A/N: So, I guess my readership has dropped to 8 now? Haha, that's cool. I'm happy for any passerby or a loyal reader. I actually really like this one (the metaphors were really fun to write) and you see so few things from Charlie's point of view, I figured it was high time. He deserves a little light.

Disclaimer: Stephenie Meyer owns Twilight, not I.

039. Burn -

The leaves burned so brightly in their fall colors I was sure I had stepped out into a blazing fire. The hues of orange, yellow, and red encompassed the yard from the sky to the ground. Yes, unfortunately the ground. Better rake those later.

I sighed not because of death and decay that fall ultimately symbolic in the natural world but instead because of the death and decay I was to see within my own house. Bella had started out so tempered and seemed as though her mold was impossible to break no matter the reheating and recasting of the metal that constructed her. But then she burst it as suddenly as lightning ignites a brush fire. She was with that boy and she burned. She burned so brightly it seemed as though I had on sunglasses to shield myself from the light of the fire.

But then I distinctly saw the smoke. I smelt it so strongly that I had to rip away my sunglasses and suddenly I felt the heat of the blaze to the point where I wondered where Bella had been able to survive it herself. But she did – with my tempering.

It should have worked. I didn't want her to stop burning (who really wants just smoldering coals to keep them warm) I just didn't want a wildfire. However, what happened was out of my control. Her fuel source suddenly was extinguished and she was left with absolutely nothing to burn. Bella had no spark. She had nothing left but the dust of debris to try and keep the memories of a great blaze previously.

I tried to strike the flint, but it never worked right. My gentle breaths to coax along a few sparks never quite reached their target and instead I was left with only flutters and sputters of a once great inferno.

Yet, seemingly beyond my wildest dreams, the flint changed hands and she gained a little fuel. A true friend, that good Jacob, took the initiative and was trying to stoke the small flame for as long as he could.

But then the cause of the great blaze and its destruction came back. And if an inferno could describe the phenomenon before, Hell would be a closer metaphor for what occurred afterwards. No water seemed to douse the flames, there was no lack of fuel, and it seemed to magnify daily.

I just wanted my daughter to grow in a healthy way. I just wanted her to experience every happiness – in a seemingly fit way. But now it seems I have overcast her mold. She seeps through the cracks and demands for more freedom. She doesn't want the mold. She wants to keep on burning until she reaches heaven.

So I take up the rake and clean away the decaying leaves, aware that soon I will be moving such chores indoors.