Sullen Cullen

His intense stare looked forced and painful and his face was so white one felt like it had been soaked in water again and again until he could show no emotion…like trying to write on a white piece of marble.

That's what Edward Cullen was all about – immaculate, posh, cleansed, white, but never pure? His fairness could be compared to an angel's face but on second glance, you noticed the narrowed eyes, the tight mouth and you would think that something very dreadful happened to this boy that removed his halo and cleaned him of every imperfection, perfection, feeling, expression, emotion.

This is what I thought when I met my new teacher for the first time. He looked so young, only seventeen years old, but seemed to hold much more experience than expected. I, Bella Swan, felt timid and shy next to this grown up, mature boy. He looked at me blankly, with tightly pursed lips which looked glued together.

"Um..Nice place." I said awkwardly, looking around at the barren wooden room with plants scattered in every corner. A large grand piano stood in the middle with a long burnt orange coloured stool. A long legged, lanky, unbelievably good looking boy sat on the stool, his wrinkle free face indicated his short life but his blue eyes led me to think of him as an 'adult'.

He smiled slightly and continued to look at me head to toe. I always believed in first instincts, which is why I had taken care to dress up as a normal, pretty enough teenager. First impressions were the clinchers of every friendship or animosity.

I remember him saying something about how he knew I thought it was a strange place, much like a ballet studio. I grinned at some small joke he made and moved forward. I'm a pretty perceptive person and I noticed how vigilant he was. His actions were restricted and not at all graceful; As I sat next to him on the stool and watched his long fingers move over the keys, I noticed his insecure posture. Guarded, I decided, would describe him best playing the piano.

It continued for some days, little or no conversation – just the piano connecting us. Otherwise he was lost, I felt like he forgot me through half of the lessons, ignoring me and talking to my fingers instead, addressing them, commenting on their movements. It was months later when he finally touched me, only my index finger, guiding it over the keys. I noticed the electric shock surge through me. Something was in my stomach, fluttering.

I couldn't believe they were butterflies.

It had been two years of practice with him that I noticed his teeth. So white and sharp. And his lips so red. His skin so white and his hair so bronze. Everything about him was in contrast with the rest of him.

I wished he could be something like me, I wish all the signs would actually exist and I didn't have to kid myself into making up reasons as to why I felt he was one of my kind. I was unconditionally and irrevocably in love with him. But he was just a sullen boy. And I was something much more.

What had happened to him to make him so unapproachable, so discreet? I could make up an ordeal similar to one I had suffered, but that would be unreasonable and biased of me. Not everyone with communication problems had to be like me.

I remember how our sessions became more frequent, and how we never talked but just looked at our fingers – playing out our emotions in the tunes we played, in the movement of our hands. I noticed that his fingers were looser and faster on the keys when he was in a rollicking mood and how rigid they'd become when his lips were pursed tighter than usual. We understood each other.

I went to him until my fingers were skilled enough to play as fast as him and slow down as skillfully as his. How we played to the tempo we made, it was perfect. We were perfect.

Then I noticed how much time had passed since I'd arrived at that town and I couldn't tell if he, especially him out of everyone, noticed how long my face had remained ever young and fresh, despite the mature hair-cuts.

So I left. The last lesson I had with him, I played the tune we did best, it was Debussy. I suppose the light touch of my hand on his was a farewell enough for both of us. I left and never heard of him again. He was my piano teacher and I was the unfortunate girl who could never stay in one town for too long.

When I returned years, years later, the studio had been closed. Edward had moved somewhere far away. Ever since noticing how reserved he was, I found out that despite my deluded vision of myself as carefree as I'd been before meeting Paulo and the cult, I was always like him. My lips would purse when I played the piano and my face had grown fairer and fairer every time I looked at myself in the mirror. I was as discreet, guarded and reserved as him.

I was like him because I never got too close with anyone, never found love or happiness. Because I am a vampire. Of course. And now that I begin to think about it, I'm pretty sure he was too.

But I lost the chance. So what's left but to sit around waiting for another Edward Cullen till the 'end'? What else can anyone like Edward and I do but to sit and play the piano, listening to the sadness of eternity?

A/N: So cliché, I can't believe this is something I actually wrote. It was very quick and impulsive. A bit rough I daresay but I hope you liked it. Or at least, I hope you could tolerate it. PLEASE do review. I can view the hits so you might as well drop in a word. Much appreciated.