Eleven weeks and four days had gone by. Eighty-one nights of screams. Almost three months of anti-Bella. 

I hated it. I hated this utterly lifeless Bella, always flinching at random sounds, always holding herself as if she were constantly in fear of a blow. I hated tiptoeing up the stairs at night, listening outside her locked door, making sure she was okay. 

But most of all, I hated him. That idiot boy, leaving my besotted daughter like this. I wanted to see his smug superiority wiped off his face, preferably at the point of my gun. I wanted him to see what he had done to my Bella.

I hoped he was suffering, wherever the hell he was. I hoped his family had given him hell when he hadn't called, or emailed, or anything.

I slowly walked through the light rain, stomping my boots together before walking into the house. 

"Bella?"

She didn't answer. I sighed and turned the corner to the kitchen. I was greeted by the smell of ground beef and the sight of my daughter hunched over the stove, stirring something. Her face was hidden by her hair, and she looked impossibly broken, as if she might collapse at any second. 

"Bella," I said again. She slowly turned to face me, keeping her head down and her eyes on the floor.

"Hi, Dad. I didn't hear you some in. How was work?"

Her voice sounded apathetic, and I knew she wouldn't really be listening if I told her. So I just said, "Fine," and left the kitchen.

What could I do? I'd had Renee come to take her to Florida, hoping that if Bella were out of this town's dark shadows, she would snap out of whatever was with her. But she'd refused, and I'd realized that she was afraid to forget. But remembering caused her so much pain… it was a vicious circle, and she was at the very center of it.

I'd considered having a therapist come talk to her, but I knew Bella well enough to know that she wouldn't talk. So that wouldn't work.