So the general consensus seems to be that people liked the Cullens' replies, and that I should do more of those. At the moment, it looks like there's only going to be one more reply. Sorry about that - it's just the way it works out. In other news, I'm back in rainy Scotland, where they have proper water (Does anyone else hate English water?). I have a tonne of ideas, because for some strange reason my mind seems to work best when I'm stuck in the car for eight hours. Yeah, it confuses me, too. Watch this space!

Dedication: Emma, who just lent me the next Maximum Ride book. I LOVE YOU!!

So, 100 reviews would be nice. Am I hinting? Duh. Am I completely shameless? Quite possibly. You know you love it. xD


From: EdwardMasen

To: CarlisleCullen; EsmeCullen; AliceBrandon; JasperWhitlock; RoseHale; Gizzabearhug

Subject: Letter #10


La Bella Italia,
Port Angeles,
Washington State,
10th November 2009

Hello, Edward

So, you might be wondering what I'm doing here, exactly. I'm here on my own. This particular memory is one that I have to face alone. It's one of my most vivid, possibly because of the adrenaline I was feeling at the time of the incident. The night in Port Angeles, remember? Mushroom Ravioli?

Okay, of course you remember. What am I thinking? It's impossible to forget that you're ever anything less than perfect. Sorry, that seems to be a bad habit. Somehow, it's possible. It's probably the distance.

A bunch of fully-grown angels – wings and all – would be less conspicuous than you Cullens. It's ridiculous.

Anyway – Port Angeles. The night I was nearly raped, and you came screeching in to my rescue... and then you took me out here, sort of like our first real date. Sad, but true. I remember that night, you were so...angry. I was scared of you, in a way, but at the same time I was so grateful, I could have kissed you. Ha! I wonder how you would have reacted if I had. You would probably have freaked out, right there in the middle of the restaurant.

I feel like I still owe you my life, after that. Somehow, I'm going to have to find some way to repay you, and I can't think how.

Sometimes, it hurts to think. I feel like it would be easier just to fall asleep and not bother to wake up again. Every morning, it's a struggle, and I'm more and more tired every day. It's getting so that I'm out of breath just walking. I hate this.

People don't ever treat me the same, any more. They take one look at my short hair and frail body and movements, and in their minds I'm not a human being, I'm this invalid. They don't see past the hollowed cheeks and visible ribs.

I don't go to school any more, and it's a good job – I'm sure I'd be the focus of mass attention, which would be my ideal situation, of course...

My time's up though, Edward. They gave me six months on the 4th May, and now it's the 10th November. I was supposed to die six days ago. I feel like I'm living on borrowed time... but at the same time, I have to keep living, so I can finish what I've started. I will not go quietly any more, unless I'm fully ready... which brings me back to my purpose at this tiny little table for one in La Bella Italia.

There's a plate of mushroom ravioli in front of me. I've let it get cold; I can't bear to touch it. With great effort, I call over the waitress and ask for the bill. She looks pitying, but hands it over anyway, glancing down once at the full plate of food and untouched cutlery, before turning to leave.

The meal costs just $10, but that's not what I plan to leave. Number eight, remember? Leave a $100 tip.

So I do, and I leave quietly, without trying to draw any more attention to myself. I reach my jeep and climb in; resting my head against the old, battered steering wheel as my tears begin to fall.

It's an odd thing; I feel happy about what I've done, but at the same time I'm downright miserable. I haven't been back there since the time you took me, and what hurts most of all is that it's exactly the same – from the interior decoration to the menu. It seems like everything in my world has come crashing down, and yet it's exactly the same. I feel cheated. Why isn't the world grieving, because you're not here and I could die tomorrow? It's not right. It's not.

I'll write soon.

Lov—


I can spell, by the way - of course that was done on purpose. Shameless cliffhangers? Hells yeah. Review!