Heh. It's about four in the morning and I have a Biology assignment, Maths C assignment, Chemistry prac. report, English essay due tomorrow as well as a Physics exam. And so this is how I spend my time. Writing inadequate ramblings that probably make no sense at all. Like I said, heh.
The house is loud; music echoing throughout the crowded hallways, filling the tiny rooms. The garden outside is untidy; all different kinds of flowers and the occasional weed compete for space.
You breathe in deeply, wanting to take in some part of him, but the house holds too much.
You shift your stance, the horrid smell stinging your eyes and nose.
Your gaze sets in on the only figure moving in the house, tossing a salad to the steady beat of the music and swinging hips to a complicated dance only known to her.
She's pretty, you realize.
Soft curls and long legs and golden skin.
You hate her for it.
Hate that she looks nothing like you did.
Hate that she shivers when she's cold while you feel nothing at all.
Hate that she yawns as she absentmindedly rubs the ring that is simple and elegant and probably bent from the shape of her finger.
You try not to hate her, but it's irresistible, your loathing for this simple human is unstoppable.
The wave of jealousy washing over you terrifies you and you wonder what it would be like to simply get rid of her. One quick blow; perhaps a rip, or tear, or perhaps even a bite. But you know that she will smell like him and the thought of drinking blood in his house sickens you so much that you start to wonder if you've been given a human stomach, complete with a virus or infection.
She glances up at you, and you don't even think to move.
She doesn't shy away, instead locking gazes with you through the window with peeling white paint.
You want to laugh in her face; your window is glass top to bottom, there are no specks of paint or smudges marring it.
You don't, however.
You know that the flecks of white paint are from where the children helped paint the window. The smudges are results from cold nights when they blow hot air onto the glass to write their names, crude words they've just learnt from school, and silly little drawings like love hearts and flowers.
You eye the paintings taped to the fridge; trees and fish and stick figure happy families, grinning at you in a way that makes you cringe back.
You swallow the desire to run far away from their happy little home and instead glare darkly at her.
She bites her lip, and turns to leave the room.
You taste victory; the staring contest is over.
Shock sets in as she reappears around the side of the house.
You expect her to be hesitant, scared, nervous.
Instead, she walks confidently up to you, and speaks quietly but clearly, "Bella?"
You jerk your head up involuntarily at the sound of your name.
"You know who I am," you answer, a slight hiss accompanying the statement.
"Yes, of course. I've seen pictures."
You hear the sounds of a motorbike approaching, and are surprised.
There are no children in the house, and there certainly wouldn't be any on the back of the bike.
"Where are the children?"
"At my mother's. It's just me and him tonight."
You nod, and try not to focus on the sound of him walking up the path, kicking off his heavy shoes and calling out her name.
"I'm out here- be back in a sec," she calls out, eyeing you warily, as if afraid you'll disappear suddenly into the blackness of the fir trees behind the house.
"Look, I should go, but just know… he never stopped loving you. He always will, I think. He loves me now, but he'll always love you too."
You nod again soundlessly, gesturing for her to go back.
"But before I go," she adds in a steely voice, "Don't come back."
"You made your decision, you chose your precious Edward over him, never forget that. I know you still love him, but I love him too. Don't ever forget that either."
Without another word, she turns back to the little house. The crowded, messy, loud house. The house that could've so easily been yours.
But it's not yours and you turn to leave.