They all think I'm an idiot. They never say it out loud, but it doesn't matter. I'll see it floating around their heads while we're running around the forest, searching for any signs of any nomad leeches.

Maybe I am an idiot. It doesn't change how I feel. If given the chance, I'd take her back, no questions asked. If she needed her heart to be mended, once more, I'd do it. I'd do anything to keep her with me. Keep her human.

I try not to phase too often, around the others, to spare myself from drowning in their sympathy for me. All except for Leah, who seems to enjoy pouring salt into my forever bleeding wound.

"If she was really such an amazing person, she wouldn't be marrying a bloodsucker."

She likes to shove that word in my face, every chance she gets. As if she wants nothing more, then to not be the most miserable of us, anymore. Probably does.

Leah decides to change her tactics, when I act like the word doesn't poke a small hole in my heart each time it's used.

I'm sitting on the beach, letting the water rush up and cover my feet, when I hear her familiar foot falls crunch along the grainy sand.

"Jacob, let her go, dammit. She's going to be dead. Either one of them, or just burried in the ground!"

I know, deep inside, she's only trying to help me get over that human girl, but the sentence still cracks at me like a whip. Before I know it, I've phased, and have my teeth poised and ready rip off the first limb I can grab a hold of.

Sam's there, in my head, as usual. He calms me down, and Leah stops speaking to me, after that.

Most of the time, I'm just sitting. Sitting anywhere I can; perpetually waiting. Waiting for that red truck to pull up, and that brown-eyed girl to leap from the driver's side.

I get a phone call one morning; I expect to hear her lightly breathe my name, apologetic, for phoning so early.

It isn't her voice I hear when I stick the phone to my ear, and speak."Black residence." The voice that doesn't sound right, in my ears. Like it's not mine.

It only takes three words from a tearful Charlie, before the receiver is crushed in my palm, and I'm out the door, nearly ripping it off it's hinges. "She's gone, Jake."

I ride my motorcycle there, and see the others through the forest as I go, just wolf-shaped blurs as I speed so fast down the damped street, I was sure I looked just as blurry to them.

I don't bother to pull the keys from the ignition; I won't be long. Bike still running, I shove my hands into my jean pockets, and walk through the vine covered gate.

It's there, just like I suspected. Fresh and new, flowers littered all around. The first real emotion other than sadness, sparks through my body like lighting. In a fit of blind rage, I bash the headstone with the heel of my battered runner, effectively sending it tumbling backward, into the dying grass around it.

Bella Marie Swan

Born: September 13th, 1987
Died: April 1st, 2009.

I felt furious, but at the same time, a slightly hysterical bubble of laughter spurted from my lips. Just a sick joke. An April Fools joke that no one found funny.

I felt almost compelled to dig up the grave, and see if she was inside. Or maybe they'd done that already, and re-buried an empty coffin. Maybe they'd put a body roughly the same shape as she was, in her place.

...Maybe she was really dead. He'd failed in changing her into a blood sucking demon, like him.

The anger grated at the edges of my raw, bleeding heart, but I proceeded to rip the flowers up on the fake grave, and stomp on the head stone a few more times, before retreating back to my motorcycle.

I considered briefly, just running back home, ditching the bike. Who cares if anyone found out what I did? Nothing mattered anymore. It was game over. I was out of lives.

So was she.

And I was done waiting.