hi. this fanfic should be pretty good because i have experience with several other stories. all the characters are human. and all the couples are classic, as they should be.
Disclaimer: Twilight belongs to Stephenie Meyer, NOT ME!!
New York City. Infamous for its crowded streets, The Statue of Liberty, hot dogs, and pit-pocketers. Home of the Empire State Building. The Big Apple. How easy it was to let your identity, your personality, and your essential make-up that made you unique drain away into one of the thousands of sewer holes that dotted the many bustling streets. Both metaphorically and literally. It was something that you would never want to happen.
Strangely enough, though, I found myself wishing that that exact thing would happen to me right now. THUD, THUD, THUD. That a hole would open up in the subway floor and suck me in. THUD, THUD, THUD. The soles of my feet were vibrating in time with the rhythmic pounding. THUD, THUD, THUD. Despite the fact that my brother, Emmett, was older than me, he often acted as though he were much younger; like it was a toddler inside the burly, very much developed, body, and not a twenty-six year old man. THUD, THUD, THUD. More than once, his immature antics had drawn and received unwanted attention. Like now, for instance. THUD, THUD, THUD. He was doing his signature 'potty dance' in the middle of a crowded subway car.
And I was not more than three feet away from him.
"Emmett," I hissed, glancing around at the appalled faces, "Emmett, cut it out. Act your age." He groaned theatrically.
"But, Edward," he whined, not making any attempt at lowering his voice, "I really need to go pee." I smacked my forehead at his forwardness. His voice was several octaves higher than usual – so much so, that it sounded like he had had a mouthful of helium. And it would've been comical.
Had we not been in public.
I suppressed a sigh, and glanced around us, once more. The people around the cramped space were staring at Emmett as though he were one of those new reality television shows: embarrassing to watch, but too enthralling to look away from at the same time.
"Could you at least sit down?" I whispered through gritted teeth, practically begging him.
"Fine," he muttered. He stopped bouncing up and down on the spot and holding his crotch, and joined me on the seat.
I turned my attention back the glowing laptop screen, and tried to get some more work done. But Emmett was distracting me again. Cross, uncross, re-cross, uncross, cross, uncross, re-cross, uncross. It was impossible to ignore, because he took up so much room in the confined space, and each time he moved, he would bump my legs with his own crossing, uncrossing ones. I bit back my groan of annoyance.
"Stop. Fidgeting." I growled commandingly, eyes flashing dangerously.
"I'm sorry," he moaned, "but that kid with the juice box over there is taunting me!" I glanced at the small red-head child, who was slurping away noisily on the fruit drink, eyes trained on Emmett. Just like everyone else's.
I repressed the urge to smack the back of Emmett's head (it would kill more brain cells, and that would not be good for his already low IQ), and slid away from him in what I hoped to be a discreet manner. I checked my watch.
I had to finish my piece and send it in before four. My fingers shot frantically towards the keyboard and resumed the frenzied typing motion they had been in before Emmett had started acting like an idiot:
And so, in conclusion, it is better to place paper-whites in the sun, so that they don't start growing towards a window, knock over your boyfriend's coffee cup, spill it all over his two-hundred dollar shirt, ruin your date, and, inevitably, your relationship.
Yes, I was writing an article about flowers ruining a girl's date, but it wasn't my fault. Because said girl was my insane boss, who wanted me to write excruciatingly specific advice columns about her miserable, wretched life.
A year ago, I had been looking for a job in the journalism field, as that had been my major in college. . It was extremely difficult to find one though, as this was New York, and all the well-paying jobs were with the New York Times and other noted papers – which meant that they were already taken. I had thought that I had gotten lucky when I had found my job. That I had struck gold.
Oh, how wrong I had been.
It seemed good enough, at first. I could pay the bills. I didn't have to work too hard. I just had to write some simple How To articles, and read letters asking for advice. But I soon realized what a joke my occupation was. Mostly because my boss was an air-headed bimbo. She kept giving me ridiculous assignments, like the series I was currently finishing: The Manual for NOT Ruining a Date. She had based it off of her own awful experiences – to the point where I was just writing a psychopathic rant from her point of view.
I shook my head, as I attached the document to an email. Another waste I time, I thought, as I clicked send and transferred it to my editor, Jasper, who shared my less than decent opinions of our boss.
"Let's go!" Emmett squealed in relief as the doors slid open. I stood and tucked my computer in my bag.
As soon as we exited, my brother shot off at top speed in the direction of the unsanitary public restrooms.
"Hurry up!" I called after him, "we can't miss our next train!" But I don't think he heard me over the roar of the babbling crowd that shoved at me from all sides. Not that it mattered. He would hurry no matter what I had said to him. Because nature was giving him an irresistible call. I laughed.
That guy was a slave to his instincts.
I followed in his wake, waiting near enough to the bathrooms that he would see me when he came out, but far enough away that I wouldn't smell them. He returned quickly, a satisfied smile on his childish face. I rolled my eyes, and we turned to the opposite end from where we came from.
When we were safely inside our next train, we sat down and waited for the car to fill up with other passengers. My eyes wandered out of boredom. Two small children were playing tag, weaving in between the legs of the 'grown-ups', and giggling madly. When they ran past an empty seat, my eyes trained themselves upon said seat.
It wasn't empty. Its passenger was a lonely messenger bag.
It seemed ordinary enough. It was made of a blue jean material, and was medium sized. It was covered in various pockets, some bulging out in certain areas. There were pins that had been clipped to the sides, and scribbles drawn in permanent marker declaring the owner's originality. There was even a bit of duct tape sticking out from the bottom, a make-shift repair because said owner probably couldn't sew. The flap was held shut by a belt-buckle style clasp.
No one sat next to it, or even remotely close to it.
I frowned and peered around for the owner, but no one seemed to have a claim on it. I stood hesitantly and took a step towards it, still gazing around for its rightful owner.
People took no notice of the bag. I finished walking to it, and gingerly picked it up, instinctively expecting someone to give a cry of protest and exclamation, and then accuse me of stealing their precious belonging.
No one did.
I strapped it over my shoulder and moved back to Emmett, who was watching me curiously now.
"I'll return it to the lost and found at the next station," I explained. The questioning look in his eyes disappeared, and he nodded.
Through the entire ride, I found myself tempted to open the bag, and see what was inside. But each time my hand reached for the clip on the side, I would think of Pandora's Box, and force myself to stop.
Curiosity killed the cat, I scolded myself mentally.
And satisfaction brought it back, another voice in my head answered.
I shook my head. There was a soft ding from above that told me that this was my stop.
"Later, bro," Emmett said, clapping me on the back and smiling. I nodded vaguely in his direction, still focused on the strange item.
"Yeah… Bye." I murmured. I departed and turned in the direction of the Lost and Found office. I was just one in a sea of bobbing heads, and loud conversation. Supposedly insignificant. But somehow, I felt that my destination was more significant than anybody else's. I finally broke away from the throng that was there at this time of day – every day – that always seemed to come with rush-hour. I touched the handle of the door.
Just as I started to turn the knob, something stopped me.
Something in my subconscious was telling me, screaming at me, to just go home. To keep this strange parcel. Something told me that it was crucial – terribly so – that I listen to this inner voice. That, whatever this bag may hold, it was going to change my life.
I looked down at the bag, and in an impulse, split-second decision, I snapped open the clasp and lifted the flap.
Inside, there was a camcorder, a notebook, a cell phone, a wallet, and several other miscellaneous items. I closed the bag, and walked away from the office.
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izzy x edward