Chapter One
Disclaimer: I do not own Twilight
TAP TAP TAP. I rolled over in bed. TAP. There it was again. The sound that had been scaring me since I had moved into my Grandfather's old house. A shadow, like a silhouette of a person, appeared in my room. Frightened, I switched on the light. The shadow was gone, replaced by the shadow of my dresser. In the darkness, I could have easily mistaken it for a person. I rolled over, pulling the sheets over my head, and switched off the light.
Nightmares involving statues and a beautiful man caressing my face woke me. Something felt wrong, very wrong. I opened the window, wondering if someone had broken in. All I saw outside was the huge garden, filled with elegant statues, which I had inherited with the house. Nothing seemed out of order. There was no movement outside, no traces of people breaking in. I must have imagined it. Sighing, I went back to sleep.
In the morning, I woke up to find that my room, which had once been in disarray, was neat with everything in order. A single red rose lay on my bedside table. Fearful, I searched for my money and valuables in case they had been stolen, but everything was still there. I shrugged, but I could feel my heart racing.
That night, I ran a comb through my hair, groaning when one of the teeth snapped off. Staring at the tangled brown mess that grew from my head, I sighed. "I hate my hair." Then I crawled into bed and snapped off the light. As soon as I did, the tapping noise started up again. I remembered in the country, when there were possums in the attic. Grabbing a broom, I whacked the ceiling and the noise stopped. "Ha!" I smiled. "Possums!" Then I lay back down and drifted off to sleep.
I was wandering in my garden. There, I came across a beautiful angel statue. Her curls were pulled back in a knot, she had majestic wings, and there seemed to be something real about her. Her hands were drawn over her face, as though she was weeping. I reached out to touch her stone arm when a hand struck the statue, shattering it. I was about to scream, when I saw the person who attacked the angel. He was a beautiful man, with tousled bronze hair and an angelic face. He reached to me with a cold hand, a circle of flames erupting around us. But this dream had something more in it than the last one. The man stroked my hair, twisting it around his hand, then moving that hand down to my stroke my tattered clothes. "Who are you?" I asked him. His face faded away as my eyes flew open. I felt different, like I was encased in silk. I switched on the light and screamed.
A huge, gold-framed mirror faced me. My reflection was beautiful: roses wound in my now-silky hair, expensive designer clothes and jewellery covering my body. Bunches of Roses covered my bed, scarlet ribbons tying the flowers together. A note was written on the grand mirror in perfect, flowing handwriting. So you can view your beauty day and night. This was the thing I feared the most. What was this obsession this man had with me? How did he get into my room every night? Was he the man in my dream? The question lingered in the air, terrifying me. If he was, then his obsession was obviously false. For, although he seemed kind to me, the man in the dream had attacked the innocent angel. It had been weeping, most likely with fear of the man. There was only one thing that angels feared that much, only one thing that would attack something so divine.
A fallen angel.