Twilight belongs to Stephenie Meyer.
PTB's hezpixie and solareclipses – thank you for your beta work. It feels like you sweated blood over this text. Sorry about that.
All the remaining mistakes are mine, and I apologize for them.
Beige, Neri and Van – I wouldn't be writing if it weren't for your support and beta work... I probably wouldn't be sane without you either. But I digress.
White Stripes kick a**! Lyrics for We Are Gonna Be Friends that I used in this chapter are theirs. Not mine. I wish they were though.
Here goes beating a story into the ground...
Gore is being thrown around liberally. Heads are rolling, literally, across a dark cemetery. A tall leggy blonde, comes out of nowhere, running. She is screaming in that annoying girly high pitched damsel-in-distress way and the crowd bursts out in laughter.
We are watching Zombies on the Prowl: Heads Will Roll.
Popcorn is flying everywhere. We're throwing it at an annoying group of teens who obviously didn't come to watch the movie.
Teenagers are constantly in heat, boys especially. It is funny to watch the boys' carefully planned strategies come into action.
It would make it so much easier if someone had informed them that most girls want the same as they do. But then it wouldn't be this amusing for me to watch.
Jasper tosses a handful of popcorn at them and Carlisle shouts, "Show some respect!"
We burst into laughter.
As the ridiculous scenes roll one after the other, Rosalie and I are having a sarcasm-fueled discussion, Alice and Emmett are being their regular heckling selves.
Jasper and Carlisle are watching with rapt attention, often hissing at us to shut up.
We are happy.
It's one of those precious days when you're with the right people, in the right place, at the right time, and life is good.
Soon enough the movie ends and credits are rolling. We stand up to put our coats on.
"Doctor Cullen!" a middle age man calls.
Carlisle waves hello and tells us to meet him outside.
Still picking popcorn out of each other's hair, we are on our way out of the theater when a girl approaches Alice and asks about Bella.
Alice tells her that she hasn't seen her in a few days, but has been meaning to call her.
And this is when we begin to weave our web of lies.
The girl with the sad eyes lowers her head and says,"But Alice, don't you know? Bella's been missing for the past two days."
The masks at hand come to rest on all of our faces.
Worry.
Interest.
"What's going on?" Emmett asks loud enough for the girl to hear. She glances at him.
"I don't know," Jasper answers shrugging his shoulders.
"I'll tell you later," Alice keeps up with the pretenses.
The play is set in motion, a horror movie that no one but us knows about, continues, ironically, in a theater. I smirk at the thought.
We meet Carlisle outside. It's cold, and we must get into the car as soon as possible. Our breath doesn't form into a mist in such cold weather, and people tend to notice it.
In the car, he tells that his former patient, Mr. Smith, has been asking about Bella, and whether there have been any teenage bodies found in the area recently.
Mr. Smith is a naturally curious fellow, but still, I wonder why he would be asking Carlisle about Bella.
He's not related to her, and he's not a cop, or a journalist. Perhaps he just enjoys gossip? Or maybe he's just morbid? This town lacks excitement; a case of a missing teen will surely bring some. I wish Edward was here; he'd be able to answer my questions.
He's probably waiting for us at home.
The rest of the drive is silent, but pleasant.
As the car glides down the road, approaching our home, I feel like a small child being tucked into bed. Warmth and love are envoloping me.
As we enter the house, I hear Edward strumming a guitar. That's odd. I didn't know he'd taken up guitar.
Alice, Jasper, Rosalie and Emmett decide to go on a quick hunt, meaning they won't be back until the morning. Their quick hunts often mean entering a different state, or sometimes Canada.
Carlisle and I lay on the couch, his head on a pillow between my legs. He's reading Reader's Digest, while I'm reading Neruda.
As boring as eternity may be, I often catch myself postponing things until I have more time. It sounds ridiculous, I know, but I wanted to read Neruda a second time for a while now, and haven't had the chance. This evening, I finally do.
A repetitive tune steals my attention away from the beautiful verses. Edward is playing something that is almost... sad.
Uninvited, a memory flashes through my mind and I gasp as pain pierces my heart. My vision turns blurry.
Carlisle asks if everything's okay.
"What's wrong with Edward?" I ask, as if I expect him to have a diagnosis. He looks at me, worried.
"There's something wrong?"
"The melody; it's sad, don't you think?"
He listens for a moment. "Esme, he's just playing the guitar."
I nod, mechanically, convincing myself that Edward means nothing by this. He wouldn't hurt me intentionally.
Trying to appease myself, I take the book in my hands, searching for the right page.
Fall is here, hear the yell
Back to school, ring the bell
Edward starts singing in a low voice, which is strange for someone who is on a blood high.
Brand new shoes, walking blues
Climb the fence, books and pens
I can tell that we are gonna be friends
What is going on?
Walk with me, Suzy Lee
Through the park, by the tree
We will rest upon the ground
And look at all the bugs we've found
Then safely walk to school
Without a sound
I can feel tension growing in my chest. The feeling that has always haunted me is creeping in slowly. Anxiety accompanied nostalgia.
Well here we are, no one else
We walked to school all by ourselves
There's dirt on our uniforms
From chasing all the ants and worms
We clean up and now it's time to learn
Images of young carefree children invade my thoughts. I am too weak to fight them off.
A sickening feeling of a part of me being ripped out, a wish to die... It's all coming back to me.
My angel, perfect and small, bundled up in his blanket never got the taste of happiness he deserved.
Oh, God, I wanted it so badly for him!
Numbers, letters, learn to spell
Nouns, and books, and show and tell
At playtime we will throw the ball
Back to class, through the hall
Teacher marks our height against the wall
I get up to pace. The memories of my baby boy are flooding my mind. My precious, fragile little boy.
My angel, dead in my arms.
"Stop it!" I shout. Carlisle's embrace can't comfort me now.
And we don't notice any time pass
We don't notice anything
During my pregnancy, I used to daydream about my child.
About my child playing in dirt, making mud cakes.
About my angel climbing trees.
I would imagine him going to school someday, wearing a little uniform.
I imagined the two of us sitting at the dinner table at night, struggling with math homework, his little feet swinging above the floor.
I wanted my baby to have a happy childhood and I wanted to be a Mom. That's all I ever wanted.
And Edward knows this.
We sit side by side in every class
Teacher thinks that I sound funny
But she likes the way you sing
His voice is sweet and velvety, both gentle and menacing.
He keeps on singing even though he hears my every painful thought, even though he sees my every memory.
I feel rage building up inside me.
Tonight I'll dream while I'm in bed
When silly thoughts go through my head
About the bugs and alphabet
And when I wake tomorrow I'll bet
That you and I will walk together again
He is doing this on purpose. He wants me hurting.
Blinded by rage, I tear away from Carlisle's embrace and run to Edward's bedroom. I push the door open with all my strength and anger, and it flies off the hinges, pieces of wood scattering across the room, hitting Edward's precious cashmere sweater. I wish the splinters could pierce his skin, I wish he could feel pain, I wish his heart could bleed as much as mine is bleeding right now.
I stand rigid, my eyes set on Edward's stone cold expression. His posture is as stiff as mine. His eyes, the only window to his mind, those red, gleaming, hateful eyes, are calling me to a duel. We stare at each other, my once golden child ready to tear me to pieces.
What is worse, I want to kill him, too.
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