There seemed to have been some confusion as to how Bella can fall for Marcus, what with him looking so old and all. In my mind, Marcus has been changed at the age of 26. he is well- toned and incredibly handsome.
Also, Didyme died at the hands of werewolves, not at Aro's.
This is now the revised form of the first chapter.
For people who read this for the first time: Enjoy!
I own no part of the 'Twilight Universe'. Only the idea to this story. This is strictly for fun.
"Ladies and Gentlemen, we will soon be arriving in Rome. Please bring your seats into an upright position and fasten your seat-belts. We hope you enjoyed your flight with Delta Airlines and wish you a pleasant stay in Italy. The temperature is 10°C and it is slightly windy."
Ah, soon I would be there. And then it would finally be over - the pain, the disappointment, the grief and sadness, and so many other unpleasant emotions; but I hope the self-hatred will stay with me even after death, because that was what I truly deserved: to be hated.
How could I not? I was the one who caused the cruel murder of Char- , no, my Dad, and Mom and Phil. Why didn't tell them how much I loved them more often, how much I cared about them? Why didn't I spend more time with Dad, doing anything, really, anything - even watching a game or one of those fishing trips he'd always pester me about... I really should have called him Dad more; he deserved that title.
But I would never be able to do any of those things any more. They were all gone. Victoria had made sure of that.
Victoria... I really hoped she would follow me, and leave Forks and La Push alone. That's the least I could do, right? Carry the threat I had brought away with me?
Pain and death. Those were the only things I brought those I cared about. I hurt the ones I loved most...
Funny that I should travel to Italy, the very setting of one of my favourite books: Romeo and Juliet. Under other circumstances I would be thrilled, overly excited , bouncing up and down in my seat, like Alice used to do so often... NO! I couldn't go there. Stop! Don't think about THEM... too late.
Agony: that was all I felt right now; suffocating, heart lacerating agony. But I wouldn't cry. Crying would bring relief and I wouldn't allow myself that. I deserved pain, and much, much worse.
"Miss? Miss, are you alright?" I heard a frantic voice say, and felt a hand on my shoulder.
That brought me out of my thoughts. I realized that I was sitting hunched over, taking shallow breaths, my arms wrapped tightly around my empty chest.
"Miss, can I get you something? Do you need medical assistance?" Hm... I must look really bad.
So I made an effort, forced myself to sit upright, and plastered the best fake smile on my face that I could muster - it probably looked more like a grimace - and looked up.
I saw a pretty young flight attendant in a nice, burgundy-red uniform, who was looking at me with a frown on her face, concern clearly visible in her dark brown eyes. She had tanned skin and black hair that was brushed straight back and coiled in a tight bun. She looked beautiful; that is, she would look beautiful to anyone who had never seen one of their kind.
"Uh... er, no thank you,I was just..." think of an excuse, Bella, come on, "I am not so good with the landing... I don't like flying very much. It frightens me."
Not such a bad lie, I thought to myself.
A look of compassion and relief crossed the woman's face. "Oh, I understand. I am sure you will feel better soon. But I must ask you to leave the plane now..." she trailed off in her Italian accent.
At that moment I noticed the silence and looked around, only to find the plane empty.
Well done, Bella, I chided myself, sarcasm dripping from my mental voice.
I rushed out an apology and a goodbye. Taking my carry-on rucksack, I got off the plane and into the airport building. Impatience was growing inside me, and I found myself looking forward to my impending demise. Some sick sense of hope made its way into my heart, telling me that it would be over soon. Very soon.
I was glad I could just walk out of the building without bothering to wait for luggage. I had only brought a spacious backpack as a carry-on item, which contained the few things I couldn't bear to part with: a picture of my Dad and myself – he had his arm around my shoulder and an awkward look in his face; he had always been bad with emotions, especially with showing affection; and one of Mom and Phil on their wedding day; they were positively glowing with happiness. There was also a well-read copy of Wuthering Heights, a collection of Jane Austen's stories, and an envelope with thousands of dollars – I had sold Dad's house as soon as I could, but I wasn't sure what to do with all that money. There were other things, like the diaries I had kept ever since I could write, a spare set of clothes, some toiletries, and my wallet.
When I stepped out of the building the sun hit my face and I welcomed it. It reminded me of Phoenix and happier times. But it was early in the year – March had only just come round – and a cold wind engulfed me before I could relax in the sun's soft caress. I wrapped myself tighter in my parka and walked on.
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