Chapter Notes:

Wow. I haven't updated in a month. I suck. Hopefully once I finish this semester, and get over my writer's block, I'll be updating more normally.

Well, in case you forgot, in the last chapter, Victoria and James have wild, crazy sex in Central Park, she realizes she loves him, then she starts remembering her human life. Here, Victoria remembers more...

Thanks for the reviews for the last chapter. They're always appreciated.

Disclaimer: Stephenie Meyer created and owns Victoria, but as always, let's not tell that to Victoria. ;-)

Chapter 4: Fracture

The memories of my human life that I had locked away in mind, broken and hazy as they are, came back to me in an instant. I only remember certain things: the most important things… the happiest and the most painful; the most pivotal. The ones that changed me forever.

Portsmouth, Virginia. June, 1855.

"Victoria!" she sang in her beautiful voice, dancing into the room as though her feet were hovering. "Victoria, my darling, it's time to rise. I've begun breakfast."

I gasped and sighed a low grumbling protest. She had woken me from my familiar dream.

The dream was always the same, and had happened, in reality, a week before he disappeared. We had been sitting on the docks along the shoreline of the Elizabeth River, our hands entwined as one, forming a single limb between us. Then he looked into my eyes with such a fierce passion I had never seen before, and leaned forward to kiss my lips. I was shocked: in real life and in the dream, it was the same exact emotion that would repeat over and over for centuries to come or until my heart would mend. Then as he kissed me, I felt something I had never felt before. It was such a strong, overpowering feeling. It was more than an emotion; it was a bird singing from my ribcages to be released. He released it. It was love.

I opened my eyes and made out that it was dawn. I sat up and grumbled beneath my breath.

The dream, as always, was so clear and felt as real as though it were happening. Yet it depressed me each and every morning, the realization that James was, in fact, not here. I woke each morning to a world without him, and each morning the fracture on my heart ached like an open wound. Yet I felt it beginning to heal, despite itself. However, I determined to wait for him to come back. It had been two years, and I knew I could wait longer. I would die a maiden, regardless of my mother's constant arrangements.

"Well, don't you look pitiful," my mother murmured. Her arm was outstretched, waiting for me to take the candle from her hand. I set the candle on my table and gazed from my window the pink sky. It was beautiful, to say the least. I looked at my mother, the flickering flame casting an orange glow on porcelain skin and rosy cheeks. I had inherited from her these features along with a soft soprano voice and the faculty to play piano.

She left the room in a huff and I dressed slowly. I took a deep breath before I began my day, then counted back from ten as I walked the corridor and down the stairs. I did this every morning as a way to change my countenance from a somber one into the cheerful one the world expected from me. Only mother was permitted to see me sad. I did not want to bring the entire world down with me in my mourning. At the count of one, a smile was upon my face and I was in the dining room.

I grinned at my father's hair, the distinct color of a radiating fire, disheveled and messy. He looked up at me from his chair at the table as I teased his hair to the side and patted it down gently. It would not stay for long, I thought as I bent down to kiss him on the cheek that was spotted with freckles resembling my own.

"Good morning, Father," I said to him.

"Good morning, Ceara, my love," he winked. I grinned at the Gaelic name that only he called me. Mother had long forgotten my given same once it was changed to Victoria in honor of the new queen of her homeland.

"Good morning, Declan," I waved to my brother, and he smiled at me gently. He had a look on his face I could not place.

Mother had already begun cooking breakfast. I danced into the kitchen to help, humming as I went.

My family was not rich by any means, but we had a modest fortune.

We had nothing when we came to America eighteen years ago. I faintly remember those days, not of Ireland, but of our journey across the ocean when I was four years old. I can recollect the creaking sounds the ship made as it rocked slowly back and forth. I can recall the fear I felt, the subtle anxiety in my mother's eyes, the composed serenity of my father's face as he held me, and the courage of my brother's countenance. Memories like those are hard to forget, and will stay with me for eternity.

My father's profession had been ship worker from the time he was a young teenager living in Ireland. It is what he knew. He had heard that working in America was more profitable than it was in Europe, so he decided to move the family across the ocean to a port town, Portsmouth, Virginia.

When we arrived in Virginia, my parents came by a small home they could barely afford, and we settled. It was not the nicest of neighborhoods, but alas they made it a home. Through the years he worked for the shipyard, Father climbed the ranks from lowly shipbuilder to shipyard manager. My brother followed Father into the profession and was assigned as apprentice. This afforded us women with the means to stay at home and care for the home and family.

During the day I played piano, practiced singing, helped Mother keep the house, and socialized with the neighbors. I had a completely unexciting life, and that's the way I liked it. It was all I knew. However, if James hadn't gone missing, we'd be married by now, I'm sure. I would be taking care of our children while he worked at the shipyard with my brother and father. It would have been lovely. It was something I still hoped for, even though all hope should have been lost. My faith in his pending return was all I had to keep me going.

I breathed in the scent of the breakfast on the stove. It smelt delicious. Mother was a spectacular cook. In another life, she could have been a chef. Her corned beef and cabbage was absolutely to die for, but that would come later in the evening. For now it was simply eggs and maple bacon, my favorite. I took four plates and silverware from the cupboards and glided back into the dining room. I set the table while singing a little tune I had made up, then returned to the kitchen. I could see through the small window that it was now yellow outside. The sun had risen, slowly beginning to illuminate our home within.

Our house was beautiful. Mother had worked for some time as a housekeeper for Mrs. Hazel. By the time the old woman died of loneliness, father was a junior manager at the shipyard and my brother an apprentice. We had just enough money to purchase the beautiful small house she had lived in near the river. It was just large enough for all of us and our belongings.

I loved our house. It was white with peach trim and had a small front yard with green grass, a tiny garden where I planted lilies, and a white picket fence. The houses in the neighborhood were packed together tightly, but it was no matter because our neighbors were lovely people.

We sat down at the table. Father said a quick prayer, and then we ate. Declan was not his usual self at all. He ate quickly, then took a deep breath and looked at us all with fear and determination in his eyes, his brow furrowed together.

"I'm leaving the shipyard," he said.

"Excuse me?" my mother replied, having fully heard him. She needed to hear him again. My father looked up from his plate with a slightly amused look on his face.

"I'm leaving the shipyard, and I'm leaving home."

"And just where are you going to go?" Mother demanded.

"I'm going to New York... to Manhattan. This..." he took a deep breath. He was ready for the barrage of rage from our father and tears from our mother. "This is not the life I want to lead. This is not where I want to be. I want... more."

"Don't be ridiculous," my father finally spoke. Mother picked up a napkin and started to dab her eyes before the tears even began. I felt as though I would cry, too.

"I'm not being ridiculous!" my brother shouted in reply. "I've decided to go and live my dreams. To follow my destiny."

"That is positively absurd, young man!" father was shouting now. "And don't raise your voice near your mother and sister," he added quietly.

I was now beginning to cry.

"I can't stand it anymore! The smell of this place! The sounds, the people. It's all just so... mediocre! I need more! I'm unfulfilled and I feel as though I am dying. I'm dying, and I need to get the hell out of here!"

My mother gasped. I opened my mouth in shock before I realized I had done so. I had had no idea my brother felt as depressed as I. For other reasons, of course, but depressed nonetheless. He was now taking action, bravely rising from his desolation. Or acting stupidly, I wasn't sure which. I had always known him to be courageous and carefree. He would always climb the highest trees and swim the longest lengths of the river. I had always envied him. I wished I could be like him, more fearless. I envied him now, able to do something about his circumstances. I would not voice these opinions in front of our parents, however.

"Stop! Stop saying these things! Please!" our mother begged.

"Mother, I am sorry. I am so very sorry. I don't mean to make you cry. I love you so much. You, father, Victoria. You all are my world. But I have dreams. I want to be a writer. I've written some things and I've saved some money. I'm going to New York and there's nothing you can do to stop me," he said, now looking at Father with resolve.

"Fine! Leave!" Father roared. I broke down in tears. I could not stand to see Father so upset at my brother. It was unbearable.

"Please stop yelling," I cried. "Let him do what he wants. If he wants to go, let him go!"

"Thank you, Victoria," Declan said quietly.

My father looked at me and opened his mouth as though he were about to say something, but he stopped himself. He took a very deep breath and closed his eyes, rubbing the temples of his forehead with his thumbs. He looked up and into my brother's eyes.

"When are you leaving?" he finally asked.

"Today."

"You have a place to live in New York?"

"Yes."

"You are sure you have the money you need." A statement, not a question.

"Yes, I'm sure."

Father took in a deep breath and looked at his wife, who was now weeping with little restrain. "Emily," he said calmly. "Emily, please." He looked as though he would cry at the sight of her crying. I knew he could not stand to see her unhappy. He quickly turned his head to look at Declan with an enraged glare.

"Leave then," he said quietly.

Declan excused himself from the table and went upstairs to his room. I cleared the table quickly and carelessly dropped the dishes into the sink before following him. I passed my father and mother huddled together, Father hugging his wife, comforting her gently. The bedroom door was closed, so I knocked.

"Who is it?"

"It's me," I replied.

"Come in."

I opened the door and gasped. Suitcases were already packed in a corner. A portfolio and papers that looked like maps were strewn across his desk.

"Declan, how long have you been planning this?"

"It feels like forever, but I suppose it's been about a year now."

"Then why did you spring it upon us like this? Some warning would have been nice, Declan."

"There was no other way. They would have talked me into staying, and I would have stayed. I need this, Victoria. I need to get away. I know it in my soul."

"I understand."

"You do?" he asked.

"Yes, Declan. I envy you. You have no idea how much I envy your ability to just pick up and leave your sadness behind. I've wished I could do the same since..."

"I know. I can tell," he whispered and I frowned.

"I thought I have been hiding it well."

"You and I—we are so similar, Victoria. Two peas in the pod are we," he smiled. "I know you."

At that, I leapt into his arms and cried, "Oh, Declan. I'm going to miss you so much."

"I'm going to miss you, too, Little Sister."

End Notes:

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