So, although I have a FF that I have NOT finished, I've decided I don't really like it. I might take it down, sorry to those of you who do. However, this one I will be trying to update regularly. I don't have a ton of time on my hands due to school, but if you want me to continue please RxR! It's much appreciated. This is technically my second FF by the way, so be nice please. I haven't creatively written in a long, long time. Suggestions are welcomed too! Enjoy!
DISCLAIMER: I do not own Twilight, and obviously do not own the French Rev. history stuff, although I do love both!
Someday
Chapeter 1
BPOV
The sky had faded to a dusty grey, and the Seine was lulling against the shore. My fingers clasped the small, warm roll in their grasp, savoring the softness, the steam framing my face against the crisp wind. Once upon a time, when Paris wasn't hungry, and the pubs didn't teem with the whispers of a revolution, this is what my home would have smelt of—warm bread, and love. But I don't think about the what if's. They hurt. They're the one thing the freezing nights won't numb.
I try to not scarf down the bread, knowing that it will be the only piece I get for a while, but I can't help it, and the whole thing ends up getting shoved into my mouth, because I'm starving. The whole city is. My eyes wander to the stars, and I catch myself wondering what's really up there. My father used to say that God's eyes were the stars, that He was always watching out for people like us—the small, the unimportant. And then mother would hit him upside the head, give him a peck on the cheek maybe, chiding him. Because there was no one more important than our family to her. I wonder what they would say now, knowing that their daughter was living under the awnings of artisan's shops, earning little money to live off of; apparently the people of France aren't interested in the paintings of a girl.
My feet, now cold from dangling in the water, scramble up onto the cobblestoned streets. Thinking of my family makes me melancholy, depressed. But it makes me want, too. I hunger not just for fruit, for bread, but for love. I want companionship, because trust me, the drunkards, prostitutes, and the gamblers, they aren't enough for a girl who spent her time gazing at the lovers who roamed the streets and was taught the stories of Romeo and Juliet, of Ophelia, and of lovesick Helena. That all-consuming affection that drives people mad, and makes them smile with the stars in their eyes is all I've ever wanted. Nothing more.
The night has veiled Paris now, my eyes growing heavy of their own accord. Sleeping under a bridge isn't what I want, but it'll have to do; the streets are unkind to a young girl at night. Pont Nuef isn't far off, usually I can find some company there to make the dark less unbearable. Wandering off in that direction, I pull my tattered volume of Shakespeare out of the small bag that has survived all of these years, flipping to the much bookmarked page of A Midsummers Night Dream—I need something relatively pleasant right now.
I make it to the bridge unbothered, clambering to the path underneath the grand structure. I glance around, looking for the one person I can trust in this mad city.
"Bella!"
A slightly grimy, thin girl pops up next to me, her eyes sparkling in excitement.
"Hello, Angela." I smile at her, but I don't think it meets my eyes.
"Bells, is…is something bothering you again? You know you can tell me, I wouldn't tell a soul."
Although I've known Angela for years now, and despite the fact that she's the one person tolerates me, I've never told her everything about me…about my family. As far as knows, something's always bothering me, and I feel a moment's sadness. How I would like to trust someone.
"No, no!" I wave my hands limply at my sides, dismissing some of the tension, "I'm sorry. I just didn't finish that painting today, and of course I didn't sell any again. The usual, I promise you, don't worry. Just me, plain old, boring Bella." I really hope I'm not rambling.
She cocks her eyebrow, looking me up and down, her mouth settling into a grim smile.
"Alright," there's a tone of finality, and I know I don't need to explain tonight, "Well, I put my bag over in that corner again, so I figure we can just stay there for tonight."
My eyes do a once over of the slimy, mildew covered corner that has been my bed for the past year, and my heart aches just a little more.
"Thanks, Ang. I'm really tired out too, so I think it would be best just to sleep. Is that alright—" I'm cut off by my long yawn.
"Sure, Bella."
I nod, and stumble over, not bothering to see if she follows. I don't want to talk anymore tonight—I never do. Puck, in all his glory, has not managed to cheer me up for once, and so I gingerly put the volume back into my bag, saving it from the filth under me. I hear Angela noisily searching for god knows what in her sack, and I thank the heavens she doesn't push me to talk. I shut my eyes, and dream that maybe tomorrow, that the Queen will give the people of Paris bread, that someone will buy all my paintings, that I will be sleeping on a down mattress instead of cold stone, and that maybe, someday, maybe someone will be able to love me.