I never knew you could drown; could suffocate... in air.

I can feel my chest contract painfully as I struggle to breath the clean, fresh air of the room. Am I dead? Am I dying? Is this what it feels like to feel your body fight gasping for air? It doesn't make sense and yet by the time my startled mind has even begun to process the feeling - it's gone.

In it's place now is a sinking, physically painful, ball of despair and loss.

It feels like my stomach when I'm in a car and it goes over the top of a sharp hill, or a roller coaster, just before you hurtle breakneck back towards the ground. Yet I haven't moved, not even a muscle, so how can I feel like I'm drowning and falling down...down into something sticky black and dark? Somewhere I can't breathe, can't feel anything, can't hear anything, can't see anything.

Anything other than your face.

Oh my god, your face. It haunts me. It's a curse. Such beauty was never meant to be witnessed by such a pathetic mortal as me - it belongs to the Gods. Memories of old stories, parables and warnings where some beautiful god would come down and seduce some poor human, and basically fuck up their lives. I can't help but wonder if even as the poor soul knew they were fucked, they would look up at that ethereal beauty and still feel blessed to be chosen.

By the Gods how I wish I was chosen.

It's truly tragic. Pathetic little me, longing, needing for something that can never be. I guess I am just as fucked as those poor mortals. Maybe I'll get locked in a casket and thrown into the sea. Maybe I am, and that's why I feel like I'm falling and drowning and this sitting here, watching you laugh is all a dream. The dying fantasy of a wretched woman who's only crime was to be dazzled by a beauty too perfect for this world.

You're laughing. God that sound! It's like the most perfectly amazing and painful knife running me through, eviscerating me with it's magical charm. I start to smile, compulsively, uncontrollably. I have no idea what you're laughing at or why I'm smiling with you, only that just the sound, as much as my guts pour like a stuck pig onto the floor, makes me happy. If I could scoop up my intestines, lungs, kidney... my still beating heart and covered in the cooling and darkening sticky blood and offer them to you - as a sacrifice, would that be enough? Would you look at me? Would you smile and laugh even as your eye's darkened and your eternal thirst rose? Could I satiate you then? Would that be enough? Would you forever remember me and my gift to you?

God, I would you know? If I thought it would make you happy, and if then you knew just how much I truly loved you, how I would give my life to you, just to nourish you... I would. It's not like I haven't thought of it. Sometimes when I'm alone or in the bath I look at my right arm, on the underside where it's the most palest and I can see such a pretty blue. I know you don't remember what color your eyes were, but in my mind, I think they're the same kind of blue - only much more beautiful of course - as if anything, any part of me could even compare to you, even back then. When you were human.

I look at that river of blue and think about the river of red running through it. How much will it hurt just to slice gently a couple of inches down the inside of my arm; not too deep, just deep enough to let the crimson river pulse out, like it's dancing to the beat of a drum... a drum that gets slower and slower. I imagine you come to me then, having seen me do it but not soon enough to make me stop it, and bursting in, eye's black as soot but alive with such a burning inky gleam that just for a moment my heart stops beating; the river paused mid flow. I can see your eyes looking at me and then tearing away to my arm. Your nostrils flare and your mouth opens, teeth shining like beautiful crystal before you vanish; only to appear attached to my arm. I'm happy then, when I imagine this, because I know I'm giving my best to you. I'm giving you what you need, what you crave, I'm giving you everything I am to make you happy, to give you life. What more could anyone ask for? What more could anyone be worth?

I'm not stupid. I know that it would hurt you too. You've told me how much you love me and how I'm your very best friend. And you know? I should be grateful for that. It should be enough. Hell, it should be so much more than enough because I'm not even worthy of that amount, not from someone like you, but you don't know how much it hurts to hear you say that. I'm ungrateful. I'm selfish. I shouldn't even entertain the idea that I could ever have you to myself.

But I do. And it hurts.

Oh - now I see what you were laughing at.


Your 'husband' just made some comment at your oldest brother's expense and everyone is laughing with you. But I saw it. I saw that damned gleam in your eye as you looked at 'him'.

Oh gods, you love him so much don't you?

What am I saying, of course you do. You've been together for ever, he was the first thing you saw, the first memory you ever remember having for Christ's sake!

Yet I'm suffocating again because you didn't 'see' me.


I hate myself.

I'm so pathetic.

Why would you see me? You're normal!

I'm just your best friend, and maybe one day your new sister-in-law...

Oh how blessed I am! To look forward to eternity living with you just a few doors away, spending time sitting the in family room watching you hanging off his arm, or wrapped so tightly.

I don't think I can do it.

Of course I daren't 'make the decision' because

a) you'll 'see' it with that damned annoying 'gift' of yours, and

b) what would happen to Him?

He says He loves me, and I know I've said it back to Him. Everyone here has told me how He'd died without me. How can I do that to Him? More importantly, how can I do that to you? How can I take your favourite brother away from you?

I know I should be grateful. I know just being here, in His arms, surrounded by so much love and acceptance is more than a girl like me could ever dream of. Except it's not! Ever since that first day in the canteen, I've dreamt of you, and for one stupid, silly moment, I thought you knew.

Remember when you came and hugged me that first time I met your family? Remember when you smelt me? I was so scared, because I thought then that you knew; I thought you could smell...well...me.

When I saw you like a weightless sprite, dancing up the tree and leaping into the kitchen I...I melted. Arrrgh! You know what I mean! I'd never seen anything so perfect and so un-human, so godly, and you were just looking at me, so happy, your eyes, your smile and the flowers you were holding - I thought you were going to give them to me... All the time you walked over to me in my head I was thinking how no-one had given me flowers before and especially not a girl, but it was perfect. Even as He held onto me, all I wanted was for you to hold me, to carry me away into the forrest... to stare into those pools of molten gold and... and to touch that face. That impossible face with my fingers; to feel perfection because seeing it isn't enough. Eye's can be fooled, but not touch.

So many times I've wanted to touch your face, but I could never come up with an excuse. It's not like you'll ever have a fallen eyelash or a piece of food on your face... food. Yes, I've even imagined you feeding. I know you're embarrassed about it, but I don't know why. I think it's beautiful in a way. It's like you're a lioness, you're just doing what nature intended. Well, kind of obviously what with the whole 'Vegetarian' thing, but you know what I mean - well you would if we ever talked about this.

I've laid awake at nights looking out my open window and imagined you out there, running like the wind, a deadly smile over your face as you let yourself go and enjoy the hunt. I've imagined you with your face covered in hot slashes of red as you feed deeply, and what it would be like to see such a beautiful color contrasting with the pure snow white wonder of your face in the moonlight. Of walking up to you and touching that color and slowly bringing my finger to your lips, painting them with it until they shone like a rose.

Some nights I imagine what your tongue would feel like as it captures my finger. I imagine a velvet soft, wet stroke that surrounds my index finger, that magnificent cold wetness curling tightly around my digit pulling it into your cold but oh so wet mouth. I imagine the sensation of such a tight, wet space, with my sensitive finger trapped by your sharp teeth as you tenderly clean off all traces of red. I'm not ashamed to admit to myself that I almost always come undone when I imagine what that feels like. Gods, what your mouth could do to me...

I should stop - I know this, it's pointless and I'm only hurting myself and yet I can't. I'm like a masochist, I keep sticking my heart in the fire, I feel the utter agony as the flames of your perfection burn me black, and when I can't take anymore and I retreat to heal, I know it's only a short matter of time until I return again.

A moth to a flame... an addiction.

I'm loathed to admit it but I guess it's an obsession. I don't even understand it. It came from no where. Sure, your entire family is beautiful and I guess your sister would be considered true perfection by almost every heterosexual male alive, but they have it wrong. You are more than your preternatural looks. It's your heart, your very soul that pours out of you just as the light pours out of the Sun. It surrounds you like a heady magical perfume and everyone get's caught up in its spell.

Sure... I'd looked at girls before and I've known I was different since Grade 7, but I've never been really sociable and nobody at my old school really bothered with me. And I was fine with that, I just kept my head down and watched quietly. I watched the pretty popular girls; the cheerleaders in their cute, tight little uniforms and imagine being asked to help with their routine - even though I can't dance or do gymnastics and everyone knows I have no control over my body, but still I'd help them and that one cute redhead would ask me to walk her home and talk and when we were alone on a quite side-street her hand would glance softly against mine and we'd stare at each other and just... know.

I'd watch the nerdy girls too with their glasses and their binders as they would get knocked around the corridors like a pinball, and I'd imaging swooping in to help pick up their scattered books and look in their eyes and then they'd know.

And don't forget the goth girls with their cute but sexy clothes and their whiter than white skin. They'd be congregated outside in the bicycle sheds getting out of the sun and I'd walk over and strike up a conversation about Poe or Shelly and we'd talk and eventually I'd get up to her room and she'd show me her collection of gothic romances and our fingers would touch as we'd both be reaching for her old tattered and well-read edition of Dracula, and then she'd know.

So it's not like I'm not aware of my...differences, but you... when I saw you walk in leading what looked like your boyfriend along with teasing and sultry glances I knew that I'd never see a more beautiful perfect girl as long as I would live. My heart, my soul - if you believe in such things - was yours to do with as you saw fit from that very second.

Despite or maybe because of the drama that came virtually straight away with Him, I knew in my heart that it was my one chance to meet you, to maybe even get to know you, because there was no other way that I could even contemplate talking to you.

What? You think I could have just walked up to you in front of the whole school and the glaring death-stares from fifty percent of your family and just said 'Hi'? I'm obsessive, compulsive, in mad un-requited love and on the razor edge of being full-on suicidal, but I'm not crazy!'?

I can feel my hands getting clammy. These thoughts and feelings I'm having right now are playing havoc with my body, and it strikes me, once again, how your 'husband' hasn't picked up on it yet!? I don't understand - normally the slightest amount of anxiety, anger, guilt or embarrassment and he's right in there controlling or 'helping'. And yet not for the first time, when I'm overcome with desire and gut wrenching pain at watching you happy in the arms of someone else, of loving someone else... he seems completely oblivious. I wonder if the thing that's wrong with my head sometimes plays tricks with my emotions and he can't always feel them.

Or maybe he knows! Oh my God! Is that it? He know's and he's just fucking with my head, pretending he hasn't felt anything because he knows how pointless and pathetic I am? How secure in your love he is that he feels so little threat that he can just dismiss me as if I am nothing? That's not the man I've got to know from how your and your family talk about him, but he might be fooling you all! He and I are never alone and he rarely speaks to me, preferring to keep his distance and watch me closer from afar. Never-mind all that business at my birthday party...

Oh fuck... is that it? Is that why he went so crazed? Perhaps it wasn't just the tiny slice of blood on my finger, but what more perfect excuse would he have of putting me out of both our miseries? He wouldn't have to feel everything I feel for you, and know just how much someone else loves 'his' wife. I know that if you would choose me, the thought of someone stealing you away from me would keep me up nights.

I suppose in either case I thank the stars above because I would just die, right now, on this comfortable leather loveseat and in His arms, if he told everyone here how I felt about 'his wife'.


Why do I torment myself?!

Just thinking that your his wife makes my heart pound and my hands and heart clench! I want to be your wife, and I want you to be MY wife! I've never been one to imagine her wedding; I'm not the girlie-est of girls; as I know you're particularly fond of pointing out, but still, lately I've considered the idea, and what a bride you would be. I think I'd be a weeping mess as I watched you walk down the isle, on your Father's arm, in a beautiful white dress. I know that for you I'd wear one too... but I'm glad you don't know that I think that as you'd never let me hear the end of it!

I catch myself smiling at imagining that devastatingly powerful and disarming pout, and it's then that you choose to catch my eye.

Oh god!

Am I having a heart attack? At my age?

My chest is burning and my left arm is on fire, but no, you just smile at me and do that little wink thing you do before turning back to the TV.




I love you. Do you even know how perfect you are? How just a look gives my life meaning and then takes it instantly away along with your glance?

I'm done for aren't I? How can I get over this when I'm planning on never leaving your side - if your family will let me. I know He doesn't want it, but maybe He'll come around, and maybe if not I'll beg your father to do it.

But do I really want that? With each passing day it's getting harder and harder to be with you, to watch you love someone else, to watch someone hold you and... heavens forbid get to KISS YOU... so how can I plan on eternity to live in this state?

Sure I've considered that I'd maybe 'get over you' someday, that I could settle for being your - what did you call me? Your B.F.F.? Sheesh... are you really 111 or are you 14?

The thing is though is that I just don't know. I've watched Oprah, and read the articles in my mom's magazines. I know that to really mend a broken heart or to get over that big unrequited love I need to leave - to move on and get as far away from you as possible. Change of scenery, change of friends, change of life... but I also know that its pointless even to consider. I'm weak, I'm an addict that gets her fix basking in the occasional touches, laughter and gazes you deem suitable to bestow upon me; to do without those, would surely be the end of me.

So here I am, wrapped in stone cold arms that have never felt so much like a prison as they do with each passing day; living so many lies to so many people that not one person on this wretched planet actually knows the real me, the real Bella Swan; pretending to be in love with a man child, who barely seems able to prevent himself from ripping out my throat, all the while telling me how precious and delicate and fragile I am; all the while dying slowly, as the cancer of watching my one true love give herself to someone else, eats away at my bones, my organs and my soul.

"Oh, Alice... what am I going to do?"

Suddenly all heads turn to me and I feel Him move his arms away, giving me breathing space, until I realize what I've done.

"What did you say Bella?" He asks...