Disclaimer: I do not own Twilight

"A pearl is a beautiful thing that is produced by an injured life. It is the tear [that results] from the injury of the oyster. – Stephan Hoeller

"Good morning," a buttery voice wafts into the room. I mumble instinctively and allow my eyes to crack open. A nurse, clad in radiating white, flits over to the eastern side of the room. A set of cheap, decrepit windows lay embedded within the peeling wall. Ancient paint curls desperately around the edges, begging for renewal. Thick, suffocating curtains shade light from trickling in. Her thin fingers fumble with the curtains and finally, she snaps them aside. She cracks the window open slightly, beckoning in a strong breeze. The curtains whip and snap, furling furiously toward the chalk ceiling. Her mouth forms a perfect o as the breeze rustles her meticulous bun. "Oops." She shrills and snaps the window shut. The curtains balloon slowly toward the ground, dying, as her hair mimics the same motion. Brilliant sunshine illuminates the window, piercing my body and crusting my eyes shut. Silence follows the absence of Seattle's autumn wind and after a moment, I reopen them. The nurse shuffles in the far corner, placing Edward's daily schedule at the foot of his bed. I glance at the forlorn window to find the wind desperately, lithely working its way into hidden cracks. And I don't doubt it, because everything has its hidden cracks. A miniscule hole in a window or a crack ranging from the niche between toes to the end of a hair follicle can constitute as such. Yet when Edward's emerald eyes meet mine on this windy Seattle morning, I stop breathing. Because maybe every crack can be smoothed out once more, just as it once was, once upon a time. Yet I glance at my patterned, pasty arms and remember that fairytales are for girls who sink to the bottom of the ocean.

……

Pain heals over time. A week passes and rings of sickly yellow begin to form around my temporary tattoos. Green the shade of a disease manifests within the core of each bruise, as does the midnight blue. However, the black is fading. Perhaps, down into my pores, tainting every broken fiber of my being. Or, that's already occurred. I've regained vision in my eye, only to have it splattered with none other than black and blue.

I wheeze a sigh, air whistling through my cracked ribcage. The sun does not shine today, instead, the thick curtains are kissing; shielding out the sky's blanket of clouds. The television buzzes softly in the background, announcing the move of every Mariner up to bat. Hospital life whirs on: the drip of my IV - a constant stream of saline gushing into my battered frame. The thundering of the clock which adheres to time and its unchanging tyranny of aging. The bustling nurses who loyally attend to the room's two inhabitants and of course, the man in the other bed. We speak routinely. Often about our interests, occasionally about our lives, yet never about our pain. His story has not been acknowledged in the past week. And when I catch his stare every buttery or shrouded morning, I feel his appreciation burning into me. Perhaps one day I'll be ready to tell him mine.

But for now our eyes are on the game.

"Yes! A double! Get it, baby!" Emmett booms heartily. He beams, fingers wiggling through the thick, tainted air. Cheers erupt from the television, squealing loudly in accordance to the flickering frames of light on the shadowed floor. I murmur and strain a weak smile. His chair squeaks loudly against the tiling as he readjusts his position. The plastic chair struggles to uphold his muscular build while it moans and creaks in retaliation. As his boisterous cheering continues, I attempt to clear my throat. I am not heard.

"Emmett," I croak. My head torpidly turns to him. His face is basked in the television light as his grin spreads across his profile. "Emmett," I attempt again, a bit louder. My voice struggles to carry itself across the small span of space, and of course, I'm unheard. "Emmett." I command for the last time, my voice gurgling. Phlegm spews from the back of my throat and dribbles down the right corner of my mouth. My lungs are set ablaze and I begin an uncontrollable fit of coughing. Internally on fire, I choke and sputter for air.

"Shit, Bella." Emmett's eyes widen. He scurries from his seat to my side, craning over and thwacking my back. The base of his palm wallops me, sinking down into my skin, plunging all the way through. I gasp violently and fold into myself before there is a ringing in my ears. My eyes snap shut and I enter the familiar world of darkness.

"Shut the fuck up, Bella." Jacob roars deafeningly.

"No, please, Jacob," I beg hysterically, "I don't know that guy. He just asked me for directions. Jacob. Jacob. Jake, I swear, I –" His palm clamps around my chin, fingers digging in, making their usual mark. His sweet, sticky breath pools into my nostrils. It's dizzying, knocking me onto the backs of my heels. His body is on fire as he sets flames upon me too.

"Don't lie to me." He barks and clamps my chin tighter. The joints in his fingers crack as the tips drill into my skin. The silence is on fire. I stare into his blackened eyes and immediately begin to sob.

"I'm not. Jake, listen to me. Let me go. Please –" Yet he shoves me into the door frame. I reel backward, catching the doorknob during my fall. I cower, gripping onto the knob, hoping that it'll float up. Up, up and away. He stumbles over to me, towering and casting a black shadow over my folded body.

"Shut up." He slurs and slaps my back with an open palm. I squeeze my eyes shut and enter my temporary haven of darkness. He continues to slam my back, meticulous in his drunken rage not to batter me where it can be exposed. I cough and sputter, folding into myself so that I disappear all together.

"Let me go," I sob into my pillow, "Please. Please, don't hurt me." I beg into the sopping fabric of the case. I hysterically clutch my blanket, face hidden in my sea of tears. There is a harrowing silence before I realize that no one is touching me. Not even God. I slowly lift my heavy head, hair frazzled and matted, cheeks streaked with tears. I find the medical staff surrounding my bedside, peering down with concern on their rigid faces. Doctor Cullen gazes at me strangely, as if afraid to inflict pain upon me with even the wrong look. Emmett stands next to him, hand clasped tightly over the mouth with saucer eyes. Horror masks his face, painting it a shade of solid ivory.

"I… I-I… Bella, I… Oh, Bella… Oh, Christ, I'm so sorry. I-I…" He sputters through the cracks in his fingers. He recedes in height, shrinking to the ground and peering up at me large, pleading eyes. I blink slowly, staring down at him. Staring down at a man, for once. Not up. My shadow is cast over him and his fingers slowly grip my bedside railing. "I'm so sorry." He lowers his head. I glance up at my blonde doctor. The corners of his mouth are pulled downward and finally, I glance to him; the broken angel from my dream. I meet his beautiful eyes and for once, emotion is streaked across them. His longing sadness pierces my core and I'm cast in a sea of emotions.

"Oh, fuck me," I suddenly cry out, "Just kill me, would you? Would you, Doc? I'm sick of this. I don't understand why you're even trying." I heave, choking on my own primal, shuddering sobs. Emmett immediately places a hand on my wrist before snapping it back.

"Has she taken her medication today?" Doctor Cullen calmly inquires. A shining nurse fiddles about, pulling my dry-erase board from the foot of my bed.

"Her Orthoxycol?" She squeaks in a high, tittering voice.

"No," he continues in a tranquil manner. "The Lamictal, Rachel. Has she had her daily dosage?" He gazes at her expectantly and I feel Edward's stare burning into me.

"Why the fuck are you trying?" I snap. The room is blurred through my wall of tears and I grip balls of the thin blanket in my fists. "Can't you see I'm in Hell?" Emmett buries his head into my cot. Shaming himself. The air is thick, sticking to everyone's pores.

"Rachel," the blonde Doctor repeats serenely, "Would you be so kind to get Bella's medication?" He taps his clipboard curtly and she bobs her head up and down. She bolts out of the room and I sink down into the bed.

"Stop," my hot tears begin to slow. I shut my eyes and they continue to leak out the sides, lining my lashes as my familiar, personal mascara. "I can't do this anymore." Animalistic whimpers escape my throat.

"Get her, Ambien too." Doctor Cullen shouts out into the hallway. It crackles against my ears yet he's in a different dimension; outside the bubble. He peers into my personal Hell, convincing himself he can touch me. That he can understand and fix me. But if I'm in a bubble swimming with demons, no blonde angel can sew me back up. I breathe in through my nose slowly, chest rising, air whistling through the cracks in my ribs. I exhale just as slowly, discarding my heightened emotions. I open my eyes calmly, cast in complete frustration over my emotional outburst. My fingers immediately move toward rubbing the tears off my cheeks, but there is a dangling handkerchief in front of my eyes. I gaze at the soft cotton for a moment, wondering if it will pass through the bubble. Next to the gesture is a plastic cup littered in pink and blue pills. I sigh raggedly; at least these will pass through. I wash them down as Nurse Rachel dabs my eyes lightly. And as everyone stares at my broken shit show, my eyes slink over to Edward. He looks into my eyes, not at my bruises. Not my sloppy hair, my pasty skin, my purple eye or anything else that holds myself together with only a string of hope. He looks into my eyes. And maybe the perfect, blonde angel can't pass through my bubble, but imperfect angels who can swim to the bottom of the ocean can.

EPOV:

"Hello, Edward." A voice greets me. I glance up from the shabby wheelchair; the petty confinement of my current existence. Fuck this. I meet the gaze of a man. Quasi-curly hair. Copper tint to an otherwise auburn mop. Average height. Hazel eyes. Suit, tie, the workings of a corporate slave; a typical shrink.

"Hello." I mutter and wait for his move. The man maneuvers around a cheap, tacky desk, clacking his loafers against the gleaming white tiles. I'm almost positive the fluorescent lights burn a radiation into the back of my scalp, and I decide I'm already tired of this.

"So, Edward. I'm –"

"A shrink," I mutter flatly. "You're a hospital psychiatrist here to prescribe more to my arsenal of suppressants, depressants, benzodiazepines. Anything to send me on some oversea adventure to Crazy Island with the S.S. Prozac and Captain Ambien. Anything else I need to know?" I drum my fingers against the wheelchair. The noise reverberates off the ceiling and I can't help but smirk at the poor fellow's countenance.

"Oh," I sigh, "But I'm rude. Continue, would you? I'd hate to steal your thunder."

He blinks once, composing himself. "I'm Matthew. I figure I'll tell you that much since you've already sorted me out. Unless you can guess names."

"No. Not my specialty." I mutter flatly. He nods once and adjusts his tie.

"Look, Edward. I'm not going to beat around the bush. Yes, I am your hospital appointed psychiatrist. But in order for our sessions to be effective, I need your trust." He gazes at me and I have to suppress a snort.

"I get it, Matt. Matt. Can I call you Matt? Well, Matt. I understand the workings of the psychological world. I understand your job and I understand that I am that patient who surmounts the pinnacle of douchebaggery, but I don't need your help. I can help myself, thank you. We're both wasting our time." I tug at my hospital gown. The lights beat down on me, searing my eyes and igniting my spite.

He crosses his arms and nonchalantly leans back against his desk. With a single glance and a scowl, I prepare myself. "It's fine, Edward. I'm not sure what event in life made you so cynical, but I'll find out, eventually. You can be stubborn today. Tomorrow, for a week, if you choose. But you will be helped. I can guarantee you that." He states and I raise an eyebrow.

"So… What? We sit in silence for an hour? Ah, productivity." I smirk and he shakes his head.

"I'd assess you, but that doesn't seem like it'd fit in your schedule for today." Matthew the Shrink scowls sourly and I shrug.

"No, not really."

"So is that what you are? Some hardened, cynical… Individual," he strains and I grin, "Because of your past? I understand that. However, on my record here," he jabs his finger onto the table, "it states you have clinical depression. You're not the macho, stone man you appear to be. You have a psychological illness that needs to be treated." He folds his arms. There is a buzzing, sickening silence that eats away at my eyes. The kind that manifests hatred and insensible actions.

"You don't know me," I begin evenly, "don't you dare think you know me or my past. Don't think because you have a degree from some mediocre university that means that you can dissect me. Dissect someone else, but not me. You don't want to know me. You don't want to know what I see, hear, dream. You'll become like me. Look, Matt, psychologist to psychologist?" He gazes at me stunned. "You'll go crazy too. They'll get you. They'll throw a blanket over you, suffocate you until you can't find your way out again. You seem okay for now, but wait. Wait for it, because you'll snap one day. And don't think because you're decent looking, have a decent job, went to a decent school and probably have a decent wife, you'll evade it. Soon, you'll take work home with you. And then something will happen. Oh, you'll know. One day, your life is great. Untouchable. The next, you won't know what life is anymore."

BPOV:

My eyes flutter, struggling to grasp my surroundings. Sleep continues to caress me, curling into me. Ambien is my lover. I mumble incoherencies, fighting off its suffocating love. The familiar components of the room sharpen into focus: the buzzing television, the sickening glow of the florescent lights, the thick white curtains, my beeping heart monitor; reality. The simple ticking of a clock in reality is worse than any demon in subconscious surrealism. Memories of this morning flood my mind, spilling through the folds of my brain, leaking down into my heart. Oh no.

"Edward?" I ask meekly and struggle to turn on to my side.

"Bella." He responds flatly.

"I'm sorry you… Had to watch… That… Earlier, I mean." I murmur and a thick blush creeps up my cheeks. He studies me for a moment silence. Carefully, he raises his fingers to brush his feral bronze locks back. The thick linen bandages winding his arms are soiled. Sopping and dripping with rubies, he merely ignores this.

"You have color in your cheeks." he comments. I blink, shell shocked. My face reddens further and the blush creeps toward my neck.

"It's my disorder. Not the color, I, um… I'm just ashamed. I say things that aren't sensible. I… I'm sorry. It was horrid to watch, I imagine. I…" I stumble and trail, twisting my tongue into a knot.

"Well," he says curtly. "I think you look very beautiful with a bit of color in you." My breath catches in my throat and there is silence. It's too early to fall for someone else, a voice in my head hisses. I recoil a fraction. So what? Look how beautiful he is,a second counters. But look what men have done to you. Look at you. You're not beautiful, Bella. Don't trust a liar, the initial voice snaps. I stare at him, my eyes saucers, and rip myself in half.

"I… Thank you," I respond shakily and my heart monitor rate increases. We both glance at the increased rate and my face is ablaze. The corner of his mouth flickers into a fraction of a smirk and I dig my stubby nails into my wrist. "But…" I squeak and his eyes snap to attention. My nails dig deeper. "Maybe it's too.. It's too early…" I whisper.

"Of course, it is," he replies simply, "I was merely stating that you look beautiful with some color." He nods and turns to the television. I stare at him, perhaps for too long. And when I turn to his eyeline match on the Food Network's program, I recall the nails in my arm. I yank them out to find four tiny crescent marks. They nearly pierce my pallid skin, the red blood bubbling beneath the thin, existing layer. A light blue bruising layers on top of the crescent marks. Well, at least I didn't bleed. I study my self-inflicted marks before I'm interrupted; the harrowing squeals of ancient wheels turning cause me to look up. And what I find does not please me.

Nurse Rachel stands between the two beds with a black wheelchair in front of her petite frame. She meets my lackluster stare and beams that signature, cheery smile.

"We're going to go somewhere, Bella." She chirps and I assess the situation. I shoot her a deadened ogle as to how mobility is possible.

"What about my IV? My oxygen?" I question dully and swallow. My throat is parched and the saliva treks down in a sticky, burning fervor.

"You'll have it with you, honey. Let's get you in the chair." She flits toward me and I torpidly shift myself. Edward stares, quasi-mocking, yet all I can think of is his comment. I peel my blanket from my legs to expose my gaunt legs. My wobbly knees jut out, stretching against my pasty skin. Yet unlike the first time, I don't cry. He thinks I'm beautiful. I shoot him one last glance as I'm helped into the chair. And as the nurse carries over my IV pole, he stares back. Is he insane? My heart flutters; of course he's insane.

"Well," I mutter under my breath. "The sane can go fuck themselves."

"What's that?" Nurse Rachel cranes down to hear.

"Nothing," I glance up at her. "Let's go on that trip."

"Okay." She chippers and begins to wheel me backward. I smile slightly at my broken, insane, beautiful roommate and he returns a grin. A wicked, omniscient, heartbreaking grin.

……

A beam of merciless light sears my eyeballs. My body recoils, only to be retained by the worn, sickly leather of the wheelchair. My fingers crack themselves, the snapping of a bone, as they grip onto the metal. The icy metal fuses with the bones in my fingers, the pores in my skin. Here, again, confined. As always. My eyes pry themselves open, testing, prodding for the malignancies of light and the demons that don't dwell in the dark. I see a woman. A straitlaced woman. Beautiful, and callous sitting behind a wooden desk. Oceans of honey blonde hair spill from her scalp, falling, precisely, into the center of her back. Her mouth is stretched into a pout, straining the lines. The blood red lipstick swiped on is unperfected, sloppy even. Beady grey eyes and a sleek, black ensemble nestles into the wall, facing me. Staring. She injects ice into my veins, and I figure that this demon doesn't hide from light.

And her skin, so milky, so pale, so vapid, clashes brutally with her black ensemble. There's a clanging in my ears as her attire consumes the pallid span on this onyx woman. She radiates ice. How was white once considered so beautiful? Purity and innocence has never felt so eruptive. I stare, boring into the flesh of ivory and black, unable to stop. The symbolism polar of evil certainly has never seeped into my eyes, washing them, blinding them, even. My burning eyes stray to my fingers, the frail appendages juxtaposed in a devastatingly awkward array. My white fingers. A bomb of disgust unfolds in the pit of my belly; asphyxiating revelations substitute the burning in my eyes.

She looks like me.

I glance at the black on my arms - my own little black ensemble. Yet fifty dollars at clothing store didn't garner me mine. I can't take mine off after living a nightmare of doling out bullshit to the insane. She can wash her black blouse when patients dribble saliva of insanity on it. She can go home, splash some detergent and go to bed. And I, I with my own little black number, must sleep in my slobber of insanity. I ponder for a moment as her eyes bore into me, the blizzard of her stare washing my skin in ice. Silence. And then, I decide I needn't condone what is not my own life. But this is what sticks to that black outfit, that pallid skin:

"Go get a tan. You look sick." I whisper. She cocks an eyebrow and adjusts her raven blouse.

"Well," she issues curtly. "Thank you for the suggestion, Isabella."

"Bella." I correct softly.

"What?" She cranes forward, ear perked. She picks up a pen from the table and begins to fiddle with the cap.

"People call me Bella."

"Bella," she repeats dubiously, "Of course. My apologies. You know, it's wonderful to meet you." Her ruby lips widen and I'm reminded of Edward's soiled bandages.

"You too." I croak.

"Do you know who I am?" The stone woman bats her lashes and I sigh softly.

"Yes." I murmur. Her eyebrows raise and the pen cap is between her forefinger and thumb.

"Oh?" She purses her lips.

"You're a shrink," I cough and instinctively wince. "Sorry." I choke through coughs.

"Well, yes. If you'd like to call it that, Bella. I'm the hospital's psychiatrist. My name is Heidi." Her smile spreads again and I nod numbly.

"Hi." I attempt yet the icy stare bores into me. I shiver.

"Hello. Now, Bella, you were referred to me by Doctor Cullen. So let's get some foundation out of the way," she glances at me and proceeds to pull a clipboard from her desk. "You suffer from bipolar I disorder, correct?" She peers at me through her lashes and I nod silently. She scribbles something onto a blank piece of paper and nods to herself as well. "Okay… Now…" She murmurs and places the cap on the back of the pen in one swift movement. "I have a record of your injuries and medications, provided to me by the hospital. If I see to it that you require excess medication, I'll be prescribing it to you." She looks up at me and I blink.

"Okay."

"Great," She scribbles something else down and rests the tip of her red pen against the white paper. A red dot forms beneath the tip. "Now, Bella. I'm aware of your injuries. The hospital has spoken to authorities, but I'm here for you. I need you to trust me, so we can fix you, okay?" She gives a prosthetic smile.

"You can try." I murmur.

"Yes. Okay, just to get a general idea, Bella, I'm going to perform several Rorschach tests on you." She says and retrieves a folder from her desk.

"Okay."

Heidi opens the folder up and swiftly removes the first inkblot.

"Ready?" She raises her eyebrows and I nod silently. She lifts the sheet up, turning it to me slowly. An amorphous blob of ink is splattered in the middle, branching out around the general circumference. Randomized dots litter the insides of the paper's perimeter and I study the test for a moment.

"A flower," I finally confirm. "With pollen." She nods fervently and scribbles down something onto her notepad. She pulls out the second test, another splattered mess of ink. It's symmetrical and slopes downward at an angle, branching off to other ridiculous amorphous shapes.

"Two women," I say softly. "They're ice skating." Again, she nods, scratches her pen across the pad and pulls out a third test. Feeling confident in my innocent, sane answers, I cannot help but stare for an excess amount of time at the third. The inkblot forms a windshield, two headlights, a bumper and the front angle of two wheels. A tall, thin inkblot is placed to the right of the initial and overall, the test is splattered with ink.

A car. A person. Blood.

My heart sinks. A car wreck. There's a person to the right crying, Heidi. There's blood everywhere. It's everywhere, I want to say.

"I don't know," I say instead. Numb. "Can I have another?" She nods and proceeds to pull out a fourth Rorschach test. A tall inkblot is placed vertically on the left side of the paper. On the right side is another inkblot folded in two; into itself. A thin trail of ink connects the two shapes while the piece is dotted with three distinct circles. One circle, however, is on the far right.

"What do you see, Bella?" Heidi peers at me and I stare. Hard. There is a long silence and I feel my body turn to ice.

"I see a man and a woman," I finally murmur. She nods and beckons for me to continue. "He's hurting her. See, she's on the ground, folding into herself. He hurts her, but she loves him. See? See the line between them? She's connected to him. She loves him. See those three circles? That's the cycle of love, pain and suffering. And see that one in the far corner? That's strength. But she can't reach it." And I begin to cry.

Sorry for the hiatus all. Busy life, what can I say? So, this is to Matt. Happy birthday!

I promised I'd update this for you, so I completely blew off my actual essay so I could bang this chapter out.

I hope you, and all the rest of you, enjoy it! Took me... Eh, a whole summer to get over my writer's block. Happy reading

x, JC44