The pain was bewildering.
Exactly that – I was bewildered. I couldn't understand, couldn't make sense of
what was happening.
My body tried to reject the pain, and I was sucked again and again into a blackness
that cut out whole seconds or maybe even minutes of the agony, making it
that much harder to keep up with reality.
I tried to separate them.
Non-reality was black, and it didn't hurt so much.
Reality was red, and it felt like I was being sawed in half, hit by a bus, punched
by a prize fighter, trampled by bulls, and submerged in acid, all at the same time.
Reality was feeling my body twist and flip when I couldn't possibly move because
of the pain.
Reality was knowing there was something so much more important than all this
torture, and not being able to remember what it was.
Reality had come on so fast.
One moment, everything was as it should have been. Surrounded by people I
loved. Smiles. Somehow, unlikely as it was, it seemed like I was about to get everything
I'd been fighting for.
And then one tiny, inconsequential thing had gone wrong.
I'd watched as my cup tilted, dark blood spilling out and staining the perfect
white, and I'd lurched toward the accident reflexively. I'd seen the other, faster
hands, but my body had continued to reach, to stretch...
Inside me, something had yanked the opposite direction.
Ripping. Breaking. Agony.
The darkness had taken over, and then washed away to a wave of torture. I
couldn't breathe – I had drowned once before, and this was different; it was too
hot in my throat.
Pieces of me shattering, snapping, slicing apart...
More blackness.
Voices, this time, shouting, as the pain came back.
'The placenta must have detached!"
Something sharper than knives ripped through me – the words, making sense in
spite of the other tortures.Detached placenta – I knew what that meant. It meant
that my baby was dying inside me.
"Get him out!" I screamed to Edward. Why hadn't he done it yet? "He can't
breathe! Do it now!"
"The morphine – "
He wanted to wait, to give me painkillers, while our baby was dying?!
"No! Now – ," I choked, unable to finish.
Black spots covered the light in the room as a cold point of new pain stabbed icily
into my stomach. It felt wrong – I struggled automatically to protect my womb,
my baby, my little Edward Jacob, but I was weak. My lungs ached, oxygen burned
away.
The pain faded away again, though I clung to it now. My baby, my baby, dying...
How long had passed? Seconds or minutes? The pain was gone. Numb. I couldn't
feel. I still couldn't see, either, but I could hear. There was air in my lungs again,
scraping in rough bubbles up and down my throat.
"You stay withme now, Bella! Do you hear me? Stay! You're not leaving me. Keep
your heart beating!"
Jacob? Jacob, still here, still trying to save me.
Of course,I wanted to tell him. Of course I would keep my heart beating. Hadn't I
promised them both?
I tried to feel my heart, to find it, but I was so lost inside my own body. I couldn't
feel the things I should, and nothing felt in the right place. I blinked and I found
my eyes. I could see the light. Not what I was looking for, but better than nothing.
As my eyes struggled to adjust, Edward whispered, "Renesmee."
Renesmee?
Not the pale and perfect son of my imagination? I felt a moment of shock. And
then a flood of warmth.
Renesmee.
I willed my lips to move, willed the bubbles of air to turn into whispers on my
tongue. I forced my numb hands to reach.
"Let me... Give her to me."
The light danced, shattering off Edward's crystal hands. The sparkles were tinged
with red, with the blood that covered his skin. And more red in his hands. Something
small and struggling, dripping with blood. He touched the warm body to my
weak arms, almost like I was holding her. Her wet skin was hot – as hot as Jacob's.
My eyes focused; suddenly everything was absolutely clear.
Renesmee did not cry, but she breathed in quick, startled pants. Her eyes were
open, her expression so shocked it was almost funny. The little, perfectly round
head was covered in a thick layer of matted, bloody curls. Her
irises were a familiar – but astonishing – chocolate brown. Under the blood, her
skin looked pale, a creamy ivory. All besides her cheeks, which flamed with color.
Her tiny face was so absolutely perfect that it stunned me. She was even more
beautiful than her father. Unbelievable. Impossible.
"Renesmee," I whispered. "So... beautiful."
The impossible face suddenly smiled – a wide, deliberate smile. Behind the shellpink
lips was a full complement of snowy milk teeth.
She leaned her head down, against my chest, burrowing against the warmth. Her
skin was warm and silky, but it didn't give the way mine did.
Then there was pain again – just one warm slash of it. I gasped.
And she was gone. My angel-faced baby was nowhere. I couldn't see or feel her.
No!I wanted to shout.Give her back to me!
But the weakness was too much. My arms felt like empty rubber hoses for a moment,
and then they felt like nothing at all. I couldn't feel them. I couldn't feel me.
The blackness rushed over my eyes more solidly than before. Like a thick blindfold,
firm and fast. Covering not just my eyes but also myself with a crushing
weight. It was exhausting to push against it. I knew it would be so much easier to
give in. To let the blackness push me down, down, down to a place where there
was no pain and no weariness and no worry and no fear.
If it had only been for myself, I wouldn't have been able to struggle very long. I
was only human, with no more than human strength. I'd been trying to keep up
with the supernatural for too long, like Jacob had said.
But this wasn't just about me.
If I did the easy thing now, let the black nothingness erase me, I would hurt
them.
Edward. Edward. My life and his were twisted into a single strand. Cut one, and
you cut both. If he were gone, I would not be able to live through that. If I were
gone, he wouldn't live through it, either. And a world without Edward seemed
completely pointless. Edwardhad to exist.
Jacob – who'd said goodbye to me over and over but kept coming back when I
needed him. Jacob, who I'd wounded so many times it was criminal. Would I hurt
him again, the worst way yet? He'd stayed for me, despite everything. Now all he
asked was that I stay for him.
But it was so dark here that I couldn't see either of their faces. Nothing seemed
real. That made it hard not to give up.
I kept pushing against the black, though, almost a reflex. I wasn't trying to lift it.
I was just resisting. Not allowing it to crush me completely. I wasn't Atlas, and
the black felt as heavy as a planet; I couldn't shoulder it. All I could do was not be
entirely obliterated.
It was sort of the pattern to my life – I'd never been strong enough to deal with
the things outside my control, to attack the enemies or outrun them. To avoid the
pain. Always human and weak, the only thing I'd ever been able to
do was keep going. Endure. Survive.
It had been enough up to this point. It would have to be enough today. I would
endure this until help came.
I knew Edward would be doing everything he could. He would not give up. Neither
would I.
I held the blackness of nonexistence at bay by inches.
It wasn't enough, though – that determination. As the time ground on and on
and the darkness gained by tiny eighths and sixteenths of my inches, I needed
something more to draw strength from.
I felt myself slipping – there was nothing to hold on to.
No! I had to survive this.
Renesmee.
And then, though I still couldn't see anything, suddenly I could feel something.
Like phantom limbs, I imagined I could feel my arms again. And in them, something
small and hard and very, very warm.
I knew that I would be able to fight the darkness as long as I needed to.
The warmth beside my heart got more and more real, warmer and warmer. Hotter.
The heat was so real it was hard to believe that I was imagining it.
Hotter.
Uncomfortable now. Too hot. Much, much too hot.
Like grabbing the wrong end of a curling iron – my automatic response was to
drop the scorching thing in my arms. But there was nothing in my arms. My arms
were not curled to my chest. My arms were dead things lying somewhere at my
side. The heat was inside me.
The burning grew – rose and peaked and rose again until it surpassed anything
I'd ever felt.
I felt the pulse behind the fire raging now in my chest and realized that I'd found
my heart again, just in time to wish I never had. To wish that I'd embraced the
blackness while I'd still had the chance. I wanted to raise my arms and claw my
chest open and rip the heart from it – anything to get rid of this torture. But I
couldn't feel my arms, couldn't move one vanished finger.
The fire blazed hotter and I wanted to scream. To beg for someone to kill me
now, before I lived one more second in this pain. But I couldn't move my lips. The
weight was still there, pressing on me.
I realized it wasn't the darkness holding me down; it was my body. So heavy.
Burying me in the flames that were chewing their way out from my heart now,
spreading with impossible pain through my shoulders and stomach, scalding
their way up my throat, licking at my face.
Why couldn't I move? Why couldn't I scream? This wasn't part of the stories.
My mind was unbearably clear – sharpened by the fierce pain – and I saw the
answer almost as soon as I could form the questions.
The morphine.
Because I'd had morphine and venom together in my system before, and I knew
the truth. I knew the numbness of the medicine was completely irrelevant while
the venom seared through my veins. But there'd been no way I was going to mention
that fact. Nothing that would make him more unwilling to change me.
I hadn't guessed that the morphine would have this effect – that it would pin me
down and gag me. Hold me paralyzed while I burned.
Now it seemed like a hideous joke that i was getting my wish fulfilled.
If I couldn't scream, how could I tell them to kill me?
All I wanted was to die. To never have been born. The whole of my existence did
not outweigh this pain. Wasn't worth living through it for one more heartbeat.
Let me die, let me die, let me die.
And, for a never-ending space, that was all there was. Just the fiery torture, and
my soundless shrieks, pleading for death to come. Nothing else, not even time. So
that made it infinite, with no beginning and no end. One infinite moment of pain.
The only change came when suddenly, impossibly, my pain was doubled. The
lower half of my body, deadened since before the morphine, was suddenly on fire,
too. Some broken connection had been healed – knitted together by the scorching
fingers of the flame.
The endless burn raged on.
It could have been seconds or days, weeks or years, but, eventually, time came to
mean something again.
Three things happened together, grew from each other so that I didn't know
which came first: time restarted, the morphine's weight faded, and I got stronger.
I could feel the control of my body come back to me in increments, and those increments
were my first markers of the time passing. I knew it when I was able to
twitch my toes and twist my fingers into fists. I knew it, but I did not act on it.
Though the fire did not decrease one tiny degree – in fact, I began to develop a
new capacity for experiencing it, a new sensitivity to appreciate, separately, each
blistering tongue of flame that licked through my veins – I discovered that I could
think around it.
I could remember why I shouldn't scream. I could remember the reason why I'd
committed to enduring this unendurable agony. I could remember that, though it
felt impossible now, there was something that might be worth the torture.
This happened just in time for me to hold on when the weights left my body. To
anyone watching me, there would be no change. But for me, as I struggled to keep
the screams and thrashing locked up inside my body, where they couldn't hurt
anyone else, it felt like I'd gone from being tied to the stake as I burned, to gripping
that stake to hold myself in the fire.
I had just enough strength to lie there unmoving while I was charred alive.
My hearing got clearer and clearer, and I could count the frantic, pounding beats
of my heart to mark the time.
I could count the shallow breaths that gasped through my teeth.
I could count the low, even breaths that came from somewhere close beside me.
These moved slowest, so I concentrated on them. They meant the most time passing.
More even than a clock's pendulum, those breaths pulled me through the
burning seconds toward the end.
I continued to get stronger, my thoughts clearer. When new noises came, I could
listen.
There were light footsteps, the whisper of air stirred by an opening door. The
footsteps gotcloser, and I felt pressure against the inside of my wrist. I couldn't
feel the coolness of the fingers. The fire blistered away every memory of cool.
I knew, beyond all doubt, that if I unlocked my teeth I would lose it – I would
shriek and screech and writhe and
thrash. If I opened my eyes, if I so much as twitched a finger – any change at all
would be the end of my control.
"Bella? Bella, love? Can you open your eyes? Can you squeeze my hand?"
Pressure on my fingers. It was harder not to answer this voice, but I stayed paralyzed.
I knew that the pain in his voice now was nothing compared to what itcould
be. Right now he only feared that I was suffering.
My resolve wavered for a second.
"Listen to her heart, Edward. It's stronger than even Emmett's was. I've never
heard anything sovital. Shell be perfect."
Yes, I was right to keep quiet. Carlisle would reassure him. He didn't need to suffer
with me.
A broken whisper. "She must be in agony."
Another whisper. "Bella, I love you.
Bella, I'm sorry."
I wanted so much to answer him, but I wouldn't make his pain worse. Not while I
had the strength to hold myself still.
Through all this, the racking fire went right on burning me. But there was so
much space in my head now. Room to ponder their conversation, room to remember
what had happened, room to look ahead to the future, with still endless
room left over to suffer in.
Also room to worry.
Every cell in my body had been razed to ash.
On the good-news side of things, it started to fade from my fingertips and toes.
Fading slowly, but at least it was doing something new. This had to be it. The pain
was on its way out...
And then the bad news. The fire in my throat wasn't the same as before. I wasn't
only on fire, but I was now parched, too. Dry as bone. So thirsty. Burning fire,
and burning thirst...
Also bad news: The fire inside my heart got hotter.
How was thatpossible?
My heartbeat, already too fast, picked up – the fire drove its rhythm to a new
frantic pace.
The fire retreated from my palms, leaving them blissfully pain-free and cool. But
it retreated to my heart, which blazed hot as the sun and beat at a furious new
speed.
My wrists were free, though, and my ankles. The fire was totally extinguished
there.
My fingers twitched – the irritation breaking through my perfect facade. The
room went silent besides the jack-hammering of my heart as they all stopped
breathing for a second in response.
A hand squeezed my wayward fingers. "Bella? Bella, love?"
Could I answer him without screaming? I considered that for a moment, and
then the fire ripped hotter still through my chest, draining in from my elbows and
knees. Better not to chance it.
And then – oh!
My heart took off, beating like helicopter blades, the sound almost a single sustained
note; it felt like it would grind through my ribs. The fire flared up in the
center of my chest, sucking the last remnants of the flames from the
rest of my body to fuel the most scorching blaze yet. The pain was enough to stun
me, to break through my iron grip on the stake. My back arched, bowed as if the
fire was dragging me upward by my heart.
I allowed no other piece of my body to break rank as my torso slumped back to
the table.
It became a battle inside me – my sprinting heart racing against the attacking
fire. Both were losing. The fire was doomed, having consumed everything that
was combustible; my heart galloped toward its last beat.
The fire constricted, concentrating inside that one remaining human organ with
a final, unbearable surge. The surge was answered by a deep, hollow-sounding
thud. My heart stuttered twice, and then thudded quietly again just once more.
There was no sound. No breathing. Not even mine.
For a moment, the absence of pain was all I could comprehend.
And then I opened my eyes and gazed above me in wonder.
Moving on is a process. You have to promise yourself that you're really ready to let go and remember that is takes t-i-m-e.
