1. Sing us a song
9 April 2009
"You told me to come."
The frigid night has reached such a depth of velvety blackness that he can barely make out the outline of his own hands. But Edward knows she is right there, standing just inches behind him. He can smell the vanilla on her warm, chocolate-brown locks which she must have worn in loose tresses over her neck. He can smell the sweet raspberry on her soft, plump lips which he long to brush his fingers along. He hears the slightly quick beatings of her heart, slowly following the rhythmic, airy pace of her breathing. He then smiles to himself and turns around to face Bella.
She is holding up a match in her hand, the marmalade-orange flame illuminating those features on the small, round face he so missed. Bella looks almost like a doll in the night- with those fine, trimmed brows always knitted together in conversation, the mushroom-shaped nose she often rubs out of old habit, the lips which look like they have been rouged with Bulgarian red wine and the sultry ebony eyes which always look like they're in deep scrutiny. He has so often studied these very features that they seem almost unchangeable throughout the years he has known Bella. But it is lucid she has grown beautifully, much to both his delight and dismay. The sharp wind grazes his weathered cheek as Bella sits on a wooden step.
"The match is not going to last the whole night you know," Edward mutters silently, melancholic tones slipping down his tongue.
She raises a brow, pressing her lips into a hard, thin line as they stare at each other, eyes unflinching. Edward looks back at her, face expressionless as he toys with a loose thread of his jeans with nimble fingers. He has not seen her in almost a month now, but it feels like a lifetime. But she seems different now, colder like those days when they fought over the slightest matters like whose turn it was to call or how absent-minded Bella can get to the extent of misplacing her things on a daily basis. He misses those moments which only ended with Bella's unexpected but affectionate kisses, the rest of the argument engulfed by the seemingly perpetual conversations about everything-the past, present and the future.
"We're staying the whole night? I had to rush here after packing. You can't imagine the shit I have in my room. I should start a flea market," she sighs, shaking her head as though in disagreement with herself as she holds her head up to the sky and watches the few stars that are glimmering feebly.
"You never liked to throw stuff away. That's why you have all that rubbish in your room."
"I even found the necklace you bought me all those years ago. Still in its little red box."
His forehead instantaneously corrugates as he slips his hand into his pockets, shivering slightly from the cold of the night. "So the necklace is rubbish to you?"
She chuckles quietly, hooking her crooked teeth to chapped lips. She has always loved to torture Edward; it has almost become like a habit teasing him. She blinks once and then twice as she brings the flame up to light his darkened features. She cannot gauge his emotion from the blank eyes and straight, handsome face. Her heart twitches and her eyes quickly avert from the gaze.
"Memories are what remained. The rest are just illusions."
The pier is silent except for the sporadic hoots of the distant owl and their breathing. The lake is just an expense of darkness, shimmering beneath the silvery pallid glow of the moon. They first came here five years ago, when everything seemed perfect and nothing could go against them. Their burning passion for each other. Their unfathomable love. Their painful and erroneous, yet so beautiful love. Bella stifles a laugh as she thinks about the days, such infantile decisions she made. They say love is blind. But then love is the one blinding.
"I can't wait to be there. It must be great to be able to live in someone else's home, to study their culture. As if I'm being born again. I would have to learn to talk their way, walk their way and even eat their way. Can you imagine that? Learning to eat? I feel like an infant again. I'm going to be there alone. I've never be alone in my life. There's always someone there with me. But I can't keep relying on them to live. I've been too dependent on them. You have to promise to write to me. I'll write to you every single day and-"
"Don't go."
He cuts off her words in a short breath, his heart beating in his throat as he spoke those two words that have been playing in his mind for months now. Finally, he has the courage to say it aloud. He knows he shouldn't say it; he should have kept his mouth glued shut. But he couldn't. He was not able to sleep or eat well before this night. He doesn't want to lose her. She is the one keeping him alive all these years. She is his life, his beating pulse. He is dead without her.
"What are you saying?" she questions him, disbelief saturated in her words.
"Don't go, Bella. Don't go to Scotland," he repeats, more forceful now, his eyes rapidly searching for her lost, clueless ones as they gaze at each other for an innumerable moment in pointed silences.
She bites the edge of her trembling lips, lost in her thread of thoughts. "You're telling me to do something so ridiculous, so selfish. Who do you think you are?"
Isabella rubs her porcelain-white hand with the fading henna in disproportionate circles around her lap, brows knitted as she looks up at the cloudless sky once more. Edward takes a hesitant step towards her, and perches himself on the lower step. She turns away from him in a second, pulling up her calves beneath her. A threadbare white dress hangs loosely over her thin shoulders, revealing the soft cream-white skin he so missed running his fingers along. He pulls her impalpably cold, slender fingers softly and holds them in his warm, olive ones. Bella shifts slightly, letting Edward's hand slip across the coarse fabric of her dress.
"I need you here with me. I don't want you to leave me. I know it's selfish of me but I love you so much, Bella. I don't want to lose you again," he mumbles in muffled tones, combing the locks of her hair gently.
"But you don't need me, Edward. You have her, you have your wife and she is carrying your child. Don't do this to her, Edward. You've hurt her so many times already," she cries, sounding helpless as Edward pulls her face towards him.
Her cheeks are soaked with tears, her raspberry-coloured lips trembling more vehemently now as she attempts to hide her face away once more from Edward. But he cups her face firmly in his hands, wiping the tears away with his rough thumbs. He can't bear seeing her cry like this. This is all his fault. He was the one who dragged her into this pain, so excruciating it is killing them both slowly.
"I don't care about anyone else but you, Bella. You're my heart. You're me. I'm so sorry, love. I've hurt you so much."
Bella shakes her head, feeling her temples throbbing harder now as she tries to hold back the damned tears which would never stop flowing like an endless stream. She tells herself to be strong, to be stronger than what she already is. She thinks she would be impervious to his words now, that not a thing that escapes his cigarette-burnt lips will ever faze her. Her sentiments are so wrong, she feels like an imbecile now. She is not ready to go through all this pain. She is young. She is beautiful. But nothing in the world is ever fair.
"Edward, go back home. She needs you now. She needs you. Love her like you've ever loved me. Forget about me, Edward," she instructs him as she pulls his hands rapidly from her face, pushing the still man away from her.
"Stand up, Edward. Go home now. She is waiting for you at home. You shouldn't have kept her waiting, especially in her condition. Buy her something special. Like roses, she loves the white ones. Stand up, Edward, now. You're going to get a fresh bouquet and give it to her. You're going to kiss her like you've never kissed before. You're going to embrace her you've never embraced before. You're going to love her like you've never loved before. Edward, come."
Bella rises up fluidly, tugging at his hand forcefully while wiping the tears away from her cheeks. She grins at him as Edward watches her, appalled at her sudden action. His eyes never escape from her face, her features already imprinted on his retinas. She urges him to stand but he is mutinous, not wanting to leave the only place which brings him peace, not wanting to leave her. She takes in a huge breath, letting his hand slip away from her grasp. She extinguishes the flame in a breath.
"I'm leaving now, Edward. Forget I ever existed. I'm going to miss you, so much," she whispers into his ear, brushing her lips along his jaw and presses them softly against the bridge of his nose.
Her lips linger there for a moment as they both close their eyes and listen to their own hearts beating. Bella then conjures up all her strength and turns away from him, walking away slowly as she feels those damned tears again rolling on her cheeks. They are warm, almost placating. Then she feels a pair of granite-hard arms slithering down her waist, pulling her deeper into him. She feels his cold lips on her nape as he inhales the familiar scent, his fingers slowly digging into the flesh of her stomach. Bella can hear ripping sounds already.
"No, Edward, don't do this please. Please, I beg you. I have to leave, now," she exhorts him, her voice thick with tears as she closes her eyes and attempts to struggle out of his tight embrace.
"Don't leave me, baby. I won't go away. You're here. I love you," he tells her, his tears hitting her skin as he runs his lips along the line of her collarbone and makes its way towards her cheeks.
"It's not right, Edward. This is not right. You have to forget about me. We can't live a lie forever, love."
"I don't care if anyone knows now. I just want time to stop now. So we can be like this forever."
"No, Edward. Time will never stop. Get a grip of yourself. Stop acting like a child. You're a married man. You're going to be a father. Edward, you have to let me go," she demands him, eyes protuberant as she turns around and holds his face in her hands, her nails drilling so hard into his scalp as to draw blood.
He places his hand over hers, sobbing softly. "Tell me you love me, Bella. Tell me."
Edward kisses her forehead, drawing her closer. They leant their foreheads against each other. Bella breathes heavily, licking off the beads of perspiration lining her upper lip. His eyes swivel back to her and he brushes his lips against the corner of her eyes-a feature of hers he has always loved because it looks somewhat feline, sharp and interesting.
"I've always loved you, Edward. I will never stop loving you. But I'm loving a stranger. I don't know you anymore, Edward. I lost you along the way."
Bella combs back his shorn jet-black hair back affectionately, tucking a lock of hair behind his ear. She strokes his wet cheek with a thumb and presses her lips against his, her heart begging for her to stay longer there with him. But she can't. She mustn't. She arranges the collar of his heliotrope shirt and smiles meekly up at him. Everything is going to be alright. You are strong, Bella. She tells herself continuously, it has almost become like a silent mantra in her head.
"I'm going now. Good night, Edward," she says, pulling his hands from her waist with slight difficulty.
Bella spins around and walks away in measured steps. Perhaps this is going to be the last time they are going to see each other. She feels like her heart has been stabbed and ripped so many times that it isn't there anymore. She is soulless now. She is empty. Just flesh, bones and blood. She cries her way home.
Edward returns to his three-bedroom apartment like nothing has occurred. He is clueless as to what to do with his face. Should he be smiling? Perhaps not have any expression at all-yes that is what he is very good at. He is uncertain whether he would ever smile again or better yet laugh. Will he ever talk normally again? Will he even utter a word to anyone but himself now? He doesn't know. He feels detached from himself. Like he has stepped out of his body and he's watching it move around, acquiring not a thought in his brain and not a feeling in his heart. He remembers lucidly the words Bella spoke to him all those years ago, on the very same date. Even if I didn't know what love is, my heart would still say I love Edward Cullen. He feels like smiling but he can't. His face is numb.
He locks the door behind him, struggling a little to fit the key into the hole. He doesn't bother turning on the lights because everything felt much closer to him in the dark. He stands in the threshold for a moment, taking his usual pair of Birkenstocks off his feet and places them neatly on the rack bought from Ikea just a couple of weeks ago. He was proud when he successfully assembled the thing within two hours, for he usually fails in assembling Ikea furnishings. He looks at it and no longer feels the mounting pride he felt not too long ago. It even seems mediocre now, like a nine-year old could do a much better job. He turns and is about to make his way to the kitchenette when he is engulfed by an unexpected embrace.
"Where have you been? I've been waiting for you since the afternoon. I couldn't sleep just waiting for you to come back, Edward," she cries like a frightened child, tugging at his shoulders as she clings on tighter to him.
He doesn't know what to do with his hands. He puts his palm over her scalp and strokes her hair. He is muted. Rosalie looks up at him, eyebrows pulled together. Her husband has become oddly estranged now since her pregnancy, just like those few months when their marriage seemed like it was on the rocks. But everything is alright now; they are even expecting a baby in five months. "Maybe he is just exhausted from work", she consoles herself as they saunter slowly towards their bedroom. She feels so safe now, complete that he is here.
"I love you, Edward."
He looks at her but his eyes are empty, emotionless. He gives her a brief smile and tucks her into bed. She waits for him to tell her he loves her back but he doesn't. Rosalie closes her eyes and lulls herself to sleep. Everything is going to be alright tomorrow. He loves you, Rose. He loves you very much.
22 July 2005
Bella is standing behind the kitchen counter, wearing her favourite ratty nightdress, as she prepares dinner. Her gnarled locks are messily tied into a loose bun over her scalp. She is bathed in the orangey glow of the china lamps, making her skin, which is as white and smooth as sweet milk, look suddenly tanned. She has always disapproved of tanning, for she simply loathes the sun and being charred by it. Her hands are quite busy as she reaches for an avocado here and a sausage there. Edward chuckles to himself, seemingly enjoying his time watching her as she works around the kitchen-a place so foreign to her, she barely uses it. He is leaning against the yellow wall, the newspaper bought from the Paper shop along the street tucked under an arm and a pack of Marlboros jutting from the pocket of his gym shorts.
He places the paper quietly on the dinner table as he moves towards Bella, her back facing him. He loves it when she is clad in the aged, almost transparent nightdress. He is able to study the beautiful contours of her body, the dimensions of her hips and the topography of her breasts. But she still won't give him permission to fully enter her, to fully unleash their love for each other like all those lovers do. "If you really want to make love with me, then you'll have to wait till we're married," she told him one night after his failed attempt of making his advances on her. "But what if we don't end up married to each other?" he inquires her in return, smacking his lips together.
"Then you're not the guy in my dreams after all." She smiled and returned to her battered copy of Dorian Grey on the large Italian-imported poster bed.
He put his arms around her and buries his face in the crook of her neck. Her chopping comes to a short respite before she resumes cutting the sausages into little, thumb-like pieces again. He kisses the thin skin of her nape, smelling the vanilla in the loose strands of her bun. He won't be eating much for dinner today. He is already satiated just being in her presence. He has missed her so much. But he is unsure whether she feels the same for him. He is never quite sure when it comes to Bella.
"Aren't you going to ask me what I'm making for dinner today? I'm putting in so much effort to cook this," she finally says as she arranges the sausages on a corner of a large ceramic plate with floral prints.
He laughs quietly and places his chin on her shoulder. "What are you making today, love?"
"I'm making meatloaf with mashed potato and baked sausages. But I'm not really sure if it's going to be any good. It's my first time cooking dinner. So be nice."
"I'm sure it'll be great, love." He continues to kiss the top of her visible spine, his hands working its way up the straps of her brassiere as they attempt to unlatch the hook without much difficulty. She turns her head behind her shoulder and brings his face up to hers, her bra dangling off her shoulders by then as they are pulled together by a long, passionate kiss. Their skins are getting warmer against each other; Bella can feel an intense, hardened flesh just below her navel. Edward holds her face firm in his hand, sweat began beading his forehead. They breathe hard through their nostrils, their wet tongues intertwined. His fingers are about to travel their way up her nipples when she quickly turns away and cuts the kiss.
"That's enough now, baby. I have to finish cooking!" she digresses, latching her bra back on and continues chopping up stalks of fresh celery.
"You can do it on the bed now, love. Come on," he urges her, pulling away locks of her hair and kissing her neck once more.
"No, Edward. I have to finish this. No more games." She takes his hands off her waist and ignores his advances.
He is silent for a moment as he takes a step back from Bella, slipping his hands into the back pockets of his creased khakis. Bella peers over her shoulder and shoots him a glare, pointing to the direction of the boiled potatoes in the never-used pot with the tip of a sharp knife.
"Be a darling and peel those off, please, Edward?" she asks him in a strict tone, arms akimbo.
"Yes Ma'am. Anything for you," he replies sardonically, carrying the large pot to sink and began pouring out the warm, starchy water away before peeling the small, organic-bought potatoes which Bella struggled to find in the supermarket just that morning.
Bella smiles to herself, letting tendrils of her washed hair fall over her eyes. She has always wanted to do this-cook dinner in a kitchen with Edward, pretend for just the slightest moment that they are husband-and-wife. She has always pictured them living together in a cottage just a bird's eye view away from the Scotland National Park where the fiery oranges of the marigolds and the bursting magentas of the violets are visible from a mullioned window. They would just sit in the veranda, sipping cups of lukewarm English breakfast tea as they watch the clouds pass by, imagining shapes into them. The wind would occasionally brush across their faces, a shiver running their spines. He would look gorgeous in his cream sweater which fits his body perfectly, accentuating the broad chest and the chocolate-brown arms. His face is set in mild concentration as he scans through the day's paper, hand clasped around his emptied mug. Bella can go all day just observing him. But of course, she dreams too much, things that will never happen in her life.
"Bella, baby, you want me to cut these in two?" he asks, intercepting her thoughts.
She nods, smiling weakly. "Yeah, just cut those up and put them into the bowl there."
"Are you okay, baby?"
She nods her head once again and smiles. She is fine.
He is smoking his tenth cigarette of the day in the balcony, the grey curls of smoke escaping his cigarette-burnt lips and dissipating in the evening air. He is feeling oddly jovial now, as though everything was just perfect, the normalcy of it siphoning off every worry he had for the past few months. He is happy being with Bellaa in her shabby, one-bedroom apartment with its meagre furnishings and extremely ill-stocked kitchen. Her bed is roomy for two, the mauve covers with the tiny paisley prints along the sides are comfortable and soft but he was unable to lull himself to sleep for the past few nights. He was too focused on watching her sleep, her quiet breathing echoing off the torpid grey walls. Her half-closed eyes looked like she was still awake, like she was just feigning sleep. He would discreetly place his arms beneath her and he would just lie there, listening to the night sounds and their synchronized breathing.
"Dinner's ready."
He flicks off the ash from his sweater and takes the last puff of his unfinished cigarette. Edward draws the magenta curtains together and returns to the kitchen where he was previously helping Bella peel the potatoes. Feeling like he was not of any use in the kitchen anymore of peeling all the boiled potatoes, he has taken a toilet and smoke break, leaving her to finish the rest. Her apartment is nothing like his maisonette which is furnished heavily with wood and the walls are painted a vibrant sunny yellow. That was all Andrena's idea of a perfect home of course when they first got the house. Bella's home is bare, except for an ancient television which sits on a mahogany coffee table, an off-white couch and a threadbare armchair she found in a garage sale. The carpeted floor is littered with dog-eared paperbacks, Vogue magazines dated back from the 80s and receipts from the Paper Shop. Rosalie would cringe at the pig sty Bella calls home. Bella would grimace at the heaven Rosalie calls home.
The dinner table is set nicely with plastic Ikea culinary and the food looks almost splendid. Edward is impressed with Bella's first attempt at cooking dinner for him, especially without much help from him. He slips his hands into his pockets, realizing that Ophelia isn't waiting for him on the dinner table like he has imagined her to be. His eyes swivels to the kitchen, already spotlessly cleaned from the previous clutter which filled the sink and the begrimed counters. She is not there either.
"Bella. Baby, where are you?" he calls aloud, his baritone voice bouncing off the walls of the small apartment.
He moves slowly from the office room where Bella does her writing and "brainstorming" as she so often calls her moments of staring blankly into the air, her fists retracted from the sleeves of her oversized sweater as her mind works out the loopholes in her story over a chipped mug of lukewarm Ovaltine. Edward would sometimes watch her, perched on the glazed mahogany desk filled with scraps of her writings and flattened paperbacks, whenever he visited during the weekends or after work. She would let slip tiny pieces of conversation with him, discussing the weather and what she bought for dinner from the Paper Shop or the Indian diner just across the road with him if she felt she was ignoring him. But most times, she would just remain speechless for hours until her back ached too much and her stomach was growling vexingly at her. Then she would perk back up, heating up the take-outs in the microwave and chatting endlessly about her ideas which never seem to match but she loved so much, she couldn't possibly let them go. Edward just listened to her talk, only wanting to kiss her.
He pushes the bedroom door lightly and sees her curled up on the poster bed, her face concealed by the locks of her chocolate-brown hair. Her cadaverous, cream-white legs are exposed, interwined with the the knitted blankets. He moves towards the bed slowly, clambering up on all fours and gently lies down beside her, his head propped up by his elbow. Edward combs back her hair with his fingers, feeling moisture on his hands. Bella doesn't say a word, burying her face in her hands as she sobbed quietly to herself. They seemed so happy just moments ago while they were preparing dinner together. He is clueless, curiosity lucid in his eyes as he attempts to question her for her sudden emotional breakdown. But he can't. The silence seems so much better, so much like they are in a dream and it will never end. That is what he always dreamt for. For time to stop now so they can be like this forever. So they don't have to battle the harsh realities life brought any longer. Life is much simpler then. He embraces her tightly and imagines time has really stopped. And they are together.
17 January 2003
His eyes swivel to the rearview mirror and he attempts for the fourth time to comb his unculivated locks of ebony into some sort of semblance which it seems incapable of achieving. He looksat his eyes, the green pools staring back at him with much ambivalance as his hand reaches out for his oversized Ben Sherman bag in the passenger seat. He slings the leather bag around his shoulder, his fingers trembling slighlty from the anxiety coursing through his veins. He closes his eyes for a moment, his hands clenched into fists at his sides as he swallows the lump that is lodged in his throat. Perhaps he has had too much of the vodka the previous night which is making him now jittery and little hungover. His first day as a lecturer and he is almost already screwing up. He knew this wasn't his calling, that standing before a large group of students hidden behind their laptop screens while trying to deliver a good lecture about on the biomedical theories of the generation seems so far off within his list of abilities. But he can't simply chicken out now. He's in way too deep.
He finally opens his eyes and straightens his back. He can do this now. He is ready. Edward opens the door of his Aston Martin, his burnished shoes taking a step out of the cool, leathery comfort of his car to the rough gravel and unmerciful sun. He dons on his shades, and begins walking towards the main gates of the school. The crowd has just only begin to grow, groups of students here and there smoking and even drinking decanters of Jack Daniels smuggled in without the knowledge of the Dean. This is reminiscent to Edward's college years when his friends would suggle in pot and they would smoke behind the gym, leaving the remains of the dope which resemble mouse droppings on the agapanthuses. Noone ever figured it out. They even brought it to class one day and they ended up getting high in an unknown alleyway with Professor Ariade, skipping class the next day.
The students don't even glance at him and this brings a little relief to Edward whose maroon shirt is beginning to get drenched with a deluge of his own perspiration. He finally reaches the cobblestoned steps up to the lecture hall building where there are countless lecture halls labeled in foreign numericals. 2A-3, 2B-5 and so on. He runs along the hall stretch of darkened corridors, only to end up at where he started. He looks at his schedule, his eyes scanning for the number of his lecture hall and class. 3D-9, Biomedical truths. He climbs up the spiral metal steps, bumping shoulders with sullen-looking men in dour threadbare suits he considered approaching but retreated for fear of being mocked at. He raids the hall stretch and stops infront of a wooden door which is labeled 3D-9 in block letters. He smiles widely to himself and burst through the door.
Edward looks at the clock nailed to the west wall of the empty hall,waiting. He taps the heel of his shoes on the dusty flooring, looking over the slides he has preapred the week before with brimming pride. He is perched on top of the desk, facing the fifty-two unoccupied seats where he has already pictured students eargerly anticipating every word that would escape his lips. He suddenly feels like he is need of a cigarette but puts of the idea without further thought. His legs dangle below him and an innumerable moment later, his class begins pooling with chattering strangers.
It is a bedlam in the confined space and Edward's nerves are jittering madly. You can do this, Edward. They are just teenagers. No harm.