NOTE: This takes place during Breaking Dawn, while Bella is out and dealing with the whole J. Jenks incident. Enjoy!
Disclaimer: Yadda, yadda, don't own anything, never will.
Goodnight, My Angel
Edward POV-
A little girl with the physical appearance of about five years old seems to be flying out of her bed sheets. She is young, restless, and evidently enjoying the song playing on her mp3 player. I don't see, but I sense from her mind the resonance of song lyrics and the childlike imagery of bright nights and stardust. It's funny, I decide. And very typical of her to do on a night as uneventful as this.
Minutes quickly transition into hours. The only sounds that accompany me are those coming from the adjacent bedroom: music, the girl jumping on the bed, softly humming tunes she has heard a dozen times, and thoughts that are consumed of another reality. I sigh. At least, even in a position without Bella by my side, this is an okay—distracting- alternative.
And there is no variation. The same sequence of similar sounding pop, classic, jazz songs continue. The atmosphere is predictable and changes in accordance to how slow or upbeat the music is. Engulfed in this tepid mood, the abrupt shift from Nat King Cole to a more experimental band is drastic. I consider for a second. United Nations is the name of the group.
I can't help but smile as the band delves into a violent auditory rampage. The screeching lyrics are of no condolence. It is hardly appropriate for the impressionable mind of a child. Suddenly, I frown, awareness creeping in.
Why did I put that particular song in? I suppose I never seriously contemplated the idea of Renesmee being immature or naïve. Yet, the feeling isn't right. I should have probably been more selective with what she is to listen to instead of encouraging free reign. However, I don't move. I don't even focus into the girl's mind. I only notice the dissipation of movement from the other room and loud silence when the song comes to an end.
"Daddy?" she calls, in a too-casual manner.
"What is it?" I ask.
"Oh."
Nothing else is spoken. And then, "I love you, Daddy."
She said she loved me.
Of course, she has said so before. But it was usually said in the company of others, more as an act of courtesy. I love you, uncle Jasper. I love you, aunt Rosalie. I love you, Papa. Now that we are alone, the connection seems more potent, genuine, and-
(affectionate?)
No. She just wanted to make sure that she wasn't alone. Friendliness and consideration for other people were part of her natural charm and demeanor. The love shared between her and Bella is definite. Even her relationship with Jacob can be understood to some extent. With me, there is nothing special or intimate. Mutual fondness maybe, but not love.
(Or maybe you would like to think that.)
Why would I want to think that?
Because of the possibility that she may love me...but I do not love her back.
It is a possibility I do not like to acknowledge, even though I know I am fully justified in feeling this way. Why should I love this strange child? Because she loves Bella? She is not the only one. Because she is intriguing, unique, and intelligent? That's not enough. Because she is my-
I sigh, sharply. She is my daughter. She is my daughter. And yet...
I grit my teeth at the thought of her strength, her sheer power to turn iron into dust at will while the others laugh and applaud. Instead of crushed metal, I always hear the snap of a broken spine, the cracking sound of one, two, three ribs and with these came the whole plethora of hateful images and memories. Under the pretense of a concerned guardian, I hide my disgust. Pretenses—I was good at those. So good, the hidden, angry hatred became the suppressed hatred. Suppressed hatred became an imagined sentiment. I almost believed it myself. But the feeling was always there—lingering, menacing. I knew inside it was there.
And now here we are, awaiting the result of this fate. Me, my wife, my family...risking our lives and asking others to risk theirs. All in order to protect this one girl. This girl who has separated us with her birth and pained us with her existence. Yes, my anger is justified.
But is it fair?
No it isn't fair...because what had happened to Bella was my fault in the first place.
Because I am not disgusted with her as I am disgusted with myself.
And I am blaming a child on behalf of instincts she had no control over.
I am mystified with what Renesmee has brought upon us—danger...risk...sacrifice after sacrifice...and yet...
I want to protect her. I want her safe. I can't imagine life without her anymore. And if she were to die...
Without thinking, I stand up and find myself at her door. As I silently pull it open by the knob, I see my daughter finally at rest. Her hair is splayed messily upon the pillowcase, her mouth is slightly open, and her chest heaves with every breath. The similarity between the redness of her hair and mine is striking. I can see that now. But the way she looks when she sleeps and the crease between her eyebrows strongly reminds me of someone else.
Despite all that we have suffered, I realize, we have also been given joy. From the moment she touched our faces with her palm to the time she gazed upon her glowing skin in awe, this little girl became more than just a part of my family. If Bella is the meteor shooting across the sky, Renesmee is the wish.
She is beautiful. I do not deny that. Not because I am apart of her, not even because Bella is apart of her. But because she is her. She is my Renesmee.
I close the door, feeling oddly peaceful.
Goodnight, I love you too.
Review and critique, please. Even if just to stop and acknowledge that you read the story. I'd appreciate all feedback!