Chapter 6: Friday Afternoon

Chapter 6 - Friday Afternoon

I arrive home only slightly behind schedule, letting out a small sigh of relief as I reach the front door. I always relax a bit when I get home, away from the people and the uncertainness. Even if I’ve been less happy to leave Edward this week, I still crave the quiet and calmness of my home turf. I’m most comfortable when I’m by myself, although the thought of being alone with Edward isn’t horrible.

Reaching the front door I slip my key into the lock and twist, hearing the satisfying sound of the bolt slide open. Before I enter I quickly knock twice on the polished, pristine wood of the door. It’s one of my habits. Usually I only do it on the front door of a house I’m going into. Two knocks, no more, no less.

The house is as quiet as I thought it would be. Mother is still occupied with her activities for the day. I breeze through the downstairs, quickly putting things back in their rightful place that may have been moved on Mothers usual whirlwind rush to leave this morning. It only takes me 10 minutes, so I quickly climb the stairs to my room.

I know I should be doing some writing now. I’ve managed to just barely placate Mother for the last few days, but today I have yet to write a word. I’m close to filling my notebook, but I’m reluctant to finish. I always dread the days when Mother takes my notebook and I have to settle in with writing in a new one. It alway feels strange and wrong for the first few pages.

I find myself sitting at my desk, my notebook open in front of me, pen poised in my hand. As much as I know I need to write and fill the lined pages so Mother will be happy, I can’t seem to bring myself to. Nothing seems to make sense in my head, and everything seems to lead back to Edward. How he looks when he talks to me so passionately, or how his brow wrinkles when he’s worried about me. I keep remembering the warm comforting feeling of his arms around me and the deep, musky, manly smell of him when I buried my head in his shirt.

Most of all, I think about how lost and alone I feel without him. The solidarity I usually crave now seems cold and lonely without him here with me. Before, everything I experienced was like I was looking through a window, looking in but completely removed at the same time. It’s like my emotions have awoken and I’m starting to figure out what they mean, how I’m feeling. So much has changed over the past few days, that I just want to crawl into a hole and think about everything for a solid week.

One of the main things I’ve been thinking about lately is Mother. How she treats me, and some of the things she does. My whole life she’s been telling me that it’s my fault I’m like this and that there’s no one that will ever love me, because I’m not normal. She always complains about being stuck with me, because I could never survive on my own. I can’t help but believe her on most points. I am different, but Edward has led me to believe that maybe that’s not a bad thing, and that I’m normal in my own way.

However, Mother is right completely right about one thing. I couldn’t survive without her. She gives me a place to live, buys food for me to cook, buys me clothes when I need them and notebooks when I need a new one. Even if she’s never loved me, at least she’s given me that.

There are so many other things about my life, and things Mother does, that confuse me. Like how insistent she is that I write, how she steals away with my notebooks. I can’t for the life of me think of why, but she’s been doing it for years now. I remember a time when she used to basically ignore me. I went to a regular elementary school, but dropped out of the zoo that is high school and studied online. After my first week in that hell hole I had experienced so many panic attacks that the school insisted I be catered for elsewhere. Mother gave me a computer, set me up and basically told me to go at it. I was fine with that, and I flew through easily. I am by no means an idiot. At fourteen I had a high school diploma and plenty of time on my hands.

So I read. Anything and everything.

I started at the local library, usually staying in the fiction section. Sometimes I branched out to the science books, medical texts or historical references. The librarian tried to steer me towards the childrens and young adults section at first, but that barely kept me busy for a couple of months. By my sixteenth birthday I had finished every fiction book worth reading in the library, so I went back to reading my favorites. I have a fondness of historical English romances, with my absolute favorite being Wuthering Heights. When I started to get bored again, it was then that I began to write. Eventually Mother caught on, and for some reason she insisted on watching over it. Soon after that she forbade me from reading. She always said that I needed to keep writing, and all the reading I did kept me from writing more. I miss reading a lot, but Mother has managed to manipulate my routines so that I can’t get to the library. For a while I thought about disobeying her and walking to the library, like I used to do for so long before. However, could never bring myself to do it, to change my daily plan in such a drastic way. When we moved to this new modern monstrosity, I gave up on the idea entirely. It’s too far away from the library for me to walk anyway, and the unpredictability of the public transport system is enough to persuade me from attempting to bus there.

All this thinking is getting to me again, and I have no desire to try and focus my racing thoughts enough to channel it into writing.

Giving up, I stand and wander around my room. It’s weird for me to do something so aimlessly. It’s even weirder to not be doing what I know I should be, but I can’t bring myself to care. I gaze at my notebooks, all lined up on my bookshelf. Theres about 50 of them, standing next to each other in perfect order. This bookshelf once held my meager book collection, a mismatch group of novels rescued from library throw out bins and garage sales. Mother took them away to stop me reading them. I had to watch from my window as she walked down the stairs from our old, small, second story apartment and tipped my pile of treasures into the large garbage bin at the entrance to our apartment complex.

I remember it was one of the only times I ever cried when I was growing up.

I have one hidden treasure though. She didn’t manage to get all of them.

Dropping to my knees I reach under my bed and pull out a shoebox, quickly dusting off the minute layer of dust on top. Lifting the lid I reach in to grab my one last treasure, the last book I own. My copy of Wuthering Heights is battered and tattered. It’s cover is faded and creased and the edges of the pages have yellowed with age. But still, it’s the most precious thing I own. I picked it up for a dollar at a book fair when I was sixteen. I had been reading it on the day that Mother had taken my other books. It had been resting on my bedside table, so she had missed it in her clear out. Before she could return from the bin that day, I quickly hid the lone book under my mattress.

I can’t help but hold it with reverence, gently running my hand down the cover. I haven’t read it in a while and I can’t help the immense happiness I feel at the thought. I bound onto my bed, settling down to lean against my headboard. I tell myself I will only read for a short while, just to relax and try and focus before Mother gets home.

However, it doesn’t take long for me to get swept up in the romantic, tragic story of Catherine and Heathcliff.

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“What are you doing?”

The cold, hard steel of Mothers voice drags me from by pseudo-dream state. I feel dread fall over me as I freeze, refusing to lift my head. I can never look Mother in the eyes. Glancing over at my bedside table, my breathing quickens as I see the time on my alarm clock.

5:15 pm.

Oh god.

I’ve been reading for almost 5 hours. My plan to spend a short time reading was thrown out the window when I become ensconced in the rich, colorful, tragic storyline. I could kick myself for being so careless. I should have set an alarm to wake me from my daze, especially because I know how absorbed I can get. Instead here I am, in clear defiance of Mothers rules. I’ve never been caught going against her before.

“Well?” Her harsh question makes me jerk in fright. She wants an answer.

“I...I was...I was just...” My mouth remains open but no sound escapes. I don’t know what to do. I know this is bad, but I can’t see a way out of what comes next. I hear her heavy steps coming near, and the impending sound makes my mouth go dry and my palms begin to sweat.

“Didn’t I tell you that you’re not allowed to read?” She’s standing over me now, and I shrink down to make myself smaller. Before I can move away, her hand shoots out and snatches the book from me.

“Who’s is this?” Her voice is so calm and level, but with an underlying threat of anger and resentment. It’s sends shivers down my spine.

“I...it’s m...mine.” She snorts at my attempt to speak.

“Where did you get it?” I find myself unable to answer again. The silence stretches and I lift my gaze, only managing to look as far as her mouth. I think she can tell I’ve given up on trying to talk to her.

Her mouth twists into a cruel, mocking smile.

“Well, we’ll have to remedy this, won’t we?” Her rhetorical question hangs in the air for a second before her perfectly manicured fingers grasp at the open page.

Rip.

I sit in stunned silence as Mother tears each and every page from it’s spine, releasing them to flutter to the floor around me. She keeps going and going, shredding my one precious belonging in her hands. And all I can do is sit there and watch.

By the time she’s done I’m sobbing, tears streaming down my cheeks and my breathing harsh and shallow. My chest aches, and all I can do shake and stare at the same spot on the floor.

“Where’s your notebook. I want to see it.” My head snaps up to my desk, then darts over to her. She sees where my gaze is directed and starts to move across the room. Somewhere in the back of my mind I realise I don’t want her to have my notebook. It’ mine, and mine only. I don’t understand why she wants to see it, and I don’t care. She can’t have it this time.

I launch myself off my bed and manage to reach the desk before her, snatching the notebook and holding it to my chest. Standing my ground, I finally work up the courage to meet her gaze for the first time ever. I can tell this startles her, and her surprise gives me the strength to stand up to her for the first time in my life.

“No.”

The word hangs in the space between us, heavy and thick with tension. I feel good, proud of myself. I think of all the things Edward has been saying to me for the past few days, and I use his words as a strength to stand up against her, against my own Mother.

Then, in front of my eyes, she shakes off her surprise and her pretty features melt into an ugly, cruel smirk. I can feel the blood drain from my face. I thought I had done it, I thought I had stood up for myself. But as I look into her eyes, I know she won’t ever let me get away with it. Her pale blue, almost grey eyes are hard as stone, lifeless and shallow. I can see in her eyes what I’ve guessed at my whole life, but now know for certain.

She doesn’t love me. She never has and she never will.

She advances towards me slowly and I try to back away, but the desk behind me hinders my progress.

“That was a big mistake Isabella. Now give me the notebook.”

I’m so scared, but still I shake my head.

“No.”

Mother snarls, her lips curling in a cruel growl.

“Give it to me!”

She lunges at me, and I twist to the side to try and avoid her, my notebook clutched tightly to my chest. Her long, artificial nails scrape deeply down my forearm, leaving behind long trenches in my skin that immediately pool with blood. I cry out as the harsh, sharp pain rushes through me. and as she continues to try and pry the book from my arms. I manage to move to the side, away from my desk, but she still has a hold of me and I end up backed against my wardrobe. I continue to struggle until she pauses for a minute.

What happens next appears to happen in slow motion, yet I can do nothing to stop it. She raises her right arm across her body, her fingers held out but together tightly. I can see the twinkling diamond in one of her many different rings, sitting proudly on her perfectly manicured hand. I see it coming down towards me, but I can do nothing to stop it.

Whack!

My head whips to the side as the back of her hand lands in a solid blow across my cheek. I’m seeing stars, and stumble into the door of my wardrobe, throwing my hands out to catch myself as I tumble to the floor. I lie still for a moment, unable to function. My right cheek is stinging and burning, and my head is pounding. I somehow manage to lift my head and I bring my hand up to my cheek. Wiping it slightly, I come away with a mixture of tears and blood.

Mothers shoes appear in the side of my vision, and she crouches down next to me. I look up at her, wincing in pain, to see her pulling out a tissue from her pocket and wiping bright red smears of blood off her pristine her diamond. Once she’s satisfied, she tosses her tissue to the side and looks down at me, a smile on her face and her head cocked to the side.

“Now Isabella. Isn’t it just easier to do what I say?”

I give up. I can’t do it. Tearing my gaze from her’s, I rest my head on the carpeted floor, my gaze settling on the bright red polish of her toes. The color matches the lines of blood on my hand, and running down my arm. From the corner of my eye I see her reach over and pick up my notebook. I don’t have the energy to stop her anymore. I hear her flicking through the pages carelessly.

“Well someone hasn’t been very busy, have they?” she taunts. “But I guess this will just have to do. You can start on a new notebook.”

I make a faint strangled sound in my throat. The thought of starting a new notebook before I’ve finished that one is almost unbearable.

“What was that dear?” Her violent, yet sickly sweet question throws me into silence. “That’s right, nothing. You will do as I say Isabella. Don’t forget who looks after you, who puts up with your sorry excuse for a life. You’re too damaged to survive on your own. You're worthless.”

With that, she stands and storms out, taking my notebook and leaving me in tears and blood, surrounded by the remains of my favorite, treasured possession.

~~~~~~~~~~~~

At some point, as the sun sets out the window and after I hear the front door slam as Mother leaves for one of her engagements, I manage to drag myself onto all fours, and I pry open my wardrobe door. I crawl in, settling myself in the corner with my knees against my chest, and pull the door shut.

And I float. I let my thoughts go, to drift off into a safe, numb place. So much went wrong, that I can’t seem to find a way to make it right with myself. So I lose myself in the only way I know how; within my own confused, confuddled mind.

Eventually, my mind breaks, and a torrent of harsh, raw agony sweeps through me. I bury my head in my knees and rock, not bothering to stifle my heaving sobs as the night wears on around me.

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