Inspired by New Moon, Ophelia from Hamlet, & The Goblin Market:
Their fruits like honey to the throat, In deadly peril to do her good,
But poison in the blood;
And win the fiery antidote:
There was nothing in the world to describe it. It was like dying, and living again, and dying bursting in a trailing blaze. If a thousand love stories could explain this inexplicable feeling, it may miss some of the essential parts.
Even as I had stood there, facing the wind, feeling the living world touch me, kiss me against my cheek in wet rain, I knew that this would be the end, the existence as I know now. Exhaling, inhaling, all the mechanized workings of my body, my soul---where it once was alive with need, could only choke in agony at the pain of loss.
But how could I live knowing I couldn't touch that same wonder? Ah. But some things were not meant to be known. There was a piece of heaven in his arms, and I had felt then-the way my heart beat, pulse against my wrist, my ears-never has anything felt so good to be alive.
When it has been ripped away from you-it was, and still a terrifying thing. Was it a selfish thing to do? Was it selfish to seek solace in the embrace of a watery grave? Ah. But Ophelia would be proud,
How can I explain this dire need? To those who could not understand? Ah, my tears had blurred my vision then, there on top of the cliff where the sky was brilliant blue and grey, and the clouds stirred restlessly with pelting tiny beads of rain.
How could I explain? Sick. I was sick. And they would say-- the naysayers and the usual skeptics. They would tell me how idiotic, how silly, absurd, of the feelings I have been holding close to my heart.
Pray they never, ever touch anything close to what I had. It would kill them. I had counted the seconds mentally in my head, and thought constantly of him. It was the only reason I did such things; the only way to hear that voice. Anything connected to him was my only reason to breathe.
It was sick. Sick. Of course, the unhealthiest way to go; to kill yourself because of a terrible ache, a long hollow of something ripped out from under you.
Violent below, where the water was swirling, turning restlessly, it had called to me; and the voice, telling me to stop-stop-don't, don't; anger then a desperation, hoping he would come.
If you had not tasted, what I had, what little I touched, how could I explain? It burned my throat from the need, and when he had said then, on that meadow that I was a drug to him---I knew then, as I know now, exactly how he felt. When was the exchange evident? I was sick, terribly sick, and dying inside.
How could I explain this to those I would have left behind? Without a premonition, without you, Edward, how would I go on? Had you thought I was strong enough to face the world knowing you existed?
Foolish, foolish. I was, and he was. We were so young of the world.
My eyes had turned dour, unhealthy pallor adorned my cheeks, and I had lost some weight; if I could just hold you, Edward, just a little longer, you could bring the thirst for living back. Bring back that red colour you liked to see. I'm the one with no soul, without you and I could not, live in a world knowing.
I remembered when, that day, when I had jumped, falling down my watery grave. I was sick. Sick.
I hadn't known, then, that I had died, and lived again. There was nothing in the world to describe it: it was like living, and dying and dying and coming out of the darkness. It was like feeling the burst of flame, touch my soul, over and over again.
Today, I curl up close to my once forbidden love, looking up at his gold-brown eyes: his arms holding me as if he would never let go; we were satisfied from thirst, and the magic of living.
It was nothing like anything in the world. How could anyone understand? Unless one was willing to die, and live for it: to feel the inexplicable pleasure, forever and ever...