A/N: Was originally an example for the contest I hosted with cdunbar; 'An Exploration of the Senses'. Now a one shot in my collection of Canon POVs.
Disclaimer: I don't own Twilight.
The Only Way I Know You're Really Here
I sit at the kitchen table with my palms flat down on the top. I see dim sun shining through the window and I feel the warmth from the radiators on around the house. I taste the remnants of my toothpaste in my mouth, fading and mingling with the sour tartness of my orange juice. I smell abrasive morning air.
But I hear nothing.
Sounds enveloped and blanketed me; they guided and spoke to me.
This morning all is silent.
And then......
The simple tinkling bells of a dawn chorus rings out. I smile and close my eyes. Life is stirring and awakening and I can hear it. Bedsprings spring, creaky floorboards creak and my ears follow my father's footsteps as they pitter and patter, slip and slap against the floor. He walks barefoot into the bathroom and I hear the splash as he passes water into the toilet bowl. A hoarse cough spirals out of his lungs, up his chest and along his throat, shooting out of his mouth in congestive bursts.
A tap runs and I hear the sloshing of water run around the sink and the thick wet sound of soapy hands rubbing against each other.
A car engine rumbles past the front of the house, the spinning metallic sound of bicycle wheels follow shortly after. My mind conjures images of fictitious characters starting their day; I don't know who they really are.
My father moves into his bedroom and the soft brushing sound of clothes being removed and put on, punctuated by uneven and unsteady footsteps tells me he is getting dressed.
In the manner of an automaton I open my eyes, allowing the light to reflect and refract and bring vision back to my perception of the world.
But it is the sound of my world I am concerned with.
I use my eyes to accurately navigate my way around the kitchen as I prepare breakfast for my father. But I listen to the consequences of my movements to guide me.
The squeak of a cabinet door, the dull, heavy thud as cast iron sinks against stainless steel, before grating against it creates a keening high sound that makes me wince as I pull out a heavy frying pan.
The shuffling of my movements is an indication of my awkwardness and unsettled feeling within my own skin as I move down the counter to place the pan on the hob (the clang of metal on metal once again invades my eardrums, telling me I misjudged the weight and force of the utensil).
My socked feet pad softly, thud, thud, thudding as my heavy footsteps bend toward the fridge. A soft sucking sound as I open the door, polythene sliding against impenetrable industrial plastic as I take the packet of bacon off the fridge shelf.
Snips from scissors release the meat, clicking ignites the gas and thick, fatty meat sizzles and hisses in a hot pan.
Stamping of heavy soled shoes acts as a premonition of my father's arrival into the kitchen.
A gruff "Morning," followed by a nervous clearing of a throat is the announcement of his presence.
My low "Morning" sounds like it comes from my chest, my weak and hollow chest where I swear I can hear my heart beat strangled spasms.
Out of all my senses I prefer to listen; listening gives me hope.
Scuffled shuffling brings my father to my side, a crack and a swish scramble his eggs. Grinding adds salt and pepper, a slosh is milk, and delicate scatterings of high metallic tones is the whisking of the ingredients as they combine to the tune of thick lapping swirling around the glass bowl.
Hissing and spitting abruptly ends as bacon is removed from the pan, and with a brittle fragility is placed on the plate, eggs pour into the pan with a glugging sort of noise and the whisk swishes fluidly, scraping the pan as it tears through quickly cooking eggs.
Wet thuds and rattling are the eggs hitting the plate and the whisk knocking the remnants from the pan.
Clanging is the dishes dumped in the sink and the harsh scraping is my father pulling out his chair as he sits down to eat. I sit beside him, another chorus of screeching as the chair legs jar against the floor so I can sit down. Yet the chorus of birds outside I can still hear so distinctly are so much more beautiful and pleasing.
I close my eyes as I sit beside my father. I do not eat, I listen to the world eat instead.
The furious sawing of my father's knife through his bacon and rapid tapping as he loads eggs on his fork tells me he is enjoying his breakfast. Approving grunts reverberate from his throat through the intermittent chomping of his jaw and teeth.
I hear the steady sighs of my breathing, which act as content sounds of meditation-- I am lost in my listening.
My father never questions why I do not eat, why I sit silent and careful. He knows I am waiting.
My once cavernous chest is learning to cope with a healthy beating heart, I am teaching my chest to no longer ache. Yet I cannot stop the doubt and fears from creeping up on me; I am careful.
So I spend my mornings quietly as I listen to those who are not careful hurry through their mornings to start their day, eager to speed through their routines and practices they are confident in.
My father's knife and fork clatter to the plate, chair legs scrape and tear through the air once more, and then the sound of a small pucker as my father kisses the top of my head goodbye.
I sit silent and still; I'm still waiting.
Jingle of keys, clicking of locks, heavy clunks of doors and the deep hum of an engine tell me my father has left for work.
I hope I don't have to wait much longer, I hear painful whimpers escape me. A by product from the pain of my nails digging into my palms. But I am too busy listening to concentrate on feeling.
A smooth beautiful sound flows down my road and this car engine sings a song so much more welcome than the birds that pleased my ears earlier. The engine runs to a stop.
The opening of a car door, the firm stamp of a booted shoe on tarmac makes my stuttering heart burst into sprinting beats.
The car door closes, footsteps grow louder. They are set to a rhythm so even I marvel at the achievement. The whimpers from the back of my throat are stronger as my patience begins to thin.
Finally, knocking at the front door makes me open my eyes with a start and I trippingly walk to the door.
Shaking, I open the door, the security chain rattles against the wood as my unsteady hand pulls the door toward me.
I feel so eager, yet am so scared.
I open the door and my eyes take in everything I have ever wanted. But I will not trust them, I need to hear to believe. His voice was always too complex and wondrous a sound for my memories to recreate accurately.
"Good morning, Bella."
I am undone and sagging to the floor when he catches me, his voice a soft cadence in my ear, caressing me and loving me with every lilt and dip of his voice.
I realise my frantic voice is marring the beauty of his brushing against my ears as my head is held to his chest. I stop my chanting and take it into my head where he can't hear it.
You are here. You are here. You are here. You are here. You are here. You are here.
My eyes are closed, my breath is caught, my hands are trapped and empty as he clutches me to him, and I cling like a corpse to the only one who makes me feel alive.
I can hear the strength of my heartbeat, my deep and loaded sobs as I gasp with relief.
I hear his incriminate cursing, and soft shushing as he comforts me and berates himself.
Everything stops then. My breathing returns to normal, the chanting in my mind stops.
His anguished angelic voice quiets and his grip on my body loosens.
I turn to him. I look him in the face-- I am still listening.
I listen for the sharp intake of breath that tells me he has stopped the flow of air into his lungs and the low growl in his throat. The signal for me to move away for my own safety. No matter how much it tears my still fresh wounds to be away from him. Especially of my own volition.
But I do not hear those sounds and move toward him.
My lips brush tenderly against his, and all my senses burst from my body like the explosion of a brilliant sunrise.
I no longer listen patiently. I no longer shut out the luxury of touch, taste, smell and sight to focus all my energy on hearing.
I feel the softness of his slightly wetted lips part and move against mine.
I taste the sweet intoxication of his venom that will be the key to our happiness if he lets it.
I smell his heady perfume that swirls around me and dazes me until I cannot think anymore.
As we pull away – my breath lost, his stopped – I see him. My bronze, white and golden love.
And I hear him say with an awe that overwhelms me,
"Bella."
That one word is expressed in such a way I know my mind could never fabricate it, and I know I do not need to listen patiently anymore.
A/N: Review if you'd like, this is more I kind of writing exercise for me as each one I want to write in a different style or format.
