Disclaimer: Twilight ain't mine.
A/N: So, I'm posting this on my LiveJournal account as well as over here... It looks prettier on my LJ, though, and I comment right back to you, and then you can respond more easily. So, consider using that as a reading source: pastiche-pen(dot)livejournal(dot)com/5726(dot)html
Otherwise, once again thank you to AG3 (fer yer silliness and encouragement) and americnxidiot (for your sweetness and insanity).
Jacob Black's Smack Trap—pshaw! I think today is Tuesday?
Tuesday is CFC day in the cafeteria—which is why Tuesdays rule.
Okay, onward moves my Bic...
Entry 2:
Admittedly, I should have recognized the symptoms.
I mean, when my mom died and dad got permanently strung to a wheel chair, my sisters pretty much caught one-way tickets on the depression train. Like, one of them married a Samoan surfer (who had a gut—I know—WTF, right!? Like, how the hell do you balance that on a sheet of glorified plywood?). So yeah, one sister married a fake surfer and the other moped around, wore black like daylight had gone out of style, and then graduated early to go to college when she's not even eighteen.
So fucking depressed.
Bella was depressed—but like, not?
Dang, well, she was, but I wasn't as much focused on that because I was focused on how effing hot she was. Sad girls are so hot. The dark eyes. The puffy lips. The disenchanted melancholy.
Bella looked like an Urban Outfitters catalog girl.
So, yeah, I should have noticed, but I was a little more focused...
On my junior teepee.
Dang it.
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Bella's Online Journal
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Dear E-Diary:
I'm beginning to think smoking is cliché.
Dare I say ...undramatic? Hell, even hard drugs are sorta boring.
Self-destruction is only interesting when it's total, I think.
But really, I don't want to destroy myself. I just want to sever the part of me that belonged to him—or at the minimum, cover it with a musty nun's habit or drown it in the odor of a braided garlic necklace.
Which is immature, I know.
I used to be that way. Mature. Responsible. I used to think of myself like a bold heroine out of an old novel, especially the romantic heroines, noble and yet somehow deserving of their lover's devotion (which is why I love Jane Austen). Anyway, this silly world view was one of my tiny, hidden conceits. It was a secret seed. Nothing more. And it was content to keep it close. To lie in wait. Maybe, never even let it grow.
But then along comes Edward Cullen with his vampiric super-pheromone smell, hot body, and brainy "bugger off" Fitzwilliam Darcyness. Naturally, his acceptance of me, his words of love, well—it was like he poured magic venom fertilizer on my itty wittle seed, and the effect was so magnificent that I needed to buy the magnum-sized wrappers to keep Jack's bean stalk covered.
But now.
Now he's gone.
And, alas, my seed and the tree into which it grew are dead, and I am not Lizzy Bennett. I am not even quirky, semi-fat Bridget Jones. Nor am I even a nice orphan with a blind widower like Jane Eyre. I'm not even boring, comfortably wedded Charlotte with a life of icky sex with Mr. Collins.
I am the jilted side show. I am the lunatic wife in Jane Eyre, the one that burns the whole place down with the unhinged dive out of the belfry at the end. I am Medea but with a sterile womb and only a rayon fleece. I am Romeo's Rosaline, a passing crush and deserving of nothing but a brush-aside mention.
I am a weed now. An ugly, encroaching weed.
...
...
Wow.
I just wrote that. Jeepers, I'm emo.
Wait.
No. No. No! NO! Not Jeepers—not "Holy Crow." NO. Not "Golly Gee Willackers."
I am not Leave It to Beaver Bella Swan.
I'm Lorena Bobbitt with a cleaver! That's right! Fucking hell, I AM PISSED! So yeah, I'm angry, and I need to SCREW HIM. GIVE HIM THE BIG OLD FUCK YOU.
Even though he's not present. And smoking isn't working. I'm not good at it. I'm too clumsy too look cool while doing it. I keep accidentally burning myself.
Maybe I should take up an off-beat religion?
Or.
Wait.
...
Yes.
There is something better than taking on a new religion.
There's...
Well, e-diary, you'll soon find out.
Now, I, Bella, am going to plan.
Cuz that's what I do.
-Bella
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From: Alice_in_Jasper__wonderland(at)gmail(dot)com
To: cswan(at)forkspd(dot)org
Date: 10/20/2005 20:05
Subject: Hello, My Favorite Man in a Uniform!
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Dear Charlie,
Sorry to email you at work. :-\ But I wanted to send you my warm regards and also inquire about Bella. She sent me some emails, recently. I don't know if she mentioned them to you? They have me worried. I really wish we didn't have to move away, and I imagine the transition has been hard for Bella; however, you haven't noticed her doing anything unusual lately, have you? Any risky activities?
And before you jump the gun and assume she's told me something, be assured—she hasn't really confessed anything. I am not sure that any untoward behavior has occurred. It's just that I've been having these inklings that she's headed for some trouble, and as her friend, I'm worried...
Like maybe hide your gun? Sharp knives?
DO NOT GET A PET.
Oh, and tell her that orange is not, under any circumstances, her color.
Do that. But don't tell her I emailed you. Just be subtle about the "orange," okay?
AND DO NOT GET A PET.
AND NO ORANGE. PLEASE. There's an orange shirt in her dresser drawer. Far left. Second from the top. It's... tweed. Could you be a dear and incinerate it for me?
Although you could probably pull a nice pumpkin off yourself, Charlie. So no worries. ;-)
xoxo,
Alice 3
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Friend me!: Twitter. Facebook. BLOG.
"I am not afraid of tomorrow, for I have seen yesterday and I love today."
- William Allen White
DO NOT INVEST IN THE HOUSING BUBBLE, YOU IDIOTS.
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Bella's Note to Mike Newton in History Class
Are you still dating Jessica?
We broke up like 3 weeks ago—so... NO.
I'm sorry about that.
Uh, why? Stanley is a loud-mouthed gossip, has awful cellulite, and what she told Lauren about the size of my... well, she's a big mouth who gives bad—um, nevermind.
Oookay. Well, I am sorry. . . Anyway, are you working today?
I always work with you on Wednesdays. Not that you seem to notice...
I've been out of it.
Didn't notice. :-P
So, we can talk at work then?
We can. Was that all?
Well, Mike...
...yes, Bella?
Have I ever told you that you have a really nice neck?
No? Thanks?
Well, you do. It's really, really, really nice.
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Live Video Feed from Newton's Sporting Goods around 8:00 pm that Evening
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There are two employees standing by the cash register.
One is ringing up a customer. He is the blond-haired male.
At his side is the dark-haired female. She is bent back, an arm on the hunter-green counter supporting her curved posture. She is scanning the male up and down. She looks contemplative, like she is planning or plotting or weighing her options.
The blond male finishes ringing up the customer.
The customer leaves.
It is five minutes until closing time, and the store is empty.
The female's lips move, and she is talking to the blond male. Her words end with raised eyebrows, and even more importantly, the blond male's eyes widen, and his head snaps to attention, and then the dark haired female leans forward. The male stand rigid. She raises her fingers and touches a spot on his neck.
Her lips move, her eyes focus. It's another question.
A slanted grin takes over the male's expression. He shakes his head somewhat cockily.
The female drops her chin. She gives the male a beleaguered, patient look.
He grins again. This time in anticipation.
And then she snatches up his arm.
She asks something again.
The male throws his head back and laughs but then his head shoots forward again, because he's staring down, and the female has her teeth buried in flesh of his forearm.
He says something to her. Some demand or series of expletives.
She releases his arm, but then she pulls him against her, and she bites...
His neck.
This time the male doesn't protest.
But instead, he bites her back.
And then there's a flurry of moment, and the female is shoving the male back—farther and farther—and every time he tries to take control—to stop her—or to merely stand still—she bites him again—and the more he resists the harder the bites get—the more marks there are on the male's neck.
However, the female stops when they reach the apparent destination.
The tent stand.
And she has the male pressed up against a charcoal grill, and he's got a fat grin on his face because his hand has gone under the Newton's Outfitter's polo and even under what appears to be a thin t-shirt beneath that—and is sketching the under curves of the Sierra Bella, when the female knocks him back so hard that he falls.
As he falls, the male tries to catch himself, and his hands smacks backward, but his right hand lands on a fake rock at the edge of the display. His teeth clench as the jagged edges pierce his flesh.
When he holds it up to look, the female looks too. The gash appears to be shallow, but there's a thin stream of red seeping into the creases of the palm.
The female begins trembling slightly, and she has two fingers cupped over her lips.
She looks a little green.
The male, despite his obvious pain, speaks to her, his expression comforting. The female shakes her head, and then she pinches her nose, and takes a long draught of air. The male leans forward as she does so, his eyes flitting once again to the bare skin exposed under the rumpled polo.
The female reaches out to him, still trembling, and she slides her fingers carefully over his fisted hand. One at a time, she delicately removes his clutched fingers, and then they both look down at the open wound.
And then the female leans down, as if to examine it more closely, except her face gets nearer and nearer and her whole body has gone from trembling to shaking, so that her grip on the male's hand is erratic, and he must brace it with his other arm.
But then the female does the oddest thing.
She takes her fingers off her nose and leans down.
She runs her tongue up the cut.
In one slick line.
The blond male's mouth falls open. His eyes grow wide.
The dark-haired female leans back, no longer trembling, though her jaw is stiff and her eyes are wide.
She had a spot of blood on her bottom lip.
Her tongue peeks out, and she licks it.
The blond male looks from the female down to his bleeding hand, and back from his bleeding hand to the female. Mysteriously, he cracks a grin.
Even the female looks confused.
And then the male plunges forward, the non-bloody hand clutching her jaw, and the male's tongue protrudes, and the female's mouth is still open with surprise, so that he manages to pop his pink organ inside, and his eyes are closed but the female's eyes are threatening to rocket out of their sockets, and her mouth is still open, like she doesn't know what to do about the invasion.
But then her mouth snaps shut at the same time that her eyes do.
And the male leaps back and is his hand is clutched over his mouth—not unlike the female's was before, but there is fresh blood evident between his fingers and though his mouth remains closed, he seems to be savaging growling at the female.
But the female is having none of it.
She yells back, her chest heaving with each burst of words, and then she leaps to her feet.
She marches to the side of the faux camp ground and wrenches the first aid kit off the shelf.
The female throws it at the male.
It misses him by a few feet and bounces once before the clasp breaks and the contents fan across the green patio covering.
The male has stopped trying to communicate but is now simply watching the female with large eyes.
And then the female turns on her heel.
She makes for the door.
She's passing by the counter when she stops. She stares at one of the pictures on the magazines for sale. She grabs the magazine and then throws that at the male too.
Then she storms out.
The male sits still for a minute, and then begins making use of the medical supplies. He puts gauze against his lip. For his hand, he sterilizes and wraps wound before quickly bandaging it up.
He's lucky he's a lefty.
The blond male stares down at the magazine.
"Angelina and Brad Have Vampiric Threesome with Billy Bob!"
There is a jar of Vaseline next to the cue tips.
The male frowns at the front doors, from where the female retreated.
Then he grabs his supplies and crawls into the tent, zipping it behind him.
A minute later the tent is shaking