April Showers

The rhyme claims sweet April showers will spring May flowers… but the air is nearly always heavy and damp here, without regard to the month. Perhaps that is why, even for me, time seems to move more slowly around Forks… one day seems as wet and overcast as the next… or perhaps the previous…

Today, the Sitka branches bent low, laden with a thousand mirrored droplets and soaked sponges of moss. I stretched alongside them, sweeping my slender arms downward until my fingers raked the sopping ground, already overflowing with the sky’s tears. I turned up two handfuls of mud and fluidly somersaulted backward over a decaying log to rest firmly upon the soles of my bare feet in a perfect pouncing stance.

A Gift

So many are curious to know what occurs inside the human mind. Are people inherently good or evil? Philosophers have debated about the human psyche since man has had the ability to reflect on his own existence. Without asking for the gift to know, it was bestowed upon me in the crazy tumble of fate.

I know there was a time when people's thoughts did not buzz incessantly in my head, but I do not remember it. The sharpest memory is the pain of my change, but as soon as I could quench the burning the voices began. And on they drone. I have learned, over the years, to control the noise for the most part. Nearly a century after obtaining my acute hearing, I have learned to blend it into the background, and pull out what I want to hear until it is sharp in my mind.

It is an exceedingly valuable gift, but crippling at the same time. Even with decades of practice, I often turn my head when someone thinks my name. It is a reflex I have long tried to control, just as I have tried to keep the venom from burning my throat when a human gets too close. Both have proven futile. I can turn it down but not off. Silence is hard to come by.

Most thoughts are dull, uninteresting, mundane. Some are twisted and dark. Some vapid and brief. A very small amount are selfless and full of thought. It is a turnstile of sameness. Lust, love, money, errands, jobs, pets, children, meals. The human brain is occupied primarily with itself, able to turn inward much better than it can look outward. But there is some wonder in the sea of sickening sameness. There are some humans that hold so tight to their uniqueness - they cling to the idea that their thoughts are unique and that there is no other like them. As laughable as this thought is, they believe it so passionately that it endears them to me instantly. There is something innocent and beautiful about hoping that one is the diamond in the rough. I am drawn to these moments, these thoughts, these humans.

After all I've heard, I have no great insight into the human psyche. Some people are inherently good, and some are inherently evil. Some are born to love, and some born to fight. They are all human, and they are all capable of building their own pedestals and standing upon them. It is both beautiful and laughable. And I will be in awe and in laughter for all eternity - that is my gift.

Becoming Bella

A worn journal lay discarded at the back of my dresser drawer, half hidden beneath a heap of socks. I pulled it out from its forgotten cavern, thumbing absently through pages upon pages of familiar strokes. This book was once the story of my life, summed up and packaged quite ornately in a tattered leather tome. And here it rested, abandoned; an outpouring of my words that held very little value now. The last dated entry was prior to my homecoming in Forks, which was clearly before my life actually began. This book was an autobiography of a girl who no longer existed. Nothing before Edward even mattered; those memories were muddled and unimportant. She was dead... and quite frankly, I didn't miss her in the least. It wasn’t until I returned to Forks that I became Bella; before coming home to this weepy-skied town, I was a shell…an empty drone existing without a purpose.

So, I was born in Forks, only to return there to die… and then be truly born again, finally becoming his Bella. My soul was conceived at the moment in which I first took Edward in with my eyes. He captivated me and I was simply bewitched from that moment forward. Had I been more than just a stupid mortal, I would have known from that instant that there was no other path for me than to be at his side. But it wasn’t until the day that our lips first met that he breathed life into my being and I realized how dead I had really been.

Edward once said that I was exceptionally unobservant… I think that was certainly the case before. I could never have imagined I’d discover a grandeur scheme in Washington; I never believed there was a place for me in this or any other world… I only left Phoenix with the intention of releasing Renée of her burden. But as it turned out I was destined for so much more… I had no inkling that I was fated to find my place in a fairy tale alongside a knight in shining armor. Knowing life as I do now, the words sealed within this book were merely that. Just words; of no consequence and even less comprehension.

I slid the drawer closed, journal in hand, and ventured towards the door of our bedroom. Edward lay sprawled across the bed, seemingly engrossed in reading of his own. I glanced back at my knight and helplessly smiled; he looked up from his own pages to meet my gaze and quickly narrowed his eyes in obvious wonder as to what I might be thinking. With a wrinkle of my nose and a gentle shake of my head, I attempted to quell his concern. I smiled, enjoying our inaudible conversation, and gestured with my hands, encouraging him to continue on with his thoughts without interruption. I turned on my heel, heading through the jamb, down the hall and out into the parlor.

Sitting upon our hearth, I enjoyed the warmth it offered on a cool and rainy morning; a low-burning fire crackling quietly within. I looked down at this journal, the leather soft against my palm and turned it over in my hand. The pages fluttered, releasing a photograph that floated to the floor. I bent to retrieve it, in an instant knowing the memory that it captured. It was the photograph of Edward… taken in Charlie’s kitchen on my birthday a few years before. A familiar pain clenched my chest and for an instant, I was thrown back in time; engulfed in the desperation and fear of an existence without my Edward. It was a time worse than any death imaginable.

Briefly lost in my thoughts, I did not hear Edward approach. He tenderly took the photo from my hand, inquisitive, and upon seeing it his smile turned stoic. His handsome face was blemished with torment as he absorbed the memory himself. My eyes averted, not able to bare his anguish; I looked first to the flames and then slowly back to his face. He was solemn now and ashamed, knowing the darkness where this picture and its linked emotions had just taken me. I stood quickly, removing the photo from between his long, slender fingers and tucked it safely in my pocket. And without a further thought, I tossed the journal into the fire. He looked at me as the pages erupted into flame, eyes a bit bewildered, and I placed my hands on either side of his face.

“I don’t want to remember what came before you. And, God forbid, I should ever be forced to know what might come after,” I stated. “There is nothing in this world for me if not you, if not for our forever. And I don’t regret a millisecond of any happening that brought us to this point.” I closed my eyes and pressed my lips to his. He begrudgingly responded and, mildly frustrated, I pulled away to further reiterate my point. “THIS,” I looked around our cottage, at the physical things that emphasized the life we were blessed to be living, and I pointedly glanced down the hall towards Renesmee’s room, where she lie napping. “THIS is worth it all. And then some.”

Edward’s eyes softened and the hurt drained from his face. He took me in his arms and I was both lost and found in the same instant. There was nothing but now, but the two of us, and it was more than I could have ever imagined it to be. It was another perfect piece of forever.

On A Gray Hoquiam Day

We moved to Hoquiam in the late fall of 1936 from Rochester. The family was nearly complete then, Emmett and Rosalie were still newborns and containing them required a lot of my time. That summer had been one of the hottest ever recorded and the earth seemed grateful for the coolness of the autumn. President Roosevelt had just won his second term in office by a landslide, and the depression was pressing on.

The logging town of Hoquiam was wet and miserable like most places we had lived. These drenched towns were all the same, rotting away before my eyes – uninteresting, gray, depressed people in uninteresting, gray depressed surroundings. The economic recession had hit the lumber industry hard and it showed. There was an air of desperation permeating the gloom. On my frequent hunting trips I would often find men poaching deer in Gray’s Woods in order to survive. They and I had more in common than I would like to admit.

Even the new modest home that Carlisle had purchased for us was tired and gray, though it couldn’t have been more than five years old. Time was starting to get away from me at this point – I was 35 years old that year and my age felt significant. The importance of my life weighed heavily on my mind.

In the dense silence of Hoquiam I had far too much time to think. I wondered what life I would be living if the flu had not taken hold of my family. I wondered what the world would be like if I were to be six feet under, in my rightful place. I yearned to know the normalcy of life for a man my age; I desired a wife and a child. I wanted a job to which I would scurry in the morning, clutching a newspaper under my arm. Whether there is great glamour to the life of a vampire I do not know, for me it was marked with an overwhelming sense of loss. Death seemed the better option, and I contemplated it.

It was early in the evening, raining no doubt, and the Green Hornet was on the radio. It was a popular show at the time, and I listened to it occasionally to take my mind off the creeping claustrophobia that occupied my consciousness. The buzz of it bothered me tonight, the affected voices rang in my ears and I turned the knob sharply, breaking it off in my hand. This minor inconvenience angered me, and increased my sense of helplessness.

Saying nothing to my family, I exited the dingy white clapboard prison that contained us and headed out for a walk in the woods. My dissatisfaction was building up; I had accomplished nothing in this life – I had nothing – I was nothing. This world and the people in it were numb and I desired the misery of their lives. I wanted to walk among them, uninteresting and gray. I wished for the ability to make tears – to aid me in mourning the life that I had given up 18 years ago.

Sensing someone in the woods near me, I stopped quite still. We were new to the town, and not properly introduced. My appearance would be startling, although our pallor matched those of most of the people in the sunless city. I moved quietly now, and crept up upon a frail young woman kneeling in a small clearing. Her back was to me, but I could see that in her arms she tenderly cradled a tiny bundle. As my mind found hers, I learned that the bundle was her child, gone within a few days of his birth. Whether he had been taken by starvation or disease I did not know, but the mother mourned him there in the woods.

She cried the tears that I could not as she dug a shallow grave with her bare hands, her thin arms straining against the hard soil. She placed the baby in the ground and lay then on the ground next to him, looking directly into his face. She whispered words I could not hear to the child. Lying there on the damp ground, she wondered as I had about life. She wondered what his life would have been if God had not taken him. She wondered what the world would be like now that he was gone. She yearned for a life before she had known this kind of pain. As she mourned her lost child, she allowed me to mourn my lost life. Her tears were my own, her pain my own, her loss my own. I was both pained and comforted.

Sitting up now she took from the dusty ground a tiny, hastily crafted quilt and she carefully laid it over the baby. She rose slowly and stood over his resting place, pressing her fingers to her lips – she blew her lost son a kiss, and turned to go – her shoulders low against an invisible weight.

I longed to comfort her in that moment, to rush to her side and assure her that I was fine – that the good doctor had granted her wish and that I was spared. I would live, even if it was not as I had imagined.

I watched the woman disappear through the trees. She was not my mother, nor I her son, but she mourned for me in the woods that day. I was reminded of the sacrifices that had been made for me. Edward Anthony Masen was put to rest on that cool fall evening, just a few dozen feet away from that crooked quilt. I emerged from the woods a few hours later, and for the first time since my change, I was prepared to accept my life in the form that it was granted to me - for my mother, for the woman and her child in the woods, and for myself. Happiness could be found in this existence, and I would find it.

Three Years of Bliss

I knew there was no way that Edward would forget the significance of this day. As much as he prodded me, insisted on the formality and bartered with me, no… blackmailed me into marrying him, he simply could never forget the day that we wed. Nor could I. Much to my surprise, three years ago today became one of the happiest days of my life.

I walked into the cottage after having taken Renesmee to the main house for the night, intent on tracking down that gorgeous husband of mine for a little celebrating. The parlor was dark, nearly black in its emptiness. No fire burned on the hearth, no candles adorned the mantle. I peeked into our near abandoned kitchen tentatively; no Edward there or in the dining nook either. I shrugged, not really disappointed, but a little less certain that he had remembered after all… And that’s when I caught the glorious scent.

A slight breeze from the yet open front door wafted the bouquet of roses to my nose. I breathed in and smiled; closing my eyes and inhaling their delicate perfume. Upon looking down at my feet, I now noticed dainty pink petals dancing across the floor, leading me down the dark hall. At the end of the corridor, our bedroom door was practically closed; just the shimmering outline of the lighted portal beckoning me. Leaving the front door ajar, I virtually ran to reach the end of the hallway.

Gently, I pushed the door open. The room was full of burning candles and white light; it seemed to glow from the walls to the crisp linens. Hundreds of rose petals adorned our bed and cascaded all around the room. This was not the quintessential dimly lit romance of the movies; it was as if I had stepped into the sun itself and was surrounded by its brightness. And there, amidst this pseudo-sunshine, was my husband… sitting on the end of the bed, dazzling in his beauty and holding a single blush rose.

Smiling, I took one step into the room towards him and in a moment, I was off my feet and tossed onto our bed. Giggling, I closed my eyes as Edward hovered over me. I could feel him studying me. I opened my eyes to gaze into his. “Do you like what you see, darling? Or have you just realized that you made a terrible mistake three years ago today?” I laughed a little and pretended to pout.

His hand brushed the side of my face, warmth and love radiating from his entire body. “No, Mrs. Cullen, not at all. I was simply memorizing you. Three years ago today, you made me the happiest man possible. And each day I have spent by your side since that moment, is simply one more gift you have bestowed upon me.” He flashed my favorite crooked smile and his lips descended onto mine.

And the rest of the night and into the morning…. well, that was pure bliss.

From Our Wedding Night

. . . I sat with Bella tonight, holding her gently and admiring her while she worried over tomorrow. Tomorrow, our wedding day. Tomorrow, when I would be eternally bound to my only love, and she to me.

Despite a century of immortal life, I knew not how her presence would impact me once I found her. Nearness to her still effects me; I am blinded, dazzled as she would say. I truly know what love is. And I will show it to her every day of our lives.

She is my darling Bella, I would not hesitate to stand between her and death, even if it would destroy me. I would let her leave, although it would wipe away my sanity. I will never hurt her again. I will keep this promise until I cease to be. Even as the flames of death consume me, I will remember the promise.

She is more to me than she will ever know. More than a girl, more than a human, more than an angel. She is my love, my only one, my missing piece. When we are joined tomorrow, I will become part of a whole that I have yearned for.

I watched her until she fell asleep, the shadows tangled up in her hair. My beautiful wife.

The Lady Stirs...

As I lay in the cottage in the early hours of the morning, the wind howling a bit through the open patio door, I’m worrying even now. Nothing is more peaceful than this place; my home is my sanctuary. Edward is next to me reading, my little girl is just down the hall, presumably asleep; everything is as it should be. And yet, I am riddled with anxiety. Can I not just enjoy life’s simplicities? Must I always wait for the proverbial other shoe to drop? Sometimes it is in the moments of purest happiness that I am the most frightened. For I have that much more to lose…

There are times when I feel like a broken record… There is nothing more meaningful to me, of more importance, than the only true loves I have in this earthly plane; my Edward and my darling Renesmee. They are my life. I would walk through the fires of Hell and lay down in the darkness of death, without hesitation, for either of their welfare. One might mock; question what possible danger our family or species might face. Are we not vampires? Are we not eternal; immortal?

A frown takes hold and my lips curl softly down as an unnecessary breath escapes as a sigh. While our kind may be virtually invincible, we are not totally without weakness. And that frightens me too… What might happen if we forgot, for one instant, that we have vulnerabilities? I fear, at times, my entire family takes this existence for granted… and someday it may cost us our lives. Even vampires are not indestructible. Our world is just as fragile as that of our human friends... perhaps even more so. Such a delicate balance we must keep... between hunger, want, love and duty...

I try to return to my own reading but letters and words, though neatly placed on the page, begin swimming as my thoughts drift further away from the story. The worn binding with its gold-leafed title, Romeo and Juliet, flickers in the low-light of my bedside table and the book sags slowly to my chest. Soon I am lost once more in my worries. What would become of me, was I to lose either of my angels? It is a thought I simply cannot bear.

As if a hand grips tightly around my still heart, angst weighs down what was previously a contented evening. Edward must have sensed my tension as his hand moves to touch my arm gently, now nearly warm against my own stone-like skin, and I glance up at him and smile. No need to drag his lovely face into this uneasiness.

Perhaps it is just my choice of reading material… that has me trudging up these fearful thoughts. I take the book, close it softly and place the tome neatly on the nightstand. I move closer to my husband, pushing his arm back and snuggle into that perfect place where I am nearly seamless against his body, my head on his chest and my hand lying still upon his heart. He brings his arm to wrap back around me, giving me a moment of reprieve in its safety.

This is where I belong… beside this man, watching our lovely little girl grow into a beautiful young woman. And were he to be no more, were he to meet some tragic end… I know I would be as Juliet, begging for a last poison kiss and ultimately finding my own happy dagger… That is my contingency plan...

I close my eyes, wishing desperately that dreams would come and take me, erasing these woeful thoughts and fears. But my mind whirls on in my worry and I lay quietly upon my husband’s chest, praying that these moments are not our last.

The Change

The fever claimed Father first. He fell sick in the spring of 1918 and was gone, abruptly, not a week later. Mother was beside herself, certain that the war or the flu was bound to take me. She lived in a state of frantic fear.

Summer in Chicago that year was hotter that usual, and painfully still. Even the sounds of the city were stifled by the heat. In the fall, the flu returned for Mother and I. It was October when her cough started on a Sunday morning. By Friday she was confined to her hospital bed and I in a room across the hall.

We were both tended to diligently by Dr. Carlisle Cullen, a compassionate doctor who my mother took to immediately. On October 16, 1918, the day my mother was to slip into the abyss, she made a plea to Dr. Cullen. Her plea would change my life forever. With her last few breaths, she begged the doctor to save me – her only son, whom she had spent the last seventeen years worrying over.

Dr. Cullen worked late that night, tending to the patients who were moaning, fitfully, in their sleep. I listened to him making his rounds until I found the comfort of sleep myself, for the last time. I awoke to a sudden stillness. Where there was nothing, Dr. Cullen was suddenly standing over me. His eyes gave away that he was there for a devious purpose, but I was too weak to protest. He leaned carefully, tentatively over the hospital cot, slowly getting closer to me. I closed my eyes.

I felt a hot, slicing pain on my neck – like razor blades that had been heated over the stove. My eyes flew open in shock just in time to see the doctor pull his head sharply away from me, strained. It was my last coherent vision.

I no longer felt sick. I no longer felt weak. I no longer felt anything except an intense heat burning through my body. Every muscle tensed with the pain. It was searing, unbearable, consuming. I waited for the end. I wished for it, finally. But the heat continued, in waves, intensifying each time. I lost consciousness.

Every time I woke the heat was worse than the last time, seemingly focused stronger on every inch of my body. It was the most powerful in my chest, as if every sluggish beat of my heart pumped boiling oil through my veins. When awake, I tried to beg for death, but my throat, parched from the heat, prevented me from saying anything coherent.

Who knows how much time had passed. I was surely a crisp pile of flesh at this point. Alive. Dead. I didn’t know, and I didn’t care. My throat burned now with all the heat from my body. All else was numb.

It was then I realized it. The heat pumping through my body had cooled because it had no source. My heart was silent.

I leapt, lithely from my bed . . .

Forgetting the What-Ifs...

I think back to the moment when I climbed on that plane in Phoenix, parka in hand, destined for Forks... If I had second guessed that one decision.... how different my life would have been.

Someone must have had a plan for me; fate, destiny, kismet, God... I'm not sure who was responsible. All I know is that something drew me to Forks at that moment in time... and it must have been the same something that put Edward there, in that inconsequential town, for me to find. *laughs thinking of a famous quote from Casablanca* So basically, I say with my best Bogie imitation, "Of all the high schools, in all the towns, in all the world, he had to walk into mine." And thankfully he did; but thankfully he did.



It petrifies me to think of the what-ifs. What if the Cullens had been in Denali when I arrived, living happily in the Alaskan wilderness? What if I had selfishly demanded that Renee stay in Phoenix rather than move off to Jacksonville with Phil? What if I had NEVER stumbled upon Edward Cullen? So many tiny incidents, little decisions, seemingly-insignificant moments brought me to him. Can I ever be thankful enough? And whom do I thank? If I knew, I would owe them everything. For Edward is my love, my life and all that I am for any life hereafter.

Edward and I may have run, headfirst, into obstacles in our short time together... obstacles that no two mortals could possibly have sustained. But we have always found our way back... back to each other's arms. I suppose I should STOP worrying and forget about the what-ifs altogether... apparently whatever road we are on, we were meant to travel together.

Jacob Black

I was there when Carlisle signed the treaty with the Quileute tribe so many years ago. I watched him sign, by the light of the fire. Only his eyes gave away the significance of the event. The signing of the treaty was a reward, a coveted prize for the lifestyle he had worked so hard to cultivate. His family finally had a home in this corner of the world, shared by two enemies.

At the time I had no idea what an important role that place and those people would play in my life. I could not have known - nor would I have believed if you told me - that I was sitting with the great grandfather of the man who would be, among other things, my savior, my rival, my foil, my brother and my son. Jacob Black.

Jacob was, initially, nothing but a pest. Insignificant. He was one of the many males in Forks attracted by the shiny new toy that was Bella Swan. Perhaps only noteworthy in their earnestness, Jacob’s thoughts drifted to Bella far too often for my liking. His protective of her from the first moment, his instincts and his intentions made us rivals.

He was the one who gave me away, revealing to Bella the monster within.

I felt that I had little to worry about from him. No love could be deeper than mine for Bella. And surely that would prevail. But choices were made. Choices that would shape our futures. And when I could only find the weakness to leave, Jacob had the strength to stay. It was through his mind that I saw Bella when I was gone. Through his eyes and his heart, that I knew what I had done. He found a way to make things right when I had made them so wrong. He kept Bella afloat when she would have otherwise drowned. He protected the greatest treasure I have ever known. From that point forward I was indebted to him, no matter the core of his intentions or the sting of his anger towards me.

That would not be the last time I turned to Jacob for help, but I also turned to him often in anger, jealousy and madness.

I cannot begin to speculate the outcome of our relationship. His only desire was my only desire. But this all changed when Jacob saw Renesmee, the spawn that he would have gladly destroyed mere moments before, and imprinted. It was the beginning. Before we had only defined each other through Bella. But in a heartbeat, that was all a thing of the past. Jacob had found that which he never knew he was searching for. And I had as well; I had found a friend, a brother, a son.