"We are the music makers, and we are the dreamers of dreams." – said by Willy Wonka, in Willy Wonka and the Chocolate Factory (Original—and best!!!—version).


Chapter 7: The Years


JUST TO LET YOU KNOW, THE FOLLOWING CHAPTER IS WRITTEN IN A DIFFERENT STYLE, AS IF ALICE HAD WRITTEN DOWN THE DATES OF SIGNIFICANT EVENTS. OR AS IF SHE WROTE A DIARY.

THE ITALICS ARE HER VISIONS. (No kidding, eh?)

ENJOY.


- April 14, 1922.

There had been no sign of where to go or how to find him. I had several more of those strange…'visions'…for lack of a better term, but none involved location. Mostly I had seen flashes of when bears were coming, or when large venison was near. I saw his face many more times, but now, it was clearer, as the scars would increase each time. I watched him face others of our kind. I wasn't sure what the battle was about, but it sure explained why he would wear such a sore expression. I could only hope that when I reached him I could help him in some way. I felt the sting as each jaw snatched at his skin. I wanted to touch each scar and sooth the pride in his face, and the confusion in his eyes.

- May 2, 1922.

I saw someone else. It wasn't him this time. It was a woman with caramel-colored hair, dark cold eyes, and a soft, motherly smile. Everything about her was sweet-natured and lovable. She was slender, and seemed to flutter about wherever she was. She was married to a doctor, as I saw her frequent a hospital often and ask for her husband. She was worried when she spoke to him, but always came out smiling. I wondered what it would be like to have someone like her in my own life. Would it be like holding a bottle of sunshine or holding onto a friend? I wasn't sure; I couldn't remember what friends were like.

"I worry for Edward," the caramel-haired woman told her husband in private. "From what you have told me, he is such a wonderful boy. I want to meet him so badly."

"He has made his choice, and I can only hope that he chooses right in the end," her husband sighed. "Whatever is right…for him."

"If your account of him is accurate, he will come back," she insisted. "I am sure of it."

The doctor smiled. He kissed his wife, and she, too, smiled.

"Thank you, again, Carlisle, for saving my life," she told him in a whisper, "in so many ways."

"I love you, Esme," he whispered as his kissed her again.

Her arms softly wrapped around his neck and inclined into the kiss.

- June 22, 1922.

I discovered hunters in the area—human hunters. It became difficult to avoid them when they insisted on hunting my meals. In fact, it became impossible when one crossed my path. He tripped, cut his leg, and accidentally fired his rifle, practically killing himself. I only felt some guilt in finishing the job. But that was my last. Never again will I intentionally drink a person's blood in order to sustain myself or personally benefit myself. No life is worth destroying to bring pleasure into my own. (And I'll be wary of more hunters in the future.)

- October 29, 1922.

The bears seemed to be very good at learning to hide from me. Either that, or there weren't many left.

- January 16, 1923.

I think I might have killed the last bear.

- July 8, 1923.

It wasn't the last bear, thank the Lord, but I must be more careful. I almost starved—well, rather risked the lives of humans due to a unsecure stock. Perhaps I have been in this area too long? I don't want to leave. What if I don't have visions of my scarred angel anywhere else in the world? I'm afraid to leave his face behind.

- May 9, 1924.

I tried to move, but I feel such a pull here. Why this spot? I'm not sure. I heard some hunters earlier mention an Indian tribe straight across from where I am. A fair distance, I was sure, for a human to travel. It would probably need to involve train transportation. But the stories I overhear the hunters tell are fascinating. I tried to imagine visiting them once—after I have complete control of my want of human blood. I am improving…some.

- May 9, 1924.

I have become too familiar with the hunters' scents. They come too regularly and I am desensitized from their tastes. I was getting so close to being able to resist human blood…but if I left, would I be as strong? I think not. Leaving would mean retraining my nose to resist the sweet aroma of human blood. Besides that, where would I go?

- August 13, 1926.

I had successfully settled in again into another location. I decided to go north. It's colder here, but the further north I go, the larger the game seems to get. I much prefer the large wild animals to the deer I had been reduced to before I moved (…as I did not wish to overhunt the bears into extinction).

- January 3, 1928.

North was a bad idea. I prefer the warmth. It's time for a change, but where to go? I followed some birds for a while, wondering where they were headed for so long, but I got bored of them. I didn't want to follow them to the South Pole, after all.

- February 28, 1931.

Esme looked up in surprise, smiling. Carlisle rushed to her side. The sound of footsteps in the door was a most joyous sound.

"Edward," Carlisle greeted, "you're back."

The young man walked inside, face ashamed and worried. His eyes dropped to the floor. His arms were at his sides, itching to move. He seemed to want to approach Carlisle and Esme, but felt unwelcomed—or perhaps guilty. He seemed unsure of what to say at first. Esme's hands were on Carlisle's arm and they stood closely together. Esme admired the young man's looks, features, and shamed expression, and her eyes were alight with hope.

He looked up quickly when Esme smiled at him encouragingly. He didn't smile back at, exactly. He had been wearing a frown and that dissipated. He took a breath and spoke.

"I hope you can find it in your heart to take me back," he said. "I was wrong. This is the better path. Taking any lives…innocent or not, does not feel right to me."

There was only a second pause of silence. Carlisle beamed with pride. Esme's smile broadened.

"Welcome back," Carlisle said, immediately wrapping Edward in his arms.

"Thank you."

Carlisle released Edward, and looked back at Esme. "This is Esme," he introduced. "She is my wife."

Edward was surprised. He cocked his brow and looked at Carlisle. After a second, and a few glances at Esme, Edward smiled tentatively.

"It's wonderful to meet you, Esme," he said.

- September 5, 1931.

I heard talk from some of the people in town that more banks were closing. I had no need for money, being in the wild…but I do wonder if I showed myself in town wearing the same thing I was wearing ten years ago if they would kick me out. As soon as the money is safe and the banks are back, I will have to buy something new. But how does one earn money as a vampire?

-March 10, 1933.

I had seen her before, this beautiful goddess. Her tall frame and radiant figure had come to me so long ago…but I remembered her as clearly as I could remember the feel of sunshine on my skin. Her eyes were dark red, however, which was different than before. Her eyes opened to scan what was around her. She sat up with lightening speed—the final proof that she was like me—not human.

"Dr. Cullen?" she asked in a beautiful, empowered voice. "Where am I? What happened to…?"

She shook her head and set her hand to her forehead. She couldn't finish her train of thought. Her lips stayed open, adjusting to some sort of shock.

"Is this truly real?" she whispered softly, closing her eyes, looking like an angel in suffering.

She tucked a stray lock of her long, golden hair, pushing the wave of it over her shoulder. She straightened her back and looked pleadingly at the man she had called Dr. Cullen.

"I hope you can forgive me for I have done to you," a man apologized. "I hoped to save you."

- March 19, 1934.

I caught a few bears and skinned them. For some peculiar reason, they were actually bought. I had half expected my efforts were to be wasted, but they were not. The second I mentioned them, these pair of hunting brothers, who had to work in so many hours to be allowed to keep their jobs, who had no more time leftover for hunting, ripped at the chance to buy them. I'm not certain their wives were pleased, but at least I had a chance at new clothes. They didn't ask me too many questions either. I guess telling them that my older brother was the hunter and I just the seller made them less suspicious. Oh, and taking a good long bath in the river, thoroughly taking off any grime of blood off my skin and clothes helped too.

- June 2, 1935.

I sold some more skins, but not much luck there. I had enough for new clothes, but I felt that I should prepare more money for myself, in cases like this. How awful would it be if I met Jasper wearing something I had worn for three years straight? That wouldn't be too impressive. My world may be centered on him, but what were the chances his world was centered on me?

- June 5, 1935.

Edward was in Carlisle's office. Edward paced the room with a flare of mortification, humor, and anger in his eyes, each emotion stronger with every step. Carlisle was taking notes and writing on files as Edward ranted.Anything for my family," she insisted, although she looked as if it were a great sacrifice.

"Rosalie?" Edward laughed. "I think not."

Carlisle made no answer.

"Esme is beautiful, wonderful, and makes me wish I knew my own mother," Edward continued. "She is my mother. I understand you wanting my happiness, and that Esme loves to dote on us—spoil us, even—but Rosalie!? How could you think of her? I can barely stand her vanity."

"Well, I'm happy to hear of it," Rosalie snapped, pushing open the door.

Edward's step faltered. He stopped pacing. His eyes twisted to the painting of Paris on Carlisle's office wall.

"I thought you were Esme," Edward muttered.

"You hoped I was," Rosalie seethed. "Why did you bother to save me if you don't want me?"

Edward's eyes shot toward her. Their stares locked. His was soft and gentle and hers, upon seeing his, changed from hard to delicate.

"Rosalie, although it was not my choice to save you, I am happy we did," Edward told her. "You've so quickly become part of this"—his eyes shot over to Carlisle—"family. I don't regret having you with us. I do regret that you are one of us…but not because of your company."

Rosalie smiled. "You can be sweet," she complimented.

"Thank you," he accepted. "So can you."

She rolled her eyes and tossed her eyes over her shoulder. "Me? Sweet? I dare say I might blush," she laughed. "Of course, if that was possible…"

Edward squared his body with hers and sighed. Carlisle turned to face her and held his hands out apologetically.

"But back to the point you were making," Rosalie recalled, "about not wanting me. I can understand it. I will not push the subject."

"Thank you, Rosalie. I had hoped you would say that."

Carlisle laughed under his breath and returned to note-making.

She narrowed her eyes. "Anything for my family," she sneered.

He then smiled sincerely, thankfully, but she crossed her arms, rage in her amber eyes.

"You know very well that you are quite beautiful, Rosalie," Edward started, "but I never once thought of you in that way."

"Why not?" Rosalie demanded. "Have you seen many others of our kind far more fair than I? Or are you far too picky, Edward?"

"Picky…?" Edward mused. "I'm not sure."

"Come on, Edward," Rosalie prompted. "Don't you believe in love? Or is that strictly against the vampire laws?"

Edward puckered his brow. "I don't believe fate has that written out for me just yet," he replied.

Carlisle eyed Edward sadly. Rosalie watched him speculatively.

- June 17, 1935.

I washed up, bought new clothes—the ones that seemed the most popular. They were fashionable enough, but not much like what I was used to wearing. It was less jazzy now—or jazzier, in some cases. The clothes, in my opinion, were not in good taste. I quickly found the need to alter them to look more like clothes I wore when I was human. The lady who sold me the clothes swore that my improvements were the loveliest design she had ever seen. She thought it a bit too advanced, since I was forced to shorten the skirt, since the older design gave no forgiveness to stay so long with my other alterations. I agreed with her, but pointed out that it fit with the overall look. On the spot, she hired me. Not as a full-time job, or even part-time. She hired me to help out, make alterations when a paying customer demanded one, and to suggest styles for those unsure of their fashion sense. I gladly agreed. So many women and men alike needed my help with their sense of what to wear. How had taste in clothing-wear deteriorated so much from when I was human?

- August 4, 1935.

The bear reared and roared. The man, although thick and strong-looking, was no match for the beast. The man's limbs were torn at as the beat plunged its claws into the man. The man shouted and gasped at the pain. He grunted and hollered. He gave up screaming help.

But just as his eyelids fell shut, with blood pouring from his matted hair, the bear was pulled off him. Out from the brush sprang the sweet-step of the blonde-goddess. She tossed the bear away, nearly taking of its arm in the process. She snarled and growled in feline fierceness. The bear growled, grunted, but didn't approach her closely.

The goddess inspected the man's injuries from afar. Her eyes widened and lit up. Her arms stretched out, and in less than 2/10 of a second, she was holding him. She touched his curly hair, her eyes on him for only a moment, just a hint of a smile on her lips. After one look, she dashed forward, away from the bear, away from the forest, cradling the man in her strong, feminine arms. His appearance would make one assume that his weight and height—which towered over her so—would be too heavy for her, but she managed. However, there was a terrible look of pain, struggle and desire in her expression.

- April 16, 1936.

I had to quit today. Sophia and Maureen at the store will miss me, and I them, I am sure, but I must go. I saw a vision of him again—the centre of my world—a clear one. I had saved a little money, in case I have need of it, and now was the perfect opportunity to split. I took my money, took a new bag, two changes of clothes, and was on my way. I waved goodbye to Sophia and Maureen, secretly knowing they were glad to have less competition. I knew half the guys in town had their eyes on me. The other half were either married or smart. The smart ones gathered the message that I was taken. The smart ones went after girls like Maureen, who planned on quitting her job and being a good mother once someone asked her to marry. Sophia was a little wilder. She wanted to head off to another city, and try on some adventure. Personally, I told her, having a home is worth more than an adventure.

- October 7, 1936. AM

I was halfway to Tennessee, but I decided to take a stop and hunt down a large prey. I didn't want to be caught surprise by a town when I was thirsty. I would be better to be well-prepared.

- October 7, 1936. PM

"Emmett!" Rosalie groaned. "Pay attention!"

The strong, muscular man with the dark curly hair sat up. He smiled apologetically. He had caught the scent on the wind and without thinking lunged. So much for hunting smaller herbivores.

"I'm sorry, Rose," he said, in a deep, low, but beautiful voice. "I don't think I'll ever get used to this."

"No humans, Emmett!" she growled. Rosalie grabbed his arm and dragged him away from the human body. He had drunk almost have of the human's blood. "Now he's going to die."

Emmet looked shamefully at his human prey.

"You promised me that this year would be clean," she reminded him sweetly, taking his face in her hands. "Please, remember that."

"I'll do it for you," he promised. "Never again will I touch human blood."

"Carlisle will be glad to hear of it," Rosalie beamed.

He took his hands in hers—and hoped she didn't care about the blood on them—and held them to his chest. He kissed her forehead gently.

"I'll remember, I swear," he whispered. He lowered his eyes to her level, bending. He took her chin and winked. "Now let's go a-hunting!"

- July 22, 1937.

I traced my vision all over Mississippi, Tennessee, Alabama, and Louisiana. I had seen a vision of him pointing to a map, looking over at me—at me!—with me there with him!—with his finger in that general area. I wanted so badly to make that vision happen, to experience it. I wasn't sure where else to go though. I saw only the map, and remembered that vision of the dark, wooden place with alcohol. I could only assume a pub. My visions gave me no further direction that that. The environment surrounding him was too unfamiliar for me to recognize. I spent months in Louisiana. It felt like it was the closest to him, though I had no way of knowing if that was true or false.

- December 24, 1938.

I wished all night on every star that next Christmas Eve would be spent with him; that every day of my life would be next to him. Hopefully, the stars in Louisiana work the best.

- December 24, 1938.

"This is for you, Rose," Emmett whispered as held her close to him. "For everything you've done for me. And for how wonderful you are."

"Don't break down on me now, Emmett," she teased. "No tears on Christmas."

He laughed softly—which was more like a quiet bark, because of the deep, firm tone. His eyes were alight with tender emotions.

- August 29, 1939.

I have heard many things from many people. As I am slowly more and more capable of being around humans, ignoring the longing for their blood, I talk to them more. Some say the war is a rumor, some say it's real. Some say they personally know someone already fighting in it. Personally, I wasn't positive in the first place that a war could ever end a war. So who on earth thought up 'the war to end all wars'?

- September 1, 1939.

I moved far north of Louisiana this morning. I'm not sure how far I'll go, but I know I want to stay south. He's somewhere in the south. I just haven't found him yet.

- May 4, 1940.

If anyone out there doubts it, they need a good bang on the head. World War declared as clear as a ringing church bell. Soldiers are being sent off left and right. My still heart breaks every time I hear a mother cry for her lost son, or a wife for a lost husband, or a child for a lost father or brother. I'm only glad that I can't remember anyone who I might otherwise be afraid for in this war.

- December 8, 1941.

There was an attack on Pearl Harbor yesterday. Everyone has heard of it. I can only hope that those affected keep their heads up. Not to be selfish, but I really hope he isn't involved in this war, that he's somewhere close to me.

- February 11, 1941.

"I say we get involved," Emmett suggested. "The good guys have a better chance with us aboard."

"We cannot get involved," Carlisle sighed.

"Why not?" Emmett's face fell.

"The Volturi, for one thing," Edward mentioned. His face was empty. "We do not want to get ourselves noticed. It is one of their laws; to be unknown and secret."

"And this is a human affair," Rosalie added. "We shouldn't need to interfere."

"Aw, Rose, this is our world too," Emmett argued. "This war affects everyone."

"We can't do anything," Carlisle ordered. His voice was sad, his eyes were low, but his expression showed no sign of wavering.

Emmett sighed disappointedly.

- March 3, 1942.

I know it isn't much, but I felt too guilty doing nothing. I have no skills as a nurse, but thankfully I can correct my mistakes at double the speed it would take any other nurse. Without any records it was hard to accepted in, but they need help. Plus, I've managed to save a few lives here and there, and then few bombs I have so far encountered have done nothing to me. Although, I am wary of the fire that spreads from the bombs. It makes me nervous. Logically, since my skin is as cold as ice, wouldn't it melt or dissipate if near too much warmth?

- November 29, 1943.

It hurts to bear it all and it hurts even worse seeing the blood and knowing that I want to have it for myself. How awful am I that my instincts are to kill rather than to save? But maybe vampires are perfect for a war in this case. Specialized in death, not in life; that's what war was all about. It was all death. Why couldn't I have the skills to heal and protect? What was the use of being immortal if I couldn't do that much? All I could do was bring some good cheer to the other nurses and put a smile on a soldier's face. What was that worth?

- June 20, 1944.

It was horrible. I hated it. I wanted out. I wanted it all to end.

- June 24, 1944.

Esme touched each key with her fingertips. She played one note or two, but made no song. The piano was beautiful. She sat on the bench, staring at the white keys, with the faintest smile on her lips.

- June 27, 1944.

I was a worse risk than a benefit. I faked my death, body never found. I ran. Well, technically I swam. I returned to the southern states in search of him. Maybe if I had to explain my actions to him one day, it would all make sense to him. What kind of person was he? Would he understand me? Or would he be ashamed of how I bailed out? Would he understand that I was doing more harm than good? Or would he have told me to push myself, to pursue that path? Would he prefer I heal them as best as my abilities would allow, despite the pain in my throat as I ignored their blood?

I wanted to ask him so many questions. But would he care to answer them? Was he talkative, like I was? Or was he quiet? What did he like? When was he born? He could have been born before me or after me for all I knew. It had been so many years since awaking in the tomb. Had I changed at all? Was I a better person? Would he have preferred me then, as I was? Or who I am now?

Whatever the instance was, I was convinced that I would teach him to like me. I would be persistent and stubborn if I had to. He didn't have to revolve around me, but I wanted him to smile when he saw me, just I smiled whenever I caught a glimpse of his face in a vision.

- May 22, 1945.

Edward approached the piano bench. He sat down on the bench and his fingers tested a few keys. He played a few chords, tested movements, and then played a song. It grew more elaborate as he practiced. And he practiced for hours.

- June 7, 1945.

Edward, slowly, played new chords, new notes, and wove them together to form a beautiful work of sound. He practiced that twice, one he had finished composing it. With a smile, he turned around.

"Esme, that song it yours," he said.

Esme, who had been behind him, smiled and touched her hand to her face, looking happily surprised. She stepped forward, glanced at the piano, and then at Edward. She threw her arms around him.

"I could ask for no greater gift from my son," she praised, in a voice thick with pride and love. "Thank you so, so much Edward."

- November 3, 1945.

Germany surrendered. World War II is over. So many changes the world has gone through. I was born 1901. I should be 44 years old, but look the same as I did when I was nineteen, the year before I lost my memory.

- December 1, 1946.

Another year and I am still alone. How long will it be like this? I have wandered from north to south, east to west, and still have not yet found him. How long was this search to last? I was willing to search forever if it meant I would one day see him, but I hoped that it was soon. I was impatient; I wanted to see him in more than just a vision.

- February 2, 1947.

"We must move again? So soon?" Esme fretted. "I was getting so attached here. This lovely home and we've managed to stay clear of most human contact, which has helped Emmett adjust so perfectly."

"I'm sorry, Esme," Carlisle sighed. "We should leave as soon as possible. I don't want any returning faces from the war to get suspicious of us, and of why none of the males in our family were called to war."

Esme nodded her head.

- April 23, 1947.

I went into town for a job. I met a kind man who was in need of a secretary. I gladly agreed to the position. I followed him around most days, took notes of who wanted what of him, and what he wanted of whom. I answered his main phone line, and helped his clients as they entered his office. It was an easy job, and I was pleased that it made me more money than the job I had altering and selling clothes back in '36. But overall the job I preferred more was the clothing design. Something about it gave me one more reason to think good of the world and my place in it. Maybe one day I would have time—once I found my centre—to run a clothing store or something of the sort.

- August 14, 1947.

Mr. Thornton, my boss, gave me a raise. I hadn't thought I had been doing a job any better than anyone else, but he gave the raise to me. He told me that he had never been so organized in his life—never mind my good sense of fashion and design had encouraged more businesses to come to him. I had changed his clothes and his way of welcoming people. It worked wonders.

- January 3, 1948.

Mr. Thornton, who had been my boss for over eight months, was now firing me. His old secretary, who had been recovering from the emotional scarring of losing her young son to the war had come back, begging for her old job, so that she could support her younger son. Mr. Thornton couldn't refuse, but he still told me that if I had something better to offer, he would keep me. I told him that she was one deserving lady and as sure as my name was Alice I wasn't going to take that chance from her. She needed the job to survive; I didn't.

- January 17, 1948. AM

I sat on a bar stool. I was relaxed, sitting back, smiling. I was watching the door.

"I've been waiting for you," I said.

"Sorry to keep you waiting, ma'am," he said, tipping his hat.

I hopped off the stool. "My name is Alice."

"Hello, Miss Alice," he said. "I am Jasper Whitlock."

- January 17, 1948. PM

His name was Jasper.

Alice and Jasper. That fit, didn't it?

- January 30, 1948.

Texas! I saw it written on the map! I saw him walk in, my centre, and Texas was there on the map! How could I have missed it?

I wasted no time. I was going to find Jasper and I was going to find him this year. I was going to find him soon and he wouldn't escape me ever again.

I was going to Texas.