Trying to Breaking the Silence

Silent Intitiations for Conversations

BPOV

"Bella? Bella. Wake up." Esme, my foster mom, was shaking me...attempting to pull me from one of the least fitful night's sleep in my abundant collection of restless nights.

I can't remember the last time I actually slept through a period of time greater than two hours. Two god forsaken hours that only provided the miniscule hope of escaping the horrific images that frequented the backside of my eyelids in the conscious state...and even more frequently in the unconscious state. It truly was a blessing when only darkness would loom around me, and of course it had to be during this darkness that someone would attempt to pull me from it.

"Bella, honey. Please wake up."

Oh, what I wouldn't give to have this blissfully blank state for just a few more hours. I rolled over and roughly started rubbing the sleep out of my eyes. I was quite certain that, judging by the puffiness under my eyes, I looked every bit as hellish as I felt.

"Bella, Carlisle and I wanted to talk to you about something important."

I stopped rubbing my eyes, and turned my attention to Esme with a confused expression on my face. I quickly glanced past her to the alarm clock on my nightstand. It was only just past 8am, and it was a Saturday for crying out loud! What could they possibly want to talk to me about? Have I done something wrong? Were they going to send me back to the group home? I shot up, my eyes darting around the room as the panic began to rise and take me over.

"Oh..Bella dear, please calm down. It's nothing bad, and you aren't leaving us," Esme whispered as she clutched me to her chest, trying to ease the overwhelming emotions from taking me over completely.

It's only happened a handful of times..that she's aware of...but nontheless, it isn't pretty. Occasionally, when I'm overcome with panic, I end up catatonic for an indeterminant period of time. Frozen in my body as the panic seizes every nerve and muscle. Like I said, it isn't pretty, but at least it doesn't happen often anymore.

Esme still had her arms wrapped tightly around me, gently swaying from side to side, making quiet shushing noises in my ear. Her warmth and smell comforted me slightly. She was a mother in every sense of the word...nurturing, warm, and kind...but she isn't my mom, and it kills me that I can't be the daughter she deserves. The daughter that she can connect with, share things with, laugh with, and most of all bond with. I feel horrible that she has to crave for something she can never create on her own, her own child to bond with, and instead is left with a shell of a person who is no doubt more work than any worth.

I wonder from time to time how different her life would be had she met another child in the group home I was living in instead of me. Would that child have been able to bond with her and give her the relationship and closeness she so greatly deserves? Would she feel complete right now instead of an utter failure..which she's tried to hide from me, but I accidentally overheard her pouring her undeserved sorrows through streams of tears to Carlisle a few months back.

The panic slowly started to ebb away little by little, leaving only room for guilt. Guilt that I make her feel this way, because I'm damaged... flawed... broken. Damaged...that's a phenomenal word. It alone encapsulates so many levels of imperfection. Something can be damaged but not noticeable...or it can be damaged beyond repair..and every degree of imperfection held between. Unlike broken, which means just that..broken, unable to be fixed, past ability to repair...basically garbage. Yep that's fitting to what I am...I think I'll stick with that.

Esme's voice became clear once again, effectively luring me out of my internal diatribe, "There there, sweetheart. It's alright. I'm not going anywhere, I promise."