Degrees
There were degrees in everything: like hate or love (or lust) or a million other nuance-seeming emotions she could no longer grasp. Like her thirst or his hunger or whatever the shade the day.
Jane didn't care, couldn't have cared, but she always felt—knew—the difference. Between strong and weak, the caustic, the sweet. And Bella was sweet. And she hated that. Loathed thinking of it.
The news came fast, flying sharp and unexpected. And like how things ended up after living too long, Jane could only sigh.
When she heard—
When, when, when—
That was all she could do.
And think. And guess. And everything she did revolved on that.
Concept.
Bella. Swan. Stupid, humanly human girl bitten and saved.
And not dead. That was the worst. Because now, Jane couldn't kill her anymore. Not with Aro (stupid, old, bloody fool) watching and singing with joy and pride. His ecstasy biting into her skill, some acid & rain drenching down in cloud-roaming waves.
Thirst.
Funny.
"I'm thirsty," Jane drawled out.
Felix didn't even flinch, only obeyed.
Then, the screaming came. It always was the most pleasant part. Jane smiled.
Jane tried to laugh. (There were degrees to laughter too. This must be one of the more acute instances.)