A/N: So I promised myself that I wouldn't write anything about Renesmee (unless it was a parody), but this idea just came kind of came to me and I had to write it down. I'm not bashing Renesmee nor am I supporting her. It's more like I'm examining her.
The Beyond
She stood by the old swing set, her small pale hand resting lightly on the supporting post. Absentmindedly, she scratched the peeling paint with her fingernail. Behind her, the swing swayed back and forth in the winter breeze, creaking on its rusty hinges.
Only a few yards away, the other children played on the jungle gym, their childish laughter filling the crisp air. It was impossible to tell by the girl's expression if she wished to join the others. But it really didn't matter. Even if she had portrayed a longing, none of the children would've dared to offer.
Her appearance was the first thing that startled the other children. Everything about her was beautiful, almost too perfect to be entirely human. Her bronze hair fell down past her thighs in thick ringlets. Unlike the other children's unkempt hair, hers was always sleek and shiny, never a strand out of place. Her skin was pale and milky, completely flawless and smooth as stone. On those rare sunny days, it emanated a soft glow, causing the other children to stare at her in awe. Her eyes, though, were her most startling attribute. They were too human for her perfect face. One did not expect to see something so warm and comforting on such a face. As well as warm and comforting, they were also completely captivating. As soon as one's gaze caught hers, it was impossible not to love the child they belonged to.
As the children played, they occasionally stole glances toward the girl. The mystery delighted them, and they loved to invent tales about her. Some called her a fairy, others a princess or an angel. Some even dared to call her a witch. Their small minds could not wrap around any larger concepts, so their stories always paralleled the familiar fairytales that were known to them.
Her name, they thought, was even perfect for whatever she might be. Strange and exotic, like a forbidden word. They liked to make a game of it, to see who would say it. Only the bravest children dared to, and when they did, the spoke with awe, almost with revere.
From her post at the swing, the girl could hear them. Loud whispers carefully pronouncing each syllable of her name.
Renesmee.
She was not at all like the other children in the class. She always withdrew herself, like there was some invisible barrier between her and the rest of them.
On the progress reports sent home, she never received the regular comments that the other children did, such as: Michael is a good student. His reading has much improved this semester, or: Allie works well with others. Instead they said: Renesmee doesn't play with the other children, or: Renesmee rarely speaks. She only speaks when necessary.
The Teacher had spoken to her parents about these things. Upon seeing her parents for the first time, she could immediately see the resemblance. They were as beautiful as their child and did not look at all old enough to have a child Renesmee's age. This made the Teacher wonder if her home life could be the reason for her elusiveness. Her father, though, reassured her, confidently and without hesitation, "It's only that Nessie hasn't grown up around other children. She hasn't any brothers or sisters. She doesn't quite know what to make of them." He said ended with a chuckle, and the Teacher found herself smiling, too. His smile was dazzling, and the Teacher had to remind herself that he was a married man.
It seemed true that Renesmee didn't know what to make of the other children, but not in the way that the other children were more advanced than her, but more so that Renesmee was too advanced for them.
While the other children would play games, Renesmee would remain at her desk, writing bits of poetry on scraps of paper. Sometimes it was Whitman or Shakespeare or even Catullus or Virgil. Sometimes it was even a verse that the Teacher did not recognize, and made her wonder if the girl had composed it herself. But as soon as the Teacher would go over for a closer look, the scraps of poetry had suddenly vanished, and in place would be a picture than any normal child would draw: a sun, a flower, or a stick figure family.
It all made the Teacher wonder if Renesmee was even more intelligent than she was letting on. But why would she hide it? Did her parents know what an exceptional child they child they had? The Teacher could find no answer.
The swing continued to creak, and Renesmee remained at her perch, unmoving. The Teacher saw all this from the opposite end of the playground. She saw the other children on their jungle gym, playing and laughing, as young children should. And another world away she saw Renesmee, a girl who, despite her childlike appearance, seemed to be much, much more than a child. Renesmee's unblinking eyes stared ahead of her, and though it appeared that she was watching the others, the Teacher saw that she was not.
She was looking beyond the children, beyond the playground, beyond to where earth met sky, or even farther, maybe. The Teacher tried follow her gaze, but could not seem to find the focus. Instead, she watched the child, who seemed to be seeing much more than the Teacher could even imagine.