Author's Note: I've had this up before, but I was planning on posting it somewhere else, so I completely revised it. I gotta start writing happier stuff.

Disclaimer:Twilight, and all it's characters belong to Stephenie Meyer.

Disappearing

Have you ever had your arm ripped off? No, of course you haven't. So I'll tell you how it feels, so you never have to experience it for yourself. It hurts. It hurts. It's a pain you can feel all over your body, and it clouds your senses, like black spider webs at the edge of your vision, and I could still appreciate pain like that. And it's not just the pain, but also the shock. This is my arm- it's a part of me that has been torn away. But, no, not as bad as loosing you.

And these monsters —these heartless bastards who kill their own kind— they just stared blankly at me. There was no emotion there, no reason. They live for nothing. They fight for nothing, and probably, die for nothing. They've never had anything to fight for. They were told to kill, so they killed. I could see it in their eyes. There was no desire there, they have no sun, no ties, nothing to help them exist. I feel sorry for them. I bet they have no idea what it feels like to have a purpose.

They didn't waste any time. They didn't toy with me or taunt me like the villains did in the movies. I wish they would have. It would have made it easier to fight them. As it was, I had only one arm —one fucking arm!— and I still wanted to kill them. I wanted to kill them with everything in me. It was my drive. It was the only thing keeping me on my feet. My revenge. But I was exhausted by this point. I just want to go to sleep and dream of you and never wake up. There was nothing in me. I was empty.

One of them struck me. I felt it and it hurt, but that pain, the pain where my arm used to be, that was nothing. It was stupid meaningless pain that would fade with time. There was another pain, a pain that I knew would never fade. A pain I knew I wouldn't have to worry about if they killed me.

I'm sorry, Nessie. I shouldn't be telling you about this. You don't need to hear this.

But, you see, the pain of loosing you was worse. It hurt me more. And I'm sorry, because I promised your mother, your father, your entire family, and —most importantly— you, that I would keep you safe. That if the Volturi would not listen to us, I would take you and run as fast as I could while the others kept them distracted, and try to run fast and far enough so that you wouldn't hear it. . . and you wouldn't see it. . . and I could pretend I was too preoccupied to answer the questions you put in my head.

It's my fault, because I never thought ahead. I didn't want to think of what I would do if they found us. Not that it would have mattered. Too fast, too strong. There wasn't a plan I could have come up with that would have saved us.

The pain in my arm, my face, my chest, it was nothing to the pain I felt when I saw them kill you. It still hurts. I wish they would have killed me first, so I wouldn't have to see, so I wouldn't have those memories permanently engraved in my subconscious, so I could at least think that I did everything in my power, but now, I'm sure that I didn't try hard enough. And that's why you died, because I was too weak. Too stupid. Not quiet as perfect as those killers.

No, it didn't hurt very badly when they killed me. I was way past physical pain by then. They burned me too, and with nothing more holding me to that world, I just floated away. There's never any pain in disappearing.

Yes, I love you too.