The Black Balloon Contest

Title: Opus of My Existence

Your pen name: VanPireNZ

Characters: Two Twilight Characters

Disclaimer: Stephenie Meyer owns everything Twilight and all recognizable characters herein. However, I have played with them more inappropriately. No copyright infringement intended.

Warning!! This story deals with death on many levels. If you are sensitive in any way, shape or form, then please DO NOT READ ANY FURTHER. It contains but is not limited to suicidal death.

This house was no stranger to me, having visited here more times than I dared to count. I could trace each crack in the brick mortar, knew every worn shingle, remembered the various colors of paint that layered the wooden trims. Everything had a memory and even houses told a story if you listened hard enough; the walls spoke if you knew what to listen for, the secrets whispered in hushed tones and muted colors, peeling wallpaper and tarnished brass.

These kinds of houses were where I spent my time. The people that lived like this were usually weak or feeble, often times old and worn just like the places they lived in. These were the people that I was drawn to as if they had called me by name.

It wasn't always business though, that brought me to this place. I had an unmistakable pull towards this house, a magnetism stronger than my will. Maybe it was the familiarity of the building, or my own memories of this place from my constant presence here. Deep down, I knew it was simply my overwhelming fascination with her, the exception to my rule; the only person I visited whose life I refused to take.

It was here that I often found myself, watching her from afar and only inching closer by invitation; when despair was all she had left.

Despair.

Despair was my most beloved companion. It colored these people, these desperate people like her, with a distinct grayish tone, almost ashen with streaks of something darker. The power it held was magnificent, pulling all shades of life and hope away, like water flowing over the soul and stripping it bare. My job was always easiest when I followed in its path. There was no resistance. There was no struggle. Those that begged for me, wanted to taste death; to leave behind the pain and suffering they felt in life. They wanted a permanent form of lidocaine.

If anything, I was exceptional in my capacity, pride obvious in the way I worked. Being there at that final moment when life flashed and flickered in their eyes was exhilarating; being able to give them exactly what they needed, what they craved. Having that shared moment was a treasured gift, and I honored the manner in which it was given. I was solemn and gracious, yet I cherished each and every soul, pulling away their life so I could deliver them unto a new one. An eternal one.

I raised my gaze towards the second story window at the far end of the house, her house. I could tell she had lit the candle from the way the subtle fingers of light danced on the panes of glass. She only lit this candle when she prayed, begging for pity from someone, something, to ease her pain and take the life she no longer wanted. It was the only time when I could close the gap between her world and mine, all shields and guards down as she bared her soul in the relative darkness of her room. These were the only times when I could be with her instead of just a voyeur, a watchman to her life.

I had witnessed this before, countless times before, when her pleas and desires - her despair - pulled me here. She was something as near to my sense of perfection as I could get, and I would deny her nothing except the death she desired. She was beautifully broken, so much so that I couldn't grant her her wish knowing that once I did, I too would somehow be lost in the taking.

Yet, I couldn't deny her my presence. She had never seen me, but she knew I existed; she couldn't touch me, but she knew I was there, just like the air in her lungs and the lingering scent of sulfur in the room. She knew I was closest when she dared to near the cusp of her world, forsaking this life for something, anything different.

If she only knew, knew that it was just another form of pain that flourished here.

Entering the room, I took in the sight of her sitting on the edge of her bed rocking back and forth with one arm holding the ache in her stomach at bay. The phantom pains never seemed to subside, neither there in her gut or in the chasm in her heart. The pain was there to remind her that she was still alive.

Her room had remained virtually unchanged over the years. The walls were still the same sea-foam green and ebony print they had always been, but the passage of time had dulled the colors, their contrast no longer so stark. The bed and dresser were still in the same position, although the polish on the wooden furniture had long ago yielded to the passage of time, the surface no longer reflecting anything but the coating of dust that collected there.

The sun did not often light this room, for its hope was no longer welcomed here. Thin rays of light that dared to enter through holes in the thread-bare curtains lit the room with the glow of dusk. It was just enough light to give life to the swirls of dust that drifted through its path, and a shimmer to the near-empty water glass that sat solemnly on the night-table beside the bed.

The silence in the room was only broken by the deep moans that were escaping her, and I returned my gaze to see her body heaving with the quickened pace of her breaths. One hand supported her body as she leaned sideways, no longer seeming able to remain upright. She lifted her head just enough for the light to betray her tear-moistened cheeks and to reveal her once beautiful face, molded into something altogether different by the years of guilt and self-loathing.

She was the epitome of a tortured soul, the opus of my existence.

I didn't see that she was holding something until she moved her hand from the soothing place on her abdomen, her slender fingers white from the way she clenched a small brown bottle. She opened her mouth as a shrill cry rang from her lips and she raised her hand high above her, before throwing the jar towards the farthest corner of the room. It hit the wall with a piercing crash, the sound of breaking glass deafening in the stilled room. Brown shards flew about, some landing on the wooden floor with a tinkling sound, and some landing with a silencing thump as fabric subdued the impact.

Following the path the jar had taken, I made my way to the corner of the room where an old crib stood empty and unused for decades. So many years had passed since the cries of a babe had filled this room; almost as many years since happiness had filled this house. I peered over the railing to see the place where a child had once slept, scattered with pieces of mocha-colored glass. The linens were almost pristine and the plushness inviting, except for the yellowing tint that dust and time had colored the previously white fabric. The embroidery that adorned the quilt was stitched meticulously by someone who had loved and cherished a child; the name "Cullen" carefully sewn in shades of yellow and green. I let my hand ghost over the letters of the familiar name of a child from so long ago.

I watched as she cupped her hand beneath the surface of the water, scooping up the sudsy warmth and pouring it over the small, delicate rolls of the baby that lay in the kitchen sink, her other hand holding the child up from underneath, safe from harm. His innocent giggles left no doubt of the pleasure he took from the moment, listening to mumbled high-toned nonsense that only a wee babe could understand. His miniature-sized hands splashed at the bubbly surface in response, squeals of happiness when he saw the effect of his actions on the water, and on his mother's expression. Their love radiated a light that illuminated the room and warmed the coldest of air that drifted in through the gaps under the door. Both of their faces showed the pure adoration they held for one-another, their love reflected in each other's smiles.

It was obvious, though, in the lines of her face that happiness had been an infrequent visitor here, her only joy seemingly brought by this tiny person whom she loved so simply, yet so wholly. The tension she held in the tightened muscles of her neck and shoulders held the pain of the world, never softening even when she was enjoying the little, heart-touching moments of motherhood. It was almost like she couldn't allow herself to surrender to joy; guilt held her captive.

She looked lovingly at her child, held safely in her arms and let herself be pulled into the depths of his emerald eyes; eyes that belonged to someone else, someone familiar and close, and yet so far away. I watched, entranced, as her demeanor changed, the light in the room being pulled towards the inescapable black hole that had opened within her heart.

Her arms began to tremble as she pulled herself tight, the rigidity of her body the result of her most basic fear. She had granted herself access to the very memories that she tried so hard to abate, and although I couldn't see her mind, I watched her, and knew why it was that I was here this time.

She stood mesmerized by the look in her son's eyes, eyes that were wide and near-black from fear, the deep jade color seeming reminiscent. She slid her arm out from beneath him, and stood motionless beside the sink as her paralyzed body watched him helplessly. She was here, but only in a physical sense, like she was lost to memories of another time and place. Unable to see the thrash of the water or to hear the few brief cries for help, she remained oblivious while he slipped away beneath the surface of the water.

It only took a few moments for the fear to leave him. I stole the flashes of innocent beauty and rapture that passed between us as I leaned in and held this child's gaze. His eyes that once glistened like sunlight refracting off shallow ocean water, clouded over, and all was finally calm; stifling darkness and eerie silence.

I pulled him to me, his eyes alight with newness as he silently absorbed the truth of the moment. He almost felt familiar in my arms, like an unseen tether bound him to me, somehow bringing me here, to this house, over and over. But I was certain it was only because of her, and the pain with which she swam through every moment of her life.

As I turned to leave, I glanced back toward her, my muse of sorts, when her panicked screams cut like a razor through the joy that still lingered in the air. She had finally awoken from her trance, although not fast enough to save the life she treasured. Pulling the listless form from the water, she sank to her knees as a deep lamenting wail rose from the depths of her soul.

A loud thump sounded behind me, and I turned to see her form crumpled on the rug below where she was previously sitting on her bed. Her body was pulled into a tight circle and wracked with pain as her voice filled the room with agonizing sobs. I had witnessed this countless times before, like she was purging her body of the evil taint that had discolored her soul. But no matter how much she suffered, or how much she prayed, or how many times she tried to find the strength, I could only refuse her. It was not a choice, but an unquestionable imperative.

This time seemed different, though, and I watched with morbid fascination as her body arched to wretch, trying to purge something more than just her sin. I listened to her sobs as they morphed into gasps for air, and I knew she had made the choice for me; she had chosen for both of us.

I turned my sight towards a large fragment of brown glass that lay in the middle of the floor, and read the label that was still attached to the surface. That was the moment I knew I would meet her, truly meet her.

I moved to her in that instant, the wisp of wind the only trace of my presence until I knelt to her and cradled her small body. The scent of almonds filled the air, her rapid breaths thick with the bitterness, and I knew my arrogance had been our undoing; she was strong enough after all.

My sudden appearance both astonished and horrified her, and she abruptly pulled back from me. Hesitantly, she raised a trembling hand toward my face as I gazed into her red and swollen eyes, filled with bewilderment and regret, and triumph.

"Is it really you? Or is this just a figment of my imagination?" she asked between gasps for air.

"I am here," I responded and then paused before saying the words she needed to hear; the words she'd waited to hear so many times before. "I've come to deliver you death."

She looked at me then as tears of happiness followed the tracks laid by many years of heartache and misery. I watched as the scenes of her life, the life I had witnessed from a distance, began to pass from her eyes to mine.

An image of flowers and meadows, springtime and new life appeared in the depth of her eyes. It was so full of passion and radiance that I could feel the electricity that resonated from the memory alone. I could even smell the musty scent of the moistened earth beneath her as the sun unfurled its luminous tendrils and warmed it from above.

Closing my eyes, I let her memories wash over me, the fervor of it intoxicating. I let them pull me in further, to a place where the vastness of open-nature was transformed into the finite bounds of an ornate building. A blend of floral essences infused the air together with a hint of incense. There were voices and vows that drifted to my ears, and a soft sensual feeling that touched my lips, sealing a sacred bond.

"Bella."

Her name eased its way from my lips like its own sentient entity, a hint of something else that was not yet within my reach. I followed her mind as scenes of passionate embraces and heavy breaths were replaced with ones of panting moans and entwined nakedness. I felt her heart beat with the quickening pace of lust and could smell the sweet scent of arousal and sweat that dripped like honey from the long-passed visions.

The familiarity of her life was almost tangible; it was close to me, like it was my own. This was not something that had ever happened before, and I let her life continue to pass in pulses of moments and sights and smells; heat and joy and bliss and desire. They gradually morphed into something closer to a longing, a void that left her achingly incomplete.

I saw a strand of green embroidery floss being pulled through white fabric and I could hear the almost scratching sound of one fiber pulling against another. Her love and desire for the children that eluded her was present in every pass the needle took through the layer of cotton. I could taste the salty tears she shed for children that never came and for maternal bonds that didn't exist.

Like a crash of cymbals, everything changed in an instant to an overwhelming sensation of pure elation. I felt the smile on her heart before it made its way to her lips as I took in the moment her prayers were answered. I could see her hand as she placed it on her belly and as it rose to her face to wipe away the tears of happiness that rolled down her cheeks.

The feelings were euphoric, and I began to see everything in a sort of double vision; each image like an echo of the other, only the echo was hers and the memories were...mine? Mine, like I was there, the moments no longer relayed second hand but instead flowing from within me like they were bound to hers.

My whole being lurched. Time as I knew it, or as I thought I knew it, slowed. I could feel myself being swallowed, engulfed by an unseen chill. It was pulling me down as it sucked the breath from my lungs. All I could see were Bella's outreached hands as they desperately fought to grasp me.

As the darkness surrounded me, I turned back to her to see the echo of her memory, to bear witness to my own death through her eyes.

She showed me a restaurant and a bottle of champagne. There was an enchantment about her, excitement and contentment, too. She was happy, we were happy and for that moment, it was everything. I could feel the paradise that we held between us, that we had created together.

Then she showed me how the car I was driving wandered between the lines, the two of us singing a lullaby at the top of our lungs in celebration instead of paying attention to the road. It was when we reached the part about the bough breaking that the edge of a bridge appeared. I could see my arms moving frantically to turn the steering wheel. I could feel my heart racing as the adrenaline mixed with the alcohol in my blood. I could hear the shrill screams as the car crashed through the barrier. I could feel the momentary weightlessness as the car hung in the air. And I could hear the sound the car made as it entered the river with a loud and haunting splash.

It was Bella's window that was open and it was my seatbelt that was caught. Bella looked back towards me, her arms outstretched and reaching as she stared in shock at me, my emerald eyes wide with fear and anguish.

Her eyes were filled with despair.

I didn't see any more images after that. I felt numb and impervious to everything, haunted by the way she had remembered the look of remorse in my eyes as I drifted downward to my watery grave.

"Edward? It is you, isn't it?" she breathed, hope heavy in her words as her new, ethereal voice broke the deathly silence between us.

I pulled her closer to me, closer than I ever could have before. This would be the only time I would ever have this with her, this moment, for our time was in the past.

"Yes, it's me," I finally answered.

She looked up at me then with new eyes, seeing me now for what I had become upon my human death and I watched as her youth returned, the beauty that the years had paled, replenished. She looked innocent and perfect, untarnished by the ravages of time and regret.

I felt something within me come undone, realizing that we had chosen our own paths, our own eternities. With my death I had stolen her future and in return, she had taken the life of mine, the life of our only child. My consequence was to be forever surrounded by death. Hers was far greater; you can't take your own life and expect to find happiness in the eternity.

Lifting her up, her new form lightened of its weight, I set my wings in motion and took flight, pushing downward against the air beneath me. With a gust of wind, we departed, leaving behind her crumpled corpse, twisted and distorted.

She spoke to me as I carried her, a sense of bewildered relief in her voice. "Is it over?" she asked.

I took a moment to ponder whether it was life or death that she was referring to, before I whispered my reply.

"No, Bella, it's just the beginning."

My wings moved with the beat of a remorseful song, each fluttering of feathers a futile plea for penance, both for her and for myself. As we left behind the crushed pieces of our physical lives, I delivered her downward, to her pain of forever; a forever apart from the innocence and happiness that was once briefly ours.

A/N:

That isn't a HEA, just in case you thought it was. The tragedy is implied, but it's there. If it doesn't make sense, please PM me. :D

My many humbled thanks to all those that helped me get this story whipped into something resembling coherency. First and foremost, SweetP-1, who calls a spade and spade and works her tail-feathers off to keep my story focused. ILY!

Venis-Envy, Beate73 and Yellow-glue were my amazing champions who cheered me on and pre-read over and over. Thank you boy so all your support. ILY both!

Huge thanks to Makkitotosimew who karate-chopped this fucker with her mad grammar skills. She is sweet as!

Thanks to the readers for taking time to read this and good luck to all the other Black Balloon contest authors. xoxo