Birds and Bees Writing Challenge
Hosted by The Writer's Coffee Shop.
Name of story: Oh Love(you heartless bitch) don't let me go-
Category : Decaf. Cos I don't need no caffeine cos my disposition is naturally irritatingly chirpy.
Fandom: Twilight. Course.
I just needed to write your name. There, it's done. Eat your heart out, Michelangelo.
I'm looking out of my window right now and there's a city below me that's just waking up. I just watched the last group of students stumble their way up the high street and now the front doors are opening and people are stepping out, clutching briefcases and suitcases and handbags and backpacks. They're all accumulating outside the starbucks opposite. I can't remember what sleeping is like but it seems to give one an appetite for weak sugary coffee.
I'm rambling but I need to keep my mind occupied. I'm never going to send this so I may as well treat you as my diary; in any case, you feel more confidential than a book.
There's a pigeon on my windowsill and I'm staying as still as I can in case it sees me. Animals tend to move away quickly when they catch wind of us; it's the fact that I'm perfectly capable of sucking out all their blood and killing them which sparks a certain… distrust. It needn't fear, though; I'm not at all thirsty and pigeon is disgusting. Emmett dared me once. Never again.
There's a man on the street bench who I watched fall asleep four hours ago. If you could see him now I know you'd laugh. He just woke up and his eyes went wide as plates. He sat up too quickly and the beer can that was resting on his stomach rolled off down the street, and he's blinking and squinting and rubbing his head. A mother just picked her little child up and ran past him.
I saw a blue jumper in the shop across the street yesterday evening. I bought it for you, then I threw it away. I don't know what I was thinking. Everywhere I look you somehow seem to be there, and part of me wants it to stop because it's making this too hard; but then part of me is clinging to it because I don't want to forget. I'm not sure what's going on inside me; it's like I'm a compass that's supposed to point north, but north just stopped existing so now I'm just a confused little arrow with no purpose.
Anyway, the shopkeeper saw me do it so she came out when I'd rounded the corner and took it out of the bin and hung it up again.
It's strange; I haven't really thought or talked or done anything since, well; but now that I'm writing to you I suddenly have so much to say. I think my mind has been collecting snippets of information for you and it's all coming pouring out. Of course I feel like crying, but then I always feel like that, whether or not I'm thinking of you. I can't cry, anyway. It's more like ridiculously ugly convulsions.
I'm wondering what you're doing. I'm wondering how you're feeling. Are you alright? No, I'm being ridiculous. Of course you aren't. I know that, but I think if I ever did send this letter I'd much prefer you to lie in your reply and say you were happy. You know I'm selfish that way. I can't bear to think of you with that expression you wore in the forest. I think that must be the face of the devil; not evil, not full of loathing. A face I love full of deepest unhappiness. There's nothing in the world more terrible. Give me hatred, give me fear. Don't give me that.
All the schoolchildren are coming out now. There's a group of them around the bus stop and they're all laughing, jumping on one another. They've got a cigarette they're passing around and all the people walking past are giving them disapproving glances. Little children are tottering up the steps to the private Primary School further up the road. You can tell it's private because all the five-year-olds are wearing ties, and their mothers unloaded all two of them out of a seven-seated four-by-four leather-seated ozone-punching monster.
I'm not quite sure where I am; somewhere south, judging by the warmth; but still on the coast. It's raining, and there's at least four fishmongers on this street alone. I stopped looking at road signs a few weeks ago. I stopped caring.
I've got seven missed calls and thirty unopened messages on my phone. I can't turn it off but I can't pick it up; I can't face them. I did try, I promise you I did. But I've worked everything inside me into one carefully wound ball, and I know that just one look at Esme or one conversation with Carlisle would be enough to unravel it. And the truth is (you're the only one I could tell the truth to, because it's too… shameful) I'm much too afraid to really step back and look at myself. I'm scared of what I'll find. Meeting you seemed to bring out all the good qualities in myself; but what am I now? Vampire. Killer. Heartbreaker. And I can't say which is worse.
The pigeon just flew away. It turned its head and I saw the sky in its little eye and then it took off without a second's pause. The sky is so grey, Bella, I can feel it hanging over me. If you were here I'd hold your hand and I'd feel fine. I can't even see the sun; the window faces west. This room is small and square and it has complimentary shower caps and four television channels and I feel like I'm trapped. I can feel the world pressing in all around me and it's like that horrible feeling when I don't breathe; like there's something stuck in my throat.
Sometimes I dream- well no, I don't, not dreaming, not quite; I close my eyes and I cut the string of my mind and I float above myself. I can see your face so clearly in my head; you're always smiling at me, you're always telling me some sort of joke, your eyes are always lit up. You bite your lip and fall over and say stupid, inexplicable things. And then I open my eyes and my heart, which was fluttering somewhere about my ear, falls back into my chest with a thump.
I never imagined that it would be like this.
I just want you back.
He looks down at the page, his pen poised; then he folds the paper up and walks over to the window. He pushes against the frame of the bottom pane and the glass rises, the wind and light of day flooding through. The rush of the street greets his ears; cries of voices and rustling bags and revving engines and the snap, snap, snap of footsteps on the pavement. His pale eyes reflect the scene below; a mother pushes a pram in his iris.
He reaches a pale hand into the air and drops the paper. The wind snatches it and he looks away before he can see where it goes.
((and these are Bella's words:
You're bright; the sun's out and there are white sheets of cloud which hang in the sky like washing on a line. I pressed my hand against the window pane a minute ago and I could feel the cold through the glass. The world outside looks so clear and beautiful and it's a day for running around. But I don't want to go outside. I can't bring myself to move from this windowsill.
Charlie came up an hour ago with a sandwich and a cup of tea. They're both sat beside me and I've been staring at them. I can't do it. Why can't I do it? I know I'm hungry. I'm hungry but I can't eat.
I felt like I was going to explode which is why I have to write something down. Everything inside me was heating up and evaporating and expanding, and I feel clammy and confined and I'm sure any moment my brain will implode or my heart will crack open. I can't talk to anyone because there isn't anyone. I'm a balloon which people are pumping too much air into and soon enough I'm going to pop.
But at least if I can lay myself down somewhere in writing I can breathe. Thoughts are so confusing. There isn't space in my head to order them all out. But in mind to arm to hand to finger there's time enough, and when I write myself I see myself with more clarity. I understand myself when I'm in ink.
I feel so detached from everything, from life, from people. It's as if I'm the only person in the whole world, that everyone else is just an image behind a screen. Everything is happening around me but none of it includes me; I want to be a part of things, but I can't make the effort because every time I see something familiar or do something familiar my memory ignites and I feel like I'm burning.
But that isn't the most terrible thing. The thing that is the most terrible is knowing that even if things get even worse than they are already there's never going to be anyone around who'll just hold my hand and tell me everything's going to be okay. I know nothing is ever going to be okay again, but I need someone to say it. I need someone to take my hand so I can feel less like I'm adrift in the middle of an ocean with nothing but two punctured armbands. Oh Bella you're drowning and I can see that nothing I say will help you but here have my hand and I'll try and keep your head above the water at least.
Charlie is lovely, of course he's lovely, but he's useless. I'll sit next to him and he'll shift awkwardly and ask me how my day's gone. And I'll say fine, thanks. And he'll nod and smile and turn the TV on, or go and get a beer. And Renee is in Florida. Lauren poisons people's minds and Angela is too nice to flatter herself that she'd be of help.
Charlie just came back in. He looked at the sandwich and the tea and then he looked at me. I couldn't even muster the energy to blush. He said I had to eat something soon or he was getting me help, and I just looked out of the window and said nothing. He yelled, but I didn't respond. He's gone now.
I almost hope he does get me help. I'm tired of feeling so alone.
And I'm scared of what's happening to me.
Am I going to be like this forever?
She glances over at the food next to her, and then jabs out a hand, pushes it away. The plate lands with a pat on the carpet. The tea floods out and spreads like blood on a shirt.
She buries her head in her knees and her eyes are piping. Mr Polly ain't got nothing on this. Parsons might have been great but he wasn't no Edward. No sir.
I'm so angry, all the time. I feel furious right now and I don't know why. I think I'm angry with myself. I don't know what to do. What should I do? I was just lying back on the bed and with my eyes closed and I reached out my hand to stroke your hair and you weren't there. Sometimes it's hard to remind myself why I did this. I love you so I left you; contradictory. Oxymoronic. Stupid.
Is this love, though, is it? Is this the love I've read poems about and books about and I can see in the eyes of my brothers and sisters and parents? Or is this the flipside of love? I always thought love was what we lived for. Now I just want it to go away. Love has his hands around my throat and is strangling me. I don't want to forget you but every time I think of you I want to scream.
Only Love won't let me breathe to do it.
I carry your heart(I carry it in my heart) and it's a constant reminder of you and what I did to you and I miss you so much, Bella, I miss you so so so much.
I'm yours for ever but you won't want me again, not after what's been done.
He looks down at the page, scrapes his fingers through his hair, crumples the paper, smoothes it out, crumples it again. He stares at the irregular ball in front of him. He picks it up and throws it at the wall.
He looks at it, where it lies on the floor, small, dejected, rejected. He groans. He's collected it back again in a split second and is smoothing it out on the table. He picks up the pen and rests it against the paper. Bella, he writes. Bella Bella Bella Bella Bella.
Italian is an intelligent language.
Sunday. You're sitting all around me and staring at me with black eyes. Night is so empty and still. Speak, say something; my mind wanders down paths which cut my feet and I could do without the pain.
I miss him I miss him I miss him I miss him I miss him so much that I feel like nothing nothing nothing I feel like nothing and I need him to come in through my window and hold my hand, please, please, hold my hand, hold my hand and tell me he loves me—
I need him back I can't go on like this I can't go on without having someone to talk to—
if he'd just come back and just tell me he understands I could manage but I need his face I need his smile I need the way his hand feels on my cheek and I need his laugh because I've forgotten how to do it, I've forgotten how to laugh. I've forgotten why I ever did.
Sunday, you've only just arrived and my eyes are stinging but sleep hates me. He never comes for me anymore.
Bella I miss you I miss you I miss you, I feel like the most worthless pile of damned crap in the world and I'm so sorry I'm so sorry, so sorry, you must understand why I did it oh please God understand why I did it, please guess, please know that I'm not heartless please know that I love you I love you I love you, more than words more than life more than anything, please know please I can't bear the thought of that look on your face. Of course I wanted you, of course I want you still but you must see why I couldn't, you must understand why I did it oh God oh God oh God-