I don't own Twilight

~ II. ~

Sunday, June 14, 1931

My weekend consisted of two night shifts at the morgue, studying, a trip to a barber shop, and my newest habit: visualizing the girl from the library in all sorts of positions in my bed.

~000~

Monday, June 15, 1931

I've never before felt guilty about taking what I like for my pleasure, and I haven't taken anything from that girl. Still, I couldn't shake the feeling of shame when I saw her again in the library today. For a brief moment, I felt like I was fifteen again when my mother caught Emmett and me peeking across the back-alley window into Mrs. Denali's bedroom as she undressed. We thought Mrs. Denali was the cat's meow back in the day, but truthfully I realized she had nothing on this girl.

She wore a light blue elegant dress and a pair of very high heels. The pearls were missing, but the hairstyle and the perfume were the same. I smelled her before I saw her; every muscle in my body tensed in response. The dress was noticeably tighter than the one she had worn on Friday. Or maybe I imagined it. I thought I could detect the outlines of her slip as she strutted past me into the book stacks. She came back with a single book in hand and, instead of sitting near the window, she sat down toward the end of the table facing me. She opened up her book quickly and started reading.

I regretted my decision to get a haircut as I sat there trying to figure out whether it was safe to stare at her. Before I had cut my hair it was long enough to cover my eyes and now there was nothing for me to hide behind while I obsessed. I shouldn't have, but eventually I gave into temptation.

When I was certain she was focused solely on her book, I rested my eyes on her much the same way as I had last Friday. I noticed the cross again and let my gaze travel lower. Her dress was not only tighter – it was also lower cut. Below the swell of her breasts, I swore I could see the outlines of her nipples through the flimsy fabric. I was starting to sweat and suddenly found it difficult to breathe. My chest felt constricted, like someone had reached inside of me and was squeezing my heart. Then my heart rate spiked, pumping larger amounts of blood into my lungs and the rest of my body, and I panicked.

I didn't have to be at work for another two hours, but I bolted out of there anyway. I couldn't sit and focus on anything but her. I ran to work straight from the library. I had never before had the desire to spend extra hours at the university's pathology department, yet the cold halls in the basement of the hospital seemed like my only escape route. Life couldn't catch up with me there. I steadied my breath, leaning against the cool tiles of one of the examining rooms, reiterating the rational explanation my brain had come up with for my experience in the library: a temporary adrenaline high.

It's five o'clock in the morning and I can't sleep. I shouldn't go back to the main library. Not tomorrow, and to be safe, not for the rest of the summer.

~000~

Wednesday, June 17, 1931

I admit it; I'm an idiot. Don't get me wrong, I wasn't always such a dense, daft prick. Before my father lost his job and every last penny he owned, before Emmett died and my mother fell into a depression so deep that nobody could pull her out of it, I used to be one slick, smart, easy-on-the-eyes kind of fella.

I cannot pinpoint the exact moment in time when that changed and I became a shadow of myself. The former version of myself would have quickly assessed my little tête-à-têtes in the library for what they clearly were: flirtations. I would have seized the opportunity without hesitation by strolling over to her, and trying to lure her in with my cocky grin and my charm.

But who am I kidding? That person doesn't exist anymore. Instead, after avoiding the main library for one whole day, I went back, hoping to steal another glance at her. And I did, because I had strategized ahead of time. I took a large notepad with me, the ones I usually used for drawings in my anatomy class. I proceeded to casually prop up the pad against one knee and use it as a shield of sorts to stare at her at my leisure.

The color du jour of her dress was lovely: a deep dark rose, almost the color I imagined her nipples to be. And, for a while, it really turned out quite swell. She seemed mesmerized by her choice of book today, Flaubert's Madame Bovary en Francais. And she even provided easy access for my viewing pleasure by sitting only one table down, directly across from me.

Her chest today was adorned with long golden chains, which her fingers played with idly as she read her book. Everything worked out perfectly to my advantage, or so I thought, until she stopped fiddling with her necklaces. Then her hand dropped away from the golden strings altogether and she exhaled loudly, before looking up from her book, and pinning her eyes directly on me with furrowed eyebrows.

I took a deep breath and looked down like a coward, pretending to read something on my notepad. I hadn't written one word in the hour I had been staring at her. Out of the corner of my eye I saw her getting up and a sigh of relief escaped my lips – until I felt her standing next to me, tapping her foot. I racked my brain thinking of something to say, but she beat me to it, speaking before I could formulate a coherent sentence.

"Don't you know it's rude to stare, Mister?" she said. I was surprised at first. Not by the sound of her voice; its melodic, low tone was as beautiful as the girl itself. No, the voice suited her, but the lack of even a faint southern drawl confused me. In some ways, I had imagined her to be a Southern Belle.

I dropped my pad down on the table in front of me, pulled my arms up behind my head, leaned back further, and grinned at her. I knew I'd been caught – red-handed, so to speak. No point denying it.

"That depends, I would say."

"Please do enlighten me. What factors would possibly count in your defense of staring at me – shamelessly, I might add – for three afternoons now without bothering to introduce yourself?"

She's definitely not shy or quiet. She is feisty, indeed. I recognized this, albeit too late.

I laughed and shook my head. I suddenly got it. The dresses that kept on getting tighter, the plunging necklines, her hands playing with her necklaces; the way she always moved one seat closer to where I was sitting, making it almost too easy for me. I was embarrassed. Not for staring at her, but for not figuring out her game sooner.

"Okay, I guess I can remedy the introduction part now, if it's not too late. Edward, Edward Cullen." I tried to play it cool by getting up and extending my hand to her. She glanced at my hand briefly before reaching for it with hers. Her hand was warm and so soft. I closed my eyes for a second, reveling in the feel of her skin and her scent.

"Nice to finally meet you, Edward. So, what are you studying?" she asked without volunteering her name. She glanced down; a frown started to form on her face as her eyes flickered from my notepad to one of the books on the table. I chanced a glance at the page and tried to push my pad aside quickly. She, however, was faster and grabbed it before I could shove it under the anatomy textbook lying next to it. She held it up, inspecting it.

I scratched my chin, hoping she wouldn't ask me for an explanation I wasn't interested in giving. She smirked, looking at me and then back at the page in front of her.

"Who's the girl?" she asked, her eyes focused back on the drawing.

To me it was quite obvious whom I'd drawn, even though I hadn't yet started on the face.

"Um, you kind of forgot to mention your name?" I asked to buy me some time.

"Isabella," she said without looking up.

"It's you," I admitted, shrugging my shoulders. At this point, I fully expected her to smack me over the head with my own notepad, but instead her smirk spread into a full fledged smile.

"So I take it you study medicine?"

"Yes, I do."

"Come walk with me, Edward," she ordered and I collected my stuff to follow her.

"Do you have a cigarette?" she asked, leaning against the outside wall of the library in the shadow of a tree.

"Yes. Would you like one?"

"Well, yes, if you don't mind. You don't mind, do you? I mean, women who smoke?"

I shook my head, took out two cigarettes, put them both between my lips, lit them and handed one to her. She watched me with dark eyes.

"Well, good! You didn't strike me as the kind of guy who'd mind it terribly if a woman smokes or – god forbid – dares to have an opinion. I smoke, and I do have opinions about most everything. Most men down here cannot stand it though, which is why, according to my aunt Petunia, I am the most ineligible debutante she's ever laid eyes on. Do you want mine?" she rattled off rapidly.

"On what?"

"On your artistic talent, of course, silly!"

"Sure." This time I smirked. She sure talked a lot.

"I want to see that drawing once it's finished, but judging from what I could see, I would say you have an active imagination and you are wasting your time, money and definitely your talent in medical school." She inspected the cigarette in her hand and looked at me without batting an eye.

"Well, I take that as a compliment, Isabella. I don't know about talent and time, but since I'm studying here on a scholarship, I assure you no money of mine is wasted on tuition. And surely you do agree there is something redeeming about being a doctor."

"Ha! No, there is nothing redeeming about that profession. They prescribed my mother lithium, and couldn't fix my cousin's leg properly so he still walks around with a limp. Never mind that they charge way too much money to get rich off of people's misery. If you want my opinion, you might as well go to Mama Lulu's in the bayou and buy some of her medicine. At least she won't charge you an arm and a leg, and it works about just as well." As her last words escaped her pouty mouth, I noticed it – the accent I've been missing. It was faint and only came out when she got upset.

I chuckled. "Did you just compare doctors to some voodoo medicine lady who lives in the swamp? Surely you are aware that modern medicine makes new discoveries all the time? Take for example the development of synthetic insulin to cure diabetes. Before its discovery people were slowly wasting away from the disease."

I gave her my most convincing, earnest expression while leaning forward with one hand resting next to her head against the wall. Apparently my acting skills are still up to par, because shortly afterward she rolled her eyes and gave in.

"Oh, fine. Maybe not all of modern medicine is bad."

"So where are you from, Isabella? And what brings you to this library?"

"New Orleans. And it's Bella to my friends. The second question is really quite superfluous for a smart boy like yourself."

I raised one of my eyebrows at her questioningly, not certain where she was going with this.

"Oh, don't be so thick. It's you, obviously, and not those books. Mind you, I've already read half of them anyway." She didn't blush when she made the confession; instead she took a deep inhale from her cigarette.

"You have read half of those books? When the hell did you have the time to accomplish that? You can't be older than eighteen," I mocked her with delight, because she made feel alive.

"Oh, please. Not only did they forget to teach you it's rude to stare, but they also forgot to tell you that it's impolite to discuss a woman's age. But I will let you know that I am twenty-one years old and do have a college degree." And with that she exhaled smoke into my face lazily, stumped out the cigarette with the toe of her high heeled shoe and walked past me.

"Bella, wait!" I yelled, running after her, suddenly worried I had offended her. "If I may call you that?"

"Yes, you may."

"May I see you again?"

"What for? To finish that drawing of yours?"

"No."

"No?" She shook her head and raised her eyebrows.

"Active imagination, you said so yourself, remember?"

"So what for then?"

"I don't know."

She continued to walk away, and I stared at her retreating form. As if sensing my uneasiness and worry, she turned around one last time.

"Oh, relax, Edward. I'll be back! It's not like I have anything better to do in this boring town."

She disappeared then, her hips swinging ever so slightly as she walked towards the campus exit.

I walked on clouds for the rest of the afternoon, and even during my night shift I was happy making plans in my head; plans that I didn't ever intend to follow through with. Felix, the old night porter at the hospital, noticed my chipper mood and promptly commented on it.

"You should get her some flowers, you know? Girls like that, Eddie!" he exclaimed, too loud for my taste. Half the nurses turned around and giggled. I abhor it when people call me 'Eddie', but make an exception for the old chap. He'd probably not remember if I would bother to inform him to please call me 'Edward' and go right back to calling me 'Eddie' the next day.

"I don't know her last name and I don't know where she lives. And even if I did, I doubt she wants to see me at her doorstep with flowers."

"Nonsense. Sounds like you'll just have to work a little harder to convince her!"

"Convince her of what, Felix?"

"That you are the man for her. Jeez, for a smart boy you sure are slow."

"But I'm not. She knows that."

"How can you possibly say that?" he huffed.

"It's really quite simple, old chap. She wants pearls and champagne, while all I can offer her is a rented room in the wrong part of town."

"Two more years and you'll be a doctor. Patience, Eddie, you've heard of it? It's a virtue."

Sitting in my room watching the sun slowly rise while counting the seconds until the library opens, I recognize that patience is not one of my virtues.

~000~

Monday, June 22, 1931

She appears to have found other things to do in this boring town. It's been five days; five days of hoping that she'll show up; five days of waiting for the sound of her heels, the smell of her perfume and the sight of her pretty face. I run to the library every day and miraculously even got some studying done, because the object of my obsession did not show up.

Work, unfortunately, provided ample opportunity for distraction. Three suicides over the weekend alone and in all three cases the families had insisted on an autopsy. Aside from one case, a guy who I was pretty certain based on the symptoms of his illness described to me by his sobbing wife, had killed himself by indulging in arsenic, the causes of death for the other two fellows were painfully obvious: a gun shot in the head and the old stand-by – asphyxiation by hanging.

But even while inspecting the decaying corpses in front of me, all I thought about was the girl . . . Bella.

I argued with Felix about the increase in suicides he has witnessed in the recent years. The misguided old fool thought suicide was always caused by heartbreak; I told him more likely it was a logical calculation made by all three men in front of me.

I bet you ten to one, I told him, if you did some digging through the family finances of either of the three dead men, you would have found out that the seemingly well-respected businessman was just a dollar short of bankruptcy, and rather than drag his family down with him, he'd taken out a hefty life insurance policy to ensure that the wife and the kids were taken care off. The poor sob, of course, in his hurry to end this only life he had for certain, had neglected to read the fine print of aforementioned policy. Hence, in the end his wife will not only end up a widow, but will also be poor.

I pondered this, and why the relatives of the guy with a gun shot wound, out of all things, wanted to have his chest and intestine examined as I pulled out a saw and began the tedious task of prying open his ribcage. Since I was only the lowly assistant to the pathologist, I didn't have much say in the matter, and I didn't voice my objections before proceeding to prep the body for the soon to follow autopsy.

Tonight though was a quiet night. Nobody died and I got to leave early. I fell asleep when I came home, resisting the urge now to fantasize about her. But of course in my unconscious state, that's what I did. I woke up in the middle of the night dripping in sweat and my own milky juices. I felt light-headed, a combination of nausea and hunger sweeping over me. The desired release is only a short-lived physical one. Something else continues to hang over me.

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