Hello y'all! This is my first Twilight fanfic, so be nice! The idea's been stirring for a while. Yes, it as an original character. Yes it is told from that said character's POV. And yes it is all centered on our lovable (if not slightly aggravating) Jacob Black. There are probably a few people out there who wouldn't mind him as a furry couch, and I'm one of them! But my character? Not so much.

Enjoy!


Phobia

Preface

Basiphobia
The Fear of Falling

I bit my pencil and sat on the sandy beaches of La Push, trusty spiral notebook in hand. The soft spray coming off the ocean curled upwards around the edge of the beach, misting icy specks onto my paper and skin. I shivered and tucked my knees to my chest.

"Oh, it'll help you get over your writers block, Lorelie," I mocked in an amazingly high falsetto. "The beaches are beautiful in the winter, Lorelie! Bullshit."

I sneezed and sniffled the snot back up my nose. Not becoming, but who was around to see? That's right. No one. La Push was as crowded as Fork's Memorial Cemetery on a Monday.

A lone orange crab scuttled sideways from dune to dune, and stopped to squirm his beady eyes at me. I picked up a small shell and chunked it at him. It scuttled away into the waves. "Stupid crabs" I muttered irritably. "Stupid ocean. Stupid Forks."

My phone vibrated. I flipped it open to a text message.

better yet?

Nope. I replied.

It was sweet for Mike to check up on me. He didn't do it often (we weren't that great of friends), but it was the thought that counted. Hardly anyone paid much attention to a little old Southerner-turned-Washingtonian with quirky red hair and milk brown eyes. I mean, jeez. What a looker. I, at least, thought I was prettier than Isabella Swan (who everyone and their sweet dimple-cheeked mothers were infatuated with at one point. Stupid Arizonian.), but I think I was just kidding myself. I usually always do.

Mike had told me about La Push about two weeks ago when I lamented about my sweet Myrtle Beach back home where the sand was soft and sticky white, and where the waves were storm-cloud gray. I lamented about the great pier I had my first kiss on (by Bobby Brown, no less) and the warm summer nights where I would just sit out on the beach for hours into the night, listening to the soft crash of whispering waves. I could still close my eyes and hear my homeward-bound ocean, but I couldn't see it anymore. All I saw were the blue La Push watery waves and steep cliffs. Cold and frozen and barren.

Ironically lifeless.

I looked over to one of the bigger cliffs that stretched out from a small paved road, and trailed my eyes up to the tip top. A black blob stood there, at the top of that cliff, looking out towards the sea too. When I squinted, it was a man. "What the hell?" I muttered and stood, brushing the sand off my butt.

It was one thing to see a man on the beach tossing starfish back into the ocean, but a completely different matter to see a man about to cliff-dive to the rocky waves below. Curiosity got the best of me. And you know what they say, "Curiosity killed the cat."

Ah, but satisfaction brought him back.

"What the hell is he doing up there?" I shoved my notebook back into my purple over-the-shoulder bag and set off towards the steep cliff. I'd heard of the rez people cliff diving, but I never actually expected people to jump off cliffs. It was like murder suicide -- all in one.

The blob of person spread his arms, and stopped where I stood, and put my hands on my hips. I watched. "That idiot's going to get himself killed," I said to myself.

Then he jumped, spun in midair, and tumbled quite silently into the blue fathoms below.

Despite my horrible fear of heights, it looked interesting (Fun would be the word if I was totally insane). I just hope he wasn't dead.

"And if he is," I shrugged, "not my business."

About to turn back towards my old gold Taurus and head home, I heard a whooping holler of joy. My feet froze to the sand. Damn curiosity. I waited until I saw him again, climbing towards the top of the cliff. He looked a bit slow going up, and tired. I began towards the cliffs again, and hoped I reached him before he went soaring.

"Hey, you!" I shouted when I reached the bottom. Typically, he didn't hear me. "HEY, ASSHOLE!"

That got his attention.

The man looked over the side of the cliff at me, and a puzzled expression lit his features. He scrunched his nose, looked back towards the cliff, then at me again, perplexed, as if he didn't notice me sneaking up to him and should have. After a moment, he began down the slight trail until he reached a lower cliff ledge, and bent over the edge. Rungs of water dripped from his hair, which was plastered to his long, smooth face.

"What did you call me?" he called down.

"I wanted to get your attention," I explained and waved it off hurriedly. "Why're you jumping?"

He scrunched his nose again, and his eyebrows furrowed. I must be some sort of mystery to him. A girl with red hair and milky brown eyes on a vacant beach near the rez? Yep, pretty mysterious if you ask me. "Why not?" was his reply.

"Good point, but I still don't see why you have to do it again."

"Is there a storm coming or something?" he sounded a bit sarcastic, and I had the foreboding feeling something had happened before with a cliff and a storm. I crossed my arms and glared up at him. He was mocking me. I hated people who mocked me.

"No, but it's stupid. Why do something again when the thrill's gone?"

He pulled a hunk of black hair out of his face and looked thoughtfully to the edge of the cliff again. His hair looked like it hadn't been cut in a while, and it probably hadn't. I itched to take some scissors to it (and his throat if he didn't stop mocking me). "How do you know the thrill's gone?" he asked.

"'Cause that's what happens when you do something a second time. It's human nature," I replied matter-of-factly and gave him a crooked grin. He mocked me again. OK, I hated him. End of story.

"Well maybe I'm not like other humans," he said, stood, and went up the trail again. He was so slow and casual and graceful, and his hunch reminded me of a predator, ready to pounce. Shit, he looked like he would explode out of his skin at any moment, the way he walked on the balls of his feet and climbed so silkily up. It enthralled me. Amazed me. And totally weirded me out.

I watched him until he reached the top, then shouted, "What's it feel like?"

"Like you're falling." He spread his arms wide, preparing to jump again, rings of water trailing his wake.

"Like parachute jumping or waterfall diving?"

"Dunno. Haven't done them."

"Well," I set my bag down and shivered again, "care if I find out myself?"

He spun back to me, surprised by my words. "From this height?"

I began to climb up after him, and soon reached the top. It wasn't that bad of a climb, and I was secretly glad my Dad was a wildlife hiking freak. Good thing I was in shape. "Yeah," I finally answered, realizing how freaking tall this native was, "from this height. I've dived from higher."

"Bull," he muttered and faced away from me.

"No, not bull," I pointed out. Down below, the waves crashed in dark icy crackles. It must've been freezing in the ocean, and dangerous. Some sort of thrill willed in the back of my mind. It was a long way down -- longer than I thought.

"So you're an adrenaline junkie."

I scoffed. "No way. I'm scared shitless of this height right now." And I was. All my strength was in my kneecaps right now so they wouldn't buckle. I pushed past him to the edge and twirled around to face him. It was kinda hard seeing I had to look way up. He must've been close to seven feet tall. "I just like to live."

And with that, I spread my arms, tilted back, and let the familiar sensation of falling overwhelm me. My heart went to my gut. My blood froze in my veins. My breath stopped. My thoughts echoed.

I might have hated the height, but I loved the fall.

"No -- STOP!"

My eyes flew open. I was already over the edge. He reached out with a long arm to try and grab me, but gravity was too fast. My hand slipped out of his. Our eyes connected for a split second. Dark, dark chocolate to my milky brown. Something stirred. Something lassoed. Something changed.

It was in that instant that I knew something was wrong. Not with the cliffs. Not with the water. Not with the cold chill. But with the fall. Not physically, but mentally. Metaphorically. Spiritually.

I fell hard. Far harder than I ever had before, and far longer. There was no ground anymore. It hurt.

I cried out in pain as fear filled his eyes, and he dove off the cliff after me, and reached me in mid-fall, and pressed me against his body. It was hot, and searing, and nothing felt right. This man was not right. We hit the water, and eons later, in the ice and freeze and chill of March, came to shore.

I stumbled out of the surf, coughing and clutching my chest, trying to breathe again, to get the icy rack from my lungs, the shiver from the tips of my fingers. And the sunken hole in the center of my chest, as if something had been wrenched from me. I crashed onto the sand and put my head on the ground and breathed. And it hurt.

Something wasn't mine anymore. Something wasn't mine to decide. I had fallen, and the fall had taken my most precious thing away from me. I knew this ache in me wouldn't go away. It wouldn't quell or dull or fade. This gaping chasm in me wouldn't close up, because there was nothing there anymore. Nothing for me to give. My heart wasn't mine anymore.

It wasn't mine to give.

"Oh shit," were his words when he caught his breath, "it's you."

My heart was his.


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