This is probably the most angst-ridden thing I have ever written/ever will write. The idea just came to me... and I was like GAH fine I'll write this and see if it doesn't suck. I think it turned out okay. Even if the plot sucks, the writing is good. :)
Set during New Moon. Very Emo!Bella.
Characters/Pairings: Bella, Edward's voice
x x x
This
is What is Left
The tip of the knife glints at her from across the room, sunlight reflecting on the sharp blade. It's still there from last night, she remembers slicing the ripe red tomatoes with it for her and Charlie's dinner. She guesses she forgot to put it away.
What are you planning, love? It's his voice, whispering in her ear, surrounding her, filling her. It sounds apprehensive, but curious, like he doesn't quite trust her.
She drums her fingers on the table top, she continues to stare at the knife. She inches towards it, nervously, carefully, afraid she might collapse before she gets there.
Be careful, he tells her. Don't do anything stupid. Be rational, Bella.
She doesn't want to, doesn't have to. No one is there to stop her.
She finishes her tedious trek across the kitchen, and she is next to the gleaming silver blade.
Don't you dare touch that.
She smiles at his voice, reaches for the knife. She cradles it in her hands, her pale fingertips skipping cautiously across its smooth silver surface. Delicate, slender. Pretty, almost. She holds it up vertically, in front of her face.
It is pretty, she decides. The sunlight coming in through the window causes it to shimmer again, casting miniature suns across the surface, blinding her and etching a mirror image across her vision.
She blinks away the purple spots.
What are you doing? Put that down. His voice is urgent, an order, but there she can hear the frantic notes of pleading underneath.
She runs the tip of her finger across the thin sliver of the edge, the sharpest part. It gleams again, an invitation.
She touches the sharp point, brings it slowly down to the near translucent skin on her wrist.
Stop, stop it now. Don't do this.
The knife hovers above the pale skin, she sees the blue veins beneath. Then she pushes forward.
It collides soundlessly with her skin, shallowly sinking into her flesh. She makes two marks on her wrist, identical to the scar already on her hand. Two crescent shaped slivers, a small distance apart.
Teeth marks.
She imagines that they're from his teeth; that the poison is now flowing into her veins. She imagines herself writhing, crying out in agony as the fire spreads through her, turns her warm blood to icy venom.
Who knew she could be so masochistic?
It clears her head, the pain. Makes her see straight. She's not crazy. This voice she hears- completely normal. The current state of her sanity is no longer in question.
Then the blood. The two slices in her arm open up like a cavern, blood running up over the edges and trickling down her arm. She blanches, it terrifies her. The scent of it arcs up to her nose, rust and salt, hell once over, sickening her.
But it's his voice again.
Bella... he murmurs to her, warming her immediately. Your blood, it's so sweet. Why are you doing this to me, love? This isn't safe. It's tempting me...
She smiles lightly. "Just drink it," she whispers. "Let me escape this." The blood drips onto the floor at her feet.
My God, Bella. His voice is strangled, quiet and low. What has become of you?
And she realizes what she is doing, what she has said.
She is horrified, her breathing goes ragged. She can't get enough air into her lungs. Her mind is flashing, racing, she is unsure of what to do.
Fix this, Bella! he urges her.
Her head is spinning, she can't fix this, she can't!
Clean it up, he tells her.
She listens. She plasters a band-aid to her arm, scrubs the kitchen until her fingers are numb. She wipes off the blade of the knife, puts it away in the drawer.
His voice doesn't come back, and she is once more a hollow shell of herself.
"What happened?" Charlie asks at dinner, nodding towards her bandaged arm.
"I fell," she lies, turning away from him. He nods, this is normal for her. Nothing out of the ordinary, just a scrape.
After school, the next day. She is sitting in the kitchen, lost, dejected. Alone.
She doesn't want to do it again. But she needs to hear his voice. It makes her feel sane, whole again, almost human.
The drawer. Her nervous eyes land on it, then quickly look away. She shouldn't. She can't. The knife is calling to her, telling her to touch it. The drawer is closed, but she can't keep her eyes from flicking towards it, again and again. She stands up.
No, no, no, Bella, don't do it.
His voice is back. She tries to listen to him. She turns around, but then the realization hits her like a brick to the head, makes her stagger. As soon as she leaves the room, decides not to, she won't be able to hear him.
And she can't lose that, she refuses. She's already lost him, and so much of herself. This is what is left.
Her eyes slide to the drawer. She moves toward it, slides it open.
Bella, no, please, love. For me.
For him? She is doing this for him, for his voice, for the reassurance that he gives her.
She picks up the knife.