Disclaimer: Stephenie Meyer owns anything remotely related to the Twilight series.
The Truth About Edward
In the last year I had learnt several things.
What it felt like to be on the road with the wind running its long fingers through my hair. What it felt like to be trapped in the angst ridden sounds of crushing machinery. And how at ease I felt as I glided along the smooth, brassy streets of Chicago.
But there was more. A whirlpool of swirling memories.
The red jeep had lumbered off to the car yard for its annual check up so I decided to use the discarded bicycle that someone had left on the driveway. I threw his junk in the ice cream container, or "basket" that someone had fastened to the front of the bicycle, and pushed off. If one of the wheels decided to take off on its own I should be able to limp the rest of the way. It wasn't too far and I needed the bicycle for a quick escape.
The house should have been easy to find, however in this neighbourhood each house seemed to spring out at me like a beacon. All of the houses were eligible candidates for the one I was looking for. I rode further up until I stopped at a house with its front door slightly ajar. "Best of luck", I thought to myself. I knocked twice wondering why I couldn't just walk in. I guess it just didn't feel right.
After a quick glance at the bundle under my arm, someone clamoured to the door and flung it wide open. He looked apologetic as if he just thought, "I've waited this long for a new muse after that exotic Brazilian model and that quirky Danish girl left and here's my replacement. I'd rather paint a generic still life of rotting fruit or make a sculpture out of head lice".
"I'm sorry, we're not open to the public today", he said briskly, without a moment's hesitation.
Did I have a chance at all, or is he going to slam the door in my face? I knew that an artist's life was difficult but I just wouldn't stand for it.
"Look, I saw your ad in the paper", I said and held up the bundle that I was carrying.
His eyes suddenly lit up. The curtain rises and there's an instant change of mood.
"This way. I want to show you something", he said as invitingly as he could.
The house was quite small, and everything seemed to smell like fresh wood. It reminded me of a display home without the picture perfect family. A tall, slender women with tanned skin and loose curls slipped out of the kitchen. She was wearing a silk red dressing gown and took a long drag from her cigarette. "So this must be the Brazilian model", I thought. The artist, who had introduced himself as Rollo nodded at her. Just one subtle nod. To be honest, I don't think she even noticed. Actually, I don't think Rollo had any luck finding a muse at all.
We stopped outside a crowded room. The walls were splattered with various splotches of colour and odd bits of graffiti were scrawled on the walls. There were several canvases propped up against the wall and crates filled with what looked like old circus costumes, Coke bottles and McDonalds Happy Meal toys. He took the bundle off me and tossed it into an empty crate. I watched as some of the CDs spilt out of the crate. Had I listened to all of them? Perhaps not. They were just too orderly. Too devoid of meaning.
"I'm attempting to redecorate this room. And that there..."
He pointed towards the wall where a half completed mural of the "Material Girl" herself stared back. "Why Madonna?" I thought. I guess it wouldn't have made sense if he made a mural of Britney Spears or Miley Cyrus. There you go. The Material Girl had been immortalized in her own material world. I guess art does have a profound meaning after all.
"Is a work in progress", he finished. "So, are these blank CDs?"
That's a good question. I only flipped through the playlists. Each CD was a different genre. Alternative, acid jazz and classical. There were no dedications like "Remember that time when we kissed in the woods behind your house" or something more personal like "This reminds me of you, you klutz" which goes particularly well with a song dominated by loud, clashing cymbals and an unsteady tempo.
"Some of them", I lied quickly. I could see it now. Coffee. Music. Wild dancing. A long gaze. And contact.
"Look, I have to go. Good luck with the mural".
And then I was gone before he could even try to remember me.
I knew the little red bike would take me somewhere where I could sort everything out. And I also knew that Rollo didn't lay a finger on me, but I still felt nervous and a tiny bit apprehensive. I hadn't realized that my little red bike had a mean streak, until I walked into Mariella's diner. And I wanted to thank it by dumping it in the salvage yard just so I could listen to the painful crash of its wheels under the weight of the garbage truck.
As soon as I walked through the diner doors it finally clicked. Those carefully ordered CDs. On my door step. In the car. Spilling out of his locker. Genre by genre. There was lots of it. Possibly thousands.
He sat in a little green booth with his arm around a girl I didn't recognize. She wore a faded Blondie t-shirt and I could just make out earphones under her jagged jet black hair. Nestled beside her was a worn guitar case covered in numerous stickers and signatures. And then we have Edward, our resident music junkie, with his "Hot Topic" Metallica T-shirt with ripped sleeves and black skinny leg jeans which compressed his legs to no end. Not to mention a very obvious cassette tape hanging around his neck on a silver chain.
She looked at me. I looked at him. And he looked at her. It was all a bit bizarre really. This was the ideal time for me to throw the romantic berry flavoured smoothie over his head and get it over and done with. Storm out without looking back. That's what should happen.
Instead I tried, "You know he only likes music. He's not obsessed with it".
They both stared at me blankly until it finally registered in their minds. She gripped the glass and tipped the rest of the smoothie on his head. It dribbled satisfyingly down his perfectly structured face. Even his vampire reflexes and freakish mind reading skills couldn't give him advice on this one. He didn't even watch her throw her guitar case over her shoulder as she swept through the diner doors, glad to be back on the street again with the hope that someone will let her know that she's been understood.
"Well Edward. Now that that's sorted shall we listen to the cassette hanging around your neck?" I asked as I slipped into the vacant seat.
He crushed the tape in his fist. He's come to his senses at last. Of course it was ABBA. I wandered if he grooved to ABBA during his disco days. Since he went to that much trouble to find that tape, let alone wear it around his neck, I bet he did.
A/N: I know Bella and Edward are a bit out of character but this was fun to write. I don't write much Twilight fanfiction so reviews are lovely.