This is a drabble I wrote for ADF "Edward's Nightmare Before Christmas" one-shot contest on ADF in December. It's supposed to be a dark and "surprising" and a bit of horror, in drabble style. I built off of something I'd previously written, and came up with this.
It pooled under cheeks, under a permeable . . . delectable surface-the only true barrier. Not that any obstacle imaginable could deter the determined. It was the warmth of sun across noses in the summer; the smell of the ripest, richest nectar; the appeal of wealth among the impoverished, of food among the starving, of water among the desiccated . . . of drink.
Infallibility was for the gods.
Or perhaps only for those truly not of this world.
Soulless was not a a word synonymous with infallibility. And as he watched-thirst unparalleled, as it always was-he knew that he was very much of this world, though not in any sense that made sense. But, of one thing he was certain, a deity he was not. Not an Adonis. Not a thing of beauty. And most certainly not a thing of worship.
A monster. A nightmare.
He came to accept this fact years before-ten to be exact. Ten years to the date he finally gave into what he was.
A mouth watered but not of saliva. Rubies glared: their pupils dilating in a way that indicated some sort of chemical reaction—some endorphic one. When muscles coiled, constricting in length to prepare the body for every obstacle, nothing else mattered.
The screaming was everywhere, bouncing off of walls, a ceiling . . . skin. When razors tore into skin there wasn't a sound. It didn't crunch like bones being broken. It didn't smash like a head colliding with a ground. And when there was no noise at all, even thoughts were eviscerated, everything was just serene. Nothing was more satisfying, not even the succulent taste of nature's wine on parched lips.
Abstinence was for the weak.
Or perhaps only for those truly divine.
Predator was a word that wasn't synonymous with abstinence. At least that much was certain. Though there were those among his kind that believed they were "truly divine." They were infallible. That the predator wasn't a monster.
It had been ten years since he thought of his "father." His sire. His curse. Yet it had been only a matter of minutes since he'd thought of her.
The female that he'd taken for nourishment, though if he were honest, not at all, had a blush like her. The female last week had the same color of hair. The one before that was her height. Before that her habit of lip-biting. Before her, her eyes.
But none had the scent.
And as terrible as it was, it was the scent his longed for the most, after all these years. Not the love. Not the warmth. Not companionship. Not the sense of hope and life and being more than this life. No-the monster inside missed the smell of her, the one that called to him like the drug it was. That very same drug that would be her undoing.
Carlisle had said he was strong enough. He had faith in him. After all he was able to save her from the hunter's venom that polluted her years before. But something about that time was different. It could have been the lust. It could have been the careless complacency he had around her. It could have been a dozen different things. But where he found fault most, beyond with himself, was with his "father." He had condemned him to this life. And in turn condemned her to her death that night years before.
A growl escaped his chest, deep and resounding as his fists clenched around the letter.
She missed him and wanted the "family" back together.
He laughed, though not in humor.
Perhaps it was time to return home. To have the maker see what his hands created.
Complacency was for the lonesome.
Or perhaps only for those truly blind.
Surprise was not a word that was synonymous with complacency. At least that much was certain. And as he stared into the widen, stricken eyes of those he used to hold in regard, he knew that surprise was the first of many emotions they'd experience this day.
"Isn't it customary to bring a dish to the holiday meal? Seeing as how we're not human, you couldn't have anticipated I'd bring mashed potatoes?"
The young girl's final scream as he twisted her neck was a sound that each pair of ears would never forget. But that she was not even over the age of ten, scarred them all. Tattooing this encounter in their memories.
"The prodigal son returns, father." He seethed. Black, thick as tar on his words, his soul, everything that he was since he lost her. He met each gasp and attack with a sadistic snarl. This was one holiday that he would bleed red.
"Who will join me for the feast?"
Happiness was for the living.
Or perhaps only for those truly ignorant.
Infallibility, abstinence, complacency . . . none of these words were synonymous with happiness, nor would they ever be. Ultimately, at least Edward Cullen was no longer ignorant of that much.
Thanks for reading!