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They'll Never Know

Summary:
Bella has been abused and raped by Phill for 7 years. Events lead her to move to Forks. Will she push everyone away or let them in? Will she overcome the darkness within? All-Human story. Rated Adult for Rape/Cutting/Alcohol Use/No Drugs.


Notes:
This will be a pretty intense story, rather dark with many serious issues, so you can't say I haven't warned you. That said, I do hope you like it :D Disclaimer: I own nothing, Stephenie Meyer does!


3. Chapter 3: One Time Kinda Thing

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Chapter 3: One Time Kinda Thing

Charlie led me up to my room - I kept my distance all the time - and showed me where all my stuff was and then he showed me the bathroom and the door to his room. My room had changed so much, I was shocked. The colour on the walls was now a dark purple - my bed was bigger - I had my own desk and laptop as well, it looked pretty nice. The only thing that remained the same was my nanna's old quilt and rocking chair - I used to love those when I was little, I didn't feel much for them now.

One of the best things about Charlie was that he didn't hover; he left me alone to sort things out for myself and headed downstairs. It was funny how different he was from Renée, she would have wanted to stay with me until I was completely settled.

I closed my door - I tried to lock it but it was stuck or something, I'd have to fix that - sad down on my bed and just stared ahead of me, looking at nothing in particular. It didn't take long before my thoughts turned grim once again.

I thought about all the years of sexual abuse I had to endure - all the years of torture and false pretences. It had been so cruel to keep up a happy front for Renée while I was dying on the inside. It had been sickening to see Renée so in love with Phill while I knew what kind of monster he was. I had done everything in my power to shield her from the pain I felt, and I had succeeded too. But then she just died on me, leaving all my efforts in vain.

I was beginning to feel guilty she was dead, I was wondering if I could have stopped it somehow. What if I had told someone about what fuck-face did to me almost every single night? Would Renée and I have been somewhere else then? Would she not have gotten into that car accident? Would she still be alive? I didn't know the answer to any of these things, I only knew one thing, it was my fault. It was all my fault, I was nothing more than a devil who should be dead.

I sighed, I was thinking too much again. I was numb to the outside world, but apparantly not to my own feelings. I figured now was a good time for a shower; I got my toilet-bag out of my small suit-case and headed to the bathroom. I turned on the hot and cold water - more hot than cold, because hot worked better to wash away some of the filth - and stripped out of my clothes. I made a move to grab my toilet-bag, which was standing on the sink, but instead of grabbing it, I knocked it over. All of the bag's contents fell out and one thing caught my eye - it was laying in between my strawberry scented shampoo and my bruise cover-up cream - a razor.

I hadn't even noticed I had bent down, picked it up, straightened up and was now twirling it around in my hands - careful not to cut myself. It was as if someone else had picked it up, and I had been watching.

I stepped into the shower - the razor still in my hands - and let the water cleanse me. I was staring at the razor - for once I wasn't scrubbing myself until I bled - and was trying to figure out why I picked it up. I wasn't going to kill myself - I made a mental promise to Charlie - so why was I still holding it? Without giving it another thought, I brought the razor to my thigh and sliced my skin with it. I stopped breathing through my nose once I saw the blood running from my thigh to my foot, getting washed away by the water in the process. I couldn't stand the smell of blood - it made me sick to my stomach. You'd think after all the times Phill beat me until I bled I'd be used to it now, but I wasn't.

The razor now lay on the tiles of the shower floor - I dropped it after I cut myself, again, without even noticing I did it. My leg stung, but not in a bad way, it actually felt good. I had no idea why I would feel good after cutting myself, it should hurt, just like the bruises jerk-off gave me. But it didn't hurt, it stung and felt good - I was stunned, it was making me feel. Feel good, nonetheless.

I had no idea why it made me feel good, but I picked the razor up again - this time aware of my actions - and brought it to the skin of my thigh again. I made another incision just under the other cut. This time I felt the effect even more as I slid the razor across my skin - it felt amazing, liberating. It was as if I was flying and all my worries were left behind - it was the most extraordinary feeling I'd ever experienced.

After about an hour and 3 cuts later, I was stepping out of the shower and drying off. Now that the water wasn't touching my cuts anymore, the blood started flowing freely again from all 5 cuts on my thigh. Once I had my underwear on, I wrapped the towel around my thigh very tightly and searched for some bandages in the cabinets under the mirror. I found what I was looking for and bandaged my thigh, hoping the blood wouldn't come through.

As I looked at myself in the mirror, the feeling of numbness and self-loathing came back. Every part of me, except my face, was covered in bruises - some worse than others. I was so ugly and dirty, I needed to clean myself even more. I needed to get rid of all the dirt. But what I really needed was my razor - I wanted to cut again. I wanted to cut everything, cut out the bruises, the filth. I was slightly beginning to panic - I wasn't a cutter, I had never felt the urge to cut. This was just a one time kinda thing, that was all. So, then, why did I feel the need to cut again?

I shook my head and quickly left the bathroom - almost running on my way out - and into my room. I felt like crying, but I didn't, crying wasn't an option for me anymore. I was disgusted with myself, above all, I was now a cutter?! I wouldn't do it again, I would fight the urge, I couldn't do it again. Though it made me feel better while I did it, it was wrong and dirty and sick - I would never do it again!

TO BE CONTINUED