A depressingly depressing OneShot that I decided to write. While I was in Starbucks, of all places. So, of course, I pulled out my laptop and started writing... and this is what appeared. I am very happy with this , it's (another) take on the cliff diving scene in New Moon. Only because I was in a bad mood, today.

For the full effect, listen to 'Hoppipolla' by Sigur Ros while reading. It's an amazing piece of music, and a beautiful song. I think it works with the piece.

DISCLAIMER: Obviously, this is not mine. Seriously. There are some portions of dialogue, too, from 'New Moon', so anything recognisable is not mine. As much as I wish it was. Sigh.

Enjoy! Review!


Feet first, First time.
A Twilight FanFiction
By Musings of a Shaken Mind


With hands held high, into a sky so blue, the Ocean opens up, to swallow you.

She's standing there. On the edge. A storm brews on the horizon, but she chooses to ignore it. It means nothing, now. It will mean nothing in a few minutes, at least.

This is not recreational, despite what she might or might not have told Jacob Black. No, this is real. It is too hard to live. It had been exceptionally difficult for months now, but it had seemed to grow worse, recently. She isn't sure what it was, precisely, just that it was ever so hard. The pain in her chest—the space where her heart should be—is worse, too. It aches like hell. Even now, as she's standing here, facing impending death, she has to hold herself weakly together, in a feeble attempt to stop the breaking of her now-dead heart. Not always dead, of course. Only recently had her heart died. Six months ago, to be precise. Almost to the day. It feels like an eternity.

It doesn't matter. She won't have to hold herself together for much longer.

"Bella."

Yes?

"Don't do this."

She smiles. His voice is painful, as ever, but it's lovely, too.

You wanted me to be human. Well, watch me.

"Please. For me."

He's pleading with her. He's desperate. It hurts her, but she embraces it anyway.

She's apparently turned masochistic since he left.

But you won't stay with me any other way.

"Please."

She raises herself up, onto her toes.

"No, Bella!"

She jumps. It's lovely, in a way; the way the world blurs around her, and yet she sees everything with perfect clarity. She sees the rolling turmoil that makes up the sky, the flatly white surface of the beach to her left, and the crash of waves against the rocks to her right. Below her, the sea swirls. Feet first, first time.

The whole world seems to slow. Everything halts. It's so lovely. Is this what it's like to be a Vampire? To travel so fast that everything else is slow around you? If it is, then she's sadder than ever. Mostly because she was never allowed that. She was never given the chance to experience anything like this… because of him.

The elation, the adrenaline courses through her. It's fascinating. This is better than the bikes, better than running with wolves… better even, than running with Vampires.

She doesn't want it to end.

It does, of course. Her beatific, exhilarated view is cut short as she plunges, feet first, into the icy water. It's truly cold. The shock of it seems to freeze her blood in her body. After the initial shock of the water—like knives piercing her skin—she's numb. Numb, like she has been since he left… but worse, somehow. Impossibly, it's worse. And she can't work out what it is, what has changed… but it's worse, anyway.

She hears his voice, again, sees his face.

"Keep swimming!"

She's struggling, now. Somehow, the sight and sound of him revives her somewhat, though not for long.

Where?

"Stop that! Don't you dare give up!"

How long, before her body shuts down irreversibly? She doesn't have much time left. She embraces the apparition that resembles Edward with all of the strength she can muster. The waves are pulling at her, trying to tear her apart, yanking her away from her Edward. She won't let go. Not for them, not for anyone. She'll hold on until the end. To him. She clings to him, the water crashing in her ears.

I'm drowning in you.

If this is what death is, she doesn't mind. It's sort of… sort of peaceful, in an odd way. Like sleeping. Death is easier and quicker than falling asleep.

"Fight! Damn it, Bella, keep fighting!"

Why?

And death is what she was aiming for. That was the whole point of this ridiculous excursion. To die. Because living means nothing to her, now.

"No, Bella, No!"

It's not like she didn't prepare, either. She's cooked all of Charlie's meals for the week; they're labelled in the fridge. Monday to Sunday. He'll be okay, she hopes. He'll get over it. He has something to live for.

She wrote him a note, too. It seems irrelevant while she's here, drowning, but the image of the slightly crumpled, tear-stained paper brings a fresh shock to her system. That had hurt to write, no matter how hard she had pretended otherwise.

Dad,

Know that I love you. It's not you. It never was you. Coming to live with you was the best decision of my life. I love you, Daddy. You were the best father a girl could ask for.

I suppose I'm taking the easy way out, here. I never was very brave. Sorry, dad. Tell Jake I said thanks, for everything. And if he ever comes back, let him know that it was never his fault. Don't blame him, Dad, either. I know you'll want to, and I know you'll try to shoot him, but please, dad… for me. Don't.

Tell Renee and Phil that I'm sorry. Tell Angela and Mike and Jessica and Ben… tell them that they made this place great for me.If he ever comes back, tell him that I loved him. That I never stopped loving him.

You too, dad. I love you, too.

Bella x

He'd find it. She had left it on the sideboard. He'd be sad, but she couldn't help that. She had grown too selfish to consider what she was putting him through.

And Edward… she'd left him one, too. She'd posted it through the slot on the imposing door of their white house. She hadn't stayed any longer than was necessary—she had only just been able to bear being back there. She had only survived the ordeal with the knowledge that she would be free of this pain, soon enough. That soon, she would never have to think about him again. About his family, about what he was. About his smile, his music…

The scrawl of her writing was only just legible.

Edward,

Do not blame yourself. I know how prone you are to that. I understand. I think I always understood, really. I was never good enough for you. But that's okay, I don't mind. You gifted me with the most amazing few months that any human ever had, and I want to thank you for that. I know how lucky I was—how lucky I am to have met you and your family.

I know you have a soul, Edward. How could you not? You're the kindest, most wonderful man I ever had the pleasure of meeting. Never stop believing that, please.

I love you. I'll love you until my last second. Stay with me, please. Until the end. That's all I'm going to ask of you.

Tell Alice I love her, and Emmett. Tell Jasper I never blamed him; it was inevitable. Tell him, too, that I'm sorry for bleeding. And for having horribly attractive blood. He's forgiven. Tell Rosalie that I understand her perspective, now. I can't empathise, but I can sympathise. And she's still the most beautiful woman ever. Tell Esme and Carlisle that I loved them, too—like a second set of parents. I was so lucky to have known all of you.

Thank you, Edward, for everything.

Yours forever,

Bella x

There was no-one coming. My Edward-hallucination was fading as my life did. I had given everything. I had nothing left. I would die here.

Goodbye. I love you.


The funeral was held not long afterwards. It was a quiet affair, with only a few guests, dressed in black. As the familiar notes on a piano played, the body of Isabella Swan was buried.

Edward Cullen was not invited.

Charlie Swan and Renee Dwyer stood together. Charlie was quiet; in shock. A piece of crumpled, tear-stained paper was still clutched in his pale hand. His other hand was wrapped around his ex-wife's, who was sobbing openly.

As the timeless words that made up the age-old ceremony were spoken, a faint murmur went up among the few people there.

A group of people—extremely beautifully people—stood at the far end of the cemetery. The black of funeral attire contrasted with their white skin. Even from this distance, they were easily recognisable as the Cullen family. The rain fell, soaking everyone present. Water ran in rivulets down their faces, mingling with tears.

Only one Cullen was missing.

Far away, across the Atlantic Ocean, in the sun of the Mediterranean, the clock tower in a mountainous city struck noon.