A/N Stephenie Meyer owns all recognisable characters affiliated with Twilight.
Incidentally - I'm English, so my spelling may vary from the US norm. Don't let that trip you up.
Click. Click. Click.
Her footsteps.
The sharp, staccato exclamation of her step captured me. Enveloped me in a brunette dream of desperation and loneliness.
The cathedral was empty. The high ceiling and the forgotten relics gathered the moment and threw it back to me. I watched her from the shadows, eyes following the lines of her form that I'd memorised from my shameful obsessive behaviour.
She approached the line of candles, flickering shadows up against the cold stones and frescoes. Each one burning for a forgotten soul, a lost love. She paused before them and the wet glisten in her eyes made me ache, made me wish for a connection I'd disavowed long ago.
I felt like a monster. Watching her, stalking her. My torn angel.
I heard her words. Heard her voice, breathy and strained in the dome of the cathedral.
"Forgive me. Let the light find those I have lost."
She bowed before the alter of flickering candles and guilt. My chest was pained, and confusion flooded my senses. What was I feeling?
She lit her candle with a Zippo lighter adorned in flame and the emblem of Jack Daniels, my favoured alter. In any other circumstance I would have laughed, for her lighter was the twin of mine. But now was not the time for levity.
She spoke, her voice soft and ragged.
"The sky is dark tonight. Ribbons of red cut the sunset, just as they did...when..." She trailed off into silence, a dark smile of loss twisting her countenance, and her head bowed. In the dimness I could see the crystal light of a tear on her cheek.
I wanted to go to her. To ask her what loss painted such pain on her features. But I was Edward Cullen, and would comfort no man or woman. She sought light in the darkness; I would only beckon the night in further.
"I went to the park today." Her features flickered in the candlelight. "I sat on the swing, remembering you, and I cried."
It was as if a ghost punched me in the gut. I stared at her, still hidden in my reclusive shame. Her cheeks and eyes were stained with tears shed and torn. Jealousy, unexpected and unjustified, wrenched my insides. Who does she cry for?
She spoke on, her tone but a whisper. "It is full moon again. The jasmine in our garden welcomes the night, but I cannot survive it alone." She sobbed, a broken sound and I could see the lone tear licking her cheek. "I cannot survive this alone."
Her voice broke, saltwater staining her perfection. Her voice was low, reluctant. "I hate you for leaving me. I hate that you betrayed our vow."
She hesitated once more, and her pain echoed through the cathedral's stone. A secret shame.
"I hate you for dying."
I wanted to go to her, to ask about the sadness that seemed irretrievably nestled in her eyes, to promise that if I could touch her it would be all right.
But I could not. Her pain was too raw, too wretched. And to introduce myself as a stalker...well, a slap to the face was the least I could hope for.
She kneeled there forever, supplicating herself before the deity of her devotion and loss. Eventually she stood, her hand dipping forward to caress the candle flame as one would a lover. She hissed at the burn, but did not recoil.
I felt like an uninvited voyeur, capitalising on her grief and her pain. And that is what I was. But the thought of leaving her was beyond me.
Abruptly, without a word, she whirled and stalked from the chapel, her heels clicking against the cold stone that had witnessed an eternity of guilt, devotion and righteousness.
The sky was lightening outside, dawn approaching. I could see the pastor watching her with uneasy eyes, like me scared for her soul but afraid to approach such a bleeding wound. He shifted from foot to foot, caressing the armour of his uniform.
Unlike him I had no sensibilities, no morality to stop me. As always, I would follow her and gaze upon her from the shadows.
The traffic was a distant burn. I could hear the revving of engines, smell the burn of petroleum, feel the starkness of changed gears. But it was a distant dream, for all I could see was her.
She walked home, alone. Did she have no sense of self-preservation?
Part of me wanted to jump out to her, to grasp her shoulders in a fit of violence and demonstrate the devils and the bogarts that lived in Seattle's street. It was as if she thought she was immune to modern terror. But, as I watched her, I realised that it wasn't a lack a self-preservation but rather a deficit in her soul.
She did not care that she could be lost to this world. Perhaps that was the fate she hoped for.
My heart stuttered, turning obsession into devotion. This was too much, too much to comprehend. This was dangerous, for the fallen angel and for myself.
I kneeled in the alleyway, my senses overwhelmed with the memory of brown eyes and pain and flowers. I wanted to save her.
But how could I? I cannot save myself. I can only be a spectre, haunting her from the shadows. If she knew of me should would only feel fear and revulsion.
As she should.
Yet, the scar within me compelled that I follow her. So I did, skirting her movements like a crazed, debauched stalker of the night. On occasion she would turn, searching the shadows for the unseen eyes she felt, but would always eventually move on. The triumph was bitter ashes in my mouth.
She arrived home, the guard on the door of her building gazing at her with sympathetic and sorrowing eyes. I knew from her flinch and the stiffening of her shoulders that she saw this as pity, unwelcome and unwanted.
I watched her enter, a swish of brown hair and tears. I sunk against the alley wall, fighting to calm my breathing and restore my sanity.
I wanted her.
I needed her.
My breath resolved. The moon cast pale shadows over us all and brought me back to her pale skin, so pale.
I was a selfish monster, I was damned. This girl, this woman, called to me as no other had. I should leave her be, let her face her demons alone without the aid of the devil. But I am a monster and cannot be denied.
I would have her, this woman-child.
Bella Swan.
A/N First fanfic, so..... I hate people who beg for reviews, but yet I find myself joining their club. Please let me know what you think and whether I should continue. Constructive criticism is more than welcome ;)