Disclaimer: Stephenie Meyer owns everything in the Twiverse. I'm just playing around.
I'm sorry for the delay. My beloved Pup fell ill and died within a week, some other personal things happened, and I just wasn't in the headspace to write much of anything. But I'm better now, so here we go.
The Last Word – 12
The words are innocuous, but the emphasis she places on them makes me leery. "Set me free?"
"Of course."
"Not to be indelicate, but I am not the one incarcerated."
"Aren't you?"
"Isabella, be serious."
"I am perfectly serious."
"Then explain what you mean." I lean against the wall with indifference. "If you can."
"I can…but I choose not to."
"Why not?"
"Because if I explain it now, you'll just argue with me."
"No, I wouldn't."
Her smile is deliberately slow. "Clearly."
"Isabella…"
"Why don't you just let me tell this story and when the time comes, you can object to my reasons all you want?" She draws her legs into her chest. "It's not as if I'll have the wherewithal to argue with you then."
I now remember the end of this story I'm so keen on hearing, and the realization turns my stomach. "You don't have to do this."
"Are we going back around again?"
"No, I just…"
"Edward, look. We're here now, okay? There's no going back, so let's…let's just keep going."
"What if I don't like where we're heading?"
She shrugs a bony shoulder. "When has that ever mattered?"
The words carry such finality I have no argument to offer. I slide down the wall to the floor, crossing my legs at the ankles. "Tell me about the day Charlie was born."
Her eyes shimmer with tears, yet she smiles. "I remember being wet. My water broke in the bed, it was raining outside, and the bathroom sink in my hospital room had a leaky faucet. I kept thinking that was a good sign—that if rain on your wedding day was lucky, rain while you give birth could be lucky too."
I want to offer a supportive reply, but I'm stuck on a vision of Isabella in a wedding dress: Classic and simple with a hint of her whimsical pluck. Lush, long hair whipping around her glowing face, and as she turns to face me, bright red eyes shine with a love I never thought I would know in this life.
Could I have such a future with Isabella? Could she possibly accept my offer of eternity?
Could I actually bring myself to ask?
"Charlie's birth itself was…" She trails off, and I force myself to focus. "Could I skip that part?"
"Of course, but…"
"Yes?"
"Well…" I haven't been listening, so I don't understand her reluctance. "I would think you'd want to remember the moment you met him."
Her immediate frown proves my error. "How could you say that?"
"I'm sorry. I shouldn't have said anything."
"No, you shouldn't have."
"I'm sorry."
"I can't talk about it."
"Okay."
"I mean, that's the moment every mother dreams of, the blissful moment you'll remember for the rest of your life, but for me…." Her arms envelop her midsection as she rocks back and forth. "That was the moment I realized something was wrong with Charlie. That after everything I'd gone through, something was wrong with my baby."
"Okay."
"So I don't want to talk about that."
"Okay." I blur to her side and lay a hopefully gentle hand on her knee. "You don't have to do anything you don't want to do."
"But I do. I have to tell my story to set you…"
"You don't have to do anything you don't want to do, okay?" I smooth away her tears with the pad of my thumb. "Not with me."
"You promise?"
The hope in her eyes is more than I bear. "I swear on my life."
She sniffles. "I thought you were the undead."
"I am." I stroke her damp cheek. "Undead means I have life."
"That's not what my novels said."
"Don't believe everything you read." We are so close, less than a breath away, and it would be so easy to close the space between us. I cannot believe the strength of this foreign urge to kiss her, and I force my fingers from her face lest I lose what little decorum remains.
Seducing a grieving mother? Even I cannot stoop so low.
"Are you all right?" I ask, putting a safe but minimal distance between us.
"Yes." She clears her throat. "Though I could use a drink."
I am on my feet. "Caius has some scotch in his office, and I think there may be some…"
"Oh, wow. No. I meant water. A glass of tepid water would be fine."
"I'm sure I can do better than that." I walk to the phone and find it in a shattered heap on the ground. "Right, I forgot."
"It's fine. Forget it."
"What do you mean?"
"Don't go through any trouble on my account. I won't be here much longer anyway and certainly don't warrant any…."
"Don't say that!" My voice bounces around the chamber, and I lower its volume and sense of urgency. "I realize…I mean, I understand the gravity of our situation. But don't cheapen your life by describing its end with such indifference. You are worth so much more than that."
Isabella blinks at me, her mouth gaping slowly open. Her eyes fill anew with tears, and I wonder if I will ever get anything right where she is concerned.
She mumbles something I do not catch, and I am afraid to ask. "Wh-what was that?"
She covers her mouth and shakes her head, her brows furrowing. "Thank you. For…for saying that."
It is my turn to stare as her words burrow into my soul, stealing my ability to speak. She looks up at me during the silence, and I am lost. There are moments that define our lives, changing us forever from the inside out. With one previous exception, all such moments in my life have been negative, destructive.
Deserved.
But this moment…this moment is wholly unlike the others, eclipsing even the lone bright spot of my past as its author is a woman. A frail, broken, wisp of a thing with nothing to recommend herself. Yet here she is, offering truth and gratitude at great personal expense and for what? To somehow set me free when she is the one bound?
It is decided.
I shall make her an offer she mustn't refuse.
"I will get your water." She looks up as if forgetting her earlier request. "But I'll close and lock the door behind me to deter possible mischief in my absence."
"You think I'm mischievous?"
"Extremely. But I was speaking of everyone else."
"Okay." A lovely blush blooms on her cheeks. "Hurry back."
"I will. You won't have time to miss me."
"That's debatable."
God, this woman…
I seem incapable of turning away, but the sooner I leave, the sooner I may return. I offer a another smile and walk out of the chamber at a human pace with her cheerful humming at my back.
Once I shut the door, I press my right hand against a hidden panel on the wall, revealing the elevator to my private quarters. The secret accommodations are clean, modest, and more than suitable for my minimal needs.
But they lack the soft touches a human would appreciate, and I imagine what Isabella would do to improve the space. Would she replace the settee with a four-poster bed? Would she paint the walls or choose a patterned print?
I shake off the thoughts, realizing Isabella will never set foot in this room. Were she to accept the offer I plan to make, we would flee this place on immortal wings, taking our show on the permanent road. I would let her decide where we go first, though in the interest of a healthy transition experience, somewhere remote is a must.
But I am getting ahead of myself. The mission for now is a glass of cold water.
But as I survey the room, I find no glass. Not a cup, mug, thermos, or even a large thimble. Blood drinkers have little use for kitchenware, so the omission makes sense. But I cannot disappoint Isabella and must scramble for a solution.
I run into the bathroom and notice the round crystal bowl in which I keep individually wrapped bars of glycerin soap. Sanitizing the bowl with steaming water, I dry it with a fresh towel and fill it with cold water, hoping this will be sufficient.
But the clean bowl and towel remind me of the comparative filth Isabella retains, and I collect two basins of warm water—one to bathe, one to rinse—a washcloth, and a towel. I place the required toiletries atop the towel, grabbing a thin leather tie to bind her hair. I retrieve a simple change of clothes from my wardrobe, a possessive growl escaping me at the thought of her in them. She may be chilly after her bath, so I snatch the duvet and an accent pillow from the living room chaise. Though I shall soon lay every possible luxury at her feet, this crude assembly will have to do for now.
I arrange the supplies on a sleek chrome serving cart, for which I previously had little use, and close my eyes. According to his thoughts, the nearest guard is in another wing of the prison, and after what happened to the last visitor, everyone else is too terrified to even approach the Death Chamber.
And that is as it should be.
I roll my cart onto the elevator, hating that I have been away from Isabella so long. Though I cannot hear her thoughts, the music of her beating heart greets me through the chamber door, and I savor it a moment undetected. Forever with Isabella demands the end of that unique and precious song, and a pang of selfishness mars my enjoyment of it. I do wish to invite Isabella to spend eternity with me, but the loss of her humanity may be difficult for her to accept.
Moreover, to make such an offer before hearing her whole story would be in poor taste. She is determined to save me—set me free, as she puts it—and the least I can do is let her attempt to finish her stated mission. And to do so, she needs to complete her story.
So I tuck my desires away for the moment, leaving the cart outside as I open the chamber door.
"Isabella, I'm back. Did you miss—"My gaze lands immediately on her, and I am shocked by what I see. "What the hell are you doing?"
Sorry for the cliffie, but you know how these two are.
Let me know your thoughts, peeps. I know it's been a while, but I hope you're still with me. XOXO
