Disclaimer: I own nothing of Twilight. That belongs to Stephenie Meyer.
Chapter Two:
My confusion burned away into panic.
"I have no idea where I am! I do not remember this place! And I certainly do. not. know. YOU!" I emphasized my final words with giant steps across the room, hoping to place a more reasonable distance between us. "I haven't a clue who this Esme is either." Crossing my arms, I stood near the wall opposing his.
Neither of us moved.
Then I was surprised to find that a look of amusement spread across the young man's angled face. I couldn't see the jest in what I had said, and I pressed my unhappiness deeper into the lines of my face.
"Are you playing games with me? You can't really believe that you wouldn't know who I am—where you are. I am your husband, and you are in our residence. And we have not had a moment's peace in quite some time. I had hoped to persuade you to forget about things for a while with me. While we are alone. For a few days."
He stressed his last few sentences with matching my crossed arms and stalking slowly to where I stood motionless. My body tensed, not liking his closing proximity.
"Shall I continue with my persuasion, or do you wish to play your game instead?"
The delicate looking coffee table stood between the two of us. I saw it as my brain worked in several different directions at once. I had thought of liking nothing more than smashing it over his head and running for the door. Or perhaps something a little less creative, but ending with running all the same. My eyes darted around the room quickly. I was still careful to notice if the brilliant male figure stayed where he had paused.
But it was when I swept the room, my eyes darted back to the solid reflection of the area in front of me. I saw the light colored sofas, the end table, a grand piano, and the back of the man's deep blue shirt—and a woman. A stunningly beautiful woman who stood perfectly still, glowering back at me in the reflection. I gasped and straightened my shoulders, quite surprised. The woman straightened as well.
Just then, soft musical note rose from the man's pocket. He withdrew a tiny silver phone and flipped it open. "Carlisle." he answered.
So the persuading angel's name was 'Carlisle'. Again, the familiar tone rang, but only in a dreamlike sense. I shifted on to one leg, titling my head to stare again at his intense beauty. He caught me staring and smiled.
The reflection had drew my eye again. I swiftly shifted to looked from Carlisle to who I could only assume was me. Dark waves of hair gently curled around my shoulders and arms. I took a slight step forward, intrigued.
The woman looked like me, but not me. I couldn't quite remember. The hair was brighter somehow. The skin too flawless and pale. The dress that hung delicately around my form looked like it should made for someone who was published in a magazine. I had forgotten the coffee table and running plan, and found myself nearly nose to nose with what could only be a wall of glass that made up the rear of the house I now occupied. I inspected the face before me. The chin was heart shaped and came to a subtle point. The lips curved luxuriously and the bottom volume out just enough. But the eyes. The eyes were certainly not mine!
A snap of the phone pricked my attention, and turned to find this perfect Carlisle staring at me—most of the amusement fading quickly. I must have said something.
"Your eyes were blue when I first met you."
But all I saw were burning eyes of gold melting what stability I had found away.
"My daughter had blue eyes." I said in a flat, even tone.
All amusement gone, Carlisle looked at me with a new expression.
"You have never spoken of your child Esme."
"I am not Esme!" life returning to my voice in almost a pleading manner. "I Rebecca. And I lost my child three days ago in the hospital where she was born." A dry sob ripped through my throat. I suddenly couldn't find my legs. I must collapsed, but I never touched the ground. Strong arms held me fast once again.
A shhing sound interrupted in my ear. It droned behind a loud primal that I embarrassedly noticed came from me. I was shouting my daughter Katherine's name in agony. Such torment rushed through me, overtaking any other thought. I didn't care that I had no idea who this alien woman was in the reflection. I didn't care who the man, Carlisle, was who held me. I wanted my daughter warm against my breast. I wanted my husband warm around me. I wanted nothing else but these things. And if I could not get them; I wanted nothing else but to die then.
The shhing continued until the keening emptied from me. Once my sorrow overflowed, and drained, and I could lower my straining neck; I shuttered back and leaned on this new angel. With my shoulders supported, I leaned my body to curve into comfort. Into Carlisle. The shhing slowed and finally dwindled to a stop. After a moment's pause, he broke the silence.
"Alice called." he began. "She had some interesting news."
Then a loud beeping started. Almost in syncopation with the breaths I was willing to become steady. I thought it may be the phone ringing again. But I found I could not open my eyes to look. I felt odd. Like my head was somehow disengaged from my body. Air was being forced down my throat and nose, deep into my heavy chest.
"Rebecca? Rebecca, can you hear me?"
A light flashed quickly in one eye, and then the other.
"You are welcome to stay the night in the room. But I will have to be firm about allowing visitors after hours. Please understand."
The clicking of a pen snapped and light heals clicked across hard flooring. A warm weight pressed itself against my forehead, cheek. Not quite tangible; but there nonetheless.
Where was Carlisle? Where was my angel?