His pristine white hand came up and pressed to his chest, hoping to feel a beat. Anything, really, would do. Just as long as he felt something thrum against his stony hand.
Nothing did. He expected as much, since he had been immortal for several decades. It was a positively obscene hope that something, anything would bring the beat back, but he believed in it regardless. One would assume that he was obnoxious, but he didn't think so. They didn't know. They didn't understand.
Perhaps it was a good thing. Monsters – no matter the type in this overzealous fairytale – were dangerous. But she hadn't been afraid of him like she should have. Wherever her instinct and preceptors were, they were obviously flawed. But everyone had imperfections, and he supposed that's what made people beautiful. Not his outward appearance, but the flaws he kept deep in his black and shriveled heart, or whatever was left in his empty chest.
His fingers dug into his cold torso, begging for some kind of response. But there was nothing, as per usual. That only depressed him more. His family thought he would be over it by now; that he'd of forgotten her. His memory was sharp – almost impeccable. Memories stayed whether or not he wanted them to or not. It came with the unfathomable and limitless world before his capable self. He should have been happy to be free of all distractions. He should have learned to appreciate it.
But he did not.
Human weakness was a fragile thing. Any misinterpretation or nudge gave way to the floodgates. It was to be expected from mortals, after all, but he was still shocked that it was happening to him. He knew he had loved her, and still does, but in time he would have thought he could have moved on, leaving all the baggage behind. She would die eventually, leaving him alone, so why was it so hard now, only two weeks after his departure?
He felt heavy – he wasn't himself.
Someone was playing with his heartstrings.
He looked out at the horizon, wondering where the young Dawn's rose-red fingertips were, shining across the sky. After so many years of existence, he had never seen a horizon quite like the one described in the Odyssey. Perchance it was Homer's own wishes for the sun to rise in such a perfect way. Most likely.
One untouched horizon like that would heal his disturbed soul (if he had one). It'd erase all the pain, the unblemished regret, the paradisaical heedlessness – if only for a moment. He could shine as a pure being; one without soreness and evils. Another spiteful hope that he could not accomplish, let alone begin.
Dreams were for the weak, but he wanted to envelop them again. He wanted to be swathed in a dream world with her. He could stay there forever, never leaving, not even attempting to gather the courage to escape it. That was how insecure he was, and yet he embraced it like a forgotten sin. It was his nature – diluted and impoverished. Yet he accepted it with grace, because that was just how he was.
It provided him with a serene back light, one that he wanted to sneak into and stay in. If only he could.
Hopes and dreams, dreams and hopes: weak.
He was beginning to have a difference in opinion opposite of the demon in his head. Whether that was beneficial or not was yet to be perceived.
Edward Cullen stood, watching the sun rise through the sky, fingers aching to touch it. Beams of delightful sunlight shot across his wintry skin, warming it only very slightly. He raised a hand, seeing the forbidden sparkle shatter over his membrane. Hopes and dreams.
Dreams and hopes.
Seth had an ache in his chest.
It wasn't abnormal for that to happen, seeing as he often pushed his new found endurance harder than he was actually supposed to. But this was different. It was a dull ache, like it wasn't even accredited to be there physically. It throbbed every once in a while, often times when he was alone. It had been coming off and on for the last few days, that then molding into a week, and then two weeks. He assumed he could live with it, but with its steadily growing want, he found himself in a quandary.
He didn't know where it came from (he knew, but didn't want to believe that it was due to that fucking girl). It was a misdemeanor on his part, he knew, but ignored it. It wasn't his lifelong dream to be figured wrong. That would only hurt him in a sense that he would not feel as comfortable.
He was strong-willed. That was blatantly obvious. Any the most idiotic person could see that. He had yet to find a sufficient outlet for his rather unattractive trait, since he found himself knowing that he needed some of it to make his own decisions and stay by his own opinions until proven wrong.
But Seth didn't like to be proven wrong. I think you're aware of that.
The ache pulsed against him, causing him to get to his feet. He found that he couldn't control his legs, as they were leaving his room and his brain behind. Before he knew it, he was sitting in his truck, bumbling down the road. The inevitable roar of need echoed inside, like an animal.
Predatory instincts: how quaint.
He wasn't about to be taken over by ridiculous requests of his own impairment. Forcing himself to think straight, he pulled over to the side of the road, throwing the truck into park. He leaned his head against the steering wheel, hands dropped into limp piles at his thighs.
"Damn it," he cursed, blinking once, twice, again. He surely didn't have an ounce of brain power in his head. That was it. He had to grapple with his inner desires once and for all. He would win, because his more masculine tendencies pressured him to, even if it was against his own subconscious.
Barbaric. Truly.
For those who haven't heard 1901 by Phoenix (who hasn't?), make sure you do. It fits in well with this chapter, and if I hadn't of heard it, Maggie and I would have been playing WoW like the good little nerds we are (and OMG, i've experienced withdrawal. Haven't played my 80 pally since september!). Off to pillage and plunder, y'know. The whole mess.