Disclaimer: Fanfiction, people. C'mon. I know that my writing style is quite different then Stephanie Meyer's, so do I really need to even say this? No copyright infringement intended; Twilight and co. belong to Stephanie Meyer and her various publishers.

Author's note: Constructive criticism would be appreciated.

Morbid Curiosity

I inhale deeply and, staring blankly at the high ceiling, I wonder what it's like to die.

I remember breaking my left arm when I was eleven. As accident prone as I am, it was far from my first broken bone, but it's the freshest, the one embedded into my mind. My mother Renée had decided that a fun way to bond with me would be through horseback riding. Of course, when she decided this, she had forgotten one crucial thing; I fell. A lot. I tripped over my own two feet on what seemed like a daily basis! I had sprained my wrist once by simply falling off of the couch, and yet she expected me to survive horseback riding? Oh no, that wasn't an accident waiting to happen at all. We weren't even five minutes into the first lesson before I fell off of the horse. I remember the shooting pain that surged through my left side on impact, dull at first and then sharp, a thousand pins and needles stabbing at every cell. Would it be like that, only amplified? Would the pain spread through my entire body until my muscles twitched and spasmed under its pressure?

The thought of my inevitable death frightens me more then I let on, especially during times like this, when I'm left to my own devices. Everyone dies sooner or later. I know this, just as I know that I will die before I am nineteen. That is, if I have anything to do with it. When I do die... I know it's going to hurt. I've been told this time and time again and I often find myself wondering if I've made the right choice—no.

That's not true.

More often than not, I find myself wondering about the choices thereafter—about the pain.

I rarely wonder about the choice itself.

Even though I am destined to die at such a young age and even though I know that there are people out there that would do almost anything for a chance to choose when they die, I am confident in my decision. If these people knew that I had a choice and what I had chosen, what I was prepared to give up, I am sure they would call me crazy, and maybe to them I am. To me, however, giving my life is a small price for what I will gain.

I will gain him, Edward Cullen, my first and only true love for eternity.

Smiling faintly, I turn fitfully in bed, turning my stare to his collection of music lining the wall. I sink down, further into the mattress and I close my eyes, inhaling deeply. This bed—his bed—is much too big for any one person and only reminds me of his absence, but I lay here because, if I focus hard enough, breathe deep enough, I can smell him. His scent lingers here and for what must be the hundredth time, I wonder how any sane person could think he smells badly. I quickly push these thoughts aside, back into the furthest recesses of my mind. Even though it's been days, weeks since I last saw Jacob, it still hurts to think about him. After Edward, and before Edward, Jacob was my closest friend.

Wanting a distraction, I squeeze my eyes shut harder, until I see stars and again, I wonder what it's like to die.

I've collected a lot of cuts and scrapes over the years and I remember how much they stung, liquid fire shooting through my veins and burning my skin. Would it be like that or would it be more like a single blade, plunged through my body again and again, twisting and burning with each thrust, taking my breath away slowly, painfully?

Last year, I nearly drowned.

I do not compare my eventual death to this because that experience was strangely peaceful, but then, I had given into it. I know I will not be able to give in to this pain and that any time I try, a new wave will wash over me, taking all thought and sanity with it. Rosalie has told me that much, despite Edward's complaints. She had hoped that new information would frighten me and make me change my mind. It only fed my curiosity.

Maybe it will feel like I'm being suffocated, gagged by my own humanity. Maybe it will start with a burning knot somewhere in my chest and slowly, that feeling will spread, causing my throat to constrict and my body to jerk. Maybe it will be completely different. Maybe it will feel like I'm being burned to death, the pain licking at my skin as fire would, making me scream and twist under its intensity—or maybe it will feel like I'm freezing to death, cold and hot at the same time. Slowly, my mind drifts. The restless, worried feeling that I always get when he leaves subsides and my curiosity fades.

I dream of an avalanche, snow crashing down a hillside and burying me beneath its cold fury. It's not at all like I had imagined. It's a mixture of breaking and burning and suffocating and drowning all in one. First, comes the cold, crushing my body, sharp pain shooting through me before my body registers the temperature. It's so cold that it burns, scratching and stinging my skin until its blissfully numb. There is snow in my mouth, melting quickly, sliding down my throat unwanted, suffocating and drowning me at the same time. My eyes and chest burn and my throat constricts, my body shaking beneath the cold weight. I try to move, to dig myself out, but there's so much of it. Too much of it. I know that I am dreaming and I tell myself to wake up, but something cold is pressed against either shoulder, holding me down, shaking me and I can't move.

I scream, waking with a start.

Instantly, I'm pulled into his cool embrace, my face cradled gently in the crook of his neck. His hands are against my back, touching me, rubbing small, soothing circles against my shirt. I let out a strangled sob, my mind fogged with drowsiness. Edward is cold, as usual, but his cold is surprisingly reassuring and I pull myself closer to him.

"Bella," he says, voice soft, clearly meant to be soothing, "it's okay. You're safe."

I let out a dry laugh, my body shaking. He thinks that I'm crying and pulls me closer, murmuring sweet nothings.

How many times had he reminded me of how dangerous he was? How many times had he told me that I was anything but safe? How many times had he reminded me of how easily he could hurt me?

I squeeze my eyes shut, focusing only on his voice.

And I wonder what it's like to die.