I've been in a sort of writing mood. I'm not entirely sure how long it will last, but I'm getting this idea from several sources. Hopefully, this one turns out a lot better than my other attempts at stories. Haha. Thanks to those that have been following me all along; I love you guys. (: Oh, and I'm pretty sure this entire story will be EPOV. Different, maybe I'll be good at it.
Thanks to my new, fantastic beta, Mav. You rock, hun. (:
Disclaimer: Twilight and all its inclusive material are copyright to Stephenie Meyer; I do not own any aspect of the series nor do I make that claim. Also, this Disclaimer was borrowed from Leon McFrenchington, an awesome-tastic writer.
Original creations of this story, including, but not limited to, characters, settings, and plot, are copyright to me.
The Final Melody
Prologue
"Character cannot be developed in ease and quiet. Only through experience of trial and suffering can the soul be strengthened, ambition inspired, and success achieved."
--Helen Keller
Return to 13356 Point View Dr
Forks, WA, 98331
Edward Cullen
15254 Flippont Ct
Chicago, IL, 60601
June 27, 2006
Edward,
Please know that everything that happened between your father and I was simply as it was. Between us. It was never about you, and we will always love you no matter how foolish we are when it comes to our relationship. I just hope that we can all get past this and start on with our lives again.
I'm sorry that I won't be there to see you off to your first day of high school. Just know that I'm thinking of you, and love you always, honey. I look forward to seeing you next summer.
Until then,
Mom
--
Return to 13356 Point View Dr
Forks, WA, 98331
Edward Cullen
15254 Flippont Ct
Chicago, IL, 60601
May 30, 2010
Edward,
I'm extremely sorry that things haven't worked out over the years. I continue to think of you, write to you, and hope that someday you'll write me back. But this time is different—you're really coming here! I'm so excited to show you everything about the town, and I can't wait to see you again. I can only imagine how you've grown.
I know you're probably angry with me, but I hope that we can fix that and learn about each other again. You can tell me all about your senior year! I know that your father must have had you apply to all sorts of colleges.
Well, now I'm rambling. I really miss you, and I'm counting the days until your plane arrives here.
With all my love,
Mom
--
June 16, 2010
If there was one thing that I could permanently remove from my life, it would be Forks, Washington. Even as I waited at the airport, the strong smell of damp earth and mold invaded my senses, making me wish that I was anywhere but there. My mom had a sick sense of humor in moving back to my childhood home. All I knew was that I was out of here in three months, when my dad would come to pick me up from my mother. Their reunion wasn't something any of us looked forward to.
There was something in the air, apparently. Couples were leaving or getting off, their frantic and palpable love surrounding them like perfume. It made my skin itch with irritation. All I'd ever known was the constant and persistent arguments of my parents filtering in through too thin walls late at night. To see others so happy was almost blasphemous to me.
"Edward?"
I turned, my luggage swinging into my leg as my mom stood there, bouncing from foot to foot, unsure of herself. She was covered in paint, her overalls stained colors varying from burgundy to beige. Her hair—which I'd inherited—was a mess, bundled on top of her head in a haphazard bun. But her face; the most beautiful smile spread across her lips, and her clear skin absolutely shone with happiness. It was enough to break anyone's heart and make them crack, but I stood strong.
"Hello, mother," I responded politely, giving her an awkward pat when she rushed into my arms. It wasn't that I didn't love her—I was ecstatic after having not seen her for the past four years. But with every happy moment, there is a nagging weight pulling behind it. Reality sets in, and that state of mind—happiness—is taken over by something heavier, something darker.
Those moments were more personal for me. In life, you have many perspectives. The only time that you can really see out of your shell is if you take on a new perspective. All my life I'd had to do that—dad was in a constant hurry to have me fulfill my doctorate degree before I could even get to college. So when I had time, in my mind, to myself, these rare occasions in which my perspective was my own, it wasn't something I took lightly.
And that's probably why I shirked mom's lips as she went to give me a kiss on the cheek. I turned my head away, unable to bear seeing the hurt in her eyes as she leaned away, bouncing again.
"Well, the car's this way," she said, her chipper voice deflating right before me. I felt bad, but I wasn't going to take anything back, or change who I'd become. Dad always taught me to never regret any decisions made. You couldn't in our line of work, he used to say.
We got into a tiny little car, a blue Honda with fading paint and rusty doors. It was so like my mother that it was almost comical. Even the inside represented her carefree nature: zebra print chair covers, a fuzzy wheel thong, groovy dice hanging from the rear view mirror… It was all so hipster-style that I had almost forgotten who I was getting in the car with.
She turned the key in the ignition, blowing her hair back from her face. Already the humidity was getting to me; I could feel the sweat forming on my brow and upper lip. My hand itched toward the dial for air conditioning, but my mother beat me to it.
"Doesn't work," she said offhandedly. "Broke about seven months ago when a friend accidentally stuffed a cigar into the CD player."
Horrified, I gave her a look, losing the small bit of faith that I'd had in her as a caring mother. Should I really be with someone who'd hang out with people that stuffed cigars into the car CD player?!
She laughed, the sound reverberating, despite the fact that she had the windows rolled down. Everything we passed was smothered in green, like one big monster had vomited on the entire town. It was wet, and hot, and all I could think of was the fact that I'd be out of there in three months. Three months, three months, three months…
While I leaned my head against the car door, trying to gulp air that wasn't condensed with enough moisture to choke me, I gazed at my mother. She hadn't really changed all that much, and I hadn't expected her to. Okay, maybe I did. It's just that, when my mom divorced my father, I never thought that she would be the same. I wanted to believe that they would both be so crushed by what they had done that they wouldn't continue to be the same people, or do the same things. My dad had proven me wrong within the first month; my mom was quickly doing that, too. And again, since their final fight, that tightening started in my chest, which told me that it was time to stop thinking about it. Because when I thought about it, it brought on the what ifs, and the could haves and should haves and it was all just too much.
Mom drove in silence, not bothering to turn on the radio. It wasn't uncomfortable, per se, but I could tell that there was tension between us. She was probably wondering when I was going to blow up and run away from her—or, at least, if she'd talked to my dad that would be what she'd expect. Anything and everything about me had been driven out of my body the night that she got into dad's car and drove away. I was a new me, now.
We reached the house a little before sunset. The trees shaded everything enough that I could only make out the elegant shape of the three-story home, painted white but now chipping. It was all familiar, down to my boyishly decorated room that I placed my things in as soon as I reached the third landing. From where I was, I could see over the tree tops and onto the horizon, the creek waiting for me below. A strange feeling crept over me, as if the house, my former room, and the woods were all welcoming me back, like a long-awaited reunion. Quickly, I dashed back downstairs, away from the warmth to find my mom in the kitchen, humming quietly to herself.
Despite my many annoyances with my parents since the divorce, one thing had never been given up: their love for Elvis Presley. They were so obsessed with the poor rock star that he'd even had his own special space back at our Chicago home. If you even thought about contaminating or ruining it in any way, shape, or form, it was off with your head. Therefore, to lean against the frame of the doorway and close my eyes, just listening to mom sing along to her own tune of "Burning Love," was like coming home to them. Not just her and this house.
"Your kisses lift me higher!" she crooned, shaking her hips. "Like the sweet song of a choir!" And she was totally off key. The tune was all wrong, and the radio which softly emanated Elvis's voice was drowned out by her screeching. But I couldn't find it more endearing.
"You light my morning sky…with burning love."
It was their song. I knew it—and she knew it, too. Maybe that's why she was singing it. I didn't know. But I opened my eyes to find her smiling at me, the smell coming from the pan that she was cooking in making my mouth water. She still had on her coveralls and she looked ridiculous. But no one could doubt it; this was definitely my mom.
I turned, leaving her to her celebrity lover and the stove. My hands itched, and my fingers twitched with an ache that built in me. I knew if I walked up the stairs, past the third landing doors, I would reach the baby grand, whom I'd named after my last goldfish.
I forced my feet to my room, demanding that my hands shut and cover the familiar view, dictating my body to sleep, to rest. Because I was a new person, and I didn't write music.
Not anymore.
--
August 2, 2045
She could feel that there was something glued to the next few pages, and she grew curious. The girl tenderly lifted the page, attempting to sneak a look at the next few words on the other side. Before she could even catch a glimpse, the boy snatched the leather-bound journal from her hands, narrowing his eyes at her.
"I just wanted to see what happened!" she whined, her hands reaching for the book again. He held it away from her, standing and running clumsy fingers through his unruly hair.
"Tomorrow. You just have to be patient; we promised that we would do one day at a time."
"Who's Ed—" the girl stopped for a moment, her lips trying to sound out the words on the front of the leather, "Edward Cullen?"
"Dunno. Who cares?"
The boy wiped his hands on his pants, aware of how sticky it was in the attic. Everything up there was covered in white sheets, resting on top of furniture long forgotten. But the heat couldn't be escaped, like the memories of the room had been, and the two kids—barely over the age of twelve—were extremely close to collapsing together in a sweaty mess.
"Two days," the girl pouted, watching with longing eyes as the boy carefully slipped the journal back onto a shelf.
The boy narrowed his eyes again, this time folding his arms awkwardly against his chest. "One."
"Three."
"Fine, two then. But we really need to get home before—"
"Race you there!"
The girl took off, her limbs tangling with his as she tried to push by him, their loud footsteps echoing as they ran out of the house, into the woods. They had kicked up enough dust and air in the attic that it swirled around before settled back onto the linen. The edge of one sheet fluttered up enough to reveal a smooth, silken black surface.