Blindly Unhindered in Your Own Descent
Title: Blindly Unhindered in Your Own Descent
Fandom: Twilight
Pairings: Jacob/Bella
Rating: PG
Word Count: 867
Summary: You ate it up - time - with a laugh you didn’t recognize as you flicked your hair over your shoulder.
Author’s Notes: WARNING: ANGST AHEAD. Deals with - or doesn't - imprinting, and therefore includes Breaking Dawn in the trilogy. Sadly. But I like stories every so often where Bella gets what she deserves... although the other characters don't usually go down with her. There's a part where it is hinted at that imprinting can be undone, and no, it won't make sense, it's supposed to be confusing and vague, because Bella doesn't understand - and for all intents and purposes, this is told in her point of view. This is a story in which Bella gets a belated reality check and is hoisted by her own petard. You may actually feel sorry for Edward.
Blindly Unhindered in Your Own Descent
You forget which Jacob you fell in love with.
There’s the Jacob who came before the wolf, and the Jacob who came after, and there’s the now-Jacob who walks in front of you every day, and you can hardly recognize them all as the same person.
The now-Jacob looks at you with fleeting, blank eyes, not cold, but not right, either, because they don’t shine with reflected smiles the way they used to, the way the before-Jacob’s did. The before-Jacob was sunny and knew nothing, but then again, neither did you, so that was okay, because at the same time both of you knew too much, just not about the right things. You could take his hand, and he’d think of it as a hopeful chance, not a promise you would break as you scattered the ashes of his once-pure heart over the ocean. There was an innocence to his eagerness then, even though you’d both had to grow up so fast it was almost unfair.
The after-Jacob was just angry - God, was he angry - but at least his mouth curved with recognition and he always knew your name, the variations of it that burned like fire and sent shivers down your spine to curl your sand-covered toes. At least, for a little while, before he realized who you really were, and that he’d lost the game, and shouldn’t be hanging on, but he was in too deep.
He looks the same, even if his expression is different.
He’s three bright splashes of paint on white and grey walls that should blend together, dripping down and becoming the same shade, just darker or lighter, and all the better for it. He should be, but he isn’t. He’s really watercolors, separated by uneven lines of wax until he seeps deeper and deeper into the paper because he has nowhere else to go. He’s this Rorschach test - what do you see? - composed of different parts that you just can’t put together, because they don’t belong together, and the glimpses of images you can identify look like nightmares while you have your right eye closed.
It’s all wrong.
And you - you, you, you - made him this way.
You can make your bed, and almost sleep in it, too, but you’ll never feel the warmth of his body as he drapes his arm over your stomach and snores into the other pillow.
So you can love him, even if you don’t remember when the feeling started, where it was planted and grew, twisted and teasing, toward the sun.
Because it doesn’t matter.
Because the cracks in his voice aren’t meant for you, the nervous twitch of his fingers, the catch in his breath.
Because you were greedy with time, and took it all away, like a rug pulled out from underneath his feet. You ate it up - time - with a laugh you didn’t recognize as you flicked your hair over your shoulder.
Because he’s a husband, and you a wife, but the line next to his name on the family tree doesn’t connect to yours.
Not by a long shot, unless memory counts for something.
(And it doesn’t.)
Because you are cold, cold, cold, and Jacob is a caricature of himself with invisible puppet strings looped around his wrists and ankles and every place in between. He is hanging on the wall. Perfect.
Because that’s the way everything was meant to be.
You look up as night falls, and the moon leaves lines of silvery admonition across your sleepless face, daggers and pointing fingers - I told you so, you should have known.
You, you, you.
Everything is about you.
“Edward,” you whisper, because you’re frightened.
And when he answers you, touches your icy cheek, you know this is your punishment, this is your forever, what you deserve.
Because he’ll always be there.
Because he’s not the one you want.
Because he’s all that you have left.
Because every I love you is a condemnation that even he can’t hear.
Because you are so wrapped up in yourself that you don’t notice, sometimes, when Jacob blinks, and there’s clarity in his stare for just a moment as he looks at you and longs, as the earth shifts and all the colors run together, as he waits for you - because you can lift the spell and free him, as easy as flipping a switch, if you only knew.
But you, you, you are captain of this ship, perched at the helm as you bind your own hands and stare off beyond the hapless, spinning wheel at the tempest that lashes out to whip your brown hair, your white skin, the slash of your red frown. You will sink - let everything sink. The empty lifeboats are mired in your own stubbornness.
And there is no one - no one - who you will let jump into the churning sea.
Edward murmurs reassuring words you don’t want to hear, and you curl into him, into the cold. A single wolf howls into the outside sky. Then there are others.
Mournful.
Waiting.
Calling.
You close your eyes.
And not for the first time, you pretend that you remember how to dream.
THE END
Fandom: Twilight
Pairings: Jacob/Bella
Rating: PG
Word Count: 867
Summary: You ate it up - time - with a laugh you didn’t recognize as you flicked your hair over your shoulder.
Author’s Notes: WARNING: ANGST AHEAD. Deals with - or doesn't - imprinting, and therefore includes Breaking Dawn in the trilogy. Sadly. But I like stories every so often where Bella gets what she deserves... although the other characters don't usually go down with her. There's a part where it is hinted at that imprinting can be undone, and no, it won't make sense, it's supposed to be confusing and vague, because Bella doesn't understand - and for all intents and purposes, this is told in her point of view. This is a story in which Bella gets a belated reality check and is hoisted by her own petard. You may actually feel sorry for Edward.
Blindly Unhindered in Your Own Descent
You forget which Jacob you fell in love with.
There’s the Jacob who came before the wolf, and the Jacob who came after, and there’s the now-Jacob who walks in front of you every day, and you can hardly recognize them all as the same person.
The now-Jacob looks at you with fleeting, blank eyes, not cold, but not right, either, because they don’t shine with reflected smiles the way they used to, the way the before-Jacob’s did. The before-Jacob was sunny and knew nothing, but then again, neither did you, so that was okay, because at the same time both of you knew too much, just not about the right things. You could take his hand, and he’d think of it as a hopeful chance, not a promise you would break as you scattered the ashes of his once-pure heart over the ocean. There was an innocence to his eagerness then, even though you’d both had to grow up so fast it was almost unfair.
The after-Jacob was just angry - God, was he angry - but at least his mouth curved with recognition and he always knew your name, the variations of it that burned like fire and sent shivers down your spine to curl your sand-covered toes. At least, for a little while, before he realized who you really were, and that he’d lost the game, and shouldn’t be hanging on, but he was in too deep.
He looks the same, even if his expression is different.
He’s three bright splashes of paint on white and grey walls that should blend together, dripping down and becoming the same shade, just darker or lighter, and all the better for it. He should be, but he isn’t. He’s really watercolors, separated by uneven lines of wax until he seeps deeper and deeper into the paper because he has nowhere else to go. He’s this Rorschach test - what do you see? - composed of different parts that you just can’t put together, because they don’t belong together, and the glimpses of images you can identify look like nightmares while you have your right eye closed.
It’s all wrong.
And you - you, you, you - made him this way.
You can make your bed, and almost sleep in it, too, but you’ll never feel the warmth of his body as he drapes his arm over your stomach and snores into the other pillow.
So you can love him, even if you don’t remember when the feeling started, where it was planted and grew, twisted and teasing, toward the sun.
Because it doesn’t matter.
Because the cracks in his voice aren’t meant for you, the nervous twitch of his fingers, the catch in his breath.
Because you were greedy with time, and took it all away, like a rug pulled out from underneath his feet. You ate it up - time - with a laugh you didn’t recognize as you flicked your hair over your shoulder.
Because he’s a husband, and you a wife, but the line next to his name on the family tree doesn’t connect to yours.
Not by a long shot, unless memory counts for something.
(And it doesn’t.)
Because you are cold, cold, cold, and Jacob is a caricature of himself with invisible puppet strings looped around his wrists and ankles and every place in between. He is hanging on the wall. Perfect.
Because that’s the way everything was meant to be.
You look up as night falls, and the moon leaves lines of silvery admonition across your sleepless face, daggers and pointing fingers - I told you so, you should have known.
You, you, you.
Everything is about you.
“Edward,” you whisper, because you’re frightened.
And when he answers you, touches your icy cheek, you know this is your punishment, this is your forever, what you deserve.
Because he’ll always be there.
Because he’s not the one you want.
Because he’s all that you have left.
Because every I love you is a condemnation that even he can’t hear.
Because you are so wrapped up in yourself that you don’t notice, sometimes, when Jacob blinks, and there’s clarity in his stare for just a moment as he looks at you and longs, as the earth shifts and all the colors run together, as he waits for you - because you can lift the spell and free him, as easy as flipping a switch, if you only knew.
But you, you, you are captain of this ship, perched at the helm as you bind your own hands and stare off beyond the hapless, spinning wheel at the tempest that lashes out to whip your brown hair, your white skin, the slash of your red frown. You will sink - let everything sink. The empty lifeboats are mired in your own stubbornness.
And there is no one - no one - who you will let jump into the churning sea.
Edward murmurs reassuring words you don’t want to hear, and you curl into him, into the cold. A single wolf howls into the outside sky. Then there are others.
Mournful.
Waiting.
Calling.
You close your eyes.
And not for the first time, you pretend that you remember how to dream.
THE END