Stephenie Meyer owns Twilight. I don't. I make no profit by posting my gibberish.

Neri, Van, Tina - my support system! Without you, I wouldn't be writing. Thank you!

PTB's beta's have proven to be of great help again! So, thank you blahblahblah and DreaC =)

I think I know where I'm going with this. Emphasis on think.

If in doubt, as in "she's not really dead, is she?", please check the rating and genre of this story.

Esme Cullen

I come home to an empty house. The mouth-watering scent of human blood greets me like an old friend.

It has been a while since it last soothed my throat and quenched my thirst. The smell lingers in the air and I can almost taste the girl's blood on my tongue. I catch my eyelids slowly descending and my throat vibrating with a soft hum. I snap out of it and shake my head, berating myself.

The children are gone, most likely to dispose of the body. They were very careful about luring Bella in. No one is aware that Edward befriended her, or that Alice and Rosalie spent time with her. She was supposed to go to Seattle today, at least that is what she told her father.

The plan is to make it look like another case of a missing teen.

She was a child of divorced parents. A move from Phoenix to the rainy, depressing north simply aided in her self-destruction– a believable story. And if that doesn't work, people will come up with their own ideas about what happened; they always do.

I cannot not feel for Charlie, though. Edward says he loves his daughter immensely, but that he's the silent type. He doesn't verbalize his emotions. My guess is that he is going to be a silent sufferer, kind of like me in my human days. I worry that he may become suicidal after he learns about his daughter's disappearance.

It's amazing how one small action creates a chain reaction; some tragic, some wonderful. Maybe a parent will spend more time with a child as a result of Bella's disappearance. Maybe a child will grow closer to a parent for the same reason.

"Stop rationalizing," I murmur for the millionth time today as I rub my neck. The only thing that justifies this child's death is the fact that she was unfortunate enough to be Edward's singer, and this, if anyone's, is nature's fault. It is as simple as that.

I walk upstairs with heavy steps. I am weary of this day. To be honest, I am tired of my existence. But I know sleep will never come.

I put the poppies in a vase on my night stand. They are in a beautiful red-and-green disarray. Some are taller than others. They look charmingly messy. The blood-red silently screams about the horror that transpired in my home. I lower my head in shame.

There's some blood on my cotton dress. On my way home, I drained an elk. I must wash the dress.

I take it off and toss it on the bedroom floor. "First, I shower, then clean the house," I think to myself.

I walk in the bathroom. The glass walls allow sunlight to enter and my skin glows. I touch the hard shell of my body and I know that it is a lie. I feel so weak inside.

I walk in the shower and turn on the scalding water. I rub the extravagant, overpriced emulsion over my arms and chest, belly and legs.

It lathers quickly and I devotedly scrub my skin in hopes it will give me the feeling of a new beginning.

I hear Carlisle's car coming up the driveway. I wait for him under the hot stream.

I want his arms around me.

I hear his steps and I know he has smelled the blood.

"Carlisle, come here!"

He enters the bathroom after a few moments and starts undressing. I turn to watch him. There is sadness in his eyes, although he's offering me a smile.

"I'm glad to see you. How are you?" he asks.

"I've been better."

He kisses my forehead. "Everything will be okay. We will be okay."

I want to believe him. The length of my existence supports his words. Everything passes; nothing is forever, and I have witnessed it so many times. Still, I find little comfort in this knowledge.

He reaches for shampoo and tells me to turn around. His hands give me comfort and take away some of my weariness. He rubs my scalp, massages my neck, and kisses my shoulder.

After he's done with my hair, I wash his body.

Fresh and warm from the shower, he carries me to the bedroom.

We lie on our sides, facing each other. The sunlight plays on my skin again, kissing me warmly on my back. Looking over my husband's shoulder, I see the flowers screaming at me.

"Do we move away? What do we do now?" I ask in fear.

"No, we'll stay until after the graduation, then we can move. We don't want to draw attention," he answers. "Did Edward go with them? Where is he?"

Of course he worries about Edward. He will never admit it, but I know Edward, the tortured soul, the brooding boy, he brought to this existence first, is his favourite.

"I think so. It's not like they left me a note."

"You weren't here then when he..."

"No, I couldn't make myself stay. I went for a walk."

"Are you all right?"

"I told you, I've been better." I close my eyes, regretting my harsh tone the moment the words leave my mouth.

"I'm sorry. I know this isn't easy for you either."

"I don't know what it is about this child, but I can't help feeling this sadness about her death."

Our eyes meet as he says the last word, and I know what he means.

We have strict rules we abide by in our everyday existence. But rules that go against our nature are hard to keep, and sometimes we cannot follow them. I know this. I accept this.

Our family have encountered several singers before and we have killed them. We knew that it was wrong to take them away from their families and loved ones, but we made peace with it. Their time was up as soon as they crossed our path, and that was not, nor will it ever be our fault.

"I think I know exactly how you feel. She's grown on me. I think I miss her. I feel like I could have even loved her if circumstances had been different. Does that make any sense?"

"Yes." He's silent for a moment.

"I remember her heart thumping erratically when Edward carried her over that mud puddle. Why did he do that anyway? The child had already fallen in it, face down." We laugh in unison.

"He wiped the mud off her face so gingerly."

My husband, smilingly, repeats the darling child's words,"Stop it, Edward. I'm embarrassed as it is."

"Sweet child," he almost whispers.

My eyes, a moment ago resting behind my husband's shoulder on the red-and-green reminder of Bella, travel to his and in a cold angry voice, I say, "No, we can't think like that. She was just a singer," I turn my back to my husband, "not a child."

Edward is the child, my sweet child.

Anything for my child.

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