But I just got a headache and asphyxia. I guess in some ways it's better. I didn't have to deal with getting blood on my mother's perfect, expensive carpet.
Nope. I was clean as a whistle.
I was dying, but that was okay too.
Maybe I'll get what I was looking for in heaven.
Or maybe hell, since I killed myself.
Who the fuck knows anymore?
I opened my eyes and found my father looking back at me.
I wasn't dead, and I had to face them all. At least they knew how I felt.
"Edward?" my father said.
I closed my eyes.
"Edward why?" that was my mother.
I laughed. I couldn't but help to because they just didn't get it. I wrote them notes. That's what the notes were for. So if I were dead, would she have asked the same fucking question?
Probably, but it would have been during her fake mourning session, right before she picked up her iPhone and started going back to work. Gosh was I lucky to have her for a mother.
"Edward, please talk to us," Alice's voice whispered. She was closest to me, holding my hand. I looked at her and she half smiled. I almost felt bad for almost killing myself. Almost.
"Really, Edward, you can quit with the fucking dramatics."
If you guessed that was Rosalie, you deserve a prize.
"Because I can't fucking stand to see you guys happy. I can't do it. I didn't want to do it guys make me suffer every day-"
Rosalie cut me off and made a nasty face. "So what Edward? You had to go and fucking off yourself, make our family look bad? Now everyone in Seattle knows that you tried to kill yourself. And people in Europe know now. Is that what you were trying to accomplish? Were you trying to get so much attention?" Rosalie was yelling at me.
"Rosalie Lillian Cullen!" My mother shouted. "You will not talk to your brother that way. Do you understand me?"
Rosalie backed off and slammed the door to the hospital room.
"Edward, what the hell were you thinking?" my mother smacked me clear across the face.
It stung, but there was no way I would give her the satisfaction.
"You better get your shit together young man," she continued, "because I will not tolerate this in my house. Do you understand me?" I didn't answer her. "Edward Anthony Cullen!"
"Yes," I whispered.
"Good. So get off your ass, and don't ever try that shit again," my father said.
"Sure, mother." I muttered.
She's the one that made me want to do it all over again. I wish I could tell her, so I could have the satisfaction of seeing her face fall into a million pieces.
But I knew she would kill me, so I didn't even want to go there.
So I did what my mother told me.
"Dad, can I go home?" I said.
"No, we're sending you to a treatment facility. You tried to kill yourself Edward, you can't come home. I won't stand for a son like that." Carlisle looked at me straight in the face, his blue eyes so cold I actually shivered.
It was one thing to feel rejected.
A complete other thing to actually know.
I did my stretching exercises. I had to be flexible if I wanted that scholarship. I needed that dance scholarship. Maybe my Mom would love me then. When I was a successful dancer, and everyone got to see me in plays and prestigious dances. Maybe then my mother would appreciate me. Maybe then I would be important to somebody.
I sighed and gave up for the night, climbing up the stairs from the dance studio I had built into my house, and then went up into my room, plooping on my bed.
I took out my laptop and began to write in my on line diary.
(A/N:Review if you want to read her entries at www(dot)dressedforhell(dot)webs(dot)com. Or click the homepage link or the website on my profile and click the Serious Impulse button. There's a note there too.)
I logged off a few hours later, sort of fed up with my pathetic life.
Well, whatever life I did have, because mainly, I was up in my room studying. I had a 4.0 GPA. I couldn't fuck that up. I just couldn't. My mother would kill me if I killed her image.
My mother, Renee Dwyer was Governor of Arizona. She was a big person and reelections were coming up, all three of her children had to be perfect. Not one speck of dirt anywhere or everything would get shot to hell. Everything.
But when no one was around, I liked to look at pictures of bridal gowns. My favorite designer was Alice Cullen. She was amazing. Denali Designs was a beautiful thing, and I couldn't believe that she was already so successful. She had her own business. And I was in my room, nearly eighteen already, and wishing I was half as successful as she was so that my mother would love me.
I wanted my mother to love me.
Ever since she divorced my father, she had become distant from me, like I couldn't reach her. And I wish I could just talk to her, like a daughter should be able to talk to her mother. But I couldn't, and I think that brought her so much satisfaction that I worked for her attention. I worked hard.
My brothers were always in the limelight though. Emmett was an professional veterinarian, working with wild animals in Africa. He was married to a woman named Tanya, and they lived in Africa where they worked. Emmett was well known and famous in our area, not to mention all around America. He was just that great.
And then there was Jasper. Jasper was a psychologist for very wealthy people. He saw everyone. From Britney to Christina to Lady Gaga. They all went to him, because he was so amazing in calming people down. I was just really good at shutting people out.
And then there was Daddy. Sweet ol' Daddy dearest. Gone before I could even remember to say bye. Just cut out of my life for the past six years. Nothing. No cards, no letters, no pictures, no calls.
Nothing. At. All.
And it just made everything worse.
I didn't have very many friends, and the friends I did have didn't know I wasn't loved at home. And I so badly wanted to be. But I wasn't.
And there was only one way to end that.
I had been having this affair for years. Many years. Too many to count, so I didn't count them. I was a really conservative girl. I did what I was told, didn't wear revealing clothing, didn't do anything rash.
I was a good girl.
But this was where I turned bad.
At night, when I was all alone, I cut myself.
I cut myself everywhere. And I wasn't ashamed of my self mutilation; it made me feel better. A lot better.
My arms and thighs were covered in scars, in words in crudely drawn pictures. . .
I was the canvas, and my razor was the paintbrush.
Let's make a picture.
Oh, yes, a beautiful bloody picture.
And the wonderful thing was that my ballet tights covered up all of my scars so well, so perfectly well. So no one knew of my little habit, my tiny addiction to pain, to hurt, to blood. No one knew and in that I was just fine.
So I walked to my bathroom and pulled out the razor, waiting for the perfect minute to go ahead and make the cut.
I've always thought of suicide. Because I always knew it would be a way out. A way out of my pathetic, unwanted life. I mean I bet Alice Cullen's brother and sister were spoiled and riddled with love. I bet they were. And here I was, the governor's daughter, not feeling anything at all. And I was not okay with that.
Suicide was good. Death was nice. Death would be okay, because I wouldn't have to deal with anyone's fucking shit anymore. I could just be me. And I would be me if I committed suicide.
So I think I made my decision.
I was going to kill myself. It made sense. It made sense to leave My mother to her important work, my brother to his wife and animals, and my other brother to his crazy celebrities.
Maybe I was crazy. I mean my life was perfect. Perfect grades, wealthy parents, beautiful home. Even I was beautiful. Long creamy chocolate brown hair, big doe-like brown eyes framed with long dark thick eyelashes. I was curvy in the right places, voluptuous and pretty. Boys wanted me. Even girls wanted me. I was a perfect ballerina.
With dark secrets and desires and wants and dreams.
I wish I was Sasha Grey. She's cool. Porn star and everything, I didn't care. It would beat having no one home to love you.
So what. i wish I was a porn star. My life has to suck right?
Yes, yes it does.
So what did I do?
Should I live? Should I keep going on with my pathetic life and just keep living? Or should I just add another scar to the collection and just be happy six feet underneath the stars?
Hmm, that was a difficult decision. Mainly because I actually didn't know.
If no one was going to care, my care my self? Why not just flip the world off?
I think I was ready to act on impulse. It was a serious impulse, but I didn't care. I would draw a heart into my skin and then mark a huge X over it. Yes I would and it would be right there, right on my chest where if I wore a shirt low enough, it would be visible to any one who wanted to take a look at my C-sized chest.
I wouldn't mind if they asked, but then again, I would be dead. And that would be okay.
So I took my camera and documented the steps of my death.
This was different. Yes, it was, because I'd post it all online, and I wouldn't care. I wouldn't care what my mother said or felt, what my father did, what my brother's thought. I just didn't care anymore.
Step One: Get naked.
I stripped out of all my clothing and took different shots of my body. My breasts, my hips, my smooth bikini line.
Step Two: Do your make up.
I did my face up very pretty/elegant, putting on eyeliner and shadow, foundation and cover up, blush and bronzer, lip liner and gloss.
Step Three: Cut.
I did the heart where I said I would, right above the swell of my breasts, so that the blood just dripped down all over my breasts, and down my waist.
"Hmm," I said, looking into the mirror. "I look beautiful."
And I snapped a picture, a full body shot of my naked body.
And I smiled and every thing. Maybe I could be a porn star.
Too bad I was a virgin.
I put my camera down and started a bath. I plugged in my iPod, playing some soothing piano music, my ballet songs. Too bad. . . I really did like ballet.
You win some, you lose some, you die. And that's it.
I ran the water lukewarm, completely comfortable. If I was going to die, I wanted to go out feeling good. Or as okay as I could.
I think I was warped, because at that moment, I felt like masturbating. Like I was completely turned on. So what the hell, right?
So I went back into my bedroom, lay on my bed and completely fingered myself to the point of the best orgasm I had ever had with myself, ever. And I wasn't even ashamed of it. I even jumped on my bed a little bit.
Anyway, back to business. I always did go on tangents.
I shut off the bath water and then sat in the bath tub. I sliced my wrists open, to the point that I was crying. I never cried when I cut myself. Ever. But today was different. I could let all my feelings out and not care at all. Not care who was going to watch, who was going to see, who was going to care.
Because that last one was going to be a resounding zero. And it still hurt.
And I felt myself start to fade, to lose too much blood, my body just letting go. Letting go completely. And that was alright with me. I could die listening to Chopin. I could. And I was just about there
I opened my eyes and say my brother's blue eyes looking back at me.
I was surprised, because immediately, I thought I was dead, and he was too, but then I realized, heaven wouldn't smell like a hospital, so, well, I was alive.
"Isabella Marie Swan, what the hell were you thinking?" Jasper yelled at me.
"I wanted to die. I just did, because apparently, no one fucking cares about me, Jasper." I laughed. He was so funny.
"This isn't funny. You almost died," he said flatly. He was angry. His blue eyes were so cold, so frozen, so different.
"Yeah, I know. I was there."
"And what's with the pictures on you camera."
"My suicide note." I shrugged. "Jazz. What were you doing at home anyway? You were supposed to be away. You are always away. Isn't Lindsay Lohan so much more important than I am? After all, I'm not the one that pays your mortgage." I looked straight at him.
"Isabella, I'm your brother-"
"I know that, Jasper. I fucking know. But that doesn't mean you were always there for me, because in case you were there for the seventeen years of my life, you were never there! You weren't there, Emmett wasn't there, Mom was so fucking far when I see her on the fucking television I don't even recognize her. Dad hasn't talked to me in six years. Six fucking years, and you want to tell me that I'm fucking important? You can take that and fuck off," I told him.
"Yeah Isabella, after I take you to where you need to be. You need help, and I'll be damned if you don't get it," Jasper said evenly.
"So what?" I said with a giant smile. "You're going to suddenly start caring? Just suddenly want to help me? Because, wow, that's a really good joke, Jazz."
"Isabella, be serious. I'm sending you to a treatment facility and you're going to stay there however long you need to, and that's that. You're going."
"Fine," I said calmly. And then I smiled. "I can't wait until Mommy hears that her only daughter, her precious, wonderful, amazing daughter tried to commit suicide and is going to have to spend time in a treatment center. I bet she'll flip."
"Yeah, well, don't worry about what she thinks," Jasper said. He ran his fingers through his hair. "Just, let's go home so you can pack your shit. You're already off the deep end, you need to get some where before you start drowning," he said. I laughed.
"I'm an excellent swimmer, Jasper. You know that," I said with a laugh.
He looked at me like I was a completely different person.
So, please review and tell me how you liked or didn't like it.