Twilight character names belong to Stephanie Meyer. All characterizations, plot lines, backgrounds and details belong to the respective author. No copying or reproduction of this work is permitted without express written authorization.©2010 Marie0912 (Marie .L.A.). All rights reserved worldwide.
Sydney, you are a irreplaceable and simply wonderful Beta, thank you so much!
And thank you so much to those who have reviewed, recommended and added this story to favorites and alerts.Thank you.
Still a review- whore, so sue me;)
Its late some parts of the world, and in some its early but all the same I`m posting because I appreciate you all so much.
"Unhinged Soul"
Once again, night enveloped Forks, Washington.
Its inhabitants found rest in their beds or other activities.
Esme and Carlisle, both well-rested from their nap during the day, spent the evening making out like teenagers on the couch, watching "Unfaithful." They found inspiration in the love making scenes and proceeded to act them out throughout the house.
At home, Isabella was fast asleep, her dreams of a boy with copper hair and happiness in his face.
Charlie walked by her room at least three times before he felt certain there would be no screaming tonight.
In his room, Edward was lying on his stomach with a book out: Notes and Sheet Music for Dummies. He had never bothered to learn how to read sheet music in the past; the sounds clung to his subconscious, tattooed on his mind, natural as breathing in and out. He only needed to hear a sound once before he knew it like the back of his hand.
But today, music had streamed to him through a very different source, and since he couldn't play it out loud to himself, he would have to learn to read it.
Yes, that was the only solution, he thought with determination.
If sound would remain absent through the rest of his life, he would have to find another way to hear music.
Even if it was only in his heart.
He reveled in the day he had had with Isabella as he read, the little notes starting to crawl around on the page like ants when his mind pictured her smiling face.
She had left the notebook on the table when she left late in the evening.
Edward had seen it lying there, but their written conversation was something that he was desperate to keep. She had fished it out of her bag like it was the most natural thing in the world, handing him a pen and taking one herself.
"How are you feeling today?" she had scribbled, a concerned frown on her face as she took in his bruised features and swollen eye.
For some reason, her untidy scrawl made his heart thump even faster. Her concern was not condescending or annoying. It felt good. To know that she cared made him swell with joy, though under his skin, bellow his hard bitterness and excited Goosebumps, he was terrified of her.
They talked about books and movies and bullies. When her eyes landed on the Baby Grand Piano, she shifted uncomfortably, her gaze drifting back and forth between the piano and his hands.
Realization hit her almost instantly. Bella found the courage to speak her mind, and wrote with careful penmanship: "Is it yours?"
Edward nodded cautiously and watched as she put two and two together.
She eyed his itching, bouncing fingers that could not stop drumming the rhythm of his heartbeats against the wooden table with curiosity. Isabella then took a pen and scribbled hesitantly, biting her lip while pushing the notebook over to him so he could read.
"What song is that?" it said.
He looked at his finger in shock, and then back at her face. She knew.
"Just something … I hear in my head. My own…" he whispered while leaning towards her so he was close to her ear.
She blushed at his proximity, but Edward assumed her embarrassment was because of the volume of his voice and blushed too.
"I'm sorry if I'm loud, I… I have a hard time remembering how to---"
But Isabella shook her head violently, realizing what was wrong and took his hand gently.
"You are not loud," she assured him, shaking her head and mouthing the words slowly so he could catch them.
He smiled, relief in his features and pride in his eyes. He watched her lips like they were the most fascinating thing in the world, even though she was silent now.
She saw his joy and shared it, her cheeks pinking up again as his intense, moss green irises moved over her face like a lover's caress.
"You are perfect," she whispered without moving her lips much at all, knowing he wouldn't understand, but had to say it anyway.
Edward had no idea the hold he already had on her heart, but her words, no matter that he couldn't hear or understand them, were beautiful.
Edward fell asleep clutching sheet music and hope in his fingertips, his last thoughts of Isabella before his eyes sealed shut. His dreams were of piano keys and vocal flows and melodies that resounded in great halls.
The Cullens and the Swans rested peacefully that night. Edward had his alarm clock under his pillow again and Esme had sewn Velcro at the bottom of his pillow so it would remain in place as a precaution.
Bella dreamt of meadows and sunshine and smiling boys with tapping fingers.
But at Forks Hospital, things were less settled and happy.
Emmett was in pain. He was lonely and, for once, truly questioning his self worth. He never thought he would amount to much, never aspired to anything. His goals in life had been limited, he didn't expect much from himself because no one else did.
Except for evil.
People, more specifically his peers, expected some sort of cruelty or evil from him. They had for years.
Even Maybe did, to some point.
The first night they truly met, she was very scared of him and rightfully so, her slight posture and frail features nothing against his huge and muscular body in a fight. Back then, Emmett McCarty was ashamed to say that he wouldn't have hesitated punching a girl.
But back then he was only twelve years old.
He had his cell in his hand the entire day and night, itching to call her and beg her to come sit with him. But every time he dialed her familiar number, he stopped himself.
He had burdened her enough.
Emmett had no idea that Rosalie Hale was lying in the wing on the floor right above him, crying and cursing and pleading with God to take it all back. Her fretful slumbers were filled with nightmares and hurt. When she was awake, she would walk the halls or her room, dragging her IV bag along like a puppy and secretly wondering where her newborn son was.
She had refused to hold him or look at him when Doctor Cullen tried to introduce mother and child, squeezing her eyes shut against the pain and fear and sudden connection she felt with the life she had just brought to the world.
Carlisle Cullen had stopped insisting eventually, wheeling the incubator out of the room, but Rosalie had turned in time to see something pink and utterly perfect and beautiful and alive lying inside that plastic prison. He was too small, fighting for his life because of her body's lack of ability to nurture and protect him.
She couldn't even be pregnant the right way.
And she couldn't hate.
But she tried.
Oh, God did she try to hate that baby.
And to everyone looking on, to Doctor Cullen, to the staff, it looked like she loathed her son with a vengeance.
But Julie De Lespinasse had once put into words what Rosalie could not phrase: "You know that when I hate you, it's because I love you to a point of passion that unhinges my soul."
That was exactly what had happened.
The baby, no matter how he came to be, who had been part of his conception and creation, had completely and utterly unhinged her soul. And she knew that in spite of herself, she would probably love that child until the day she died, her mistakes and everyone else's be dammed.
The thought made her cry harder as her legs brought her, subconsciously, unwillingly, to the part of the maternity ward where they kept the newborns, knowing that her heart was determined to create a bond between her and her son, no matter how she fought it.
And no matter how she wanted him, she knew she couldn't keep him. She would poison him with the blackness of her soul, the weakness in her heart and the bitterness on her tongue.
Silent tears of consuming grief rolled down her cheeks as she stood with palms flat against the Plexiglas barrier that separated her from the premature infant. Her eyes fixed on his sickeningly thin and small body, the bluish, fragile veins and the white mask that protected his eyes from the bright light.
On the container that protected his life it said, "Baby Boy Hale." She read the three words over and over and over in her mind until she finally crumpled in pieces on the floor and had to be carried back to her room by the attending physician.
In his room, Emmett had hung up on his mother for the fifth time that evening. He was too sick and tired to even attempt to do it again.
So when the phone rang for the sixth time, he picked it up without looking at the display.
"I don't want to fucking talk to your ugly ass face! Never again! I don't ever wanna see you again, you cruel bitch! I'm in the fucking hospital, I nearly fucking died! I hate you! I fucking hate you!" he screamed. Finally sated, crying, he hung up the phone, completely oblivious to the fact that the display had read "Maybe," not "Mom."
And Mary Alice Brandon crumpled to pieces on the floor in the same fashion as Rosalie, feeling like a monster, knowing she had left him at the hospital and that Emmett McCarty would never forgive her.
Well, you know what to do: leave a review!
I made a rhyme because I`m hoping it will charm you into doing it;)
Love, Marie0912