37. My Turn

EPOV

The morning brought on a very cranky Isabella. My baby girl didn’t seem to want to do much of anything, except lay in bed and cuddle. She woke up shortly after 6am, latched onto both me, and her thumb, mumbling about her tummy hurting as salty little tears began to fall from her bleary chocolate eyes. I knew that those wretched cramps were hurting her, and it drove me crazy that I couldn’t completely take my angel’s pain away, but I did damn well everything I could think of to help her feel better.


After I prepared a brand new pair of padded panties for her, I told her to use the bathroom and change out her panties.


“Why?” she asked.


“Because I said so, baby,” I said, not wanting to explain that she would probably have to change out of her panties with a new padded pair that I would supply for her, quite a few times today.


“But how come?”


“Because you need to wear clean panties, baby girl.”


“But they’re clean…” she insisted in a mumble around her thumb.


I shook my head. “No…they’re not, angel. Just go use the bathroom sweetheart. You’ll see what I mean when you’re in there,” I informed her gently.


“But I don’t gotta potty, Edward.”


I nodded. “That’s fine. Just go in there and change your panties then.”


“But I like my pretty stars…” she said shyly, reminding me of the blue panties that I had picked out for her last night.


I held out the pink panties that I had just put a pad on and showed them to her, knowing she wouldn‘t be able to resist. “These have pretty little flowers, angel,” I said in a light, persuading tone.


She smiled and took them from my hand, then followed my advice and went to the bathroom. When she was through in there, she came back out and snuggled up in my lap, telling me how her new flowers looked pretty on her. I was sure that the panties I had picked out looked nothing less than damn perfect on her, but my only response was to kiss her temple and inform her that she needed to eat. She pouted at me, saying that she didn’t want to, but I insisted. I didn’t care how she felt, she would still be eating three meals a day. So, after a small bowl of fruity pebbles cereal, which seemed to be her favorite, I let her take some ibuprofen for the pain.


She didn’t want to get dressed yet, or dress her dolly for the day, for that matter, so I let her stay in her soft, cotton pajamas while I broke out the brand new heating pad. After I plugged it in, I put it on the second heat intensity setting, and had her lay face down on the bed, and on top of the heating pad, so that the blue material was touching her from her adorable little belly button to the tops of her creamy white thighs.


I put the Disney movie, Hercules, on at her request, then joined her, laying sideways across the large space on the king size bed. I put a pillow under Isabella’s head and rubbed her back while she paid attention to her movie. I would lightly trail my fingers along the entire length of her back, but when I reached her lower back, I would massage little circles into the tense muscles that I found there. I ignored the juvenile movie on the screen and instead, wrote Isabella secret little notes on her delicate shoulder blades and arms…messages like ‘I love you’, ‘pretty baby girl’ and ’you’re so sweet’ were traced onto her soft skin with my cool fingertip.


Isabella would try and sneak her thumb multiple times throughout the movie. Each and every time, I would catch her and gently pull it out of her mouth. She would silently comply, keeping her transfixed stare on the screen, but not five minutes later, that enticing thumb would always find it’s way back to her pouty pink lips. After the seventh time of silently removing it, I started to lightly comb my fingers through her long hair and kept my sharp eyes on that sneaky little thumb. Almost four minutes later, as if on cue, it started on the path back to Isabella’s mouth.


“Mm-mm, Isabella,” I murmured quietly by her ear.


Her arm stopped it’s upward decent on the blanket and she kept her distracted gaze on the movie. My fingers continued playing in her hair and sixty-eight seconds later, her thumb began it’s quest again.


I took my hand out of her silky hair and lightly patted her bottom in warning. “I said no,” I told her, a bit firmer this time.


“Edward?” she murmured.


“Yes, baby?”


“My thumb is mad at you,” she told me matter-of-factly.


I chuckled and gently grabbed her wrist. “Aw…“


I brought her little hand to my mouth and placed a quick kiss to the tip of her warm thumb, then muttered, “Sorry,” to it.


“It forgives you…” she mumbled sleepily.


Ten minutes later, her thumb had succeeded in it’s destination to her mouth and she was fast asleep again, the movie completely forgotten.


I wasn’t surprised. She had only gotten four hours of sleep in before she woke up to those damn cramps. I was just glad that I could get some pain medicine in her and rub out those tense muscles, so that she could be comfortable enough to get some more much needed sleep.


I slowly extracted that thumb from her mouth one last time, and got up from the bed then. I tucked her pink micro-plush blanket around her, so that she wouldn’t get cold, and I turned the heat intensity setting of the pad down to number one, so that it would still ease her pain, but she wouldn’t get overheated in the process. I turned the Hercules movie off and put it back in it’s case, then I put that away.


Esme came up to the room and sat on the bed then, running her gentle finger’s through my sleepy girl’s hair while we discussed a few things. I told her that I didn’t want that whole lollipop incident to happen again. Isabella is not allowed candy before bedtime, and that’s final. She agreed, but remained unapologetic about bribing my naughty little girl last night. I relented, knowing that that was the best I could expect from Esme. She would continue to cater to, and spoil my Bella…no matter who she may be at any given moment.


I talked to her about using the spare room as a home gym, complete with a punching bag and some boxing gloves. I told her that I planned on using it as an outlet to Marie’s inevitable aggression…and, if I’m not mistaken, Isabella’s, too. I let her know how it could be positive in more ways than one. Marie seemed to love getting her heart rate up…the rush of adrenaline, whether it be from fear, excitement, or fast-paced activities, she absolutely loved it. She liked exercising…running, sports, biking, whatever. So, the indoor gym equipment would give her an opportunity to ‘feel the burn’, if you will, when her other options of various outdoor activities were not available…either due to bad weather, or bad behavior.


I’ve been thinking about it, and I’ve come to the conclusion that if she is ever an insufferable little brat, like she usually is at least once throughout the day, and I just really don’t want the stress that accompanies actually spanking her, then there is always the option of taking away her possessions and privileges, just like Isabella’s alternative to a spanking is a time-out, either in a chair or in a corner. So, if she wanted to run around outside, or shoot some hoops, but wasn’t permitted to, then I could always send her to that room and tell her to have fun on the treadmill, or bike instead. Maybe I could set up a little hoop on the wall in there, too…maybe.


Also, when the girl’s temper and anger are out of control, and they seem to be fixated on wanting to piss one of us off, just to get a rise out of us, or initiate some kind of fight, I could just send them in there, throw a pair of boxing gloves at them, and instruct them to take their anger out on the punching bag. I plan on standing in the room, off to the side, and barking loud orders at them in a punishing manner, like their own personal drill sergeant…demand that they keep going at the big bag hanging from the ceiling; throw faster punches, give harder blows, kick at it a little bit…give me some push-ups, sit-ups, pull-ups, whatever. I wouldn’t let them stop until they were breathless, sweaty and exhausted, effectively draining all of that pent-up aggression from my Bella’s little body.


She agreed, as did Emmett downstairs, and Alice got on the task right away of getting online and ordering a home gym, with various equipment, along with that crucial punching bag. After some prodding from Emmett and going back and forth between my decisions, I finally relented and told Alice to order a mini-workout-trampoline for Isabella and another basketball hoop that we could nail to the wall for Marie. Esme also thought that things for Yoga would be beneficial for my Bella, also. For, you know…Isabella’s flexibility and my Bella’s need to just relax every once in a while. So, Alice ordered a special mat and videos for that, as well, along with a few other special work-out machines that usually only appear on late night infomercials.


Alice put a rush order on everything, so that meant that we should expect my girl’s new gym set-up to be ready in the next three days.


I smiled, a bit relieved that I had gotten that whole mess taken care of and out of the way. I had been worried about what I was going to do when one of my girls loses her inevitable hot temper…or, their sadistic cravings (that I can relate to all too well, myself) takes over their mind, causing them to want to hurt somebody, or something. Now they had an outlet for all of that, and I had a little peace of mind.


After that was taken care of, Esme informed me in her soft voice that her and Carlisle were planning on taking a two-day hunting trip to feast on the overpopulated wildlife in California. She asked if I wanted to come along, reminding me of my statement that I would let my family help out with my girls a lot more from now on. Still, I declined. I couldn’t imagine leaving my Bella for more than a day. And Isabella wouldn’t understand at all. She would be extremely upset. No. My baby needs me. Esme nodded, understanding my anxiety on the matter, and didn’t push any further.


Of course, with the planned hunting trip taking place, that would mean that my Bella’s therapy session would have to take place today, instead of tomorrow, but that also meant that she would have a much needed two-day break after this.


I nodded in understanding and let my mother know that as soon as my sleeping beauty awoke, I would get her dressed and have her in Carlisle’s study shortly afterwards. I lay beside my perfect angel then, and watched as she slept.


Eventually, I grabbed a book and started reading, just trying to pass the time. I stayed perfectly silent and still, not wanting to interrupt her peaceful slumber. She would need the rest for what she didn’t know was coming later on.


I wanted her therapy session to be over before her lunch time, so around 10am, I scooted closer to my girl and started my new favorite task of kissing her awake. I was surprised that she wasn’t up yet, but figured that her late bedtime and the effects of that medicine were playing a factor to her sleeping in late this morning. I kissed her adorable little button nose, her pink-tinged cheeks, her soft forehead, and then her small chin. Her eyelids began to flutter, so I made the rounds once more.


Nose, cheek, cheek, forehead, then chin.


“Wake up, pretty girl,” I whispered softly, and began trailing my light fingers along her exposed arm that had come untucked from the pink blanket about thirty minutes ago.


She moaned sleepily. “Nooo…” she muttered in reply.


“Yessss…” I countered softly.


She scrunched up her button nose, but kept her eyes closed. “Edward?”


“Yeah baby?”


“Don’t wanna,” she mumbled.


I chuckled lightly into her silky hair. “I know, baby, but you need to,” I insisted.


“Mmm-mm,” she muttered, with closed eyes.


“Open your eyes, angel.”


“Huh-uh…”


“Yes, let me see ‘em,” I persuading gently and started tickling her sides.


She cracked a small smile and giggled lightly, but continued to keep her chocolate depths from my view.


“Isabella, let me see ‘em…” I tried again.


“Why?” she whispered.


“Because they are pretty,” I said lightly.


Her eyes popped open then, and seeing my face in close proximity to hers, she smiled at me.


I kissed her button nose. “There they are,” I said softly and smiled adoringly at her, staring intently into her eyes.


She kissed my cheek then and rolled over to stretch. I got off the bed and went over to the dresser, getting ready to do the mundane, womanly task of preparing another pair of padded panties for my confused little girl.


Maybe I would teach her how to put a pad on all by herself. But maybe not. Maybe I get some kind of sick pleasure out of doing everything for her…as if she were helpless. Yeah…maybe not. I prepare her panties. And I pick out her clothes. Not her.


I do.


I smiled at how thoroughly I could take care of my little girl, and quickly attached the now familiar small pad to the inside of yet, another pair of panties. They were white and red this time. White cotton panties with little red cherries decorating the thin fabric.


“Here…” I said, as Isabella came to stand beside me.


I handed her the panties and she stared at me, confused.


“Edward?”


“Yes?”


“Again?”


“Yes.”


“But how come?” she asked with furrowed, thin eyebrows.


I gave her a small smile. “We’re going to be doing this a few times every day until the bleeding stops, baby,” I informed her gently.


“But why?”


“Just go change your panties, sweetheart,” I insisted, turning her body in the direction of the bathroom.


“But-” she started, but I cut her off.


“You’ll see what I’m talking about when you get in there, angel. Trust me, I know these things. Was I right this morning?” I asked from my position behind her.


She nodded.


“Okay, baby. See? I know what I’m doing…I’ll take care of you,” I assured her. “Every few hours, or so, you need to change into a clean pair of panties that I’ll have ready for you,” I informed softly in her ear.


“Kay…” she relented, then walked off to the bathroom, new panties in hand.


While Isabella was in the bathroom, I folded her pink blanket and stuck it back in the closet, where it belonged, before going through my Bella’s wardrobe, trying to pick an outfit for her to wear today.


I knew from experience that when my Bella is menstruating, she feels bloated, among other things, so I was trying to avoid her jeans, and pants all together. I didn’t want her to have to deal with an uncomfortable waist band throughout the day, making her more irritable then she was already bound to be.


So, that narrowed down my selection to her adorable spring and summer dresses. I picked a red one, with thin spaghetti shoulder straps. It would hug her curves nicely and come down to her mid-thigh area. The fabric was soft and thin, and would allow for her heating pad to work it’s magic on her aching muscles sooner, rather than later, when she uses it today.


When Isabella came out of the bathroom, I handed her the dress and sent her right back in the direction she had come. She scowled and asked why she couldn’t just get dressed in the bedroom. I reminded her of her rule about getting naked in front of people, so she reluctantly turned and went back into the bathroom, shutting the door behind her. When she came out, looking as beautiful as ever, in what I chose for her to wear, I informed her of what was next.


She was not happy.


“No!” she yelled at me.


“Isabella, baby…I know that it wasn’t supposed to happen until tomorrow, but there was a change of plans-” I tried explaining before she cut me off with a stomp of her foot.


“No, Edward, I don’t wanna see the doctor,” she insisted.


I nodded quickly in acknowledgment. “I know, angel, but you don’t have a choice. Carlisle is leaving tomorrow, so therapy will be happening this morning, and then you get to have a little two day break from it all,” I informed her, trying to stay positive on the matter.


“Nooo…” she whined.


I gave her a stern look. “Isabella, quit whining-”


“I don’t want to see the doctor,” she repeated, ignoring my warning and screaming out the word ‘want’.


“Isabella, stop,” I told her, referring to her developing temper tantrum.


“No! I’m not going!” she insisted in a shout, before she scrambled to get into her favorite hiding spot, under the bed, as quickly as possible.


I simply rolled my eyes at her display.


Well, this is quickly going to shit and getting out of hand.


I sighed and bent down to reach under the bed. I gently grabbed her left ankle, ignoring her kicking and protests of ’no doctors’, and softly tugged, pulling her back out from underneath the large bed.


She started crying, so I swatted her little ass. “Stop throwing a fit, Isabella,” I told her, lifting her up into my arms.


Once I had her legs wrapped around my waist, I started for the bedroom door, and she began pushing against my chest. She let out a frustrated cry as angry tears ran down her flushed cheeks.


“No, Edward!” she yelled, kicking her feet out at nothing.


I ignored her and continued my decent down to the second floor.


“Edward, I want dooown…” she whined.


I looked at her and shook my head, never ceasing my steps. “No,” I said quietly in a calm voice.


“Yes!” she screamed back in my face.


I glared at her and quickly withdrew my hand, only to bring it back and spank her ass again. “What did I tell you about yelling in people’s faces?” I asked through gritted teeth.


She didn’t answer, just let out another desperate cry and eventually relaxed her body against mine, giving up her fight.


When we reached the door to Carlisle’s study, Isabella had stopped crying for the most part, and spoke up again.


“Edward, come with me…” she pleaded in a voice that cracked.


I shook my head sadly. “We’ve been over this, angel. I can’t. But I’ll be right here when you’re done,” I reminded her.


She pouted and kicked her legs again, but I ignored it and knocked on Carlisle’s door. He immediately responded with, “Come in,” to which Isabella countered with a loud, “No!”


“Hush, Isabella,” I admonished her.


She whined and pouted the entire walk over to her leather, high-backed chair in front of Carlisle’s desk. I gently set her down in it and turned my back to Carlisle, squatting down in front of my head-strong, stubborn little girl. I kept my face stern and my voice firm, effectively giving off that ‘owner’ vibe, that I knew she wasn’t likely to disobey.


“Isabella, you will behave.”


Her eyes widened a bit and she sniffled, but nodded, nonetheless.


“Isabella, you will cooperate.”


She nodded.


I softened my gaze then, and nodded at her in return.


I stomped down the familiar feelings of anxiety rising in me at the idea of leaving her in here to discuss the things of her past. I simply refused to let Isabella know that I was upset, as well.


Instead, I whispered, “I love you.”


She mumbled back, “Love you, too…”


I kissed her forehead. “Be a good girl,” I instructed, before I stood quickly, and left the room.


I shut the door behind me, to give my mate a false sense of privacy, and gracefully sank down onto the floor, assuming my usual position outside of my father’s study. I resolved to keep my steady promise and wait right here, in this spot, until she was finished talking.


I clenched my jaw, tightened my fists, closed my eyes, and focused on Carlisle’s mind, while steeling myself against the new horrors that my cursed vampire ears would greedily absorb in the next hour.


My breath exhaled in a rush as I saw, through Carlisle’s mind’s eye, that my Bella’s eyes were beginning to blink rapidly.


Isabella…my naughty little escape artist.


Bella looked at Carlisle with a slightly confused expression. Carlisle kept silent, but returned her look with one of expectance.


“Um…Carlisle…” Bella mumbled, her quick eyes taking a second to scan the room and take in her surroundings.


“Hello Bella,” he greeted with a warm smile.


“Hi,” she replied in a quiet voice. “Um…I know this is going to sound like a really stupid question, but could you tell me what’s…um, what’s going on?” she asked uncertainly.


His golden eyes reassured her as he explained that they were in the beginning of a therapy session. He told my Bella that Isabella had protested the entire way down, eventually going out of awareness once I had left the room, simultaneously leaving her with no other option but to cooperate at my demand that she do so.


I saw my Bella nod in understanding, and wipe the wet tears off of her beautiful rosy cheeks with the tissue that Carlisle had handed her.


She blew her nose then asked in a resigned voice, “Well…shall we begin?”


He nodded and opened the leather journal that was placed on the big, wooden desk in front of him. With his pen in hand, and his sharp eyes intent on my Bella, he was ready to go. Excited, even. My father was always eager for new information.


I sighed and gripped my hair in both of my hands. I guess I was as ready as I would ever be. I sat back and listened to my mate’s beautiful, melodic voice as she told her tales of horror and abuse.


BPOV


Focusing on Mr. Squiggly Line was always an easy thing to do. He distracted me, and kept me talking. I only let my eyes drift to the clock every once in a while, so that I could subconsciously count the minutes until I would be back in Edward’s arms. I missed him.


My mind space was quiet as Carlisle hastily explained that this was actually tomorrow’s intended therapy session, but that he and Esme planned to be out of town for the next two days, so he was putting my health first and attending to me, before he left this evening.


I nodded, not really needing an explanation from him. I would talk for as long, and as often as he wanted me to.


I mean, it’s not like it was doing anything, anyway.


I remained somewhat numb as I recounted certain memories. I wasn’t sure if it was going to be like this during the sessions where Carlisle would eventually interact with my alternates alone, but this was how it worked for me. Aside from a few tears…I was numb. I just didn’t care.


Isabella and Marie felt all of my old pain so that I wouldn’t have to. That was their purpose. That’s why they were here. I liked it that way. And it would fucking stay that way.


‘Why?’ you ask?


Because I’m weak. And I can’t deal with their bullshit.


I sighed at my thoughts, and began.


“Bella, you said that Jim had a son…” Carlisle trailed off suggestively.


I cringed and felt a pang of sadness at the thought of Bobby.


Way to start a conversation, doc Marie said sarcastically, feeling my pain and reluctance on the subject.


My BubbaBobby… Isabella’s voice whispered the old nickname we had always used for him.


“Um, yeah…” I started, shifting uncomfortably in my chair.


I decided then, to just dive right in. So I did.


It took about a month‘s time, but we eventually became really close. We bonded, I guess you could say…as all siblings should. Bobby would bring books home from his big-kid school and in the afternoons, he would teach me how to read. It was easy. Then, he taught me my numbers…addition and subtraction. That was simple, too. I loved any attention from my new big brother. BubbaBobby was what I would call him during our first year of living under the same roof. Jim would eventually keep me in the basement, regardless of whether Bobby was home, or not. He terrorized his son into thinking that I would be given away if he told anyone. He told both of us that I wasn’t really his child…that my mommy was a whore and that I was the spawn of an evil kike. Bobby told me that he didn’t care what Daddy said…that I was his baby sister, and nobody could change that. Bobby and I became closer in the face of the now open abuse. He would put band-aids on my burns, and sneak me cookies if I had my dinner plate taken away before I could finish. Often, at night, Bobby would come into my bedroom to check to see if I was okay. He was sure that I was going to be killed, too. There were nights when we would lay in bed together, our small bodies close and our little heads touching, and we talked of running away, but we always had the constant dilemma of having no money and no place to go, standing in our way.
“Something’s wrong with Dad,” was his explanation. “Should we tell Momma?”
“No, Bobby…” I whispered back into the darkness. “I don’t want to be given away to the bad men,” I told him, referring to the men that had already come to see me many times. “Please don’t tell Mommy,” I pleaded.
The times of burns and painful cuts, when I would scream, really upset Bobby.
“I hate him. He’s an asshole,” he said, referring to our dad.
Only Bobby and Isabella were ever angry. I was simply too terrified of the repercussions of anger. Any signs of aggression on my part was always accompanied by brutal pain.


I watched Carlisle’s pen fly across the page of his journal, then focused back on my squiggly line and continued talking, not missing a beat.


I was a very allergic child, having bouts of asthma frequently. Animal fur was an especially potent allergen to me. Jim gave me an Easter bunny once. I was thrilled at the concept of getting a present from him. I desperately wanted him to love me. He took the bunny and rubbed the fur all around my face, tickling me with the softness. I began wheezing, and that night had asthma so badly that I had to be rushed to the hospital because I couldn’t breathe. I felt confusion: joy at my daddy giving me a fluffy bunny, upset that I was allergic to it, and devastation that my mom would have to give away my new present. Jim would take me to the pet store and let me hold the kittens and bunnies, eventually rendering me breathless with the inevitable sneezing and asthma attacks. It took me months to figure out that his gesture was not a loving one.


Carlisle nodded.


Edward growled.


I rolled my eyes.


Edward was obviously on the other side of that door, from the sound of it. He had asked me the other day if I was keeping anything else from him when Isabella had ratted me out on being a pansy who was allergic to bees. I had told him ‘no‘. Ooops. Looks like I lied. Oh well. He’s lied to me, so he can fucking get over it.


Isabella giggled at my thoughts, while Marie had a completely different reaction.


You better not get our ass busted, Bell she warned. I’m getting tired of that shit, and the tiny terror over here isn’t fucking helping matters any she told me, hinting towards the possibility that Isabella was causing more trouble that I didn’t know about yet.


I carried on, ignoring them and thinking of any random memory, and speaking freely…just trying to pass the time.


The summer I was about to start school was a happy one. Mom took us camping in the High Sierras. Jim stayed home. We fished and cooked our meals over the campfire. We ate fish for dinner and pancakes for breakfast, because that was about all Mom knew how to cook. The three of us slept in a tent which made strange noises when the wind blew, but we had Mommy next to us. She would put her arm across Bobby and me as we scrunched down in the sleeping bag that we shared. Being squished by Mom’s arm was the best feeling in the world. One afternoon, Bobby got to use Jim’s gun that we had brought with us.
He whispered to me, “I would never kill anything, except maybe Dad.”
When we returned from our camping trip, Mom gave me permission to cross the streets near our house from then on, so that Bobby and I could go to the park. Down the block and across the street, at the corner, lived an old man with no front teeth. He sat on his porch with his big green parrot and let us give peanuts to the bird, who cocked his head to the side and said, “Good-bye, I’m pretty.” I thought being able to go places with Bobby was the most wonderful thing that had ever happened to me. We made friends at the park. They even let me play games with them. There were swings, a slide, and monkey bars. I could run and play tag, and hide-and-go-seek. In one giant leap, my world expanded beyond the basement and the pain. I could laugh at the park, and not get a beating for it.
I asked Isabella, “Why don’t you want to play with Bobby and my new friends?”
“Nobody likes me,” was her quick, harsh reply. Her voice softened back to normal when she spoke again. “I only want to play with you. Besides, no one believes that I’m really real.”
It was true. Bobby teased me unmercifully when I talked about Isabella. Sometimes I would let her play, but we kept it a secret that she was there. I didn’t like being laughed at.


My hand automatically shot to my forehead when Isabella chose to show me a specific memory then. Carlisle gave me a curious look as I softly fingered the small mark on skin, just above my right eyebrow.


Just before kindergarten was about to start, when I was almost six, Jim was mad at something or other, so he threw me up against the corner of the dining room table, gashing my forehead open in the process.
He taped the jagged edges back together and as I sat crying, he said in a smug tone, “Good. Now, you’ll have an ugly scar and everyone will see it. They will all know that you are a fucking wicked little girl.”
The mark of evil was more humiliation than I could bear. I didn’t want to go to school. I didn’t even really know for sure what exactly school was, but I knew that I didn’t want people to know that I was bad. I begged Mommy to let me stay home forever. I cried and told her that I didn’t want anyone to see my scar. She said that I was being ridiculous, and that it was just a little scar…that, with time, it wouldn’t be red anymore. The next day, Mommy brought me and little red garnet stone in a tiny velvet box.
She sat me in her lap and rocked me in a comforting embrace as she said, “There is a place called India, and women who are princesses wear stones like this on their foreheads. They cut their head, just like you have, and they decorate themselves. They think that it makes them special. I think your scar makes you special.”
It was always a double message. Evil. Special. Wicked. Princess. Kike. Sunshine. After Mommy’s present, I felt better about the scar, but still very shy. The first day of school, I walked around with my hand over my forehead. The new children asked me why I had my hand on my head, but I remained quiet and sucked my thumb.
At recess, one boy pulled my hand away and said, “Oh, just a scar.”
I was relieved that he didn’t gasp and acknowledge how bad I was. After that, I began to play.


I instantly fell in love with my teacher. He had a handsome face full of sweet smiles, brown hair, and wore neat-looking, professional clothes. I began to follow him around everywhere. I was his willing slave for any school project. Already knowing how to read and write made me an instant success. I could tie my shoes and tell time, too. Mr. McDonald liked me. He would let me sit in his lap sometimes, and he always called on me to help with the other kids. I tried to kiss his cheek whenever he leaned over, and I held onto his hand whenever he would let me.
One day after school, I was lingering around as usual, and I asked him with pleading eyes, “Can I be your little girl? I’ll be good and really quiet. Please take me home with you.”
He looked at me with kind, green eyes, and said, “Bella, I would love to have you as my little girl…but you have a mother and father who love you very much. They would miss you,” he insisted.
I couldn’t tell him about my daddy.
So, instead, I said very quietly, “I want to be yours.”
I stood very close to him, fingering the soft folds of his pant leg, and struggling against my desire to hug him hard and never let go.
He squatted down in front of me then, and scooped some of my long hair behind my ear with one of his big fingers.
He smiled gently at me and said, “They are probably missing you right now. Go home, Bella,” he told me in a soft voice.
I remember walking home from school slowly, feeling the rejection and not wanting to return home. Mommy loved me, but she was never there.


That’s b'cuz she’s a whore and doesn’t care ‘bout us, Bella Isabella supplied.


Fuck her. Fucking cock-suckin, anal-lube-tastic, Nazi-lovin bitch… Marie added.


Awesome.


I went on, ignoring the internal insults directed at my clueless mother.


Soon after that, I fell asleep for a nap in the living room with bubblegum in my mouth, and it apparently fell out, landing on the unlucky carpet, and Mom had to cut the sticky pink wad out of the brown bristles with a pair of scissors. So naturally, this was an opportunity for Jim to give me some more of that damned ’purity’. He hit my face repeatedly with the heel of his hand until he eventually broke my nose. His eyes lit up and I saw how he smiled as my screams filled the confined space of the room he had us in. He liked this room a lot, and eventually used it for all of my ’purity sessions’. I remember him saying something to the effect of it having the best ‘echo-capabilities‘.
“Fucking scream for me!” he yelled with excited, dancing eyes, trying to over-power my high pitched wails with his deep, but booming loud and echoing voice.
At my constant screams and sobs, he grinned and stated proudly, “I will give you purity, Isabella.” As if he had fucking accomplished something.
Going to school the next day, with cotton packing stuffed up my nose and a big bandage across my face, made me terrified that someone would guess Daddy had hurt me. The idea of being saved never seemed an option; it was the fear of Jim’s retribution if anyone discovered the truth that had me terrified. I made up some kind of lie. It was hard to breathe with the bandage, but I loved the colorful look of the skin around my eyes going from red, to purple, to green.


It wasn’t until I began school that I noticed my episodes of ‘losing the time’. I could be sitting in my little circle of classmates, with my hands folded, listening to a story of Dr. Seuss, and the next thing I would be aware of, was Mr. McDonald asking in an angry tone, “Bella, just what do you think you’re doing?” In my hand would be chalk and I would be standing at the blackboard in front of all these wild drawings, while the whole class snickered at me. It was the regimentation and accountability for my actions that made me realize I wasn’t like everyone else. I just sort of drifted away and did things I wasn’t aware of. It was devastating, because I wanted desperately to be liked. The academic work at school came easily for me, but I was distressed that if I didn’t pay attention, then my mind would slip away somewhere. Isabella didn’t always want to stay in a desk at school. I got in trouble a lot for wandering around the classroom when I didn’t even know I had done it. That was to begin my lifetime of covering up and apologizing for my ‘twin’.
I could feel my little cheeks grow hot and pink as my teacher said, “For goodness sakes, Bella, you’re out of your seat again. Can’t you sit still and pay attention like the other students?”
I whispered, “Isabella, stay in the desk. I don’t like to get in trouble.” Out loud, I said, “I’m sorry, Mr. McDonald.”
“I wasn’t bein bad,” Isabella insisted. “You always blame me when you get in trouble. It’s not fair!”
“Well, that’s because you’re the one that always does the bad stuff,” I offered her as an explanation.


You still do that Isabella told me.


Yeah, and you’re still the one that does the bad stuff I replied.


Bad ass, bratty little kid Marie added.


Fuck you Isabella retorted.


Okay. Both of you - shut up.


When my mental space was silent again, I continued.


That year was punctuated with some happy times spent with Granny Hadassah, new friends, long days at school, and the realization that I got approval for being smart. But there were days when it was agony to sit still with my bruised back and bottom, or my little-girl parts that had just been recently hurt by Jim.


The first thing I did when I was introduced to the school library was ask for books on blindness. I had been terrorized by the threat of being blinded so often, that it seemed imperative for me to find out all I could about it. I know now that it was really Isabella’s survival instincts kicking in, that caused that. I found a book about Braille, and color coded all of my clothes in my closet. I taught myself to eat as though my plate were a clock and the hands pointed to the food. Bobby and I practiced with ‘meat at nine o’clock, corn at five’. In my mind, it was a very important, very vital game.


Even at six years old, I knew something was alarmingly wrong with my daddy. I didn’t have labels like ‘mentally ill’, I just knew that other people didn’t treat me like he always did. In a deep, aching way, I wanted him to love me. Even the slightest of smiles or the occasional soft touch while in Mommy’s presence, was enough for me to fantasize that maybe if I tried harder, he would love me. I can’t explain the intense loyalty that I felt towards him. Partly it was fear, and partly it was that I loved him because he was my daddy. I felt very proud on Valentine’s Day when I had brought Jim my plaster plate with my hand print on it and a big loop of red yarn for hanging it up. It had been an important project at school, and I thought that my daddy would know how much I loved him when he unwrapped the white, wrinkled tissue paper. I had wrapped, unwrapped, and rewrapped it dozens of times, fantasizing an enveloping hugging scene with Daddy. I dared to lean against his shoulder, standing next to him as he sat at the kitchen table and opened the paper. I shyly reached up and fingered his soft blonde curls that were cascading just below his ear, and I even touched the soft fabric of the collar on his shirt. Without saying a word, he lay the plate on the table, then got up to go to the back porch. He reentered the kitchen with a hammer and a big nail. My heart soared with joy that he was going to actually hang my handprint up on the wall. Instead, he came over to the table, picked it up, and placed a few newspapers underneath it. Then, looking right at me and not saying a word, he placed the nail in the middle of my plaster palm and brought the hammer down hard. The plate fractured into white chunks. The symbolism of his act was abundantly clear to me. I shrank back against the kitchen wall, feeling the tears coursing down my cheeks that were as white as the plaster.


Carlisle looked at me sympathetically after that particular tale. I just shrugged, feeling nothing but disgust at my constant and unexplained loyalty to that evil man, then soldiered on.


Some things I just accepted. Because I was evil, I must be burned, hit, and locked up. Yet other things, even with my life of abuse, I innately knew to be wrong. Once, when I was five, and my 12yr old cousin was visiting, I remember my sense of alarm when Jim had made us take baths together while he sat on the lid of the toilet, watching us and directed me to do things to him. He sat there, belt and purity knife in hand, and commanded me to pay attention to what German boys looked like. He said that he would not have me whoring around like my mother did, and let a dirty kike taint my cunt. He spoke to his angel as he sat there, running the knife’s sharp blade up and down, along his favorite leather belt that he liked to beat me with. Once, he took that purity knife and held it to me, forcing me to suck on the teenager’s penis. He squirmed and laughed, as his dick grew and stiffened in my mouth. I don’t remember what Jim said, but I remember feeling that what we were doing was very wrong…especially since he had threatened me with that damn knife.


Carlisle nodded in agreement and gave me a reassuring smile, never stopping the motion of his pen.


When I was six, the Kendalls, who had sent my mom to college and law school, came down from New York to visit us. I remember how excited Mommy was about the visit; cleaning, planting flowers, giving me and Bobby instructions on how to be polite. They were wonderful people, even asking Bobby and me to call them Grandma and Grandpa. Mr. Kendall had a loud laugh and wore a big gold watch, which hung on a low chain, tucked into his pocket. Mrs. Kendall had hair that was a white-blue color and it was so thin that I could see her pink scalp peeking through. They brought us toys…Bobby got a new fire truck and I got a new doll, which, of course, Jim took away from me later. That was a nice week. We went to restaurants and the zoo with them. When they left, Grandpa Kendall pressed six silver dollars into my hand, one for each year of my life. Bobby got eight. We marveled at our wealth. Dad and Mom had never given us money, even though we knew that we were rich compared to the other kids at school. We had lotts of clothes. I even had some jewelry. Jim would dress me in pretty, new outfits every morning, then put gold chains or pearls around my neck, informing me, “If you look nice, then no one will know that I have to punish you for being a dirty kike. It will remain our secret, Isabella.”
Then he would bend over my small form, and quickly reach down to firmly swat my ass, before reminding me not to be a whore, like my mother, as I walked out the door to go to preschool. Looking nice was seriously some kind of a necessity. I had all kinds of pretty dresses and shoes, but no money and no toys and no possessions that were mine. This money seemed to be a huge fortune for me. Bobby and I talked for days and days about how rich we were and all the possibilities of our newfound wealth. I knew that I couldn’t spend mine because Jim would take away whatever I bought.
“Maybe we should bury the money in a jar in the backyard,” Bobby suggested. “It could be our escape money if we want to run away.”
That is exactly what we did. Digging deep into the dark dirt, we put our treasure of fourteen dollars under the lemon tree and told no one. It was our secret.


Is it still there? Marie asked.


Fuck, I don’t know…


Nooo… Isabella’s voice trailed off and I puzzled over as to what she could mean by that.


I know that I never dug up that money.


See? Bad. Fuckin. Kid. Marie reaffirmed.


Isabella, did you take that money? I asked.


She was silent but eventually insisted, It was mine.


No…it wasn’t I told her.


Yes…it was she said, mocking my tone.


You little brat! That was Bobby’s I mentally yelled at her.


Fuck him! That shit was mine she insisted.


I sighed and ignored her, effectively ending our internal chatter.


I felt like my heart would break when kindergarten came to an end. I cried for days because I wouldn’t get to see Mr. McDonald anymore. Cutting, and gluing had been fun…the music was wonderful, but Mr. McDonald had become my fantasy father. He spoke softly, he laughed and smiled a lot. He played with me and my classmates. He liked me. I humiliated myself once more before the last day of school let out, begging him to adopt me. I fantasized what it would be like to be his daughter and the fun that I would have under his care. More than anything, I craved affection. I wanted to be kissed and hugged and cuddled. I wished I could sit on Mr. McDonald’s lap forever and bury my head in his soft neck. At my almost hysterical tears, Mr. McDonald sat me on his lap and looked at me with serious, thoughtful eyes as he waited for me to calm down.
“There is nothing in this world that I would like better than to have you be my little girl. Unfortunately, it isn’t that easy to take a child from someone else. The law says that you belong to the parents you were born to. Next to my own two little girls, I love you more than any other child. I have enjoyed everyday that you have been in my class, eager as ever to learn and play. I like watching your face light up with excitement at the prospect of learning new things. You are a fascinating, beautiful little girl, Bella, and I wish I could be your daddy,“ he said with a gentle smile, before his features hardened a bit. “But, it’s just not possible. I cannot bring you home with me.” His tone was one of finality now.
All the way home, kicking a rock, I felt depression consume me in the most profound of ways. The concept of ownership had never even crossed my mind. My daddy didn’t love me, or want me, but he owned me…like a dog, or a cat. There would never be an escape, or another daddy. I was exhausted to my core with the terrorizing, the physical pain, and the isolation of the basement. Mr. McDonald couldn’t take me. Granny Hadassah couldn’t save me. Mommy was gone all the time. It was hopeless. I picked at my food and didn’t sleep at nights. My slight weight dropped even lower. I mentally drifted in and out of time frames. When Mommy came home from her latest business trip, she was alarmed at how I looked.
"Sunshine, you’re getting so skinny. You must try to eat, baby.”
“I don’t like you,” Isabella words, directed at my mother, whispered in my head.
I brushed off my mother’s suggestion and continued to suck my thumb. If she cared so much, she wouldn’t leave me all the time.


That’s right Isabella chimed in out of nowhere.


I continued as if I hadn’t heard her.


Summer meant the loss of new friends, and the loss of Mr. McDonald, but the gain of more violence against me. My increasing awareness that I had lost hours during the day came when I was six. I could be locked in the basement and be left down there for the entire day, and it would end up seeming like only minutes to me. Though I was not aware of any conscious effort to do so, I learned to escape from the intolerable. Bobby had eventually taught me how to hold and play with spiders, so that I wouldn’t fear them in the basement anymore.
“See? Spiders are nice. They only tickle when they walk on you,” he assured me as we watched a tiny black spider crawl up my arm.
He was always upset when I got locked up. I would hear him pleading with Daddy sometimes, for him to let me come out and play, before the eventual telltale sounds of repeated smacking occurred, alerting me to the fact that Bobby was getting punished because of me. No longer fearing the spiders helped, but the basement had a stench from all of the times that I had to urinate, when I was down there and couldn’t hold it any longer. The blackness was absolute. There wasn’t even a ray of light. No sounds. It was abandonment at it’s worst. I was certain that I would die of thirst, or shrivel in hunger. I worried that Mommy would not know how I died. Often, I worried that no one would remember that I was down in the basement, and I would just be left to die. I wondered if bones really were white, like I had seen in pictures of skeletons and the scary movies that Jim had shown me. How long would it take for me to become just bones, and where would my skin go? I wondered if my skin would look like the potato I’d found at the back of the cupboard that was all shriveled. I wondered if I would get squishy like a rotten apple, or all hard and wrinkled like a dried potato. There were times when I felt sad for my own death, which in my mind seemed an inevitable certainty. Other times, I just apathetically accepted the fact that one day, soon, I would be left to die in the basement, or that Dad would kill me. I would lie on the floor of the basement and my fears and thirst would get drowned out by Isabella’s voice talking to me, saying lovely, escapist, imaginative things. Isabella split into life, in my mind, suggesting that we have a tea party or play house. There was a giant pot of English tea, which we drank with milk and sugar out of thin, dainty teacups. Isabella liked number games. We giggled as we made up puzzles of numbers to add and subtract, knowing that Mr. McDonald would be proud of us and our new game.


My panic always escalated when Bobby was gone. He was my one assurance that I would be found! Since he was a big kid…an eight year old, he was allowed to go places on his bike, and sometimes he left for the day. Whenever he could, he tried to take me with him because he knew what leaving me meant. I became the tag-along with Bobby and his friends. Bobby and I decided to make more money for our treasure jar. We opened a lemonade stand at the end of our driveway. Mom was pleased at our little enterprise and she said that she would buy all the sugar and paper cups that we needed. We had several lemon trees on our grounds, so we went into business right away. Some of the neighbors who stopped by were surprised to find out that children lived in our big house…especially a little girl, since they had never seen us before. We met the Jamisons, a Baptist family who lived four houses down. They had a ten-year old daughter, Susannah, who became our friend that summer. Isabella did not like this girl, but she chose to stay quiet on the matter, for the most part. Her dislike for other children was growing, though. Susannah would stand on the curb and flag down cars for our potential customers. Susannah was the one who introduced me to the full-blown concept of hell and damnation. I knew some about this placed called ‘hell‘, from what Jim had told me, but nothing like what my new friend had shown me. Her parents took me and Bobby to a Holy Roller-type church service, where, with great vividness, the pastor described flames licking at the feet of the wicked and unrepentant. I didn’t know what ‘sins’ were, but I knew from my dad that I was, indeed, evil. Now I had the added worry of hell when I finally did die in that damn basement. After the service, Susannah introduced me to the pastor, who asked me if I had been saved. My only answer was, “No,” for my only idea of ‘saved’ was for someone to take me away from Jim.
“We will pray for you, child,” the scary man said, then he proceeded to put his large hand on my head and invoke the Holy Spirit to enter my heart. I was terrified, thinking that he was calling on some magical power to strike me down. I waited for Jim’s angel to appear with a sword. When I didn’t die, I was a bit relieved.


I lived with a great deal of anxiety at being Jewish, being evil, and always being hurt. I never told anyone that I was Jewish. It was as black a secret in my mind as the abuse. I bit my nails, sucked on locks of my hair, and at six, I still sucked my thumb. Jim painted my thumb with Tabasco sauce, but I would wash it off when he wasn’t looking and suck it anyway. I needed my thumb. I tried really hard to stop sucking it, but I couldn’t.
“Big kids don’t suck their thumbs,” Bobby said.
“Pull that thumb out of your mouth,” my mother demanded.
But I needed my beloved thumb, and the reassurance I felt when I sucked on it. They could all kiss my Jewish ass, as far as I was concerned.


Mom and Jim began fighting a great deal and there were times when Mom didn’t come home at nights. Jim told Bobby and me that Mommy was having sex with other men. During mom’s nightly absences, Jim began talking with his angel more frequently and getting more violent with me. He would strip me naked some nights, and tie me to the bedposts with those blue fucking scarves and begin rubbing my clitoris with a cold cream, making me feel all warm and nice. I would stare into his glazed blue eyes while he did this. He would stare back. My mind soon rejected those ‘nice’ feelings, becoming immediately confused that those feelings were being associated with Jim’s mean hands. Then, things abruptly became clear and made sense all over again, when Jim took the handle of a wooden spoon and jabbed it into my anus, saying things like, “I’ll have to teach you how to use that fuckable little ass.”


I had to take a minute to clear my throat, then. I had a sudden wave a of nausea hit me and I found myself wanting to vomit at that vivid memory.


Carlisle looked on with concern. “Take your time, dear…” he advised gently.


I swallowed and breathed in through my nose and out my mouth five times before I could speak again.


Jim had me stand in standard position against the wall, while he paced in front of me, muttering nonsense to his angel. My standard position was simple. Back straight. Palms upturned and held out to him, as if in offering. Keep eyes forward. Don’t. Make. Eye. Contact.
“I have to be careful not to mark up your skin, because your dumb ass is in school now,” Jim told me with accusing, cold blue eyes.
Jim stopped pacing then, and bent down to yell in my face, “Do you have any fucking idea how hard that is going to be for me?!” he asked with desperation laced in his voice.
I whimpered and shook my head, whispering out a shy, “No.”
He slapped me across the face. Hard. He hadn’t given me permission to speak.
“Take your tight little ass down to the fucking basement before I get my belt, Isabella,” he threatened.
I bolted out of the room, heading straight for the dreaded door to the basement, opening it and slamming it closed behind me, becoming immediately enveloped in the familiar, but desolate darkness.


Jim soon began to lock me in the basement right after breakfast, leaving the long needles that he had stuck deep in my foot to stay in place, immobilizing me while I was down there serving my time for my apparent wickedness. I was highly distraught at missing school sometimes, because of this. Jim would write a note, saying that I had been sick, or that I had had an asthma attack. I was very tiny and underweight, so Mr. McDonald accepted those excuses.
One day, at recess, Mr. McDonald was pushing me and another one of my classmates, a little boy, on the swing set. I winced as he touched my bruised back.
“What’s the matter, Bella?” he asked as he stopped the motion of my swing when he noticed my cringe and slight whimper of pain. I didn’t answer, so he slowly pulled up my shirt to the middle of my back and gave a little gasp.
"Bella, how did you get all these black and blue marks?” he asked in my ear from his position behind me.
I was frozen in mortification.
“I can’t tell you,” was all I could whisper.
Mercifully, he let it drop and gently slid my shirt back down into place. But he did say that if I ever needed to talk to him about it, he would be glad to help me.
I shyly mumbled, “Thank you,” but the imprint on my brain of the white-hot fire pain kept me silent.


“I wonder why he didn’t just call the authorities right then and there? That very day...” Carlisle muttered curiously.


I glared at Mr. Squiggly Line and replied in a harsh tone, “Because he didn’t fucking care.”


I sighed then, and relaxed my sudden anger, while I contemplated taking this conversation down a different road. Carlisle knew about that evil bitch, ‘Lady Angel’, but he had no idea of the other beings Jim had conjured up to terrorize my childhood.


Hmmm…


No… Isabella pathetically whimpered.


For the love of Christ… Marie added, in an exasperated sigh.


I’ll have to talk about it sooner, or later right?


Right.


Well, here goes nothing…


Fritz and Frieda added stress to my life. From my earliest memories, they were part of my childhood experience, and as real to me as Jim’s angel. Jim would sit at the edge of my bed while he had me tied to the bedposts and tell me over and over again, about Fritz and Frieda, the elves who lived in the big basement of our house, in their own tiny home behind the furnace. They were his German Heinselmenchen, which according to folklore, are the elves who come in the night to work and help people, but Jim had ownership of these elves.
Apparently, he had ‘ownership’ over a lot of things…
Anyways, they were malevolent, nasty little creatures with big eyes that watched me from their invisible hiding places and would tell Jim if I was doing anything wrong. They could hear me wherever I went and would always report even the slightest infraction of the rules to him. As a child, I could hear them breathing behind the curtains and hear their tiny footsteps following me. At vulnerable moments, when Mom was putting me to bed, I considered telling her about Jim, but I knew Fritz would scurry his crusty ass off to Jim, like a little bitch, on his tiny felt shoes, and I would be murdered before Mom could even pack a suitcase. Just as I tried to talk to ‘Lady Angel’, I used to try to negotiate with Fritz. I wanted him to know that I was trying very hard to be a good girl. Whenever I was lucky enough to be given candy or something special at school, I would save some for Fritz and Frieda, putting little stashes of things at the bottom of my bed, in an effort to win them over. When they didn’t take my offerings, I thought it was because they were like Daddy, and didn’t like dirty little kikes, either. Bobby was terrified of the elves, as well. We would sometimes agree to meet inside the closet and whisper to each other if we had important things to discuss, or we would simply print notes to each other about Dad. We decided that little elves can’t read, or that if Fritz could, it would only be German, because that was the language that Jim spoke to him in.


“Interesting…” Carlisle murmured in a thoughtful tone.


“Isn’t it, though?” I added in a sarcastic tone.


“Hmm…” he sighed.


“Yeah. That delusional motherfucker just didn’t know when to quit, did he?” I asked with a smirk.


“Apparently not,” Carlisle agreed.


And, after noticing that I still had twenty minutes left, I continued on, deciding to inform him a little more about mine and Isabella‘s history.


It was clear in my mind, at age six, that Isabella was definitely my twin. She was no longer the free-form, pretend playmate from the basement. She was a distinct person, separate from me, with definite likes and dislikes. We had lengthy internal dialogues, even arguments. Our relationship was still one of friends, but her anger, and her willingness to do things that got me into trouble, was always upsetting. When I told people about Isabella, they either said that I was lying, or pretending. We had the awareness that we shared the same body, but not the same life. She was prettier than me. She refused to be Jewish. We began to have different favorite clothes, our own sets of ideas on how to do things, and individual preferences. I simply accepted my twin and my constant loss of time with the same willingness that I had accepted the abuse. It just simply was.


Carlisle didn’t look up from his journal, but nodded for me to continue, so I moved onto the subject of my first ever summer break.


The summer after kindergarten, Mom took time off from work and took us to the beach for a few weeks. Granny Hadassah came to stay with us, also. She stuffed me full of goodies, and in the joy of not being hurt and being away from the dark basement, I began to eat and play again. Mommy took us swimming. In the early morning hours, we went seashell hunting and walked along the edges of the waves, kicking at the clumps of seaweed that hid the treasured cowrie shells and abalone. At sunset, we fished off of the big rocks, with the surf surging and spraying us as it hit the rocks. We let our perch swim in the tide pools. Granny enthusiastically cooked the fish that we caught. I still got punished by Jim for small, dumb things, though. He would accuse me of something stupid, barely getting the explanation for my punishment out, before roughly grabbing my small arm and dragging me behind a high pile of rocks. He would spank me while I wore a wet, two-piece swim suit…the sounds of my cries going ignored by my mother, who stood twenty feet away. I didn’t let Jim’s daily punishments bring me down though. They only lasted a few minutes, after all. Granny told me stories…lotts of them being about wicked step-fathers and witches. She fingered the scars on my leg in an unconscious way while she told me about Hansel and Gretel. She never talked directly to me about the scars, but somehow I knew that she knew more than she could say. Bobby and I became very tan and toned in those weeks of fun. All of the sun, exercise and generous amounts of food and goodies did a number on my body. I was a lot healthier, and my mother was beaming in approval at the improvement in my physical appearance. I even stopped sucking my thumb in the daytime, although I still did it at night. Isabella was content and quiet. Bobby and I piled on top of Mom at night in a heap of laughter and wrestled on the floor. Granny Hadassah kissed and hugged us constantly. Bobby said that it was ‘mushy‘, but I could tell that even he liked it. We playfully teased her because she didn’t like the sand and worried about getting freckles from the sun. We would swim until we were cold, which was hours, then we would flop down onto the hot sand, roll around, and later build elaborate lopsided sand castles. Driving home, Bobby and I were suddenly very desolate. We discussed whether we should tell Mommy what was really happening at home. Again, I was the one who talked Bobby out of saying anything. My fear of retribution by our evil father was profound.


In August, Mom rented a mountain cabin at Lake Arrowhead. With great anticipation, we all packed for our week-long adventure. The road seemed to endlessly twist as we made our way up the mountain. We stopped and looked out over the city and the blue mountains beyond. We arrived at the lake and drove around part of it, until we came to a private driveway. We bumped along on the dirt road and there, in the middle of the pine trees, was a beautiful two-story home; not at all the cabin that I had imagined. Inside, there were stuffed animal heads on the wall, a huge fireplace, and everywhere the glow of beautiful golden wood. Bobby and I slid around in our socks on the polished floors. For a couple of days, we had a great time fishing and hiking in the woods. Then, Mom called her office to check in, and I felt my heart stop mid-beat when she said that she had to go to Los Angeles to do a deposition on a case. I knew what her leaving always meant. Again, I clung to her, begging her to stay, the terror alive in my mind. Panic rose as I watched the car disappear in a cloud of dust. For a day, everything went well. We swam in the lake in front of the lifeguard, while Jim sat nearby and read a book. The evening of the next day, Bobby and I got rather wild and were wrestling on the floor, having both a tickle, and tackle fight. I accidentally bumped the table, which held the kerosene lantern. The lamp went crashing to the floor, spilling the burning kerosene in a trail of flames.
Bobby and I panicked, and shouted, “Help! Daddy!! Help! Fire!”
Jim rushed into the room and beat the fire with a blanket and it eventually put out, but it had blistered the beautifully polished wood floor. Jim was livid at me. Not Bobby. Never his son, Bobby. He grabbed me and shook me so hard, that my teeth cracked together and I bit my tongue. I could taste the blood and feel the sharp pain. I don’t remember the words Jim had yelled at me, but I acutely remember being dragged outside, waaaay out into the thicket of the trees. Jim took the rope that had tied our suitcases to the top of the car and slammed me against the trunk of a big tree.
“Stand still,” he commanded as he began tying the rope around the tree and my torso. I dared not move or cry out, fearing what would come next. It was twilight now and the woods seemed scary as the shadows made giant shapes of dark and light. Soon, Jim finished tying me. My arms were free, but my face was resting on the rough bark, and my body was pressed tightly to the tree. I only had shorts on, and it was hurting my legs. Jim was yelling and growling random curses and reprimands at me, as he began to beat me with a tree branch. I gasped with each stinging whack. I tried my best not to scream for fear of him hurting me worse.
Instead of untying me when he was through, he threw the branch on the ground and walked up behind me. The heat from his body so close to mine made my new welts sting more.
He said in a harsh tone, “You can spend the night tied to this goddamn tree to think about how fucking wicked you are, Isabella. If you cry out, or scream, you can bet your tight little ass that I’ll know about it, and I’ll come back out here to strip you naked.”
He brought his mouth down to the side of my face and licked the tears off of my left cheek with his slimy tongue.
He spoke into my ear then, in a rough voice. “I’m being nice letting you keep your clothes on,” he informed me…as if he were doing me some kind of favor.
With that, he turned and left me tied so tightly to that damn tree, that I could barely breathe. My tongue hurt, my back stung from the beating, and my legs were getting poked by the little knots of the pine. Any normal child would have screamed and wailed. This cabin was far from any other cabin, up in it’s own private road, but I still thought of shouting at the top of my lungs for help. From experience, I knew that I could not. I did not dare cry out. It was unthinkable. Jim would hear me. My sense of abandonment was the most intense I had ever experienced then, as the sun set and the trees turned from shadows into black, frightening shapes. I sobbed quietly, my nose running, the sniffles going down onto my little tank top. My heart beat fast and every sound in the woods got amplified a thousand times. I couldn’t see or hear anyone in the cabin. I was alone - terrifyingly, frighteningly alone. The mosquitoes came out in full force as the night got blacker. Fortunately, I had my hands free to swat them as they honed in on me, but I couldn’t bend over to protect my legs. I could actually feel myself turning into mosquito food. The pain, the trauma, and the length of time made me have to urinate badly. I held it as long as I could, until the half-moon rose above the trees. Finally, out of desperation and cramping, I just scrunched up my nose at what I was about to do, and wet myself. I concentrated on the feeling of the warm stream running down my legs and into my light-up flashy sneakers. The terror mounted in me as I began worrying that bears would smell my pee and come to eat me. I cried in my fright and my breathing was coming in fast gasps as I waited for the inevitable bear to come and swipe at me with a clawed paw. I heard thousands of noises and felt beetles walking on my skin. Every sound was ominous in the blackness, the trees looking huge and threatening in the pale moonlight. I got cold. Bone-chillingly, teeth-chatteringly cold. I was tiny and the elevation we were at was over five thousand feet. I was in pain. I was cold. I was terrified and forgotten.
“I’m not gonna stay here,” was my thought as Isabella sprang into life.
“Let’s leave,” she suggested with a bright smile. “Tonight, we’ll go to the moon.”
I nodded and concentrated on the friendly face of the moon above me. Isabella mounted Pete’s dragon…from that movie, Pete’s Dragon, and the two of us flew to the moon that night. We found a river of warm water and underground houses, all cozy and warm , inhabited by adorable moon kids, who played with us, and fed us Snickers candy bars with extra peanuts that were in the tiny bowls carved from green moon rocks. I know now that it was dissociating from reality, but as a child, it was downright survival. It was escape from the inescapable. I don’t remember anymore of the night, but the next morning, when I was untied, I immediately crumpled to the ground. My legs just wouldn’t work. I was numb with cold and immobility. Jim had to carry my to the cabin. I felt him kiss my forehead, before he gathered me up in his arms. I had my arms around his neck and could smell his soapy scent as he held me. I wanted to kiss his cheek, but I did not. It was enough to be held by him…if even for a moment.


After a moment of silence, Carlisle realized that I was done with my trip down memory lane, and spoke.


“So, we come back to the lingering feelings of loyalty towards Jim…” he said quietly.


“Yeah. I remember feeling abandoned that night, but then feeling the complete opposite in the morning. I felt saved…fucking rescued when he came back to get me. I had never been so happy to see that sick fucker in all my life,” I told him.


Carlisle nodded in understanding.


“Oh yeah…and that kiss to my forehead?”


“Mm-hmm?”


I closed my eyes and revealed in a regretful tone, “It meant the world to me.”


I opened my eyes just in time to see Carlisle's smirk. “It’s all apart of the mental abuse, my dear. He knew what he was doing…with the occasional soft touch or smile…or that comforting embrace. Or the kiss to the forehead.” He flipped through some pages, as he added, “You mentioned once that he actually hand-fed you when you appeared to be weak, and he brought a TV into your bedroom so that you could watch cartoons after he had left you down in the basement for an extended period of time without any sustenance.”


Carlisle looked up from his book and into my eyes for confirmation.


I nodded.


“He was giving you mixed signals. That is quite obvious. He was truly the villain, but at times, would wear the mask of the hero. He would do this sporadically to keep you on your toes, and like you had said…to make you believe that maybe, if you did ’this’, or acted ’that’ way, then you might succeed in making him actually love you in return. It’s used to cause a person a sense of constant failure and hopelessness. That was clearly his intention from the beginning,” he informed me.


I shrugged. “Makes sense…” I mumbled.


Edward, Edward…Edwaaaard Isabella starting singing in my head.


Things started to blur slightly as she let me feel a wave of her possessiveness towards him a second later.


Oh, no you don’t…it’s my turn I told her.


She giggled lightly, contrasting with Marie’s dark chuckle that sounded at the same time.


What about me? When is my fucking turn, Bell? It's pure fuckery, let me tell you...and it's just my goddamn luck, that we get sick, then we start with this bleeding nonsense. Fucking. Ridiculous. I want Edward. It’s my fucking turn, goddamn it.


No. It’s mine I insisted.


My Edwaaaard… Isabella continued to sing in a lilting, carefree manner, in the back round of my mind.


Things started to blur again and Carlisle’s concerned voice began to fade in and out, becoming the least of my worries right now.


I sighed.


Fucking hell. It’s my body I reminded my alternates.


It’s my turn Isabella insisted matter-of-factly.


No, it’s my fucking turn Marie argued.


Goddamn it. It’s MY turn! I announced, getting frustrated.


He’s mine Isabella’s sudden harsh tone pierced through my mind space, almost echoing in her finality on the subject.


And that was the last sound I heard before everything went black. Again.