𝐢𝐧𝐯𝐢𝐭𝐞 / 𝐈𝐈.

10.

10 - the blinding rage

There's a shift in Bella's attitude towards me in the following days. Suddenly she's joined the list of people who refuse to speak to me. It's infuriating how long the list has gotten with no explanation. Had I really offended her that much with my advice about Jacob? Was she let in on some big secret about something horrible I did without my knowledge? It's illogical how this all happened, how I've ended up essentially friendless.

Perhaps I'm cursed.

"Heather, can I have a moment with you?" Mr. Berty asks as the morning bell rings for the second period.

"Yeah, sure." Some of my peers glance as they walk by, but no one pays much interest. I'm no more than a face in the background nowadays, I'm not dating a dazzling boyfriend, nor am I the class valedictorian.

"I received an email recently about a poetry competition through the University of Washington in Seattle. I know it's one of the schools you've been considering, it's a good school. And, well, you're just about the only student in this class who's got a poetic side, so I thought I'd mention it to you. I'll forward the email to you if you'd like?" He explains, tidying up his desk, and stacking turned-in worksheets.

"Yes, I'd love that. Thank you." I wasn't always the lone poet in this class, my boyfriend used to share the same deep love for it. But he's gone, and my poetry skills with him. But, I wouldn't admit to Mr. Berty that I haven't written poetry or picked up my guitar since September, stuck in a mental fog.

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

My fingers tap the wood as I wait for my computer to load, not so patiently. While it continues to take its sweet time, I stand up and fetch the mail to keep myself from pacing. I've lost all ability to be patient, to wait, it never seems to do me any good. The stack of mail is mostly filled with college junk, reminding me of my lack of decision and the limited time I have to make my mind up. Early May was the deadline, and March is almost done, leaving me with so little of time.

I sit back down at the desk with the postage on my lap and pull up my email. There's only one other email waiting to be read besides Mr. Berty's, a long detailed one from Jay about her life in Portland. Other than that my inbox only holds sad, unsent emails for two people missing from my life. The ones to him remain unsent, I never even try to send them. But the ones to Alice are failed, she's deactivated her old email, another step to keep me away. Another dagger to the heart.

There's a pull in my chest as I read over the scholarship rules. A poem about rough personal experiences, it sounds easy but also ridiculous. I don't want to write about a father I'll never know, and it sounds humiliating to write about a boy who ripped out my heart and turned me estranged from my world.

I move from the computer up to my room, crawling on the ground and searching for my songbook under the bed. But it's pushed to the back and difficult to reach, especially with my pesky cat getting in the way. Eventually, I struggle enough and grasp the spine, pulling it out from the dust underneath that leaves me coughing. Opening the notebook, I search the contents, hoping for some idea of inspiration, some spark. 

But there isn't much distress in my words, they're all so happy and lovesick. They belong to a ghost of a girl who moved about life so ignorantly. I flinch and drop the book, feeling like it's almost stung me, and offended me by its words. Especially the ones dedicated to a relationship six feet under. With no help, I begin to pace, attempting to brainstorm. There was plenty of time to write and submit my entry, but the faster I can get it done, the less time I can spend talking about my misery, the better.

"Shit!" I swear, my foot catching on something underneath my rug. Stumbling around, toes throbbing, I pull back my dirty rug and find that one of my floorboards is loosely sticking up, not sitting right. "Damn, floorboard."

It doesn't budge when I try to push it down, so I remove it to find the obstruction and then I recoil at what lies underneath it. Not a grotesque corpse of a bug, but a stack of papers, pictures, and poems. Memories of him.

They're all here, all the ones that disappeared when he left. Every picture with him or another Cullen family member. From our summer trip to Oregon, my birthday party, hikes, hangouts, all the moments I had captured with him, all the ones I wanted to look at and relive.

Continuing to look through the stack, I find my favorite, our favorite. One that Alice had captured, the two of us were unaware and laughing with one another, his hand on my shoulder, my nose pressing against his cheek. Even in this frozen photograph the love that was once there can be felt and seen.

Drops of salty water spill out of my eyes and fall onto the photo, staining it. I begin to heave, my head aching, my heart throbbing, reminiscing the old days. A scream forces its way out of my lungs as the insurmountable grief claws at me. My face turns hot as my grief is turned to anger, thick, bitter anger. Hatred.

Snatching the photos, letters, and poems up, I force them into the trash can with vigor. Fury towards Edward for what he did to me, how he ruined me. I never should've been dealt these cards, romance shouldn't be turned into loathing. Relationships becoming dust.

"I hate you!" I scream to his ghost, throwing my hands up in the air wildly. Grateful that my mother isn't home to hear my outburst. "I hate you! I hate everything about you! I fucking hate you, Edward Cullen!"

The grief wrestles with the fury as I begin to sob again, pulling all the pictures back out. Bringing all of them close to my chest before crumpling up on the floor like discarded paper. Fitting since that's what I've become, discarded, unwanted.