Leah Clearwater had to hate Edward Cullen. She is maybe nuts, but she can't stop thinking about him. Maybe because it's easier to throw the head away, than to shake him from her head.
Edward Cullen had to despise Leah Clearwater, but, for some unthinkable reason, he can't.
Maybe that's the thing which had finally brought them together.
Perhaps that's why they are sitting and looking at the unnaturally twisted arms and legs of an ex-girlfriend or a never-haven-friend, her still warm cheeks, half-open lips and half-closed eyelids. She is still beautiful, too beautiful, even with a torn throat, elegant, like a porcelain doll.
And the dolls don't get sick and don't crack, and they don't hurt. They break, in two.
But even despite the eternal calm and passiveness, the girl-stone-mask still screamed.
Leah wets her fingers in blood and draws a circle and four rays on a white carpet. Because tomorrow the sun will still rise and shine above their heads, whatever happens to them both.
