Disclaimer: No form of ownership is assumed through use of character names and book references - Stephenie Meyer is the genius behind Twilight, not me! :-D
I'd been in Ithaca for nearly three days now, and unsurprisingly, nothing had yet changed.
Carlisle still had that sad, hopeless expression on his face whenever he stopped to look at me.
My mother, Esme, continued to appear as though her eyes would have held tears if that were possible, but kept herself from comforting me, as she longed to with all her heart.
Frequently, Alice would try to make conversation with me, and frequently, she would become frustrated by my empty responses, eventually leaving me to continue to do whatever I was doing before: usually nothing. Other times she would just sit and watch me, biting her lip and smiling weakly whenever my eyes strayed close to where she sat.
Jasper avoided me if he could, walking past with his head bowed as if in shame: I couldn't find it in myself to assure him that he'd got nothing to feel guilty about.
And I just stood around, taking up space, my miserable presence making everyone else feel down, as well.
I heaved a deep sigh and stared vacantly out of the wall length window, not bothering to try to see through the glass to what lay beyond. This kitchen was much like the one back home - I still thought of the Washington house that way, even though I had no home anymore - light walls, marble counter tops and pale wooden units, with a smooth, tiled floor.
Without really considering it, I crossed the room to the sink and turned on the tap. I watched the water gush from the end of the curved metal pipe and splash into the basin, giving the silver a glassy layer that reflected the weak moonlight which had somehow found its way through the shadowed window. I knew that if I was to turn on the electric ceiling light, then halt the flow of water through the tap and down the drain, the glossy surface would be as good as any mirror, and that I would see my face on its surface. But I didn't want that.
I'd been seeing far too much of that lately, my face, in the eyes and the minds of my family. They constantly worried about me, and I hated it. I wished desperately to leave, so that I didn't have to spend every second of the day trying to keep myself together for them. I urgently needed time to myself, in order to go to pieces privately: it was draining, trying to be strong.
I sighed again, and put my head in my hands, leaning my elbows against the counter. The water continued its frenzied rush down the drain.
"Edward," I flinched at the sound of Carlisle's voice behind me; I hadn't noticed his approach. He came to stand by my side, laying a hand on my shoulder. I stiffened, but didn't draw away as I might have done - I didn't want to upset him further than I already was.
"Son," he said. His brows pulled together in concern while his eyes searched my face. "I haven't had an opportunity to speak with you properly since you arrived. How are you?"
I shrugged, keeping my gaze away from his. "I'm handling it." I lied.
Are you? he thought, unconvinced. I frowned slightly, but otherwise ignored him.
Are you sure that this was-
"Carlisle, that is the only thing I'm sure of." I snapped, my voice tainted with the first flicker of any inflection I'd felt in months. "It's every other aspect of my life I'm having trouble with. It had to be done. I was putting her in danger - of course I had to leave." My words faded into a whisper towards the end; I closed my eyes in agony.
"I can't bare to see you in so much pain. It's killing Esme, and Alice is so worried. I can't begin to imagine what you are feeling, Edward." I glared away from him, my expression going hard. "Don't you think, reflecting on that, Bella might feel the same?"
My head jerked up at the sound of her name, and I was walking away from him before I'd thought the action through. My empty chest ached with renewed vigour, and the pain of it almost stopped me from hearing Carlisle's whispered thought trailing after me.
I'm so sorry, Edward. For everything. I hope that, someday, you'll find yourself again.
I shook my head half-heartedly in an effort to dispel his lingering mental voice. There was no point in answering him: I knew what Carlisle hoped was impossible, and I knew that he knew that, too. Because, of course, I was sure exactly where I would have to return to, where I'd left everything that mattered to me, and that would mean doing the one thing I'd sworn not to do: going back.
It was unacceptable for me to be so rude to Carlisle, to run from him when all he was offering was comfort and kindness - something not worth wasting on me.
There was only one thing I wanted to do just now - not wanted, needed, it was essential for my survival - and it wasn't something that could be done sat on a couch in the living room. So, once I'd cleared the lawn separating the house from the dense trees on every side, I broke into a sprint. My speed fueled by desperation, I ploughed deeper and deeper into the forest until I could go no farther.
The throbbing emptiness in my chest got too much to bare, and I had to stop. I sank slowly to the mossy floor, curling into a tight ball with my knees under my chin and my arms wrapped around them.
And then, taking a deep breath and scrunching my eyes firmly closed, I opened the floodgate of my memory and let the dizzying torrents wash away every other thought from my mind.
The intensity of the storm was impossible to control; but I welcomed the insecurity. To become totally submerged in my past experiences was all I asked of these happier periods in which I could pretend that now wasn't really happening, that it was still then. Maybe happier wasn't the right word, I reasoned with myself while I sank deeper and deeper, perhaps because misery was all that I'd felt in so long now, that even the happiness gleaned from these brief affairs with the past was only illusionary.
It is a strange experience, enveloping one's self in a misplaced memory. It wasn't something I would ever get used to. It resembled the feeling of dipping your face into a bucket of water, then opening your eyes and trying to pierce the dark, wavering depths with your stare. Because, while under water, all of the common rules one takes for granted above, like gravity and light, don't apply. Water is like air that has forgotten its purpose, therefore has decided not to care of your presence. And that is sort of like what losing yourself in the past is, as well. Forgetting the present. Getting lost in moments passed. Kind of.
Just as I was immersing myself in the final layer, trying to rush the last seconds of which I was aware of the warm breeze on my face, the soft grass of where I sat, the sounds of birds tending their chicks in the canopy above, the scents of turned earth and pine needles... In those last few seconds, I caught the flicker of a memory, dancing unobtrusively along the edges of my scant consciousness. Curious, I pursued it.
Slightly apprehensive, I trapped it and held on tight.
Ah, it was perfect...