Summary: When the Cullen's leave, Bella isn't hurt over their abandonment, but finds herself with only 9 months to live. Jacob x Bella x Edward.
Chapter 1: Death is a State of Mind
Most people know when their lives have gone completely to shit. Unfortunately, I am one of those people. If you think having a pizza-face and a body the shape of a pubescent twelve-year-old is bad, try getting poisoned by the deadliest planet in the world which leads to your father helping you into the bathtub every other night.
You have it bad? No fucking way.
Oh, and I'm pretty sure TMZ's been following me. So fuck you.
After getting squirted in the face by a vampire plant (has to be, right, with the venom slowly killing me?), everything hurts. The word "pain" doesn't suffice the very existence I live. "Bella, I'm sorry. You'll be in a lot of pain." No shit, Sherlock. I stretched one morning and dislocated my shoulder. Don't need to convince me, Dr. Gerandy.
Dad looks more like death than I do. Sort of. He persistently worries over me like a hen. Did you eat your medication? Yes, Dad. Did you eat food? Yes, Dad. Don't you want to spend some time with your friends?
What's the point, Dad?
I feel even more disabled than Mom when she got into horse-riding. She had the unfortunate pleasure of witnessing two horses "dating," with the male stallion that was…well, a little violent. She was in a full body cast for two months (lucky her).
Charlie's friend Billy visited me a few times while he made his son Jacob sit in the car. I think he didn't want me to be seen by anybody, especially the way I appear. After I didn't respond to his reassuring words, he didn't visit again. But every week, he made it a hobby to deliver some of his wife's old recipes and some cheery cards that say things like, "DON'T BE A CHUMP, GET OFF YOUR RUMP!" I almost feel bad for not happily receiving them when he personally hands them to me in our matching wheelchairs, but the tinge of anger always wins over. Every time Billy leaves, I ask Charlie to throw the card away but somehow they've all collected under my bed in a Nike's shoebox.
When I read through them again, I'm almost happy that he didn't listen to me.
Every morning I get up off my bed, I think that my bones will shatter into a million pieces and I'll plunge to my death to my plushy, carpeted floor. Or when I brush my teeth, I'll vomit my organs out. Or maybe while I eat my cereal, I'll explode onto the walls. A nice surprise for Dad when he comes downstairs.
It's been like this for six months.
It didn't help that when I stare at my walls before falling asleep, all I saw were the old drawings I made in elementary school. I ripped off all the other photos when I got home from the hospital (or at least got Renee to do it since I was able to move a muscle from my neck down for a week and a half). I never found the time to figure out what happened to the ones she didn't tear up. When Renee left to her fabulous life in Florida, and "promised"* to visit as soon as she could (it's been a month), she never caught me up on where anything was since she cleaned my room. At least I still have the stupid, kiddy makeup kit that Dad bought for me when I turned fourteen.
I'm too tired to touch it.
Dad insists that it's not required for me to go to school in case I have an "incident." I agree with him. Why obtain knowledge when I'll never have the chance to use it? Jessica, Mike, Eric, Tyler, Lauren, and Angela all attempted to visit me over the months but I refused. My isolation from them due to my "attached-to-the-hip" relationship with the Cullens basically severed any strings of recognizable friendship I had with them. Even Mike didn't think I was attractive enough to pursue anymore. But they all gave me the same advice: I need to keep going and not let it get to me. I have to hold on to the one last shred of sanity where I can realize something important. That life still goes on. Not everything is so bad.**
If you die.
Charlie's right, isn't he? Why go through the painful experience of Senior Year when I can just crash on the couch and stream Netflix all day? Why even leave the house when I didn't need to? Many times I find myself standing in front of the bathroom mirror with a bottle of Vicodin*** (Charlie wouldn't let me take Morphine) spilled onto the counter ready to rid myself of this misery. I remember a few days into my second month, or as I'd like to call it: The Most Miserable Day of My Life. Charlie had gone grocery shopping (or my equivalent of take-outs) and I weakly raised myself into my wheelchair and took the slow, creaky escalator**** down the stairs. With a film of blood covering my eyes, I barely made out the deadly black weapon neatly slid into Charlie's holster. Unfortunately, he placed it in a high place, limited to where my wheelchair could reach. Over the course of the next hour, I desperately tried to lift myself onto my legs so I could just swipe it down from the hook next to the living room. Sitting on the wheelchair was the easy part. Charlie had placed a cushion on it so I didn't fracture my tailbone while I independently dropped myself on it. Otherwise, Charlie was always around to help me get up. I did it though. I finally got up. My legs shook like a newborn lamb's and they were numb to the ground beneath them. I fumbled at this holster to yank the gun out only to lean too far towards my right.
That's where Charlie found me when he got back. Huddled under his holster, a broken arm, wet cheeks, mouth wide to let out childish cries, with the unloaded gun hugged to my chest. Six months of chronic pain –six months of what feels like mild vampire venom –is six months too many. Dr. Gerandy soon started me on Zoloft*****.
Yet, I always stop mid-swallow after the first pill. Which isn't all that comforting since I have to spend the next thirty-seconds trying to dislodge it from my throat. People think it's so easy to kill yourself. Dr. Gerandy sure seems to think so. "It's a temporary solution to a temporary problem," he says to me as he hands me the prescription with a pitiful smile. Is that why you told me I only have nine months to live? Because it's a "temporary" problem?
People pontificate, "Suicide is selfishness." Career conservatives like Gerandy go a step further and call in a cowardly assault on the living. They believe this for varying reasons: to evade blame, to impress her audience, to vent anger, or just because she lacks the necessary suffering to sympathize. No, Gerandy, Cowardice has nothing to do with it -suicide takes considerable courage. Even Virtus would cower at the presence of Death. The Japanese have the right idea, yes. No, what's selfish is to demand another human being to endure an intolerable existence, just to spare families, friends, and enemies a bit of soul-searching.
That extra Vicodin or the Tapendatol will be spit out and I will throw it back into the bottle and go back to sleep.
That's just how life is. The life of Isabella Swan.
Okay, so never in my entire life would I ever add footnotes to simple things in my non-fan fiction stories, I want to make everyone's lives a little easier. I have NOT completed the entire story so I want to keep these footnotes just to remind myself/inform you/etc.
Also I realize that Bella's characterization if totally different that the books but I've changed the whole story basically in the first book. All will be explained in the next chapter.
* - This is not a Renee-bashing story. I feel Bella's anger is just. Renee's characterization may be off but I feel that she's the type of person to run when shit hit's the fan. We'll see. More to come!
** -Bella's friends do not know how exactly she got sick just like in the book.
*** - I am in a Pharmacy Technician class so this makes me reference to A LOT of drugs (as you'll notice as the story continues). I will always make a footnote for a drug I use so that I'm not leaving anybody in the dark. VICODIN is a drug used for moderate to severe pain. So is Morphine and Tapendatol.
**** - I'm not sure what the exact term for "escalator" is but this is just a way for Bella to go downstairs but still maintaining her position in her wheelchair
***** - Zoloft is a commonly prescribed drug to treat depression.
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