One of the things that Edward learns between one failure at tracking and another is that time is no longer the gift it once was.
In fact, during the all too few months with Bella, times speeds up, seconds, minutes bleed together. It slips through his fingers, disappearing as quickly as it comes. Forever isn't enough, but the thought of forever isn't one he allows himself to consider. The guilt courses through him at the hint of it.
Now it is different. It moves only enough to prevent itself from stopping completely. And, fittingly, time is all he has. Even then, the punishment of time scarcely brushes the surface of his sin, barely offers him a chance for penance.
With a clock or without, it tugs at him like the strongest of gravitational pulls.
Edward remembers when she smiled and told him of his perfection. Nothing is further from the truth. He looks back and sees failure after failure. He sees his dreams, his wants, his happiness crumble under the taint of his own hands.
He wishes that Bella's arms were around him, her voice in his ear, lying to him once more. Not that he deserves it. He knows he doesn't. Still, Edward can't stop himself from wanting, even though the wanting makes him ache.
Days pass as he sprawls on whatever surface is beneath him and stares at the clock. He wonders why it matters, really, to know that time is passing, as if there is a magical span that will suddenly signal to him that he can finally move on. At times, he swears that the hands only move after he fully appreciates the utter torment of each second without her.
It doesn't take long for it to overwhelm him once more.
He tries to escape from all the reminders of humanity. He runs and tries and escapes into the farthest recesses of the woods, trees blocking any semblance of light, and succumbs to the grief. He watches the world with unseeing eyes, every stretch of time feeling longer than the last.
Edward feels the slight burn in his throat, his thirst insatiable yet again. He tries to remember the last time he hunted, but the only thing his mind registers is how many times he has had Bella in his arms, his lips on hers. Time does nothing to dull neither the memory nor the pain, but intensifies it instead. He can hear the steady thrum of a heartbeat in the distance.
He doesn't move.
He stays there, not knowing how much time passes, ignorant of the rise and fall of the sun and moon. He sees her face in his mind and curls in on himself, pain so consuming that it's physical.
Wrenching himself to his feet, he leaves the woods, which are hardly more palatable than the city streets and dirty motel room floors, and emerges to find that not even a day is over.
He wonders, briefly, why he bothers with the routine. Distantly, he knows routines are borne out of comfort. This one doesn't offer him any, but he knows that nothing-nothing that he allows himself, at least-will.
The phone rings in his pocket. He ignores it.
Instead, he passes the time the only way he knows how. Closing his eyes, he thinks, imagines, remembers, dreams.
He replays every moment of his time with Bella, going back to this moment and that, creating elaborate strands of possibilities with the ever popular what if. He changes what he says, what he does...he thinks of all his mistakes, fixes them, follows the dream to the end, sees how it turns out. In each, he fails. Because he always fails. He smiles grimly as he imagines Bella happy, safe, in love. He pictures her beauty, her smile, her life. This Bella doesn't know him.
In these moments, his mind travels another path, one of peace, relief.
This time, he answers the phone when it rings.
"Don't even think about it."
Without a word, he hangs up on Alice, knowing that as long as Bella lives, breathes, he can't. Not yet.
Edward berates himself for being careless with his thoughts yet again, but he knows that some things are inevitable. It's not the first time, nor is it the last.
He sorts the things into categories. First, with his music-then all the music he knows-ordering and reordering it in every way he can imagine, until it's perfectly set in his thoughts. Then, he sorts through the rosters of sports teams, redistributing the players until he goes through every permutation.
Time mocks him, his attempts at diversion, almost going backward in return.
He sorts every person, every thing, mentally putting each in its place. On one side is Bella, Bella, his Bella. Her face, her eyes, that smile, her distaste of double standards and gifts, the way her lips taste, her skin, her blood, the way she rereads the same books over and over, her laugh, the way she takes care of everyone but herself, her, her, her, her, his beautiful Bella. The rest-things like his thirst, his sanity, his dead heart, his life-is off to the other side, unimportant and forgotten.
He aches to go back, to see, to know. In the same second, he denies himself again and again.
His hands clench as he allows himself-in his mind, only in his mind-to go back just to the town line. There, Edward can listen for something, anything to put his mind at ease. All he needs is for someone to have her in their thoughts. But the town line becomes her street, her house, her room, her bed, her arms.
The vision of her cold, lifeless body springs to his mind without permission, his subconscious protecting her when his own will fails, falls weakly to the floor. If he allows himself one step, he knows he won't stop. Even these images are beginning to lose their hold, and he hates himself for knowing that eventually, they will stop being enough.
But they are enough for now.
The phone rings. Again.
He looks at the screen, debates for a second, and answers.
"Hello, Rosalie."