When I Dream
I stood completely still, emptiness pouring through me as I leaned back against the cold metal frame of the car. Hurry hurry pack your bags. Foot heavy on the pedal, speed to Port Angeles. Rush rush get out of the building. And now. Nothing. Awake from the dream and stare into a world of nothing. He would look for answers in Forks, but he wouldn't ask the right questions. I could explain everything, but he would never believe me. Even if he would, I didn't want to tell him. I didn't want him to remember being a monster. I didn't want him to remember being a killer. And most selfishly-I didn't want him to remember being tired of me and leaving without a backwards glance.
I drove slowly back to Forks and let myself back into the empty house. I sat listlessly in the driver's seat til my teeth were chattering, trying to think of a reason to go inside. I could just keep driving and go back to school. But there wasn't any reason to do that either. I was alone, and my heart was broken, and it was so very familiar. This was even worse, last time Edward had left me at least I could think of him being happy. This time, he was hurting, and it was all my fault. How ironic that he thought himself a monster, when it was me who was the liar, the manipulator, and the villain. I stared down at my throbbing wrists where the pale skin was marred by the purplish bruises left by the tight grasp of his long fingers. I gently traced the outline of the marks, an aching reminder of how I had lied to him, had even dreamed to live a lie with him forever. I wished I could cry, but I just sat there, empty inside like someone had scooped out my entire being .
As it neared dark I finally dragged myself out of the car and popped open the trunk to retrieve my luggage. To my surprise, Edward's bag was there too, he'd left in such a hurry that he'd abandoned all his possessions. My heartbeat involuntarily sped a little at the sight of his duffel. Maybe I would hear from him again. Maybe I could explain. Depending on what kinds of stuff he had left behind, he might even need to call me tonight to arrange to retrieve them. I decided not to further violate his trust by going through his things.
That lasted about three minutes.
I pulled every single item out of his bag, examining each one carefully as though it might hold the key to re-erasing Edward's memory without wiping out his realization that he wanted to be with me. That was a blissful 90 minutes. Maybe there was something here that would help me find him, something that would help me explain myself. His bag was neatly packed and each piece of clothing was meticulously folded. White V-neck undershirts. A stack of crisp boxers. A pack of razors. Dark jeans and black slacks. Then a surprise, a bright turquoise Marlins sweatshirt. I inhaled sharply. It was a gift from me. I'd bought it for him on a whim, teasing him that it would help my dad like him more. He'd put it on right away, looking ridiculously appealingly in a color and style that by design should look good on no one. It was also the first tangible evidence that he was the very same Edward. It had been difficult to accept that he was a vampire when I knew him in Forks, and oddly even harder to believe he was now a human. The sweatshirt was so ordinary, but its significance was striking. It was like dreaming of a visit to the land of Oz, and waking up in a pair of ruby slippers.
The next item out of his bag was even more intriguing. It looked like a journal, and even I was having trouble being desperate enough to violate his privacy that way. But as I set it aside the first page fluttered open and I saw it wasn't a diary, but a sketchbook. I never knew Edward drew, but then again I could easily imagine those long lean fingers had multiple artistic talents. The subject of the drawings, however, was a surprise. Hooded figures with sharp fangs glinting in the moonlight. Pale slender necks, wrists, and thighs torn open by deep gashes. Very interesting. Seems Edward had been holding out on me, and perhaps he remembered a bit more about the details of his past than he had let on. I wondered if Tanya had done anything special to elicit that bite, or if Edward had simply lost control. I wondered if he still enjoyed the taste of blood, or if he had been bewildered to find himself swallowing it. I wondered if I would let him drink mine, if that was something he still wanted.
I thought that I had pulled everything out of the duffel, but as I ran my hand along the cloth interior one more time, I found one last small item. A leather wallet, but usually he carried a funny Velcro one with patches on it. I opened the wallet and found a picture of Edward Cullen, his pale skin and amber eyes clearly still supernatural. This was his other license, his other wallet. His real wallet. Besides the license (which listed a California address), there was debit card with the same name, a Hilton hotel key, and a very convincing frequent buyer smoothie punch card with two punches missing. How very thorough he used to be. There wasn't any money in the billfold, but there was a worn folded scrap of paper. I opened it carefully and found there was only one sentence written on it, in an unfamiliar cursive scrawl.
I feel I must warn you, our friends in Italy are looking for you.
Oh shit, I really needed to find Edward.