Stephenie Meyer owns Twilight.
Tina, Van, Neri – my reanimation team/support system, thank you!
Flibbertigidget & onlybythenight1, PTB's betas, thank you for your help with correcting the mistakes in this text.
Any authors reading this? Go google Project Team Beta. I highly recommend.
I quickly glance at Carlisle. He is standing still as a statue with fear written all over his face. The atmosphere is filled with raw violence ready to erupt.
Suddenly a billowed curtain, an innocent spectator, an unknowing instigator, slashes through the air, and the cloud of tension explodes into a torrent of rage.
Edward is pushing me into a wall as my hands come up to cover his face. I want to rip his skin open. His arms around my neck are trying to snap my spine. I twist my head and bite his arm. I expect him to scream, but he doesn't.
Instead, he pushes me across the room, and in a second I am again face to face with this rabid animal. His fingers are in my hair, pulling my head to one side. He wants to bite my head off.
Through the thick fog of resolute, murderous anger, Carlisle's pleading seeps into my wants us to stop.
He's trying to separate us. Arms are mingling. We're pushing and pulling, biting and hissing. Except for Carlisle, he's just trying to set us apart. Why? Edward hurt me, provoked me, taunted me with my dearest memories.
"You don't mess with me! You hear, Edward, you hear!"
"How could you? You call yourself a mother!" He spits the words out, laughing cynically.
"How could I what?" Screaming words at him, spewing this madness in his face, it's liberating. I need to scream. I need to get it out.
Standing up, he growls at me, "Why the hell did you do that?"
"Do what, Edward?"
"The Singer?" I say, astonished.
He stares back, eyes black. They should be red.
"Yes, the Singer."
"You played games with the child; you killed her. Those are all things you wanted to do, Edward. I had nothing to do with that..."
"Why didn't you stop me?" he interrupts me.
"The child was a Singer!"
"She was a child. It wasn't right—she was only seventeen. She could have had a life, and she should have…"
"Are you preaching to me, Edward? Don't get involved into this Carlisle." I point my finger in his direction just as he's about to interrupt us. Right here, right now, while my snake tongue is ready, I am going to deal with Edward.
"She was a child!" he shouts and falls to his knees. Carlisle tries to help him up. But now is my turn to stand like a statue.
"Get off your knees, Edward, get up!" I hiss, outraged at this pathetic display. Is it sadness I see in him? Or guilt?
But he coils. He lies on the floor, his hands covering his face. "I should kill you for this," he's mumbling, "all of you, all of you, all of you..."
Carlisle sits next to him, patting his hair — his precious first born. I turn and leave the room.
The others will be here soon, and I don't have the energy to explain this to them. I don't even know what just happened.
I want my bed. I want to cover myself with blankets and bury my head beneath soft pillows. I want to hide away and sob.
My baby. How dare he touch my memories, play with them like that.
I'm lying under the cotton and damask and feathers, breathing them bring back the memories of the softest skin... the sweet smell of a newborn baby. Vague, elusive, precious memories.
I can feel the bed around me move. My resident psychiatrists, Carlisle and Jasper, have come to help me. Trying to lift my mood is ridiculous. Am I not allowed to be angry? From underneath the bed linen and pillows, I shout at them to leave.
Eventually they give up and leave the room. Leave me alone. That's all I need.
All day long I can hear them walk around the house, talking worriedly, trying to figure out what had happened.
Edward is still lying on the floor. Apparently he hasn't moved an inch either. Two catatonic family members is the high of our day. I just need a minute, an hour, or maybe a year to get my bearing.
The breathing doesn't calm me, but it takes my focus off my hurt and Edward's foul behaviour. It's angry breathing. I'm just containing myself. Otherwise, I'd go back to that room and beat him into dust.
I hope he is reading my mind right now.
The sun has risen and set several times, and now I am thirsty. I need to hunt. I am calmer, though. I am nowhere near forgiving him, but I want to know why; I want to know what's wrong with him. The mother in me is reappearing, and I need to nurture and hold my vampiric child, even though he has hurt me badly.
Jasper appears in my room and, as if Edward hasn't heard him already, whispers, "He's grieving."
"Grieving the ch..." I correct myself. "The Singer's death?"
"Yes. I think so."
"What do I do?" I ask him, completely out of my depth. This has never happened before. I know Edward is sensitive. Maybe he had read her mind? Maybe he's hiding something from us?
"Why do you think he's grieving?"
Jasper sits on the floor by my bed, runs a hand through his hair, and turns to look at me. "I'm not sure exactly. It's as if he has developed feelings for her. Or better, the memory of her. And since he took it out on you, maybe it is you who should try to speak to him?" He ends the sentence delicately, tactfully, pleadingly almost.
"What has Alice said to this?"
"She hasn't had any visions yet. It worries me." His eyes, cast downwards now, hide his true feelings from me.
Emmett and Rose come inside the room and both sit on my bed. Emmett hugs me tightly.
"Are you feeling better now?" he asks, searching my eyes. He smiles softly, trying to evoke a hint of joy in me. He's my source of comfort — always has been.
"I am, honey."
He kisses my forehead and smiles widely. "How about we go huntin'?"
I smile at him, for him, and hug him. "Sounds good," I say into his shoulder.
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