He wasn't -- he'd planned to move each time they'd said something for the last two minutes. Each time they'd looked at each other and moved toward the door. Each time he'd realized how monstrous a thing he'd done even here was.
The only reason he's even this close is how hard the rain is pouring. They wouldn't hear his steps in it. He could be closer than the mile or two distance he kept. Close enough to hear something besides their thoughts.
Edward saw her smile, and it's destruction, just as he looked away, looking away from her and the noise he can't help hearing. As though the sound shatters the crystal perfect silent milliseconds between the raindrops. And Edward picked his foot up part way, only dimly aware of her tumult as his only thought was He doesn't know yet. He doesn't know.
Carlisle was standing behind Esme then, having just slipped on his overcoat to keep himself from the wet before looking up at the specter on the path to their front door.
Carlisle wants to run. So he does, as slow as ever he did, pulling an impenitrable velvet drape across his thoughts and spinning on his heel to retreat to the adjoining room.
It's easier to hyperventilate in private. Or convince yourself of hallucination.
Esme looked back at the sound of steps, catching the retreating shadow of her husband, with her hand still on the door knob. And then back out to the shadow at the end of a walk that is suddenly both too short and far too long.
Edward.
Edward in the pouring rain.
Edward in the pouring rain, soaked and shaking.
Edward in the pouring rain, soaked and shaking, unmoving.
The umbrella fell from her hand with a clatter. Had it even been a full minute since the door opened yet? Esme meant to take one step, two, maybe a few, but the next instant she was only a foot from him. She could have reached out and touch the bridge of his nose, his shoulder, the plastered hair.
"Edward?" What was that emotion supposed to be that had her voice?
To be fair she had just pointed out the rain didn't bother them.
Even if his thin shirt and hair have been afflicted by the torrent. He can makes out the shapes of her fingers, the bottom of her coat -- every single inch of himself as her eyes pass over him. Like a wraith, or a child, with his shoulders caved inward and his gaze bent, no, cemented downward.
He couldn't have looked so much taller than her now.
He couldn't -- couldn't look at her, couldn't stop hearing Carlisle.
"I shouldn't be here." It had been a monumental mistake. Hadn't Carlisle just proven that? Hadn't Esme's gasp and drop and her unending shock rippling coherent thought and choice?
Comments 90
He wasn't -- he'd planned to move each time they'd said something for the last two minutes. Each time they'd looked at each other and moved toward the door. Each time he'd realized how monstrous a thing he'd done even here was.
The only reason he's even this close is how hard the rain is pouring. They wouldn't hear his steps in it. He could be closer than the mile or two distance he kept. Close enough to hear something besides their thoughts.
Edward saw her smile, and it's destruction, just as he looked away, looking away from her and the noise he can't help hearing. As though the sound shatters the crystal perfect silent milliseconds between the raindrops. And Edward picked his foot up part way, only dimly aware of her tumult as his only thought was He doesn't know yet. He doesn't know.
He could still vanish. He could still --
Reply
Carlisle was standing behind Esme then, having just slipped on his overcoat to keep himself from the wet before looking up at the specter on the path to their front door.
Carlisle wants to run. So he does, as slow as ever he did, pulling an impenitrable velvet drape across his thoughts and spinning on his heel to retreat to the adjoining room.
It's easier to hyperventilate in private. Or convince yourself of hallucination.
Reply
Edward.
Edward in the pouring rain.
Edward in the pouring rain, soaked and shaking.
Edward in the pouring rain, soaked and shaking, unmoving.
The umbrella fell from her hand with a clatter. Had it even been a full minute since the door opened yet? Esme meant to take one step, two, maybe a few, but the next instant she was only a foot from him. She could have reached out and touch the bridge of his nose, his shoulder, the plastered hair.
"Edward?" What was that emotion supposed to be that had her voice?
Reply
Even if his thin shirt and hair have been afflicted by the torrent. He can makes out the shapes of her fingers, the bottom of her coat -- every single inch of himself as her eyes pass over him. Like a wraith, or a child, with his shoulders caved inward and his gaze bent, no, cemented downward.
He couldn't have looked so much taller than her now.
He couldn't -- couldn't look at her, couldn't stop hearing Carlisle.
"I shouldn't be here." It had been a monumental mistake. Hadn't Carlisle just proven that? Hadn't Esme's gasp and drop and her unending shock rippling coherent thought and choice?
Reply
Leave a comment