For those who are sick of an infatuated girl paired with a "perfect" vampire. A Bella with a brain, sense, self-preservation, and that annoying humanity; an Edward with more than a pretty face; and a Twilight without the cliche. Twilight v2.
This is just an experiment. I wish to go over the original story as if Bella had actually had a mind of her own, as if Edward was portrayed with flaws instead of the traditional "fall over him omg hotness!!1", as if there was more to the story than the traditional Cinderella. I will not rewrite the entire story, as it would get quite boring. We Twi-loverz (or haterz) already know the plot so I'm just going to skip between one-shots ;D
Have fun! I don't know how well this will fly since I'm sure most of the people on this site are 12-year-olds just to read about Edward the Sparkly Vampire's amazing abs and face and hair and and and.
I will go by popular demand; would you like me to do more in depth on certain aspects? Or did I skip a scene you'd like to read? Just let me know in a review.
I am attempting, in short, to write Twilight; without the cliche.
Therefore I will start without the "Everything is owned by the OMGAMAZING STEPHENIE MEYER!!!! Although I WISH I could have Twilight, especially Eddie-wardddddd *winkwinkwink* *lick lips*"
The fact that I haven't created the plot-line (which, by the way, I will edit somewhat to fit my slightly adjusted characters) should be pretty obvious to everyone here. Sue me.
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I get to school early.
The halls are empty, voiceless tombs, graffiti covered walls and lockers papered with wrapping paper. It doesn't bother me. I've always liked being alone, and the quiet wins over high school chatter, hands down. It is kind of eerie though when I put my crap in my locker, the banging sound of the textbook against the old rusty metal, "fuck you" written with a ball point pen near the bottom.
In such a small town, there's no other people like me, no other night-creatures who get up at four, run, then drive their half-dead truck over here to wander the halls alone. In Phoenix, there were a couple, but night-creatures aren't social. I just walked past them as they sat, wedged in that section between two sets of lockers, reading science fiction novels. Just like everyone else.
In such a small town, everyone else is asleep at five in the morning. Not only the people, but the lights, the cars, the grumbling machinery behind the buildings that always seemed to be insomniac like me in Phoenix. Here it's quiet. Nice quiet.
I don't really mind moving to Forks. Sure, it's rainy, grey sky, pretty blah. But it's better than Phoenix. Anything's better than Phoenix. And this is kind of my habitat; I'm a pretty rainy, grey, and blah girl myself.
I'm glad to be here with Charlie. Here, I don't have to listen to a cunt of a woman who calls herself my mother. Here, I don't have to look after myself and her and her boyfriend and the house and the bills and the groceries and make sure she gets in every night and uses a condom and and and.
Here I can be myself. And who knows who that'll be?
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At lunch I'm picking at my food. School lunch is poisonous; I had discovered that as soon as I started kindergarten. And this table I've been led to by pinching lying fingers is noisy and loud and fake, and I don't like it.
I thought this school would be better, less population=less trapped-ness, right? Instead, less population=you get singled out, everyone lies/pinches/wants you, and you're an endangered wild cat in a ten-foot-squared rain forest space and civilization pressing pressing pressing around you.
I just want to find some bathroom stall somewhere where I can eat a bruised banana from home in peace.
They're talking, laughing, now, these people who I don't know. And it's just voiceless, meaningless radio noise that blurs my vision and my hearing and I can't breathe
I get up to get a drink of water. The old water fountain is all the way across the cafeteria, and I'm closing my ears as I walk there. And then I don't really want to drink because it's unfiltered and nasty and poisonous, and besides there's chewed gum on the spout.
I turn and see them.
They're on the farthest table from the middle, somehow separate from the crowded cafeteria, an invisible steel wall. And if I went over there, sat down next to them, then the yellow-clouded air would clear and I would finally be able to breathe.
But really, you know, it's all the same air.
One of them looks up and meets my eyes, curiously. I don't mind staring, so I continue to look. He seem unusual, somehow. Unblemished pale-white skin, unnaturally smooth features, piercing sick-yellowish eyes. Like some diseased mountain lion or something, and my night-creature self cringes.
My eyes move over to the girl. She's tall, blonde, haughty expression, pale white face, immaculate.
It's as if they all went to Dr. Plastic Surgery, and said, "Hi, I want to be the perfect American. I want to have nice white, smooth skin without a single zit, and I want beautiful hair without split ends, and I want my body like this and this and this."
I'm the kind of girl who will dislike you immediately if you're wearing an Aeropostale shirt and a skirt that shows legs you tanned in a white room for hours, because conforming makes you an animal. It makes you sick in the mind. Inhuman. And these people... some would say they look perfect. But "perfect" is an opinion, if one propaganda'd into the minds of 95% of the population. Because real perfection is... not this. Not this sick imitation.
And there's something wrong about them. I'm not an idiot. They don't look right.
I'd take normal instead any day.
So I smile at them, and turn and go back to my seat.
----
So, one of the Plastic Surgery Kids, the young one, hates me.
I'm in Biology and, of course, I get paired with him. And this entire time he's been on the edge of his desk, face twisted into a scowl, like he can't stand the disgusting smell of someone who doesn't emanate Botox.
It's really hard to concentrate on the class when someone's glaring at some zit on your face or whatever it is like they're ready to nuclear bomb the world to get rid of you.
Class ends and Plastic Surgery gets up instantly, but I'm ready too, and I grab onto his arm. His skin is cold. Is that what happens when you get too many skin transfusions or whatever they're doing these days?
He's shocked and instantly rips his arm out of my grasp, and I wince at the flash of pain that sends itself all the way up my arm. "What is your problem?" I ask, the pain making my voice harsher than I meant it to be.
He looks remorseful for a moment, and then he just looks constipated, face held rigidly in a polite expression, lips pressed tightly together. "I--"
"Look. I don't know what the hell you have against me, but if you really want to, I can change seats." I'm glaring now. "Learn to bear with the rest of the human population once in a while? We're all stuck in the same world."
In Spanish, my wrist is still hurting with repeated twinges of pain that correlate my pulse, and it won't go away, and I can't bear it, any of it
----
"Look, I'll just do the work. I've done it before." His voice is silky and smooth, assured and cocky.
"So have I." My voice is cold, the whisper of a night-creature. His is trying to be friendly, but I can smell the irritation behind it, the hatred, the fear. And his strange eyes look at me and I won't meet them because I'm not afraid I'm not afraid but I am.
"I could do it faster."
"I'm sure you could." I yank the microscope over and put the slide in. It's prophase and I scribble the answer down.
"Can I see?" His crooked smile grimaces at me and I imagine punching out his straight white teeth. Why do I dislike him so much? Is it because I can feel my bodily instincts say RUN and I've never been one to run?
"No." Emotionless because I have nothing inside me.
He's a little taken aback, and then falls back into an easy smile. This creature I've seen before, the one who wants to be friendly and nice and control you and suck your life out. "I'm sorry. I must have appeared rude to you. I'm Edward Cullen."
"You know who I am, of course."
"Of course." His smile twists my words back to me and now they're ugly and wrong. "You come from Phoenix, right?"
"Yes."
"How do you like Forks?"
I roll my eyes. I really don't want to have a conversation with whatever this guy is. "Look, Cullen, I don't like Forks, I don't like this school, and I don't like anyone in it, but I've got to stay here for another two years so lets get on with it and label the next slide."
He continues staring at me throughout the rest of the period, and his sickly yellow eyes burn my hair and my scalp and my brain goes "NO NO NO" and I want again to RUN.
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