I.

 

Sometimes, words speak louder than actions ever could.

Charlie was quiet. He was still hesitating before speaking to me, chewing on his words to make sure there was nothing that might upset me and bring back the zombie. If I could have, I would have told him to quit it. Zombie Bella was gone, even though part of me wished she would have remained. It was so much easier to live with the hole if I couldn’t feel it. (And whole days are lost and among them.)

            My friends at school – with the exceptions of Angela and Mike – acted like I was still a little “out of it.” Their conversations and jokes, new traditions born out of a new semester, revolved around things that I was not a part of. (So you have nothing. You wonder if these things matter and then As soon you begin to wonder if these things matter)

            There was no one to give me the words to fill the hole. Even Jacob, wonderful as he was, did not know enough to fix me. (They cease to matter, And caring is past.)

            I found the book in the dingy school library. It was crammed in a shelf already overflowing with books just like it; battered, moldy, and yellowed with age. It was a forgotten book in a dark corner. But so was I.

            Something about it caught my eye. Maybe it was the faded letters on the spine – once the gold color of eyes I could not bear to think about – or the way it was only half-way on the shelf. It teetered precariously close to the edge, about to plummet to the industrial gray carpet below.

            Before I could really think about it, I had plucked it from the shelf. The librarian wasn’t at the desk, and I didn’t care enough to wait – what was one forgotten book in a library full of them? I slipped it in my bag and took it home.

 

II.

 

            It turned out to be poetry.

            There were elegant turns of phrase and twisting metaphors, all bound in one noiseless chord that weaved its way throughout the fragile pages.(Syllables shimmy as sonnets assemble

Themselves in a shadowless summer a-tremble) There were words and then there were words, the kind that I absorbed hungrily and which seemed to plummet to the very bottom of the whole, smoothing away the jagged edges with gentle hands.

            The first poem was by a woman I had never heard of. Edna St. Vincent Millay, she was called. I thought it was a nice name, old-fashioned, like the –

            vacant interstellar spaces

            Holes and holes and holes. They all went together, hand in hand, holes and darkness and broken hearts.

            (O dark, dark, dark. They all go into the dark)

            These were words that transcended time, Millay and Tennyson, Eliot and Thomas. Their words reached out of the depths of time and sent echoes back to me. Little pricks of light with which to fill myself up again.

             

III.

           

There are times when I can’t escape it. Names and faces and people and things all jumble together in my mind as if to taunt me and remind me.

            I go back to the book then, finger its pages with all the love I have left to give, and read. There is something soothing in reading of a pain that isn’t my own, but mirrors it, even when the mirror is far too –

            and I will leave you so, to be kind:

            clear.

            Sometimes it hurts too much, when something strikes too close. It infects the hole, scrapes against the raw edges like sandpaper.

            eternal in beauty, are short-lived flowers  

            Then, I ache. I sob and scream and rage until the tears blur my eyes too much for me to read, to see the offending words standing bold and black against the off-white paper. I know Charlie wonders then, whether he should have sent me to Jacksonville after all, whether Renee might not be better at handling at this sort of thing.

             the beautiful things that will never grow old.

            I flung the book across the room.

            I don’t think I like Wickham.

 

IV.

 

            (hence, loathed melancholy)

            Jacob doesn’t know what he’s getting into. I should warn him, let him know that I am not the sort of girl he should be friends with. (When I went to your town on the wide open shore, Oh, I must confess, I was drawn, I was drawn to the ocean. I thought it spoke to me.)

            He should know how crazy I am. He should know that I’m willing to drag him into the darkness with me, into this dark hole from which there is no escaping.

            He’s too understanding, that’s his problem.

I’ll tell him tomorrow.

 

V.

I am no heroine, not anymore. But once I had a fairy tale, and now I want to escape it.

The hard rock of the cliff feels familiar under my feet, cooled by the sharp wind. I jump – no graceful dive, but a sprawling, feet-first leap.

The slap of water against my skin is harsh, cold, too strong and tugging me under. The world is spinning, tilted on its side.

I have fallen a long way. Clouds are flowering, Blue and mystical over the face of the stars.

Edward’s perfect face blossoms in my mind, more brilliant than anything within my frame of reference. Every detail is there, the alabaster skin and the honey-colored eyes, bruise-colored circles and long-fingered hands.

 

 

 

VI.

 

            “You will be a human who not only knows too much, but also smells too good. There’s a very good chance that they will eliminate us all – though in your case it won’t be punishment so much as dinnertime.”

            (I know my body’s so frail a kind as Force without, fevers can kill;)

            I did not hesitate, did not question my decision. There was no other choice for me. Edward could not die.

            (I know the heavenly nature of my mind)

            “This is what is keeping us here?”

            We were already in the car before the potential consequences of my actions hit me.

            (But ‘tis corrupted in both wit and will)

            I already knew my decision had been corrupted, though. Tainted by my love for Edward, even if he didn’t love me back. He cannot die.

 

VII.

 

            He was back. Beautiful and glorious, too brilliant for my meager human eyes to behold. Edward was back.

He was sprawled across my bed like he always used to, golden eyes smoldering different shades of perfection. Even now I couldn’t get used to it. I was still afraid I would wake up screaming, with the damning realization that this was all a dream.

Of course, no dream would involve Charlie hounding Edward like an overgrown police dog. (But our love it was stronger by far than the love of those who were older than we – )

One of these days, I’m going to end up screaming for joy at the thought of it (EdwardlovesmeEdwardlovesmeEdwardlovesme) and probably get shipped to the loony bin. It could happen any second now – even when we argue.

“You know, it would be much better for you if you finished college first,” Edward said, using his melodic voice to full effect. “It’ll be years after the change before you can interact with humans again.”

“I can wait,” I said. (a thousand, thousand years, if it meant being with you)

“Bella.” The golden tones were colored with frustration now. His voice sounded no less beautiful. “Think of what you’re giving up. Think of your soul.”

“'Here's a sin -- I'll sin it,’” I quoted. “‘And there's the price of sinning -- and I'll pay.'”

He was momentarily distracted. “I didn’t know you read Gould.”

“Nice way to avoid the conversation,” I complimented him.

He studied my face intently, searching for something that I could not name. At last he smiled, white teeth flashing in that crooked grin I loved so much. His marble arms wrapped around me, holding me tight.

“My love feeds on your love, beloved, and as long as you live it will be in your arms without leaving mine,” he murmured.

I smiled. Who needed the book when I had Edward?