Chapter One

I cannot heave
My heart into my mouth.

Blast my heart and dash all the thoughts that spilled so shamelessly out! He read it, damn him he read them all- every infantile thought that I assumed secret laid bare to be dissected. He apologised and promised to keep my privacy, but I cannot scrub his memory clean. In his eyes there is a shadow of cold disdain, cold knowledge; I can read him plainly as a book.

I heaved my heart into my mouth and I wrote about every petty upset, every meaningless joy, never thinking for one second that it would ever be discovered. Only now do I realise the danger I have put myself in, and I regret all. I leave this in your hands, dear heart, keep it safe for me; I will come back for it one day when I am but a pale shade in memories past.

Always yours,

Renesmee Cullen

Reneesme Cullen, that was a name I had not heard for years. Her letter- it was hardly a letter, merely a dashed note whose penmanship spoke more of her distracted feelings than her words did. Hardly did it resemble her elegant hand, yet it was undeniably in her style. To be respectful to her wishes for me to keep the package safe was to store it carefully in my archives, yet I could not.

Blame human weakness, but I used it as a bookend for many years, out of sight if not out of mind. It haunted the hollows of my heart, it was with me as I ate and breathed and dreamed, it weighed upon me as seawater drags upon the rags of a drowning sailor, I beg forgiveness! I laid aside my book one evening, removed that innocuous brown parcel that had arrived on my doorstep with its accompanying note, and took apart its layers with a gentle furtiveness, as a bridegroom would as he unwrapped his virgin wife on the wedding night.

Taking a cup of tea in one hand and picking up the first sheaf of plain text in the other, I began my reading to the beat of my disquieted heart.

I haven't been talking for six months now.

I am not used to this technology. That sentence took me a full minute to type, I can't believe how silly this all is. Grandfather Carlisle once said that I had the perfect form of communication, but that was years ago. He doesn't say that very much anymore, in fact he was one of the biggest supporters behind this unnecessary scheme that Dad came up with. Mother is against it, she thinks I'm perfectly fine the way I am and Jacob agrees with her. Jasper is very much a supporter and Alice with him, the rest of us don't really mind one way or another.

Why do I need to use words when I can transmit my every thought in images as clear and vivid as first I ever thought it? I could have broadcasted everything I have written so far at the speed of less than a second to everyone in the house instead of struggling to put word to raw feelings. Words dull thoughts, I think. They exert an unnatural control, imposing order where there shouldn't be. Maybe if I talk too much, I'll lose my gift.

They never say anything to my face, but I know that they are worried. Not so much that I haven't been speaking, but at how they haven't noticed it. I didn't notice either, at first. It was just easier not to stumble and trip all over my words in an embarrassing way and project everything instead. Thoughts and feelings cannot be manipulated in the way that words can.

I've run out of words to write, yet another limitation. You can't run out of thoughts to think, can you? Always drifting from one thought, half-finished, to the promise of another, until your fingers can't keep up. Jasper told me to describe my day, if I can't think of anything else. It is very good advice.

When I woke, the air smelt richly yeasty, of baked bread and of cotton. I could see the pulsing orange-red of my eyelids and feel the sun's heat upon them, the coolness of my sheets upon my bare legs, the brush of my hair against my nose. I felt a deep contentment hearing the rustle of skin against the bed sheet, Esme humming in the kitchen, the leaves brushing against the glass of my window.

It's impossible! How can I write everything I felt without leaving everything out? I wouldn't be true to my experiences if I don't at least try, but it's exhausting. Even as I try to puzzle out the distinct tapping sound of a door against its doorway, latching closed and being blown open slightly by the wind, I am neglecting the staccato rhythm of the music it makes, I am not describing the dappled pattern of light that falls on my white sheets, the shadows of the leaves.

I'm doing this all wrong, surely this can't be right. I can't bear this any longer, these lines upon lines of meaningless shit! Surely I will never speak again, no matter how much it upsets my father, if to speak is to only say what I ought to say, not what I feel.

I miss Jacob, he's at the reservation. He wanted me to come, I could see it quite plainly on his face, but I didn't want to. He didn't question my decision, which was quite strange, but I am relieved because I'm not sure why I didn't want to go. Instead here I am, torturing myself, extracting words as a dentist would extract a rotten tooth. What disturbing images I've been dreaming up lately! I think I should stop for now, my head feels heavy and sluggish. I have drained my reserve of words for the day.

This should satisfy everybody, I hope.