Stephenie Meyer owns all Twilight entitlements. These words are mine.
Hard Crack
Hard Crack. I hear it before I feel it, but I don't think about what I'm anticipating. Instead I remember what the sound reminded me of. Grandma smells. Sugary delights. Happier times. Carefree childhood, until it wasn't. Hard Crack. I hear Grandma's voice telling me it's that stage in candy making when the liquid temperature is a rolling, churning, boiling cauldron of over three hundred degrees. When cold, it's as brittle as glass, like fiber optic thread. After it's poured out, then cooled in large quantities, it breaks, making the unmistakable sound of a rock hurling through a windshield or someone succumbing to thin ice. At least that's the childhood memory it reminded me of—before I died.
I wake.
Strange noises,
Funny smells,
Shrill beeps,
Forced hissing.
Lights are blurry,
Against dark night.
Eyes are dry.
In a bed,
Tubes all over.
Brain real fuzzy.
Recall?
Not there.
In a hospital I must be?
Lying in a
Polka-dotted johnny?
"Get Well" greetings,
Tacked to a wall.
Flowers in pots,
Placed on the sill.
Fingers of warmth,
Curled over mine.
Handsome man
Soundly sleeps
In the chair
Next to me,
My hand coupled inside his.
Who is he?
Who am I . . . ?
I need to breathe.
I start to panic.
I kick at sheets.
An alarm goes off.
He yells for them.
The scrubs come running.
Telling me to still,
They keep drawing near.
Feeding my drip,
My calm returns.
A warming rush,
Waves throughout.
Lashes get heavy.
Head feels happy.
Lights out,
Once again . . .
Wake up,
Still dark,
Throat sore,
On fire.
Fewer lines in me,
Still beeping,
No hissing.
My hand is warm,
The one he's holding,
I see his face,
turned towards me.
With shiny tears,
Poised in his eyes.
And moistened lips
Upon my wrist.
A warm rush
flows again.
No needle this time.
He's beautiful.
He cares.
Who is he?
Who am I . . .?
Can't talk,
Too painful.
For water,
I gesture.
He gets them
to bring some.
They talk.
I listen.
I drink.
They praise.
He smiles
Quite wonderfully.
I must be dreaming.
Ouch . . . guess not.
They pinch,
They pull,
The IV is gone.
Ginger ale?
I nod.
They leave.
He beams.
Who . . . is he?
I think I'm Bella.
Yes!
I know I am.
But how'd I get here?
Reminiscent rewind,
Scanning thoughts.
Sunlit Sunday,
Trudging snow,
Crackling ice.
A hundred spears
Pierce my body,
Paralyzingly cold.
I fight harder,
Cannot breathe.
I drift further,
And see light.
A heavenly form
Above the ice.
It's him!
He rescued me!
What day is it?
I eye my phone.
Pulled from a bag,
He picks it up,
And turns it on.
Then moves the screen,
It dawns on me.
I gave it care!
It didn't drown.
My calender says,
It's Friday night.
Have I a date?
In my hospital gown?
With this beautiful man?
Who saved my life?
I ask for paper.
I need to know.
Why is he here?
With me?
Right now?
My hand on paper,
He helps me start.
His hands are cut,
And black and blue.
And who are you?
No.
I cross that out.
What is your name?
Edward Cullen
How long have you . . .?
Been here?
Since Sunday.
Why?
I had to be sure
You'd be
all right.
You rescued me?
Yes.
And I'd do it again.
What happened to your hands?
I pounded the ice,
to break you free.
What happened to me?
You fell through
a thin spot
and luckily drifted
to where I fished.
I grabbed your hand,
and held it tightly,
while sawing,
and pounding,
to break you free.
I pulled you out,
and called for help,
and forced my air
into your lungs.
Then kept waiting,
and breathing,
and waiting,
then breathing.
The warm rush comes,
because of him.
They were there
in twenty minutes,
But I refused
to let you go.
I went with them,
To be with you.
I feel even warmer . . .
But why?
Why did you care?
When you fell through,
I heard angels weep.
I had to act.
I've no regrets.
You were,
No are,
Just beautiful.
And I think . . .
I love you.
A/N: I plan to continue this at some point.
Please share your thoughts.
Immense thanks to Chayasara for fixing me in more ways than one.
And thank you to Daphodill and Bornonhalloween for believing in me.
Thank you for reading.
PAD