(Not Quite) Necrophilia
Edward thinks I love him for his beauty, his wit, his devotion (and I do, I really do). He also thinks I'm something special for putting up with the whole vampire thing. It's more than a little sparkle and immortality, after all. Not everyone wants a boyfriend who doesn't blink as often as he ought to or who sometimes forgets to breathe. Not everyone wants to cuddle up next to a corpse. Edward thinks that I'm brave for pushing past those things, for seeing the real him. He thinks that I'm in love with him despite those things. He's wrong.
I love that he's dead.
I love the way the space between our clasped hands never grows too hot. I love to nestle my head against his chest and hear no heartbeat. I love the way he can stare at me forever, that, no matter how many times I have to blink, he never will. I love kissing him, delving into his dry mouth without worrying that he'll run out of breath.
I can be as rough as I like – biting, clawing – and his skin might tear, but it won't bleed. I've always been terrified by blood, which is weird because I've always been fascinated by (non-bloody) dead things.
Once, I asked Edward to close his eyes and pretend to be asleep. "It's not fair that you get to watch me sleep, but I can't watch you," I said with pout.
He laughed and agreed, kissing my cheek and laying back against the bed. His eyelashes were dark against his pale face, his auburn hair mussed by the pillow. He was too still, with none of the turning and muttering of a true sleeper. I leant in quietly; though I'm sure he heard my every movement. He forgot to breathe. I didn't remind him.
He looked like a corpse and, impulsively, I kissed him. When he kissed back, I smothered my disappointment and pretended my attraction hadn't waned. Thank heavens his sense of smell isn't as keen as Jacob's.
Today, he's moody again, fretting over his soul and my insistent pleas to be turned (I don't mind being alive; it's all the extra bits I can't stand). This is one of those times when he wishes he could cry. He wants to shock me into agreeing that I'm better off alive. His back is turned to me when he says, "Bella, I'm dead."
I smile and hug him from behind, trailing my fingers down his chill arm. I whisper into his ear, "I know you're dead. I still love you."
He doesn't understand how I could love him, an undead monster. I don't understand why he could love me – so warm, so full of movement, so sickeningly alive. That's okay, though. We don't have to understand. We're an odd pair, but we fit together.
After all, not many girls find a boyfriend who forgets to breathe endearing.
A/N: Please review. If you liked it, I want to hear it. If you didn't like it, I want to hear why. My stories will only improve with your input!
