Contest entry for the 'A Journey into the Dark & Twisted' Contest

Title: Where You Go

Prompts used: Group B Pic #1/ Group E Pic #3 (Prompt B#1 is a manip made by Kerry Delaney)

Pairing: Bella & Edward

Rating: M

Word Count: 7798

Summary: I fought the panic as my eyes fluttered and my thoughts slowed; a floating euphoria taking over. For a split second, I wished he would tighten his grip, never let go - not until I did.

Disclaimer: The author does not own any publicly recognizable entities herein. No copyright infringement is intended.

Where You Go

Waking with a jolt, I was greeted with a burst of blinding sunlight, my heart beating frantically against my chest. It skipped with the dip in the cheap mattress beneath me, slowing, as flowing, brown hair fanned out over my face, strategically blocking the sun. Its shine shown all around as if it were a halo adorning her head.

"What were you dreaming about?"

Licking my lips, I cleared my throat, causing curiosity to crease her brow and pull at the down-turned corners of her mouth.

I didn't want to tell her.

She didn't need to know.

"Nothing, baby. I don't even remember," I lied, cradling her soft jaw and stroking the apple of her tinted cheek with my thumb. "You hungry?"

Nodding, she bared her teeth, one of the two front missing. I noticed the other was soon to follow, watching as her tongue continued to wiggle the pearly-white loose. She'd been getting more and more desperate for another glitter-covered, Tooth Fairy dollar.

"We're making waffles!" She gleamed, covering her mouth as she giggled. And I took the opportunity to poke that little pot belly, causing her to giggle that much deeper.

That laugh.

I loved that laugh.

"We are?" I asked.

Nodding again, a few tangled tendrils fell into her face, and I pushed them back behind her ear.

"Uh-huh, come on."

Grabbing my wrist, she made a show, grunting and grimacing, trying to pull me from the warmth of my bed. It didn't take much for me to give in, not when that pink bottom lip finally protruded. And with a huff, I climbed out from under the covers, allowing her to pull me down the hallway.

I stopped in my tracks as we entered the kitchen, my tight grip causing her to jerk back while I took in the mess that covered the entire, tiled counter.

"Baby, how … where'd you find that?"

Loosening my hold on curled fingers, I walked over and picked up the spilled bag of flour, curious as to how she had even managed to reach the top shelf of the cupboard. The full gallon of milk was too heavy for her to lift, especially above her head. And I didn't even remember packing the plugged-in waffle maker.

Padding over and pulling out the bar-stool, she fearlessly climbed up, offering a long yawn, before she thoughtlessly replied, "He helped me."

A flash of heat flared throughout my chest as I put the flour back into the cupboard, and turned to face her.

"Who's he?" I asked, trying to keep an even tone as my heart trembled, its unsure dread rising into my throat. Crossing my arms over my chest, I hid my shaking limbs.

"My new friend," she informed nonplussed, carelessly swiveling from side to side; seemingly feeling no need to elaborate, which had me worrying all that much more.

If someone were in this house, that was something I needed to know.

"Okay, so ... Your friend found this?" I asked, pointing to the heated iron. "Did he plug it in, too?"

Not answering, she continued to twist, whispering something under her breath I didn't quite catch.

"Baby …"

Watching her hushed mouth, I waited for a beat, before pushing off the counter, untangling my arms, and halting the distraction that was the chair.

"Baby … did you plug that in?" I asked as calmly as I could, knowing I'd repeatedly told her, and told her to never touch the outlets; something I was under the impression that she understood.

She shook her head.

"Did … did he plug it in?"

In well-learned fashion, she bit her bottom lip, before nodding her bowed head as if she were in trouble.

I felt a twinge of guilt tug at my chest; my worry turning so quick to anger.

"Where'd he go?" I questioned, as the guilt bottomed out; an uneasy apprehension setting in, as she secretly whispered, leaning towards the empty seat beside her, and a conspiring smile lit up the side of her face.

"He's right here," she said, pointing to the void space sitting on the chair, before turning her sincerity back to me.

"He says he never left."

.

.

The late September morning held a nip that chilled to the bone as its wind picked up, stirring fallen leaves from the Sycamore tree in our front lawn.

I had gotten lazier and lazier over the years, leaving nature to do as it pleased, blow the debris onto the street or some other yard to become someone else's problem. I didn't have time for raking didn't have the patience or the desire. Life was too short, the days not long enough, and the nights were always so cold.

To be honest, I didn't really care.

I didn't really care about a lot of things, save my precious, brown-eyed girl. She was the only thing that mattered.

"Mommy, where do leaves come from?" Curiosity asked; swirls of castaneous-colored crisps circling her stocking-covered ankles as we quickly made our way to the car. I cracked a smile listening to the tap-tap-tap of clunky Mary Janes, the sweet sound of laughter as she kicked and stomped, noisily grinding the frail foliage into the ground.

"The trees," I stated smartly, watching the bounce of her loose curls as she hopped to the next.

She was so easily amused, so innocent in the ways of this cruel world that surrounded her. I thrived off of her fascination with the simplest things, her ability to see them as something more than what they were.

Everything was a toy.

Everything was a game.

Everything.

"Where do trees come from?"

What I wouldn't give to keep her that way, just the way she was now, smiling and laughing and content to just jump from leaf to leaf all day.

"The ground."

Waiting for her soft, inevitable huff of frustration with my obvious answers, I tried not to think about the impending future, the dreaded years to come; the fallout from when she goes from dimpled, little girl, to moody, young lady; that moment the fun and games come to an untimely end.

"Where does the ground come from?"

Opening the back door to let her climb in, I helped her buckle up as she stroked a hanging tendril of my hair, and then placed it behind my ear. With warmed cheeks, I looked up into tender, brown eyes, seeing myself in them; seeing so much more than myself in them.

I saw him too.

"It's just there, baby, always has been."

Kissing her rosy reds, I shut the door before folding into the front seat, to turn the ignition. I leaned back as the engine roared to life, very nearly putting me to sleep with its soothing vibrations as they thrived and thrummed straight through me.

It seemed to take too much energy to do anything anymore, and I felt drained

Drained as I drove to the school.

Drained as I dropped her off.

Drained as I entered the city limits, parked on the third floor of the parking garage, and then rode up five flights to my floor where I was welcomed with a cockeyed smile, and a lukewarm cup of the world's shittiest coffee.

"Good morning!" Perkiness greeted loudly, her honeysuckle hair pulled back into a high and tight bun.

"Really, what's so good about it?" I retorted, my own small smirk playing on the corner of my bitter mouth.

It obviously needed reminding.

"Oh, I don't know. The fact that you're alive, for one." Internally wincing, I lifted the cup to my mouth, feigning thirst, as she continued. "You have a good job; a good friend," she mused, no real need to point that French-tipped thumb at herself. She knew she was my one and only.

"And don't forget about that beautiful, little girl of yours; the one that looks just like her beautiful mama."

Her assessing compliment went ignored as I squinted over the bottom of the Styrofoam. The girl in question was beautiful, yes; her mother, not so much.

Nothing about me was beautiful.

Not anymore.

Not since ...

Forcing down a sip of day-old brew, I turned and walked away, trying not to think about it; that night, and every night since then.

She followed closely behind, continuing to speak slyly to my back.

"Are you seeing him tonight? Have you introduced them yet?"

Reaching my office, she invited herself in, shutting the door and then pulling the shade down behind her.

"Well …" she pushed as I plopped down in my seat, making myself comfortable. Impatience impeded, as she leaned forward, pressing her palms into the freshly polished polywood.

"Yes and no," I answered, a smidgen too vaguely it would seem.

"Yes you're seeing him tonight, or yes, you introduced them, and you're not seeing him tonight? Which is it?" She pressed, her pry forcing me to peek up from an unsorted stack of important papers.

Shaking my head, I looked back down.

"Yes, I'm seeing him tonight. No, I haven't introduced them," I clarified, searching for the stapler that was somewhere, hidden under the mess on top of my desk. "I wasn't planning on it either," I reinforced, flashing her a look from under my lashes, "introducing them, that is."

They didn't need to know one another, didn't need to meet.

There was no point, really.

I was nothing to him, just as much as he was nothing to me.

Clearing her throat and me from my thoughts, she shoved the lost and found device in my face.

"Ah, thank you," I commended, offering an indirect smile; never letting my inner-most musings show, as I took it from her hand. I didn't bother looking up until she cleared her throat again.

"What?"

Raising her brows, she shrugged.

"Just seems strange is all. What's it been, six months?"

"Seven," I corrected, looking away as I leaned back on the leather-covered padding of the chair. This conversation was headed in a direction I wasn't ready for it to go. And I was in no mood to hear what was to no doubt follow the concerned sigh.

"What?" I asked again, exasperated, both knowing that she was going to tell me anyway.

"It's just … that's a long time."

I rolled my eyes, and she leaned forward.

"It is. You're not just fuck buddies anymore. This is a relationship."

Swallowing the bile that rose into my throat, I was quick to snort off her insinuation.

An escape from agonizing realities was no relationship. It was just that, an escape.

I used him, and he used me.

Easy.

We didn't discuss our feelings, since we had no feelings to discuss.

Simple.

It wasn't a relationship, I stressed, but only to myself; too afraid she'd see right through me if I fought her any further. Persistence in reasoning would only be mistaken for passion; always had been; always would be.

It would show that I cared.

Which I did.

But I didn't want to.

And I didn't want her to know it; trying my best to hold my tongue on the matter. Ignoring the beat of my traitorous heart, as it continued to pound against my chest, I simply changed the subject.

"Have any of your kids ever had an imaginary friend?"

.

.

I left the office early with a spring in my step. Not only was it Friday, but my worries had been put to rest.

Kids sometimes imagined things.

It happened.

"Imaginary friends, no. Dogs, yes. It happens."

With that statement, I was reassured, sending distraction out the door so I could finish my work, and then leave for the day.

I had plans; plans to get lost and forget that I had worries to be rested, even if only for a little while. And since Nana started picking up her grand-baby from school every day, my Friday nights were always free.

Turning off the highway, I merged left onto the main road, entering the rich end of town; the one where the solar powered street signs glowed, brightening the darkest of night.

Making two rights, I took in the neighborhood for what felt like the first time, noticing the goblins and ghouls, the ghosts that flew through the branches on the trees. Spider webs covered the bushes; their little black arachnids making me shiver - no matter that they were only plastic - as the purple and orange string lights twinkled, lighting my way to the tan, two-story, planted at the end of the cul de sac.

"Fit for a family," was what he had called it. But I just saw it as a house - his house.

Pulling into the paved drive, I parked, cutting the engine. I took a moment to calm my nerves, before climbing out, and quickly making my way up the steps. My finger hovered just over the bell as the door flew open and he pulled me inside.

"How many times do I have to tell you to just come in?" he asked, peeling me free of my camel-colored pea coat and hanging it on the hanger.

I didn't answer as his heat warmed me from behind his arms circled my waist, and his nose nestled into my hair.

"My door's always open. But if it's locked …" Turning me in his arms he pressed me up against the wall, lifting the hem of my skirt to part my legs with one of his thighs, "use your key."

His heavy palms hiked my skirt up further around my waist. "I missed you," he confessed, placing a lingering kiss on my lips, as his fingers hooked into the thin band of my panties. Impatience didn't wait for a reply; never expected one, dropping to his knees, his hot breath hovering over my bare folds. I felt myself over-flowing as his thumbs spread my lower lips, his tongue slowly licking its way up my slit. I moaned when he did, as his lips wrapped around me, to lightly suck.

With weekly practice, his mouth quickly learned how to make me come; undone, against his wet tongue, around his curled fingers, on his big, stiff dick.

I wanted it.

Tightening my muscles, I ran my hands through his hair. He moaned as I gripped the roots, giving them a good tug, trying to pull him away.

I wanted him.

I wanted him inside me.

Pushing my backside further into the wall, he sped the flick of his greedy tongue, slipping two fingers inside. Pressing his free hand against my lower stomach, he poked around wet flesh, stopping to stroke once as I gasped and writhed under his restrictive hold.

He knew I hated this; the fact that I could even do it. It was disturbing in itself, driving me to the point of embarrassment with just the mere memory. The first time was the worst, the way he held me down, cooed in my ear for me to feel, let go, soak his cock and his sheets with all that pent-up come.

"Fuck," I hissed, feeling the pressure build, balling deep inside.

I warded off the inevitable for as long as I could; holding back till his mouth freed me, encouraged to give him all that I could.

"Oh, fuck!"

Throwing my head back with a thump against the wall, I bear down, doing just that; giving him all he wanted, as he latched back on, flattening his tongue roughly against my clit. Pulsating and convulsing, I came hard; felt the warm flow of fluid running down my leg as he released the puffed flesh with a sucking pop. His fingers remained inside me as he stood, taking my mouth with his. I was still coming, my head still buzzing, as he ran his shaven chin down the length of my neck; covering me in my own, forced fluids to lick them back off.

It was disgusting.

He was a freak; unclean and simple as that.

Concealed by a cookie cutter structure.

Cloaked in expensive suits and ties.

Freak.

And I loved it.

Loved him.

"I could stay here all day, buried inside you."

Thrusting his fingers upward, he stressed his point.

"So warm."

Thrust.

"So soft."

Thrust.

"Marry me."

His request came as no surprise, no different than when he commanded I come.

He'd been asking me every Friday night for the past three weeks now. And every Friday night my answer remained the same.

"No."

Determined disappointment never fought, only kissed harder; made me coat his fingers in come again, before demanding I open so he could shove my own panties inside my mouth.

Taking my hand he led me to the couch where he bent me over the arm. He was quick to unbuckle his Ducky's, the heavy belt falling hard, to hit the floor with a metal clank before he slowly slipped in.

He fucked me shallowly, never shoving past the tip of his head till I was mewling a muffled plea around wet, black cotton, trying to slide down the filling length of his whole cock.

"What if I fucked you hard, would you marry me then?" he asked, knowing I wouldn't, knowing he'd fuck me hard anyway.

This was punishment.

"Say you keep saying no," he pondered, grabbing a chunk of my hair, as he pushed all the way in, pulling my back into an arch.

"Ungh!"

"Do I get to see other people then, huh?" he taunted, his breath quick and hot where his lips pressed firmly against my temple. "Do I get to fuck 'em with this cock?" Bucking his hips, he stilled, forcing me to squirm against him.

"Stop."

Halting my movement, he loosened the hold on my hair, and pulled the panties from my mouth, sliding his hand down to idle just above my throbbing clit. "Is that what you want? You want to share?"

A flash of heat shot through my stomach, burning my insides with his threat.

I whimpered at the thought.

"No."

Cupping my mound, he roughly bent me back over, pulling out and then pushing back in; pounding me into his hand, and his hand into the arm of the couch.

"Say you want me," he ordered, his husky dominance driving me closer to the edge.

"I want you."

"Say you want my cock."

"I want your cock."

"No."

Confused, I twisted my neck, meeting his lidded eyes.

"Say … I want my cock."

Licking my lips, I swallowed, holding his stare as I gladly obeyed.

"I want my cock."

Stilling once more, he loosened his hold on my hips, giving me some wiggle room.

"Fuck it, then."

The slap to my thigh stung, snapping me out of my lust-filled stupor.

"You heard me, fuck your cock," he instructed, pulling my hips back to meet his groin, and then pushing them away.

Taking direction, I began rocking back and forth, soon bouncing freely on his slick, stiffened dick. I watched him as he watched where we met, his clenched fists hanging at his sides. The flexed muscle rippled up his arms, straining the smooth roll of his wide shoulders while he tried not to touch me.

Neither one of us lasted long after he took back the reins, pressing the pads of his fingers into the flesh of my hips to pound hard and fast.

His grunts edged me further, his breathless mumbles turning needy, handing me all the power.

My body begged for his come. My mouth did its bidding, both completely oblivious to the fact that the spill would still prove useless in nine month's time. No matter how often he released his best swimmers, they'd race for nothing.

I was nothing; nothing but a barren hole, fit to be filled. A sure thing with no consequence, I once told him, laughing it off as if it were his lucky day; only he didn't see it that way. Knowing I couldn't give him, what a wife he truly deserved could, he still wanted me, my daughter. He made it known repeatedly, and with conviction.

We were enough.

"You're gonna make me come. Fuck. You want it? You want my come?"

Clenching around him, I moaned, "I want it," egging him on.

I wanted his come more than anything.

"You gonna come on me, huh, suck my cock dry with that pretty pussy? Fuck."

Flicking the swollen flesh with his wet fingertips, he easily sent me over the edge; grunting obscenities, as he sloppily jerked and then stilled; his depth helping us both catch that seldom achieved, mutual climax.

Twitching inside of me, he continued to rub furiously at the sensitive space between my thighs.

"Shit." I gasped, as he wrapped long fingers around the base of my throat, pulling my back flush with his chest.

"One more, girl. You're gonna give me one more," he coaxed, lightly adding pressure, slowing the life's-blood flowing through my carotids.

Keeping a firm hold around my neck, one of his fingers turned my chin. We breathed each other's hot breath in between sweet pecks, his mumbled verbings vibrating against my lips.

"You're gonna come so hard for me."

I fought the panic, as my eyes fluttered and my thoughts slowed; a floating euphoria taking over. For a split second, I wished he would tighten his grip, never let go - not until I did.

Do it.

"So hard, right, baby?"

Unable to answer, I horsed a moan as relief filtered up from my pointed toes; a starry-eyed tremor wracking its way down my arms, and up my spreading legs. My pussy clenched, and I saw lights, collapsing against strong arms as I came and came and came.

It was the closest to God I'd ever been, closest I ever would be again, and I wanted to stay; warm, and numb, and ready.

I was ready.

My body not so much, as my lungs constricted, my throat opened, and my mouth greedily sucked in air.

Both panting, he rested his forehead against my shoulder; his sweat dripping, rolling down to wet my collar.

My wits returned with the feeling in my hands and feet, and I whimpered as he pulled out, leaving me feeling foolish and empty.

As though he could read my thoughts, he turned me around to re wrap his arms, squeezing tightly as I recovered, my breathing slowed, and my heartbeat calmed. He held me for as long as I would let him, breaking away right before I stiffened; almost as if he knew it was coming.

"I gotta go," I said, tangling my fingers in his hair, as his lips latched on to the base of my neck.

There was only one thing I loved more than the guttural sound of him coming, the caring cuddle that always came afterwards, and she would be waiting.

"You're gonna miss some good Chinese."

"I hate Chinese," I needlessly lied, smiling up at him while he helped me adjust my skirt.

"Liar."

We had Chinese every Friday.

"How 'bout you hang around awhile longer, we'll take it to your place," he suggested, making his intentions known as he sniffed, and then shoved my panties into his back pocket. "I want to meet her."

Placing a hand on his chest, I raised onto the tips of my feet. "Not today, but soon," I lied again, pressing a kiss to his sweet lips.

Tightening his hold, he mumbled truth against mine.

"Liar."

.

.

Tossing and turning, I fought my sleep, as the wind howled and the moon beamed, bouncing off the blank, white walls of my room. Too frightened of what I might find behind closed eyes, I fluttered, then forced them open.

It was a losing battle.

Sleep always won out in the end, sitting heavy on resistant lids. I could only fight so hard for so long. I could only fear for what lay deep down, hidden in the dark recesses of my mind, until it was too late; until I was out, gone, dead to the world, and the past reappeared.

He was here.

Clamping a hand over my mouth, I attempted to hush my breath as his hunched shadow came into view; a cast of angry black beckoning me, its gentle coo assuring I was safe, and that I could come out now.

He wasn't going to hurt me.

"Come out, come out, wherever you are."

A faint whisper at first, my name rolled off the ticking tip of his tongue, tempting me into the light, into the false security of his familiar voice, those waiting arms. I wanted to go, wanted to run and jump into them; the arms that had never hurt me before.

Never.

Not until that night.

Not until …

"Mommy?"

Sucking in a short breath, I turned to find her curled up in the corner of the closet. That small hand reached out for me, and I swiftly took it, crumbling to my knees to pull shaking limbs in for a tight hug. I thought I'd lost her.

"Mommy?"

Another creak in the floorboards, and I pulled back, silently shushing her as she swept away the matted hairs that clung to my forehead, before pressing hers against mine.

"Mommy?"

My gasp was silent as my eyes snapped open to find comfort hovering above me, her tangled tresses, draped like a shelter to keep us safe.

"What were you dreaming about?"

Cradling her soft jaw, I stroked the apple of her cheek.

"Was it bad?"

Nodding, I caught a stray tear before it escaped.

"Were you scared?"

Sucking in some air through my nose, I blew it out of my mouth, causing some of her hair to flutter and fall, and she giggled; bad dream forgotten.

"What are you doing up, Buttercup?" I rhymed, tickling the exposed tummy that poked out from pink PJs.

"He won't let me sleep," she flat-out confessed, collapsing beside me. Turning to face her, I cuddled up on my side.

"Who's he, baby? Does he have a name?"

Yawning, she reached for a piece of my hair, fiddling with the ends with her tiny fingertips.

"He won't tell me."

"Well, what does he look like?"

My heart skipped a beat, becoming more impatient the longer she stayed silent.

"I can't tell you," she finally whispered; her hand slowly dropping, her eyes far off and drooping. "He won't let me."

Soft snores filled the four walls, leaving me wide awake and full of unanswered questions. I wanted to wake her, shake her until her eyes popped back open and demand she tell me, demand to know why this figment she'd conjured up would make her tell lies, and keep seedy secrets.

Leave her alone! I fumed in thought, a little afraid that she was suffering from after effects, maybe some kind of delayed, post-traumatic stress.

But that was impossible.

Too wired to fall asleep, I stayed up the rest of the early morning, just watching; watching the parted purse of her pink lips, the steady rise and fall of her pink, pj-covered chest in the pale moonlight.

So much pink.

I offered her a smile as she stirred, slowly opened her eyes, and turned on her side to face me, a perplexed pinch in her brow.

"Mommy?"

"Hmm …"

"Where do you go when you die?"

The blood in my veins ran ice cold, ceasing to flow. Unexpected, her question felt like a swift kick to the chest, and I struggled to catch my breath, mentally stuttering over an answer, an explanation of what came after death.

Why did she want to know? I wondered; wanted to ask, but didn't, too afraid I would stunt her healthy curiosity for spiritual growth or some other bad-parenting bullshit - I didn't know why. I just didn't.

"Heaven," I naturally told her, not knowing if I even believed it. Growing up, my parents weren't religious. They taught me to believe in myself.

"What's heaven?"

I briefly considered telling her that it was like a carnival; filled with carousels, all you can eat cotton candy, and free pony rides for all.

"Heaven's a place where you can be with everyone you love, forever," I winged, deciding that explanation was much simpler, and not as tempting as a small child's dreamland. I wanted her to want to go to heaven, not try her damnedest to get there.

"Forever?"

Smiling wider, I nodded.

"And ever."

Seemingly satisfied, she turned over onto her back, looking over with the remnants of a smile; almost shy.

"Do you love Daddy?"

My smile faltered, but I caught it before turning onto my back and looking up at the ceiling. It always caught me off guard when she mentioned him, or asked questions; they were always so few and far between. It broke my heart that she couldn't

know him, the him that I thought I knew him to be. She'd never even seen his face, and most likely never would.

Had I been too rash in burning all of his pictures back then?

"Yea, baby …" I said hoarsely, sucking in the stifling air, and clearing my closed throat.

Don't cry.

Don't cry.

Don't cry.

I internally chanted, feeling lost and lonely; carrying his weight and smelling his scent. His memory so fresh, it was crushing me.

"I'll always love your daddy."

.

.

Like most, I was a liar.

I lied to everyone; my parents, my daughter, my friends, my lover. But most of all, I lied to myself.

"Liar."

That was the last thing he said to me before I walked through the door, and out of his life. And for good, I told myself, holding out strong, until he showed up on my doorstep with a box of Chinese in his hands.

"What are you doing here?" I whisper-yelled, pushing him back, so I could step out and onto the porch, shutting the door behind me.

"Delivery?"

I wanted to be mad at his teasing demeanor, the smug smirk lighting up the pride on his face. But I couldn't. I couldn't be mad at him. He was too handsome, this was too sweet, and I'd missed him too much.

"I thought I told you I hated Chinese."

Setting the box on the ground near my feet, he slowly slid up my body. His lips latched onto mine as they passed; his strength effortlessly pressing me up against the side of the house - my house.

His tongue traced, and I parted, allowing it to lick mine a languid hello.

"I missed you," he mumbled, nipping my bottom lip. "I always miss you."

Staying true to our original arrangement, I acted the part, refraining from returning any show of emotion. Less you counted letting him stick his cock inside me a sentiment, I never showed him one.

"You don't have to say it, I can tell."

Kissing me full on the mouth, he pulled back to look into my eyes.

"Your pupils, they widen," he explained, pressing another chaste kiss to my lips. "Your nostrils, they flare."

Turning my head, I did my best to distract from my obvious tells, not quite sure I liked him talking so casually about my nostrils.

"But most of all," he continued, unflattering nasal remark forgotten, as he pressed his hardened length into my lower stomach, "I can feel it," he whispered, running his nose down the side of my neck, his hot breath tormenting as he skimmed back up, placing a kiss on the underside of my jaw.

"Marry me."

With every quickened breath, my breasts rubbed against his hard chest. The effect he had on me was like the first hit of a drug, swift and strong. I got high off of him - his insistence and strength - tripping on senseless and stupid. And in that moment, I wanted to say yes.

In every moment, I wanted to say yes.

But I couldn't.

I couldn't do that to him.

Not him.

"Mommy?"

Pushing eagerness away, I straightened; quick to distance myself, and kneel down to little one's level, taking her hand in mine.

"Baby, uh, this is … uh ..." I stuttered, looking up briefly for some help while she pinched her soft features in anger, the golden specs surrounding her brown irises almost glowing a haunting, hunter green.

"He's not my daddy," she pouted, snatching her hand back.

"Baby …"

"He's not my daddy!" she shouted loudly, running back into the house and slamming the front door shut.

Shocked by her behavior, I leaned back on my haunches, not quite registering that the man who was not her daddy was still standing there beside me.

"Hey …"

Squatting low, he lifted my chin, closing my gaping mouth.

"I'm sorry," I started, but he stopped me.

"Don't be."

The look in his eyes read genuine and honest, unwavered by the obvious hurt.

"These things take time," he reasoned, stroking his thumb soothingly along the length of my jawline, "and I've got plenty."

.

.

Time.

It was a funny thing.

Fickle, in how it passed - fast or slow.

You could tell it, read it, but never truly understand, why it was, that some days it flew by while others it seemed to drag on, and on and on.

It was never the same, but always was, if that even made sense.

And the funniest thing about time?

There was no knowing how much you had of it.

In the week following the unbecoming outburst, I thought a lot about time; how much was wasted, how much was spent between recreation and obligation. I came to realize that the majority of it was put into fulfilling the latter.

I obliged society.

I obliged it by getting up and going to work every Monday through Friday, paying my bills, and for the most part, being an upstanding citizen in its eyes.

I obliged the little one.

I obliged her every need, want, and here in between; never begrudging, never seeing it short of something I had the privilege of doing. I loved her; through thick and thin, I loved her in light and dark. I wanted the best for her, even if she wouldn't, couldn't do the same for me.

I could hear her faded whimpers through the paper thin walls. She cried while she was awake. She cried while she was asleep. She cried so much that the school finally sent her home, and I took leave just to sit back and watch her weep - inconsolably.

It took three whole days for that little body to rid itself of all those tears; three whole days before she ate or drank anything. And that was only after I threatened to drag stubbornness to the doctor. One mention of a needle piercing her paling skin and she was reaching out for the grape-flavored Pedialyte, quickly gulping it down; asking for another, and then another. She damn near drank us out of house and home, and I had to wonder …

"Baby, why are you so upset?"

She stiffened in her seat, recoiling as if I'd scolded her.

"He's not my daddy," she stated, her eyes wandering around the small space of the kitchen, before landing just beside me.

My skin prickled.

"I know he's not, baby. But your daddy's not here, he never will be, he can't be."

Cracked, dry lips dropped opened, then quickly shut; tired, red-rimmed eyes darting from the adjacent, void space, to land back on me.

"What … What if we went there?" She asked, almost as if she were forced, almost as if ...

"We can't go there, baby," I coddled, rounding the table to cuddle her trembling form into my side. "You can't just go there because you want to, or because someone else wants you to. You go when it's your time."

There was that word again.

Time.

"Understand?"

Nodding, she dipped her head as cautious eyes followed the circumference of the table, recoiling once again in her seat.

I just had to ask.

"Baby, did he put you up to this, is he here, right now?"

Nodding again, her head remained bowed.

I felt sick.

"Did he … did he tell you not to eat or drink? Is he telling you to say these things? Is he telling you what to do?"

Tears stung my eyes as her blurry figure remained still; no nod, no recognition.

I took it as a yes.

"Is he always there?"

"Yes," she confessed, her voice barely above a whisper.

"He says he's always here, always has been. He's been watching over us, keeping us safe."

Safe …

Since when was starving yourself to death safe?

"That man," she started, scooting away from the empty chair and closer to me. "The pretty one that was on our porch," she quietly clarified, causing her observation to pull at my cheeks, minutely lightening the seriousness of the situation - but only minutely.

I hadn't returned one phone call, hadn't replied to one text.

And I wasn't going to.

"He says that man isn't my daddy. He says he knows where my daddy is." Licking her cracked lips, she briefly glanced back at the chair. "'And he says you were wrong."

Slowly stroking the length of silky, smooth hair, I attempted to soothe her; though it was more of a tactic to try and keep myself calm. She seemed cool as a cucumber, her demeanor growing drowsy, and weak.

"Wrong about what, baby?" I asked, picking her limp form up from where she drooped in the seat. Resting her tired head on my shoulder, her whisper blew lightly, tickling the shell of my ear.

"Heaven."

.

.

For the most part, compliance placated me.

She ate.

She drank.

She did as she was told, and all for the sake of avoiding a needle. I could see it in the slow, mechanical way she chewed; what small sips of juice she'd hesitantly take.

Her eyes once so vibrant had noticeably dimmed; the dark circles deepening with every passing day; sullen and sunken, as she hunched into a curve - folding in on herself - folding in from the world.

Just like him.

And just like him, she had stopped responding; her hushed whispers coming fewer and farther in between, the next more secretive than the last; till one day, she just stopped talking.

There were a lot of things I feared when I first realized I was pregnant with her, a lot of which still lingered today.

Would my daughter be healthy?

Would my daughter be happy?

Could she lead a full life; feel complete, growing up with a mother who wasn't?

I wanted my daughter to be stronger than me, stronger than her father.

I wanted her to be better, make better choices, live a better life.

And I prayed nightly that if there truly were a God that he would watch over her, protect her from all the things I couldn't, from all the things I had no control over - like a disease, that lay dormant - the one that ultimately destroyed her father.

Leaning against her bedroom door frame, I casually crossed my arms over my chest.

"Unless you want to say something, you're going to the doctor tomorrow," I informed her, unsure of how to approach this alone, not knowing if I could.

Slowly but surely, she was developing signs and symptoms, a handful that the doctors warned me I should worry about; agitation, lack of emotion, social withdrawal. Her eating habits had changed significantly, to the point of nonexistent. She was letting something, someone else control her life. I wouldn't sit back and let her crumble and wither away; the way I had let him.

My forming smile felt foreign, pulling tightly on my cheeks while I waited, watching as she coupled her dolls, clasped their hands and made them kiss. It faltered once she threw Barbie to the ground.

At first glance, she seemed to be acting out of concern; bending Ken in a bowed position to loom over the lifeless form, before taking hold of his leg and giving his life's love a swift kick.

In an instant, I was by her side, grabbing her wrist and ripping the plastic plaything from her hand.

"What is wrong with you?" I asked forcefully; letting fear take over, as I carelessly grabbed and shook her by the shoulders.

"Say something!" I shouted, catching the tiniest break in her clouded eyes, as hot tears blurred mine.

I didn't know what I was doing, didn't know what to expect; a miracle, maybe? I mean, for every action, there was a reaction, right?

Maybe a good shake was all that she needed, I delusionally rationalized; going on nothing - no facts, no theories; just good, old-fashioned, motherly instinct, as I pulled her close, and hugged her tight.

She fought me the whole way, twisting and turning; jerking out of my hold, to haul back and smack me, hard, across the face.

It was done and over by the time the sting set in, her swing too fast for me to even think and try to stop it.

Shock settled nice and deep, lining my insides with fire, its brightest flame licking along the apple of my cheek.

Her whimpers were muffled, drowned out by the harsh sound of my labored breath, the rubbing of fabric, as her arms wrapped tightly around my neck.

Mine circled her automatically; the visceral burn in my chest so much worse than the superficial pain on my skin.

I silently shook my head at her sobbed sorry, letting my own break free.

I wouldn't, couldn't lose her, too.

"It's okay, baby," I cried, meaning it.

She never had to apologize.

"Just come back to me."

.

.

He always surfaced in the form of a shadow, his heavy soles sinking into creaking, wooden slabs. His voice, usually so angelic, tore from the unexplored depths of his chest.

"Bella, where the fuck are you?!" He growled, banging on the walls, knocking down the hanging frames to crash against the floor.

One hand pressed firmly against my mouth the other covered the precious protrusion still growing inside of me.

He couldn't take her.

I wouldn't let him.

"You have to understand," he pleaded, desperation fueling his irrational ideology, making him sound deranged.

"A baby will only cause more problems. Don't you see? It will cost money, money that we don't have, Love; time that you could be spending with me," he insisted. "I'm not willing to share you, Bella, not with anyone. This baby will destroy us."

Silent wails wracked my body, shaking my drawn-in shoulders, as hot tears rolled, burning fresh streaks into my cheeks.

Looking down, I caressed my swollen stomach.

She was eight months, strong and healthy, and currently kicking.

She knew her daddy's voice, wanted him to sing to her; tell her he loved her, as he kissed what he swore was the top of her head.

She only remembered his good days.

If she could only understand, she wouldn't be so eager for the man that helped create her.

If she only knew, that he never really wanted her; tried on multiple occasions to punch or kick her out of his life, she wouldn't be so eager to meet him - the monster that planned to cut her from my womb, bring her into this world, only to take her back out.

Another creak in the floorboards and he was in the room, the last room there was to search.

There was no doubt in my mind that he had turned what remained of the house upside down and inside out. And there was no reason to believe he wouldn't do the same in here.

It was only a matter of time before he found me, hidden in the closet, curled up in the confines of my grandmother's wooden, antique trunk.

Closing my eyes, I willed him away; wished for a distraction, an unexpected knock at the front door; something, anything to divert him, so I could try, one, last time to escape.

It never came.

My eyes snapped open with the click of the closet door, panic setting in as it slowly squeaked open, filtering bright light through a crack in the lid.

All thought left me as I tightened my grip around the handle of the concealed butcher knife; the lid snapped open, and I just snapped, slicing him deep down the center of his forearm.

"Fuck!" He groaned out, disbelief registering, before he grabbed my arms in anger, pulling me from the hollowed-out, hiding place.

Roughly throwing me down, he kicked the bloody blade from my hand. I grabbed his leg as he stepped over me, using his unexpected trip to help pull myself up and onto my hands and knees.

Adrenaline surged through my body, keeping me lithe and quick as I climbed over him, dodging flailing limbs to reach for my only chance, the only chance we'd ever have to be truly free of him, the only chance he'd ever have to be free of himself.

My fingers wrapped around the handle, just as he pulled my legs out from under me, rolling me off of my stomach and onto my back.

Sides cramping, I felt only hate; taking the handle with both hands and sinking it soul-deep into the center of his chest, as a stabbing pain shot through the center of my stomach, shocking a cry from my throat and me into consciousness.

Panting, I reached for my stomach, finding no swell; feeling the ribbed plastic handle of the blade buried deep inside of it instead.

I had to have still been dreaming; the memory so fresh of the night I almost lost her, the night I lost everything but her.

Edward.

He was here, sitting at my bedside, reaching out to still my shaking hand.

"Ed-" I choked, coughing on my own spit, the copper tang tainting my tongue. It tasted just like him; just like his blood, warm and metallic; fresh as it had splattered from the gaping cavity of his pierced chest.

Shushing me, his thumb swept tenderly across my mouth, staining his pale skin the deepest shade of red.

"I thought I told you, Love. I'm not willing to share you, not with him, not with anyone."

My slowing heart skipped with the dip in the cheap mattress beneath me, barely beating as flowing, brown hair fanned out over my face, and her distant, brown eyes captured what should have been fear.

Only I wasn't afraid.

I was ready.

"It's okay, Mommy. Daddy's here, and he knows," she assured, her warm whisper heating my quickly, cooling lips.

"He knows where you go."

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