I listened to the water rolling in the electric kettle. My eyes were closed as I rested on the couch. I was scared if I sat up I wouldn't be able to hold the weight of all the thoughts constantly bogging me down.
The water went quiet. And I smiled to myself. One of my favorite things about tea was being able to hear it reach boiling point. I sat for a few more seconds, unwilling to open my eyes until the off tab clicked softly into place.
A heavy sigh escaped my lips as I opened my eyes to the revolving ceiling fan. I pushed the blanket off my legs and stretched with a moan as different joints crack softly. I loved stretching; it mades me feel feral and cat-like, or, more truthfully, vampire-like.
Shuffling from the couch into the kitchen my socks hit the slick linoleum, and I skid. I tried to catch myself on the nearest chair, but managed instead to scrape my entire side down the chair until it stopped abruptly in my armpit.
"Fuck," I couldn't help but groan from the floor. I gingerly touched my side. God, I probably re-cracked a rib. My right hand automatically lifted my shirt and I strained to see how bad the damage was. Since I couldn't quite see, I twisted to the side with another curse and pushed off the cold linoleum floor. Angrily, I used the chair to balance as I tore my socks off and threw them across the kitchen.
When I stood up I gasped at the face in the kitchen window, chagrined that Edward must have caught me being absurd again. I relaxed with a soft snort, however, when I realized it was a reflection. My reflection. I decided checking my wounds out in the window would be much easier than heading all the way up the stairs to the bathroom in my damaged state.
I slowly pulled my shirt up again and hissed slightly when I saw some of the first layer of skin was torn and bruising already. I sighed for the ten millionth time that day, readjusted my clothing and reached for my favorite mug – a medium blood red cup.
I randomly grabbed for a bag of tea out of the bowl near the kettle. I couldn't concentrate enough to pick a flavor, besides it wasn't like I would get one I didn't like. All the flavors were ones I'd bought. Charlie wasn't really a tea kind of guy, so I never bothered asking him. My hand paused as it neared the honey bear and I shook my head. I never cleaned it off after warming it in the microwave; sticky hands on top of everything else was an annoyance I could do without.
After carefully setting the mug on the end table, I lowered myself back down on the couch. At least I didn't have to switch sides due to my idiocy. I half-heartedly began re-tucking the blanket around my bare legs. My eyes glanced at the blank television and then flashed to my worn paperback copy of Pride & Prejudice. I leaned forward to pick it up. I was always amazed a book with such a breadth of characters and verbose speeches, which always had such profound effect on my outlook, could be so unbelievably light.
But the weight it should have was a figment of my imagination. It came from constantly thinking of the story, of longing for the characters, of wondering what would Lizzy Bennett say to that, or knowing that would make Mr. Darcy inwardly cringe. Adding the story to my every day experiences made them heftier.
Wuthering Heights had been my constant companion my first year with Edward. The anger experienced by Heathcliff and Cathy, the passion: I finally understood it. But during more contemplative moments I needed composed, if not always rational or correct, perspective. The appropriateness of Austen helped me stay calm. I was now always searching, as Austen's heroines did, for the proper approach, even if swayed at times by their own desires.
Reaching absent- mindedly for the steaming tea, I blew on the surface, watching the ripples. I cautiously took my first sip and the gleaming red mug shining beneath the liquid reminded me of blood. As the tea trickled down my throat I imagined blood - the tangy taste of salt and the thickness of it. Feeling faint I set the mug back down and fanned the cold sweat which had broken out on my face.
Contemplating vampirism when one is obviously bothered by blood must be a form of insanity. But I couldn't let that deter me. There were worse things than insanity; my thoughts drifted back to Heathcliff's anguish, Cathy's suffering.
Nothing mattered; nothing so much as simply being with Edward. Even when doubts crept into my thoughts I knew it was sabotage. There was something about humanity that yearned for misery and death.
I chuckled, again.
Death, well, I'd get that.