Post by Edward Cullen on Feb 20, 2013 9:44:44 GMT -5
Victoria. Her name coursed through Edward Cullen's head like the vilest curse word. Perhaps immortality had made him lazy, he pondered. Why was it now, when he was actually presented with a challenge-of sorts, that his powers felt useless? He was having trouble concentrating on something that should require no concentration. He needed to run. That would clear his head. He pushed my legs out behind him until the ground was speeding past. Running was something that's hard to explain. For Edward its almost a motion, for many it's a struggle. He vaguely remembered the human pang of pain he would feel every time he tried to run. He still, though it was a memory obscured like the boldest of Monet's paintings, remembered the first day he ran.
In his previous life, or only life depending on how you looked at it, he had a simpler mind. It had happened when he was only a child and he remembered that the object of pursuit had been a small dog they had recently acquired. The dog, whose name was lost like so many other things in his mind, had set off across the large lawn behind our house. He had begun, out of no accord of his own, to sprint after the dog. It was strange the feeling that filled him. After being used to crawling, then taking stumbling steps, and finally running, the last was unlike any other experience. Perhaps it was the thrill of speed that he enjoyed. Or maybe he was just crazy.
He pulled himself from the memory and glanced around. The trees were thickening now as he reached the center of the forest. In addition he began to hear a slight pouring noise, almost like that of a slow moving stream or small waterfall, about a mile away to the northeast. He had nothing better to do, huge amazement, and thus followed aforementioned noise to unknown destination using a route heading due northeast. If he kept voicing his thoughts as such he could have a career in the GPS industry. To bad the mistakes he constantly made were never followed by a "U-turn if possible" Despite the fairly cliched sense of the phrase, he felt like he was off the beaten path at this point. There was no, and never had been, any point to the journey he had embarked on.
Perhaps this made him more depressed, or perhaps it just certified all he had deemed true. He couldn't tell. Edward drew his attention back to his surroundings, gathering details as he was closer to the the river. He began to realize--because of the movement of the noise--that the river was surrounded by rocks on either side. Almost like the stream, and/or river, was winding through a narrow stone chasm. He continued quicker, a sense of exercise and purpose drawing him closer rather than curiosity. As finally the only thing obstructing his view was the low hanging branch of a Sugar Maple tree, he could understand the body of water below. It appeared as though the water was run-off water from snow but, in addition to carving the chasm he had suspected, it also created a series of potholes on the riverbed.
On this pitted surface light danced and flittered across and illuminated sections of the holes. The sunlight cast a murky tone to the deeper holes that a normal eye would not have been able to see. There was a greenish ethereal tinge to the water, the parts that were scintillating from light seemed to be made of silver. It was a place which he knew he would have loved to go. It was a place that he would have been able to meditate and ruminate and possibly just read, but that was gone. Edward could no longer do any of those things. Now it was just a reminder of something he would have liked to share with Bella. A scene, a picture, something, he loved showing her them because even though he could never predict her reaction, he would be happy just to share the moment with her.
Edward didn't know whether it was out of despair or possibly hysteria, but he nearly lost himself. The fact that he could never share anything with her again, and that things that he would always want to show her he would never ever get to see with her. He decided, out of a fit of desperation, to pretend. To fake his multifaceted mind into believing that she was here with him. That was only thing that saved him from emotional collapse. He knew that if he concentrated, her face would once again be illuminated. So he closed his eyes and very carefully thought of her face.
Edward slowed down once he reached the the clearing near where he had left the car. He stopped briefly and then walked quickly towards the car and reached in a few seconds, so perhaps he wasn't loosing all his gifts after all. He started to try to climb in only to realize that he didn't have the keys with me. That was odd, he had them in his pocket last, didn't he? He scanned his pockets only to realize he wasn't sure where his leather duffle bag was. He sped back to the site of his previous lapse in mental stability—as he preferred to think of it, rather than going possibly senile, after all, 108 was quite old—and found the bag. Again he chided himself, how careless had he been? He made his way back to the car pulled out the keys from the bag with relief and entered. The temperature of the car would have made the average human sick with hypothermia but he didn't even notice it.
He began driving in almost a mindless fashion. Edward was tired, though an oxymoron it was true. He, the supposed villainous creature incapable of sleep, desired a brief respite from the world he was in. The only equivalent he had was the following of random errant paths of my conscious. The journey to loose himself within his own head. He started musing about another issue that had bothered him. He had often wondered what he would have traded if after those first few years of his existence, there had been a way go back to his human life. His sight, his wealth, his memory?
What were they worth in comparison to all he had given up? Now he knew that answer would be different. Despite the hazy dull physical pain that clouded his forehead he knew the reason for his answer. Bella.
He had thought her name countless times yet it still felt to few. He realized why he felt so different, besides the obvious. Was it pathetic that he automatically remembered her words from one of the first days of our courtship? Was it strange to recall the fragile blush of her skin as she denied her own beauty? For a human perhaps, but for me it was not. He returned to the strand of thought he had been thinking about: why he felt different. He abruptly glanced back at the digital clock on the dashboard reading the seemingly stagnant numbers. The milliseconds trickled by until the numbers finally shifted. With my eyes he could see the flicker as the tiny legs that comprised the numbers lit up.
He could see the slow change as lights turned on and off. Finally the digital clock was done changing. Thought about the gradual change, the way some may compose music. Composing was something that was sporadic. It was more of a rare or random event than a structured evolutionary process of lyrics and ideas. He had never told Bella but there were actually words to the melody he had composed for her. He supposed it wouldn't have mattered whether he shared the fact with her or not, for she could never hear the melody. It was one more thing that pulled us apart. The tune had flowed in and out of the piano's song at a pitch too high for a human. He had thought of it, almost immediately, that day in the meadow.
The burning electrified feeling of her fingers as they wound their course across his hand immediately triggered a set of verses. The words were poetry, a strange sense of the word but poetry none the less. Unlike the lyricists of today, people who seemed to combine damn, hot, and boots to create garbage, this was different. It was old fashioned, he must admit. The words were more like one of an Oliver Wendell Holmes poem than that of Akon. Would she have liked it? Had he been able to transpose it to a lower key, what would she have thought? Edward's mind was already running through the vocal composition lowering the notes down three octaves. Perhaps there would be a way, maybe, if he recorded the song to give it to her. He could even FedEx it without a return address so she would never know. NO. He was not supposed to intrude on her life in such a manner. That was the final promise he had made to her, and it was one he intended to keep.
Edward pulled his attention back to the clock unsure what he was getting from doing this. He struggled, something weirdly out of place, to return yet again to what he was previously thinking about. Change. Edward had suspected it before, but had never truly been sure, that he was relatively emotional devoid. Edward's family's concerned glance and Esme's constant worrying had hinted towards the fact, but he had tried to unsuccessfully ingore it. He supposed he had only been trying to protect himself. He had just been attempting to ignore what would have only supported the claim that his life was dull and quite useless. It was strange how much one could change in such a short span of time.
Had Alice seen in any of the plethora of images that she received, this outcome? Did she know from the fateful day Carlisle and he had decided to come to the Pacific Northwest that this is where it would lead? How would anyone have known what could happen in a mere year. He had lived, truly, that past year. He had experienced more emotions than he had my entire existence. Jealousy, possessiveness, happiness, and finally, love. These were things that Bella had shown me, ideas that were non-existent to me before. Of course, he had always known such emotions existed. However knowing the presence of something and actually feeling something are two independent and completely different items. And now, now, what was he? Had he returned to his previous state?
Even he knew the answer to that one. He could never be the same. Edward would never be able to exist emotionless having felt the intensity of reality. What did Alice see now? Alice's mind might be empty, for she had told him that staying away from Bella would defy fate itself. Should he be proud of that fact? The idea that every day of this self-induced purgatory was a victory? No, he couldn't be proud. Edward couldn't because nothing about this journey was self-indulging. Nothing about this was for him. This journey was to save what he had selfishly stolen. And hopefully it would remain that way.
Edward was stuck in a library. A dark and slightly humid one. There was no internet, electricity or air conditioning. The place had an air of a forgotten chapel; laced with an absence of people yet seemingly full. In dark shrouded corners imagined readers crouch reveling in the silence. Others, however, chose to place themselves next to the windows like moths to a lamp. It was silent. The rows of books surrounded Edward like troops of warriors, standing tall and straight yet un-moving. The gleaming spines of the books were illuminated by the cloudy light. It almost made one feel ashamed for moving so much. As if sitting on the shelf day after day must be tedium enough, why was he agitated?
Outside it continues to thunder as though reminding him why it is so dark. Yet amid this place was an air of solitude. Whether it was dull quiet of tapping keys or the pattering of rain. There is no light. The desk he was at sat alone amid the rows of books, no light penetrated this far. It felt illicit as though he was in breach of some contract. Like strolling through the rows of an abandoned classroom it felt much the same. It is as though he was interrupting in something private, a time when the books would be alone. A time when they could spring forth from the shelves and finally give up on maintaining a facade of innocence.
In his previous life, or only life depending on how you looked at it, he had a simpler mind. It had happened when he was only a child and he remembered that the object of pursuit had been a small dog they had recently acquired. The dog, whose name was lost like so many other things in his mind, had set off across the large lawn behind our house. He had begun, out of no accord of his own, to sprint after the dog. It was strange the feeling that filled him. After being used to crawling, then taking stumbling steps, and finally running, the last was unlike any other experience. Perhaps it was the thrill of speed that he enjoyed. Or maybe he was just crazy.
He pulled himself from the memory and glanced around. The trees were thickening now as he reached the center of the forest. In addition he began to hear a slight pouring noise, almost like that of a slow moving stream or small waterfall, about a mile away to the northeast. He had nothing better to do, huge amazement, and thus followed aforementioned noise to unknown destination using a route heading due northeast. If he kept voicing his thoughts as such he could have a career in the GPS industry. To bad the mistakes he constantly made were never followed by a "U-turn if possible" Despite the fairly cliched sense of the phrase, he felt like he was off the beaten path at this point. There was no, and never had been, any point to the journey he had embarked on.
Perhaps this made him more depressed, or perhaps it just certified all he had deemed true. He couldn't tell. Edward drew his attention back to his surroundings, gathering details as he was closer to the the river. He began to realize--because of the movement of the noise--that the river was surrounded by rocks on either side. Almost like the stream, and/or river, was winding through a narrow stone chasm. He continued quicker, a sense of exercise and purpose drawing him closer rather than curiosity. As finally the only thing obstructing his view was the low hanging branch of a Sugar Maple tree, he could understand the body of water below. It appeared as though the water was run-off water from snow but, in addition to carving the chasm he had suspected, it also created a series of potholes on the riverbed.
On this pitted surface light danced and flittered across and illuminated sections of the holes. The sunlight cast a murky tone to the deeper holes that a normal eye would not have been able to see. There was a greenish ethereal tinge to the water, the parts that were scintillating from light seemed to be made of silver. It was a place which he knew he would have loved to go. It was a place that he would have been able to meditate and ruminate and possibly just read, but that was gone. Edward could no longer do any of those things. Now it was just a reminder of something he would have liked to share with Bella. A scene, a picture, something, he loved showing her them because even though he could never predict her reaction, he would be happy just to share the moment with her.
Edward didn't know whether it was out of despair or possibly hysteria, but he nearly lost himself. The fact that he could never share anything with her again, and that things that he would always want to show her he would never ever get to see with her. He decided, out of a fit of desperation, to pretend. To fake his multifaceted mind into believing that she was here with him. That was only thing that saved him from emotional collapse. He knew that if he concentrated, her face would once again be illuminated. So he closed his eyes and very carefully thought of her face.
Edward slowed down once he reached the the clearing near where he had left the car. He stopped briefly and then walked quickly towards the car and reached in a few seconds, so perhaps he wasn't loosing all his gifts after all. He started to try to climb in only to realize that he didn't have the keys with me. That was odd, he had them in his pocket last, didn't he? He scanned his pockets only to realize he wasn't sure where his leather duffle bag was. He sped back to the site of his previous lapse in mental stability—as he preferred to think of it, rather than going possibly senile, after all, 108 was quite old—and found the bag. Again he chided himself, how careless had he been? He made his way back to the car pulled out the keys from the bag with relief and entered. The temperature of the car would have made the average human sick with hypothermia but he didn't even notice it.
He began driving in almost a mindless fashion. Edward was tired, though an oxymoron it was true. He, the supposed villainous creature incapable of sleep, desired a brief respite from the world he was in. The only equivalent he had was the following of random errant paths of my conscious. The journey to loose himself within his own head. He started musing about another issue that had bothered him. He had often wondered what he would have traded if after those first few years of his existence, there had been a way go back to his human life. His sight, his wealth, his memory?
What were they worth in comparison to all he had given up? Now he knew that answer would be different. Despite the hazy dull physical pain that clouded his forehead he knew the reason for his answer. Bella.
He had thought her name countless times yet it still felt to few. He realized why he felt so different, besides the obvious. Was it pathetic that he automatically remembered her words from one of the first days of our courtship? Was it strange to recall the fragile blush of her skin as she denied her own beauty? For a human perhaps, but for me it was not. He returned to the strand of thought he had been thinking about: why he felt different. He abruptly glanced back at the digital clock on the dashboard reading the seemingly stagnant numbers. The milliseconds trickled by until the numbers finally shifted. With my eyes he could see the flicker as the tiny legs that comprised the numbers lit up.
He could see the slow change as lights turned on and off. Finally the digital clock was done changing. Thought about the gradual change, the way some may compose music. Composing was something that was sporadic. It was more of a rare or random event than a structured evolutionary process of lyrics and ideas. He had never told Bella but there were actually words to the melody he had composed for her. He supposed it wouldn't have mattered whether he shared the fact with her or not, for she could never hear the melody. It was one more thing that pulled us apart. The tune had flowed in and out of the piano's song at a pitch too high for a human. He had thought of it, almost immediately, that day in the meadow.
The burning electrified feeling of her fingers as they wound their course across his hand immediately triggered a set of verses. The words were poetry, a strange sense of the word but poetry none the less. Unlike the lyricists of today, people who seemed to combine damn, hot, and boots to create garbage, this was different. It was old fashioned, he must admit. The words were more like one of an Oliver Wendell Holmes poem than that of Akon. Would she have liked it? Had he been able to transpose it to a lower key, what would she have thought? Edward's mind was already running through the vocal composition lowering the notes down three octaves. Perhaps there would be a way, maybe, if he recorded the song to give it to her. He could even FedEx it without a return address so she would never know. NO. He was not supposed to intrude on her life in such a manner. That was the final promise he had made to her, and it was one he intended to keep.
Edward pulled his attention back to the clock unsure what he was getting from doing this. He struggled, something weirdly out of place, to return yet again to what he was previously thinking about. Change. Edward had suspected it before, but had never truly been sure, that he was relatively emotional devoid. Edward's family's concerned glance and Esme's constant worrying had hinted towards the fact, but he had tried to unsuccessfully ingore it. He supposed he had only been trying to protect himself. He had just been attempting to ignore what would have only supported the claim that his life was dull and quite useless. It was strange how much one could change in such a short span of time.
Had Alice seen in any of the plethora of images that she received, this outcome? Did she know from the fateful day Carlisle and he had decided to come to the Pacific Northwest that this is where it would lead? How would anyone have known what could happen in a mere year. He had lived, truly, that past year. He had experienced more emotions than he had my entire existence. Jealousy, possessiveness, happiness, and finally, love. These were things that Bella had shown me, ideas that were non-existent to me before. Of course, he had always known such emotions existed. However knowing the presence of something and actually feeling something are two independent and completely different items. And now, now, what was he? Had he returned to his previous state?
Even he knew the answer to that one. He could never be the same. Edward would never be able to exist emotionless having felt the intensity of reality. What did Alice see now? Alice's mind might be empty, for she had told him that staying away from Bella would defy fate itself. Should he be proud of that fact? The idea that every day of this self-induced purgatory was a victory? No, he couldn't be proud. Edward couldn't because nothing about this journey was self-indulging. Nothing about this was for him. This journey was to save what he had selfishly stolen. And hopefully it would remain that way.
Edward was stuck in a library. A dark and slightly humid one. There was no internet, electricity or air conditioning. The place had an air of a forgotten chapel; laced with an absence of people yet seemingly full. In dark shrouded corners imagined readers crouch reveling in the silence. Others, however, chose to place themselves next to the windows like moths to a lamp. It was silent. The rows of books surrounded Edward like troops of warriors, standing tall and straight yet un-moving. The gleaming spines of the books were illuminated by the cloudy light. It almost made one feel ashamed for moving so much. As if sitting on the shelf day after day must be tedium enough, why was he agitated?
Outside it continues to thunder as though reminding him why it is so dark. Yet amid this place was an air of solitude. Whether it was dull quiet of tapping keys or the pattering of rain. There is no light. The desk he was at sat alone amid the rows of books, no light penetrated this far. It felt illicit as though he was in breach of some contract. Like strolling through the rows of an abandoned classroom it felt much the same. It is as though he was interrupting in something private, a time when the books would be alone. A time when they could spring forth from the shelves and finally give up on maintaining a facade of innocence.
