Day 7, Prompt 14
20th December (Sunday)
Rosalie
Seven a.m. The alarm clock taunts me and I curse myself for being awake already. I suppose I have been sleeping a lot over the last couple of days, so it makes sense. But being awake means being able to think, and I do not want to think. I just want to be unconscious and unfeeling and I want someone else to tell me what to do and what to say and what to wear and how to act.
But no. I am awake. And thoughts and feelings are flooding me and I can't shut them out.
Sometimes I wonder if Edward even knows me. Sometimes I wonder if I even know him. He's in bed next to me, breathing evenly and peacefully and snoring a little bit; he looks so young, so serene, so handsome. Warmth radiates from him.
And yet I feel completely alone and impossibly cold.
After chatting to Jasper on Friday I was almost ready to give him another chance, to see if maybe we're more compatible than I originally thought.
Now, in the cold, harsh morning light, I'm not so sure any more.
As I fell into a feverish sleep last night I thought back to all the times I'd seen his dark places and repressed emotions surface—all the times he'd let his guard down, and allowed me a glimpse of his fears and frustrations. All the times I felt that maybe we were more similar than I realised, all the times I thought I could be a match for him.
But I can count these incidents on the fingers of one hand: if there's anything Edward has perfected, it's the stiff upper lip, make-the-best-of-it, don't ask-don't tell attitude typical of the stereotypical English man.
The inner turmoil mostly comes out when he plays the piano. How clichéd, I know. In the beginning I was fascinated by his musical ability, and I assumed it was just another party trick, another accomplishment that he had acquired and perfected over the years, another ticked box in his "Mr Perfect" pedigree.
Then I heard him play; really play. We'd been together maybe three months by then, and I woke up on a Sunday morning to the familiar sounds of a well known classical piece: I knew it because it was the sort of soothing, bland tune that can be played safely at company functions, no connotations of extreme passion, no sentiment behind it. Nice, lulling, and forgettable in its ubiquity.
But then the music changed, morphed into something more raw, rougher, faster. The familiar melody was still there, but there was increasing anger and anguish in the notes, and dissonances had begun to appear in the ever faster rhythm. I walked softly to the living room, and watched him play. His hair was wild, his eyes closed; his hands flew over the piano in a frenzy. His features were so contorted I wondered what he was thinking, what he was feeling. It scared me and fascinated me in equal measures.
He stopped, and saw me: his eyes were black, faraway, and for the longest time we just stared at each other without saying a word. Then, finally, his lips turned into a familiar smile; his eyes squinted and softened; and he opened his arms to welcome me. He was back; he was gone.
But then yesterday? His little trick with the red ribbon? I guess he thought it was funny; sexy even. I suppose it was, in a way, and I probably overreacted, but I couldn't believe how badly he misjudged me, couldn't believe he could possibly think I would laugh at something so silly and childish.
I suppose he thought twenty-four hours of sickness and anguish were enough, and I needed to snap out of it.
"Come on Rose now, be a good girl. Chin up. It's almost Christmas, jolly times and all." I could almost hear his unsaid words.
It doesn't surprise me, really. I mean, you just have to take one look at his parents to understand why he's like this: Esme and Carlisle Cullen do not do anguish; they do not do silences; they do not do introspection. They would probably be horrified to know that all those piano lessons allowed their precious son to vent such distasteful, disagreeable feelings.
I shudder, thinking of Esme, and just how unpleasant she was on the phone yesterday. Edward doesn't like to talk about his parents, but I just know they are still hoping he'll get back together with his ex-girlfriend, Bella. As far as I can tell she was perfect girlfriend material: good family, demure, a respectable and perfectly harmless degree in Art History, and a bland, non-threatening prettiness that would ensure their grandchildren would be beautiful, but retain the Cullen looks.
Esme does not actually have to say anything for me to know she disapproves of me.
I regret agreeing to go with him for Christmas: I mean, I tried to refuse, but it was hard, seeing as I had nowhere else to go, no-one to spend it with. I tried to convince him I'd be perfectly happy on my own, sharing a glass of champagne with my brother over a Skype video call, as we always do. But he was having none of it. He insisted so much that I finally relented.
And now I wish I hadn't. I also wish I'd managed to break things off with him already, because now… it's too late. I can't be this callous, so close to Christmas. It would be really mean, it would spoil his holidays, it would embarrass him and humiliate him in front of his parents; he would hate me forever. And much as I want him to let me go, much as I want him to be free of me, I am not sure I could deal with knowing he hates me… lots of people hate me, and I'm fine with that… but not him, not his pure, beautiful, honest heart.
It will have to wait, and I will have to endure the horror of a Cullen Christmas. I suppose that's okay; that will be my penance.
I steal one look at Edward, still sleeping peacefully next to me, and drag myself to the shower. I feel better, and have got a million things to do. I guess if I'm going to be spending one last Christmas with Edward, I better get him a present, at least.
{o}{o}{o}
As I turn off the shower, I hear him in the kitchen, merrily whistling a Christmas Carol. He turns around and smiles when he sees me.
"Jesus, Edward, how can you always be so cheerful in the morning?" I mumble, grumpily, as I reach for my cup of coffee.
"Why wouldn't I be cheerful? It's almost Christmas, and I've got a beautiful girl to spend it with."
He leans over and kisses me in that spot between my neck and my ear that always makes me whimper. I really wish it didn't feel so good.
"So, what did your mother want yesterday?" I don't look at him as I say the words.
"Mmmhh nothing, you know, just making sure we're all set to go home on Tuesday." He's looking at the paper, but he puts it down to look at me. "There was some nonsense about sleeping arrangements, though. Apparently you're getting the spare room." He has at least got the decency to look slightly sheepish when he says this.
"You're kidding me, right? And you're fine with that? Jesus, Edward, you're thirty-two for crying out loud!" I can feel the anger rising up in me "And do they not know we live together? Have you not told them?"
"Calm down Rosie, it's no big deal! You know, we can still be together, we'll just have to sneak out in the night or something, and if it means so much to my mother I didn't want to make a scene…"
"You didn't want to make a scene? Are you fucking kidding me with this, Edward? Does it not matter that it means something to me?"
"Come on, it's not like this, Rosie… please, don't get mad." He gets up to come and stand next to me, but I flinch and move away.
"Too late, Edward, I'm already mad. I should have never agreed to come. It was a mistake. You know what, this is all a mistake."
I stomp out of the kitchen furiously, grab my coat and my bag, and head out the door without a second glance.
