Pocket Pinups: Portraits of the Cullen Family

Edward Cullen

I walked through the close packet streets, my scarf wrapped tight around my throat to hide the small silver scar that showed there. This was a remnant of a battle- an argument with a fellow vampire. Venom was the only thing that left a scar.

Being this close to hundreds of humans- getting on and off trams and walking about their daily chores- unnerved and saddened me. Theirs was the life I'd lost, the very moment when Carlisle's venom had entered my system. He had caused my death; but also saved my life.

Look at that young man, one woman thought, doesn't he look smart!

How handsome, another girl thought, more so than my husband.

I walked quicker, trying to shake off the feeling that the thoughts of these people were pressing in on me. I didn't want to be source of their fantasies; I didn't want to be the one they all desired. I hated my power to hear thoughts- it was an intrusion, and rude. Though I couldn't stop myself hearing any more than I could stop myself drinking blood.

One year ago- and today was my anniversary- had been the end of my human life, but the start of my existence. An existence that hung like a silver thread before me, stretching away into the years that would inevitably come; as Time stops for no one. I supposed I was destined to live without love, because my heart had died long ago. No longer did warm blood flow through my body, heating me, giving me feelings of desire, lust, anger, hatred or love. Everything felt cold now, and detached.

It had only been a year, though it felt like less. I still found it hard to contain myself- when a human girl with particularly creamy skin walked past. I could hear the flow of blood around her body like the beat of my long-dead heart. But I wasn't a monster- I could restrain.

Today was busier than normal, with vendors on every corner- young boys selling shoelaces or matches. And the horse-drawn carriages rumbled by like they always did, not yet deserted for the motorcars that would inevitably come in the future. Smells of life- of fresh blood- passed by my nose, teasing and taunting me.

The soft smell of silk on skin, red lace, and cinnamon- the blood of a girl with dark curls about her face and small, red lips.

The smell of pinecones, grass, and dew in the morning- a young boy who danced along the road with his skipping rope and lace-up boots.

Then came the adults, whose blood was stronger, more matured. Like a fine wine that tickled the nostrils and made the back of my throat burn with longing.

Dark musk and burning fires- an old man, his frame still strong, his eyes intense under dark brown eyebrows.

The smell of exposed flesh, of roses- a woman with her three children.

And finally, the last smell I smelt at night- the dark, icy-cold sweetness of my own body.