A.N. So, ladies and gents (however few there are of the latter), this story on is not an original piece as I used characters taken from Stephenie Meyer's Twilight series. This is an AU fic in which there are some living people and some-not-so-living people, as you, reader, will soon find out... Not everyone is as they should be according to the Twilight Universe, but, AHA!... cry about it. No extreme OOC-ness personality wise (at least I don't think so), but there are bits and pieces that are disputably different. DISCLAIMER END.
Oh, and by the by, I have absolutely no idea of when I will be able to update, so reading will likely be sporadic and often riddled with displeasing cut-off points. Hope it makes you want to read and not want to tear my hair out. Or am I just being too self-confident? : )
I'll enjoy any response, and hope that you like it. This part's a bit short, I think, but we'll see how later updates fair in comparison.
Thanks much!-- sheep's out to pasture
[Preface]—It Goes A Long Way
A tailor-made suit is the epitome of comfort in grace. Beauty and Fluidity drape themselves around your shoulders, curl to your own mold, are trimmed and perfected, and, with the snipping of the final thread, whisper casually in your ear that, yes, you do look good.
Suits are for the higher life.
Tailored suits are for those who thrive there.
And, those two devilish pretties that gather behind each shoulder murmur, that color sure does go a long way...
Bella happened to think that the requested black was far too dark for pale skin such as his. Even paler now due to... well...
Her shoulders straightened. By golly, this suit was going to be perfect, even if only appreciated by maggots and mourners! She would make sure of it!
[Chapter One]--It Goes A Long Way
Measuring. It was a necessary evil, Bella Swan knew. Normally, she had a terrible time with it. Squirmers, fidgeters, whiners, twitchers, and—O, Lord!—criers too. How horrible it was to be Bella Swan on the day that Little Timmy came in to get his ickle suit fitted for his heart-wrenching performance as the kid who walks down the aisle with the rings! How absolutely dreadful it was to be Bella Swan on the day that Aunt Martha brought in her grumpy, teenaged, mohawked nephew for new Sunday attire! How hair-pullingly frustrating it was to be Bella Swan on the day that Old Albert traveled into town with his sweet (and entirely too judgmental) wife for a family reunion only to find that his dress pants didn't fit like they did ten years ago and that the flatulence problem (that really wasn't so much of a problem, wink, wink, nudge, nudge, hidden grimace) wasn't as easily remedied as predicted by that drink the Missus had provided for him! How terrible measuring truly was!
But this time—Lord, strike her down for such thoughts—she looked forward to this particular measuring job. As an apprenticed tailor of the I'm-a-high-school-senior-or-I-will-be-in-the-fall-so-please-let-me-have-a-job-here kind, Bella was used to receiving menial, boring, but painfully necessary tasks. And, as her boss was particularly squeamish and the mortician particularly clueless, Bella knew she would end up with this measuring assignment, so she had already gotten most of the shivers out of her system.
Her main coping mechanism for this job? At least he wouldn't move...
But, she conceded, the shiny metal room was decidedly the CREEPIEST PLACE SHE HAD EVER BEEN IN as of yet. Glinting and glaring under harsh light was not what she wanted the cool metal doing under any circumstance in her presence. It was all entirely too chillingly-heebie-jeebie-like for her to get her job done right the first time, she knew. Or, gulp, she might forget a measurement and have to come back!
"Eek," she muttered, following slowly behind the white coated Dr. Cullen, who, wholesomely handsome, young, and married, confused her by having the worst job in all of Forks!
"The freezers back here are generally empty as Forks is quite a small town," the kind doctor intoned from his position at the swinging doors. He turned to look over his shoulder. "You don't have much to worry about—well, except for getting the right locker, of course!"
What a joke. Obviously, Dr. Cullen thought it was humorous from his slight chuckle. Ha. Ha.
He held the door open for her, and she shivered as she entered, not just because of the cold temperature. After a few steps and some wandering, frightful glances forward, Bella stopped dead. Well, not dead, but—but—
But there was already a table with a white sheet over it just standing there, waiting for her!
"I took the liberty of preparing him for you on the gurney beforehand. It will be easier to measure him this way, no?"
Wow, Dr. Cullen, you sure are one helpful S.O.B..
However... "Thank you, doctor. I think," gulp, "that was for the best..."
"Well, I'll... leave you to it, I think." Bella didn't look at him as he began to pass her. Her eyes, instead, were focused on the suspicious, still, dead lump underneath those white sheets.
Dr. Cullen paused at Bella's side, tilting his head slightly to meet her reluctant gaze. "You will be alright, Ms. Swan?" he questioned with a unique concern, a type that Bella didn't necessarily associate with a mortician so much as a... healer... yeah, a practitioner of healing...
Bella smiled shakily at him. "If you don't mind my saying, you belong with the living kind of medicine, not the dead."
Hoping he didn't think her so unstable that she couldn't stay and get her measurements, Bella carefully watched the expressions on his flawless face. She was pleased that Dr. Cullen looked mostly pleased as well and maybe even a little... modestly flattered?
"Thank you, Ms. Swan," he said, golden eyes glowing. "I really do appreciate that comment. But..." he gestured around the room, "someone's got to do it. And I find that I can be here where others can't. You know," he added, leaning forward conspiratorially, "being a mortician isn't so alien as you think it is. A mortician can be the most human person you'll ever meet, for a mortician must deal with human feelings at their most sensitive." He seemed distant for a second or two, and Bella waited, some sort of understanding flooding through her already haywire system. "In some ways, it's even more difficult than being a doctor."
That elusive perception just beginning to occur to her left her nodding her head in thought, however peculiar the idea seemed. Dr. Cullen was a strange, kind one. Perhaps what he said was true! She replied, "I think I understand, Doctor."
"Good." He smiled. "Now... try to think of him that way." He gestured toward the body, making Bella turn to look as well. The sheet, white as death, for death was the white of the world, not the black, was still. Bella noted that its draping was much like that of a suit in its beginnings. Harmless wrappings of soft cloth, flexible and resilient, a suit was just a part of creation. And that white sheet... But who, of all people, could wear death? Who could bring death... to life? "Think of him with a bit of understanding, emotion, humanity... Maybe it won't be so... disconcerting."
Or, better yet, who could bring life to death?
Bella, her gaze fixed on the white cloth yet again, straightened her shoulders. With a breath of cold, foreign chemical staining her pure air, she resolved to be that person—that person who would treat the dead as the living, with respect, dignity...
...And, if she happened to shiver from time to time, she couldn't be entirely blamed for it.
"Alright, Dr. Cullen. Thank you."
The doctor took his leave, and the Bella that had half a mind to follow him was (mostly) subdued. The door swung shut behind him, and the hiss of air that signaled its controlled closing was the only sound in the room. Then, all was silent (well, except for the steady wirr of the freezers and the incandescent lights). Bella snuck forward, not incredibly certain as to why she thought she had to be so subtle with her movements. By the time she was at the side of the gurney, staring down at the sheet of death, she realized that she had absolutely no idea of how to begin. She knew which measurements she needed, sure, but...
Cautiously, she fingered the edge of the cloth nearest to the body's... to his head.
...but... he was dead. And she was preparing measurements for his funeral suit.
This was not, in any way, normal.
How did she expect to endure?
With a resolute breath, Bella slowly peeled back the starched fabric from over the late Edward Masen's face.
A.N. ...How's it? I'd like any sort of response, as I said before. Thanks!