Disclaimer: All characters belong to Stephanie Meyer.
WARNING: The content/theme of this story may be a TRIGGER for some. If you have experience with anorexia or ednos be warned. Mature themes ahead...
Song for this chapter: Banners: Ghost
PART ONE: DENIAL
The Moon-Illusion, fear, anxiety, insecurity, subconscious.
I climb the stairs to her room not sure what I'll find; not even sure what it is that I'm looking for. Her bed is still unmade, with sheets of cream colored Egyptian cotton and a rose printed comforter tangled in a heaping mass in the center of her mattress.
/Her scent still lingers. It's powerful, almost tangible, and it makes a knot form at the base of my throat. I can smell coconut and lime-coolada from the suntan lotion she used to wear. I spot her Chanel No. 5 bottle uncapped and lying sideways onher
/vanity. Outside, her pink, frosted glass butterfly wind chime spins and clinks peacefully in the gentle springtime breeze; thecalm before the storm. I expect to find all of these things, and I'm comforted by their presence; the fact that they
/remain even though she does not.
I sure as hell don't expect to find him here though, in her room, the night of her memorial. At first I don't even catch sight of him. I'm so busy taking in all that's left of Alice, that my eyes skip right past him. But then I spot him, huddled over
/and stern-faced as always. His eyes look like hollow pits sunken into his face, which is pale and unshaven. His hair is a greasy mess and just as wavy as ever, tangled and snarled in every direction, but his eyes are just as cold and hard as theyalways
/were.
He doesn't look guilty for breaking and entering. In fact, he's sitting stoically on the edge of her bed, mindful of the mess of blankets piled in the middle. His posture is defeated, his expression guarded, and his nose is buried in some article of clothing-a
/familiar navy blue cashmere sweater, I notice- and then suddenly his eyes are on mine. He inhales. Closes his eyes. Drops his hands into his lap. Its silent for one, two, three heartbeats.
"You look so much like her," He finally says to the silence and then adds, "before she got sick." Jasper's lazy southern drawl echoes in the small room and it's been so long, too long since I've heard that voice in this house. He opens his eyes once againand
/I swallow past the sudden lump in my throat. "There are so many things that I never got to tell her," he continues "so many things that I wish I could have said. Like that I was sorry, and that I never meant to hurt her. That I loved her," hepauses,
/voice thick with emotion. "That I still love her."
Slowly, I make my way over to him. I pull the sweater out of his vice grip. Death grip.
The grip of death.
"This one's mine," I say.
Jasper laughs but it's without humor and then suddenly, as though a switch has been turned, he's crying. It shocks me so thoroughly that at first, I simply freeze. I've never seen Jasper cry in all the years that I've known him. He'salways been
this immoveable, reluctant part of my family and group of friends. For years I saw him as static, never changing; always polite yet removed with regards to my family. Even with his disarming southern manners and charm, he was
distant in that way that he never let anybody too close to him. So to see him crying, especially in plain view of me, despite our tumultuous history, is startling. It's subtle at first, and then gains in intensity until a part of me wants so desperately
/to comfort him that I find myself reaching out.
This boy I've known for years, who was once a part of our family, who was once a friend, who once loved you so fiercely, deserves to be comforted.
Another part, a larger part, of me is angry. What right does he have to be crying in your room, over your things? I was your sister for fuck's sake.
I grit my teeth and steel my breath but the minute I go to open my mouth it's like I can hear you whispering in my ear, as though we're seven years old playing telephone again. Your voice is quiet, hard to hear, and almost impossible to ignore. I remember
/the first time you brought Jasper home to meet the family. You pulled me aside, before he stepped confidently out of his vintage black mustang.
"Be nice to him," you whispered conspiratorially, "I think I might keep this one."
Before I can make a decision either way, Jasper straightens up and dries his eyes with the sleeve of his gray Henley and raises his gaze to me. His green eyes are blazing, hypnotizing in their intensity. Suddenly he stands from his spot on Alice's mattress
/and makes his way over to the open window. The noise of the light rain and wind outside suddenly seems loud in this small space. Jasper glances back at me. His eyes are clear and just as bright as they were before, but his face is once again wiped
/clean of any and all emotion. As Jasper swings his leg over the windowsill with a glowing confidence that could only come from having done it numerous times before, he smiles a grim smile and bows his head in my direction.
"Bella," he whispers just as he crawls outside onto the roof and out of view. I'm so entranced by the short interaction that the sound of Alice's door opening a moment later makes me jump.
Edward is standing in the doorway, the sleeves to his white button up are rolled and wrinkled and his beautiful auburn and copper tinted strands are in casual disarray.
His eyes are red-rimmed and a wicked, deep emerald green. Nothing like Jasper's troubled almost translucent bottle-glass green and blue. He walks over to the window, shuts it and then pulls me toward him, running his smooth hands up and down my bare arms
"What are you doing?" he whispers gently in the now too quiet room. I take in my surroundings and am suddenly overcome with emotion and exhaustion so crippling it makes my knees nearly buckle.
"Just looking for something," I reply thickly, guiding us towards the hallway. Edward looks confused, but he doesn't say anything. He follows me through the doorway and down the stairs towards the rest of the guests, replacing his suit jacket and awkwardly
/adjusting the gold cuff-links.
Once we walk into the living room, I grab a glass of fizzing champagne from a passing waiter and rub my forehead with my free hand. The house is immaculate, cut crystal decanters shined, silver polished, and marble floors waxed. The guests are all decked
/out in their finery, dress shoes and stiletto heels clacking loudly against the marble floor. I can't tell if these people are here because they genuinely liked my sister or because they're trying to schmooze the grieving, yet fastidious power couple-mister
/and missus Charles P. Swan. The band plays a melancholy melody, heads cocked to the side, as they quick read the lilting notes out of the corner of their eyes. I can feel a killer headache coming on and I down the glass of champagne to distract myself
/from the burning behind my eyes.
Edward keeps a protective hand on the small of my back and though he shoots me a disapproving glare when I reach for a new champagne flute, he says nothing about my over-indulging. But eventually, the prissy, fizzy champagne isn't enough and I leave the
/monotonous hum-drum of the memorial to seek out something stronger.
Another "I'm so sorry for your loss," and I'll reply with "You're not yet, but you will be."
In the basement is an extensive wet bar. I was always surprised the idea wasn't completely abandoned by our parents considering how many times Alice and I raided the impressive liquor stash in our early teens. Instead, I'm pleasantly surprised to find
/the room empty, and the bar completely stocked. There's a bottle of expensive, aged scotch that I'm sure my father was waiting to share with a client, but it's conveniently close and also opened. It will do. I take the back stairs towards the garage
/and duck beneath the half-open door with the Old Peteney bottle still clutched firmly in my hand.
Outside the air feels different, charged and magnificent. My eyes focus on the warm glow of lights inside just as the sun begins to set behind me. My house is still packed with guests come to pay their respects and all of a sudden going back inside seems
/like the last thing I want to do.
I turn away from the house quickly and tip expensive, 35 year old, single-malt scotch down my throat with the same respect that you would a five dollar bottle of vodka.
The rain has passed, leaving the air balmy and humid. My burgundy dress sticks to the sweat on my skin and my heels click and grind on the concrete, as I walk further and further away from the house.
Once I reach the edge of my neighborhood, The sky is dark, the bottle of scotch is nearly gone and I've decided to lose the heels. My ankles are blistered and burning. When my foot meets the wet pavement I sigh contentedly and then jump as a horn blares
/unforgiving behind me.
It's especially hard to see through the blinding beam of headlights before me, but I can make out just enough to spot Jasper's unnerving, level gazebehind the steering wheel of his vintage mustang.
I make my way over to the unrolled passenger side window and stare unflinchingly back at him. This is the most I've seen of Jasper in the past three months, but I don't let my surprise or curiosity show. As if sensing the direction of my thoughts,Jaspersmiles
a secret, crooked smile andpoints to the almost empty bottle in my hand.
"You plan on sharing, Princess?" he asks steadily. His shoulders are relaxed but his eyes are tense, as though he's working hard to keep his emotions at bay. I'm disturbed looking at the strain around his mouth and eyes, which are both pursed and shuttered.
I'mso used to calm and collected Jasper that this wild, near out of control version of him absolutely stuns me.
He leans over and pushes the door open, his eyes still locked on mine. My head is pounding.
This feels like the longest night of my life. I want it to be over.
I wish I could just press rewind.
Re-do this entire night.
Erase what happened to Alice.
I hesitate a moment before crawling inside the car and snapping the door shut behind me. Jasper hesitates briefly as well, whether it's because he's just as surprised by my forwardness as I am or because he doesn't know what to do next, I don't know.
It seems like maybe we're both a little lost without Alice.
I take another swig from the bottle as Jasper pulls back onto the road. We stop for more (and decidedly cheaper) liquor and then drive, drive, drive. Away from all of it; away from everything.
The pavement zipping past us makes my stomach lurch so I close my eyes and breathe in the scent of the light rain picking back up, oblivious to the thick, roiling clouds overhead and the undeniable static electricity in the air.
There's a storm coming.
When the car stops, I don't even open my eyes at first. I just reach blindly for the door handle and try to stop myself from spilling onto the pavement the moment the door is opened. I can't tell if I'm going to get sick or cry or both, but once I open
/my eyes, my stomach settles and the persistent pounding at the base of my skull is less pronounced. I peek at Jasper over the hood of his car. He looks lost in thought, his eyes staring unfocused and glossy at the unremarkable apartment building
/in
/front of us. I've never seen him look so sad.
"I figured you would want to get out of there," He says quietly. "Your house, it was so depressing. Alice would have hated that pompous memorial."
Outraged, I stutter "you can't, that's not-" before realizing he's completely right. My stunning, bright, and hopelessly optimistic older sister would have hated that memorial.
"How drab," I imagine she would have said, "and depressing. When I die, I want a party." I try to stifle a laugh as Jasper's eyes snap to mine.
"You're right," I agree remorsefully, trying not to drown in memories of her. "Thank you." Jasper raises one dirty blonde eyebrow in question. "For getting me out of there," I explain. He nods almost imperceptibly and gestures for me to follow him up
/the damp, exposed concrete staircase to the top floor of apartments. The air smells like rain; the wind pleasantly warm as it wisps across my exposed skin. The burgundy silk dress I'm wearing slip-slides against the tops of my thighs. I can almost
/feel the fabric wrinkling and creasing. Alice would have had a conniption, I think. Just then, Jasper produces a key from the pocket of his black jacket and struggles to unlock the pock-marked door to his unit.
Once it's open he stands against the doorjamb and gestures me inside, reaching out for the bottle of whiskey tucked haphazardly beneath my arm. I look behind me and see him tip the bottle back with the same level of enthusiasm I had before kicking the
/door shut behind him and continuing into a shadowed hallway. He reappears but a moment later carrying thick, red plaid flannel pajama pants and a plain, black t-shirt two sizes too big.
"You can stay here if you want, or I can drive you home, your choice," He chokes out bluntly. But the word home makes me visibly cringe and he narrows his eyes in understanding. "The bathroom is back there, first door on the left."
I follow Jasper's directions and shut the flimsy, near card-board bathroom door and quickly change into the new set of clothes he gave me. I turn the faucet on cold and splash my face before glimpsing my reflection in the mirror. My eyelashes are stuck
/together, heavy with water, my cheeks are bright pink and warm. There's a thin sheen of sweat covering my forehead. I'm tired, drunk, and want to cry alone, but we're both too drunk to drive back.
I walk back to the living room and stand on the invisible precipice between the dimly lit hallway and the too bright living room. From my spot amongst the shadows I can see Jasper tucking a blue and orange quilted blanket into the cushions of his black
/leather couch when I clear my throat awkwardly. He turns around startled, and then his expression turns to one of amusement as he looks me head to toe.
"No laughing," I scold as I look down at the pajama pants pooling around my ankles. Jasper holds his hands up in mock surrender, his eyes playful and bright.
"Wouldn't dream of it," he teases. Then he gestures toward the couch. "I can sleep out here. You can take the room."
I know I'm not going to be able to get any sleep in my sister's boyfriends room... it would be near impossible to relax, knowing that she once slept on that bed, in those sheets. That she and Jasper had probably... I'm too drunk and too curious for my
/own good, so I nod blankly and let him guide me down the hallway to the last room on the left -his bedroom- under the pretense that I will sleep there.
I wonder to myself, as I stand in the doorway, if I might be able to find her in here, in the pictures or books, or the smell.
He flicks the switch on and leans against the doorjamb. Instantly, the room is illuminated by the soft, golden light of a miniature Tiffany lamp plugged into the wall. There's a sturdy oak desk tucked into the corner of the room and a simple queen sized
/bed next to the nightstand where the lamp sits. The comforter is blue, the blankets unmade.
Finally, Jasper speaks. "If you need anything," he begins "I'll be right out there." I can tell that he says it more out of polite necessity than anything else, because halfway through his speech his eyes wander. It looks like he's already left the moment.
/I nod respectfully even though I know he doesn't see it and wait until I hear the door click shut behind him.
Immediately I scan my surroundings, looking for any trace of my sister in this room. The walls are starkly empty. No pictures of half naked girls or sports cars here. There's two sets of beautiful, intricate, hand-carved bookshelves on the back wall,
/filled next to overflowing with books. Most look as though they are encyclopedias of some sort. I make my way over. Textbooks about the Civil War, old western novels. Unsurprisingly I spot War and Peace, cracked open and flipped over on the nightstand.
/But nothing even remotely Alice.
Disheartened, I quietly make my way over to the desk and open the top drawer. Nothing but post-it notes, paper clips and some uncapped ball point pens. In the second drawer there are two appointment books and not much else. The third drawer is locked.
/I make my way over to the nightstand with the lamp on it, nearest the door and pull the drawer open.
I freeze.
There, turned upside down is a plain black plastic picture frame. I grasp it reverently and turn it over to glimpse the picture inside. My stomach drops.
It's a photograph of my sister and I. She's wearing a black and white striped skater dress and a jean jacket. She looks casual and fun, her short, inky black hair pulled back into tiny pigtails. Her cheeks are pink and full; her face glowing. She looks
/so healthy, so very beautiful. My stomach clenches painfully.
In the picture, I'm standing next to Alice. My arm is casually wrapped around her shoulder. I'm in my navy blue cheerleading uniform and my face is unsmiling. In fact, I'm not even looking at the camera. My gaze is settled on something or someone over
/Alice's shoulder. My thick auburn hair is a tangled, wind blown mess. My face is serious, almost stern-looking, unblemished and end of summer tan.
It's a terrible picture of myself and I laugh quickly, hollowly, unable to hold back the tidal wave of emotions that suddenly overcomes me. My laughter quickly morphs into tears and I'm crying, then sobbing, clutching at the picture frame as though it's
/the second coming of my sister, and I can't stop, can't stop, can't stop.
God I fucking miss her.
And why did she do this to me, to us?
I want her back. I want everything to go back to the way it used to be.
But it's too late, too late, too late.
It's almost impossible to breathe now, and I'm gasping for breath, lungs heaving and heart thundering, my pulse quick as lightning, on the verge of a full-blown panic attack.
I don't hear the door, but I feel Jasper as he kneels beside me, on the ground, his hands coming to rest on both sides of my face. He's speaking, but I can't make out the words through the constant thrumming and whirring in my ears. I tug his arm forward,
/turning my face into the empty space between his head and his shoulder as great, ugly, heaving sobs wrack my body. I try to breathe, try to quell the panic and the pain, but nothing is working.
I can't stop thinking about her.
I fucking miss her so much.
Jasper is shaking now too, overcome with grief so similar to mine that I'm struck by the overwhelming intensity of both of our feelings combined. His breath is hot against my cheek, my neck and I can feel the too fast thumping of his heart beneath the
/thin cotton of his gray Henley; blood hot and heavy beneath his skin. His fingers dig painfully into my waist.
My head is dizzy, my eyes are burning and my throat feels tight but my breathing picks up as Jasper squeezes tighter, tighter, too tight.
And then suddenly it's all too much, too much, too much.
A/N: In case you were all wondering, I DIDNT DIE, I SWEAR. I've just been missing for like ten years dodges tomatoes I'm so sorry. :( I had a baby, moved in with her dad and have just been living life. I just recently got back into writing
/in a big way, and thought that I should start back up with fanfiction. So, here it is, a NEW fanfiction. I know, I know, BUT ELLI MAYBE YOU SHOULD FINISH THE ONES YOU ALREADY STARTED, HMM? I will, I promise. But this story just can't wait. It's been
/sitting in my mind for a while just waiting for me to breathe some life into it. I hope you like it just as much as I do.