Chapter Text
Trauma is a tricky little son of a bitch.
At least, that’s what you tell yourself as you stare into the mirror. Trying—and currently failing—to stop your psyche from spiraling.
The walls are too white. Too close. Too suffocating.
It’s simultaneously what you want most, and one of the most terrifying experiences you’ve ever had. You want the walls to cave in. You want to be buried underneath the rubble. You don’t want to be saved.
You don’t want anyone there—prying the sharpened blade from your fingers. Applying tourniquets to wounds bleeding freely from both wrists. You want to drown in a pool of your own blood this time. And revel in the silence and peace of darkness. The freeing, weightless feeling of nothing.
You don’t realize you’re gasping for air until you’re hunched over and nearly on the floor. A myriad of pills scattered all over the bathroom tiles.
But then, a life vest grabs you. Pulling you straight up—breaking through the surface of the liquid viscera in your mind. Filling your airways with air you don’t wish to inhale.
“Breathe..”
A voice breaks through the fog.
Soft. Strong. Feminine. Forceful.
Much like the cool fingers now gripping your own.
Grounding you.
But it’s not enough.
The floor is sinking now. And your sanity along with it.
“Look at me.”
It’s muffled again. Far away, but insistent.
“Look. At. Me.”
Your eyes snap open by their own volition. Not because you want to. Not because his face isn’t right there—tethered to the forefront of your subconscious.
But somehow, the voice slips through the cracks. And suddenly, you’re drowning in pools of blood red irises instead.
It would be frightening. If the owner of said eyes wasn’t so fucking beautiful.
“Good.”
You stop breathing completely.
You don’t deserve to share the same air as her. Not when you’re like this. Not when she’s..
Everything.
“Now — deep breath.”
You imagine callous fingertips around your throat. Squeezing. But this time, instead of muddy-brown—crimson orbs stare right into your soul.
(You think anyone else would put up with your shit?)
You clench your fists.
(You’re so fucking pathetic, Bella.)
You squeeze your eyes shut again.
It’s too much.
“Stay with me.”
The voice comes softer now-yet just as firm as before.
You’re wheezing now. The asthmatic child in you rearing it’s ugly head.
It always gets like this. When the panic attacks overtake you. You usually cut out in time to break down in the privacy of your own car or home. But not this time. You’re smarter than this.
You’re smarter than this.
“What’s your name?”
She’s deflecting—you faintly register. And it takes entirely too long to shake your head. Wiping the surface of your synapses to clear the fog clouding your vision. It helps, some.
You’re not sure how—but you manage to check back into the present. At least enough to gasp,
“Bella.”
You almost don’t even recognize your own voice. It's terribly hoarse. A deep rasp—bordering on a gravelly whisper—that distorts your usual timbre.
When’s the last time you’ve spoken?
The silhouette hums her acknowledgement. Tasting the syllables of your name on her palette.
“Alright, Bella — Can I call you Isabella?”
You nod your head quickly at the request. Eyes still tightly sewn shut.
You don’t know why you do. You haven’t allowed someone to call you that name since your grandmother died.
But there’s.. something about that voice.
“Can you open your eyes for me, Isabella?”
The sound of her voice feels like velvet in your ears, and you shudder subconsciously.
This time, the ascent is slow. Your ears don’t pop. The pressure in your lungs starts to ease. And you surprise yourself with a shaky exhale as you follow her instructions.
“Good girl.”
You jerk involuntarily at the affirmation. Warmth spreads through your chest. Unsolicited, but not unwelcome.
When’s the last time someone called anything about you good?
“Can I help you stand now?”
You nod slightly—your bottom lip trapped between your teeth. Suddenly, completely, self conscious and aware of your current predicament.
You wonder what she thinks of you. Wobbling. Uneasy on your feet. Tugging at your sleeves until they all but envelope the palm of your hand. Shame itches at your neck—leaving goosebumps in its wake.
But she doesn’t seem annoyed with you. Pity isn’t stretched across her features. You’re grateful. But not any less embarrassed.
She helps you up. And swats your hand away as you try to gather the medical skittles scattered under your feet. Instead, you lean back against the sink behind you—finally getting an opportunity to really look at her.
You find your enamored by the way that her platinum blonde hair shines, even underneath the fluorescent lights overhead. Her skin is pale, but looks incredibly soft. Your eyes trail along the sharpness of her nose and cheeks. Before falling to the beauty mark above her lip—heart-shaped and pouty. Your gaze continues its trek downward, lowering to the beautiful stranger's bust that peeks out from underneath the dip in her form fitting light blue button up. Her body is clad in a light grey pants suit, with curves voluptuous enough to ignite burning in your cheeks and tightness in your lower belly.
She’s a sight to see.
You don’t deserve her kindness.
The beautiful woman finishes with gathering the pills—still in the process of straightening herself when you finally speak.
“I’m usually not this terrible with pretty women.”
She looks at you then—pursing her lips. Serious. Her eyes dip low as she takes you in from head to toe. The red in her eyes darkens to a merlot wine tint. And the heat in her gaze sets your skin on fire.
She screws the cap back onto the refilled prescription bottle and her eyes flick back up to yours at the same moment that it clicks into place. Extending her arm for you to take it—she tilts her head,
“You tell that to all the pretty women, or just me?”
Your heart does a stutter step, and you gape at her. Like a fool. Not trusting yourself to string together any words from your muddled thoughts.
Then, there’s a shrill alarm that bounces off the bathroom walls that snaps you out of your stupor. And you reach out to take the offered bottle, fiddling with it in front of your belt.
“Ah, saved by the bell,” Her eyes gleam dangerously in mischief. She silences her phone and slides it back into her back pocket. “I trust you’ll have an answer for me next time.”
She steps closer, and reaches up to trail her fingers from the soft space underneath your earlobe, along your jawbone down to your chin until she’s cupping your cheek. Eyes boring holes into your own, not even looking at her own ministrations.
Only you.
Her thumb traces from the left side of your bottom lip to the right. She pushes her thumb down slightly, and your lips part from the motion before lightly snapping back into place.
A thin blonde brow arcs.
It’s not a question. More of a statement ladled with a subtle demand.
Later, you’ll pinpoint this moment as the very second that she enraptured your affections—and, subsequently, obliterated any sense of self-control and self-preservation that you had left to muster.
You nod, weakly.
“Good girl.”
And then, with a fond pat to your cheek and one last look over her shoulder—she’s gone.
And you realize, belatedly, that you didn’t even get her name.
But that doesn’t matter.
Because to you—she smells of lilacs, honey, and death.
And that is how the obsession begins.