Happy reading.

Disclaimer: Twilight, New Moon, and Eclipse are the property of Stephenie Meyer. Not me. Though if I had been the one to dream up Edward Cullen (literally too!)...well, we'll leave it at that.

Chapter Two

I stood there for a long time, unable to comprehend what had just occurred. It just wasn't normal. It was sick, twisted, wrong, and yet I couldn't get rid of the feeling of rightness. Of the sensation that this was how it was supposed to happen.

What was wrong with me? I'd just killed someone. And not an outright killing, no. I'd sucked her blood. What was going on?

It was like some vicious and terrible nightmare, but the only problem was that I couldn't wake up. I was the nightmare. And that terrified me.

I wasn't sure about much anymore, but I knew one thing was indisputably certain. This was all his fault. The 'man' in the alley. I couldn't remember why, I just knew. I couldn't remember much of anything, really.

I couldn't remember my family, just that I'd had one. I didn't remember anything. All those little moments you think about, that make you smile--gone.

I sobbed so hard that my entire body shook. My hand went up automatically to wipe my eyes, but then I noticed there weren't any tears, which just made me cry even harder.

I sit and I cry for everything I lost and for what little I gained. I lost a life, with blood running through my veins, happiness, and—if I was sad—tears. And what had I gained? An existence as a monster, an abomination. I shouldn't exist.

The despair deepens as I make the mistake of looking at the woman I killed. She hadn't even done anything wrong—just been in the wrong place at the wrong time. Like me.

What had I done to deserve this? I certainly wasn't living—my heart wasn't beating. But I wasn't dead either. No, I was stuck in a state of limbo, torn between the two. Lifeless, but not truly so. I was simply being.

I look at myself, really look. My skin is pale, hard. The infamous freshman fifteen had disappeared, replaced by muscle. What curves I'd had before were emphasized. With a sudden need to see my face, I dig through the woman's backpack for a mirror, cringing away from the personal effects that told a story I didn't want to hear.

I find it and force my eyes on my reflection. I inhale jaggedly.

My cheekbones are sharp, defined. Any blemishes I may have had are gone. My eyes are round, as if attempting the doe-eyed look of innocence. As if. Their crimson color kills any hope of that effect.

With a surge of anger, I throw the compact. Faster than I would have thought possible, it hits a tree with such force that a neat hole is made through the trunk. I stare in shock.

Great. Not only am I no longer human, but I have advantage in taking them out. Just peachy.

But the instant I take notice of the tree, the rest of my surroundings force themselves through my senses.

It's night. The sky is a perfect black, broken only by little pinpoints of light. And the moon is full, shining in its silver glory. My gaze drops to the tips of the neighboring trees, and then to the grassy earth. A faint trail is marked in the ground.

I inhale and a barrage of scents assails me. Dew and wood, earth and the heaviness of the air. Little birds in their nests and squirrels moving even in the darkness.

And hearing; I can hear everything. The beating of the forest animals' hearts, the wind moving through the leaves like a whisper. It's almost poetic.

My senses are so overpowering it's as if I'm alive again. But I know something's missing. My heart. It refuses to beat.

If this isn't life or death, is there an escape? A way to end the limbo? I suppose you could call it suicide, but that requires taking life, and my lack of heartbeat is a testament to the fact that I don't have that.

I think about it and the conclusion is depressing. No. If the whole compact-through-the-tree thing wasn't proof enough, I'm sure I'm indestructible. Fragility would make it too easy. Instinctively, I know my inference is correct. There's no way out.

Just how long can limbo last, though? Dante referred to it as a place that was like heaven but without hope. It lasted forever and there wasn't an escape, a hope of redemption.

Dante got it wrong, though. His idea of hell was awful, undoubtedly. But isn't it worse, so much worse, to live but be dead?

Limbo is the real hell.

So. Angst. If you were curious about why she forgot everything, I'm going to say it's because she was drunk. Very, very drunk.

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