Between the Perennial Blooms || Paul Lahote

Twenty Nine pt. 2 | Bailey

"I try to put my devastation on / the ground. I try to put it on the ground and pay it. My devastation, I pay it."
—Carrie Lorig | VI. Dreadful Contact

• • •

Dear Quil,

I've been keeping a lot of secrets lately —mostly from Paul, a few from the pack, and so, so many from Charlie. It weighs on me like dumbbells tied around my ankles and, at the expense of dredging up things you might otherwise wish you could forget (god knows I do), it's so hard to walk already.

Papa knows nothing about this world — this world of vampires and werewolves and things that go bump in the night. When I was little my Gran used to tell me stories about the fairies that lived down the road on Jensing Creek and I used to hope and pray and dream that I would one day join them. But now that I've opened my eyes — now that I've seen — sometimes I wish that fairies were all there were. Maybe they're quieter out there. Maybe they're gentler. Maybe they're not so scary.

I met the Cullens a few weeks ago. They weren't intimidating like that woman Victoria and they weren't disgusting like you all so adamantly claim them to be. To me, they were nice. Lovely. Welcoming. Gentle, even. They were just like all of you when I first found out Jacob could shift. Paul doesn't know this, of course. I dread to think what he would do if he did. Paul doesn't know about a lot of things it seems. Not that I have nightmares. Not that I had a panic attack two days ago when I watched Bella pummel the raw meat for hamburgers. Not that you wrote me a letter. Not that I'm writing this one back. Not that I threw away my favorite skirt because it reminds me too much of the way my leg looked before and I'm haunted by the thought of what it might look like now.

That's something you don't know: that I haven't worked up the courage to look beneath the bandages yet. I remember what my thigh looked like that afternoon it happened — when it was all bloody and ripped and mangled flesh. It scares me; haunts me. Papa and I passed a dog the other day in the car and when it barked I flinched so hard that I hit my head on the window. I'm scared this fear will stay with me forever.

I'm scared I'll never be rid of it.

But I'm not writing any of this to make you feel bad about yourself, Quil. I know you didn't mean to. I know you couldn't control it. I know you were just as scared as I was, if not worse. After all, it was your hands that caused so much chaos. I thought I'd never get the blood off my own skin.

I wonder if you'll ever get it off yours.

But I'll help you, Quil. I'll help you wash the slate clean because it's what we both deserve. And look, (this word terrifies me too [Paul doesn't know this either]) but I don't blame you, if that's something you're worried about. In fact, a part of me blames myself. Why didn't I heed Sam's warning? Do you know that they told me not to go near you? They said that you would shift next. They said that you had been showing all of the signs. I shouldn't have called you that day.

God how I wish I hadn't.

But everything happens for a reason and I'd like to think that this did to. We're connected now, you see. Connected in the way that I'll never forget you — I have the scars to prove it — and that you'll never forget me — you'll remember every time you look at yourself in the mirror. So maybe this was just a roadblock, a way to ensure I would forever be connected to the Quileute pack despite being Paul's Imprint, a way to set in stone the idea that perhaps we were fated to become friends and that maybe this will grow us even closer. Because we understand each other, you and I. In ways no one else ever will. Because I don't love you enough to just forgive you (though I wish I could); not yet, not like Emily did Sam. But I do love you enough to try. And if that works for you then, well, I think that works for me too. I don't want this to burden us anymore than it already has.

Neither one of us deserves it.

Yours graciously,
Bailey

P.S. — You're not a monster, Quil. All of you Quileute boys seem to think so, but just because you did a bad thing it doesn't mean that you're a bad person. I think you're good, Quil — wonderful, even. I always have.