1927 -- West Virginia
Sep. 3rd, 2009 11:49 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
themidnightsonThe day after is hell.
It doesn't matter that he's all powerful, or the world's most dangerous predator -- he spends it on a roof, hiding between pillars and pipes, nearly shaking with the force of the sound inside of his head. Hunger is even stronger having fed, being able to hear every foot fall, conversation and heart beat for such a greater distance. Its clogged up in his hands, pipes bursting when he clenches them and swears at the mess he makes, leaping away from it.
No one hears him, but it continues to spill across the roof, and he watches it with scalding scarlet eyes. His care for the mess is nonexistent, but his anger is blinding. The point of contention and fault squarely on the shoulders of his father.
The man who played God The Maker, God The Creator, God The Rules and God This Is How Life Is.
Who never once shown him how this would be -- being himself, his true self. Not once from waking.
Who let him grow complacent and expectant of his power, and of his decisions being accepted.
Who let him leave without a fight, as though his were not presence important nor necessary.
Who let him be alone when all of this suddenly made more sense and no sense.
Who let him have absolutely no one else to rely on in a decade.
The rage swells in him until he rips the bracer from his forearm and throws it as far as he can.
He watches it arc from his hand as his stomach falls. It bounces, clatters, and falls, somewhere, he can't see. He tried to stand still, listening to the voice, letting go of the last vestige of the lies and the walls. In lands, he thinks thatโs the sound. Or it could be offended alley cats. There's a little girl blocks from him, tiniest hands, tapping out a very poor rendition of Twinkle, Twinkle, Little Star.
Her father is counting the beat beside her, holding a metronome in his hands. He reprimands her for the deviations. She would rather be on the swing set in the park, but she wants so badly to please him.
Edward swore, black and bleak, frustrated at the contrived parallels evoked by his mind, in a mix of now fluent French and Italian. The bricks beneath his hands crushed into rubble and dust. At everything being clearer in him, every thought, every emotion, every unconscionable reaction and memory.
The first while is spent in a blur.
Night and day have never mattered except as details to a ruse, and now when there is no ruse, night and day matter even less. The finite lines that seperate them fading farther from his fingers tips and his mind.
With no other option, and far more history on how to than how not to, he adjusts into the cadence of a louder cacophony, feeling like an intruder in his own mind, a dictator trying to overturn a rebellious, untouchable force.
He lingers after the mess made of his first night. He can not fix it, nor go back and prepare himself for the onslaught.
There isn't really even that much cognesance about it. There is a woman still alive. If he'd been faster, even more focused, the way he is now, maybe she wouldn't have ended up in the hospital at all. But it proves the point, that it can be done. The girl isn't dead. His intruder isn't dead. He feels more than he ever has before.
The second time is not as messy.
Nor as judicially impartial.
The third even less.
He doesn't know how many days (or weeks) it's been when he finds himself tracing roof tops and alleys, the way his fingers keep returning to trace, coil circled, pointer to thumb curled, around the base of his bare wrist when he's watching them.
It takes many hours, before he finally finds it, on his hands and knees, covered in grime and only just catching the spark of nearly buried silver in the nested trash layer of the alley cat that had sprinted off when he snarled at on walking into this alley.
He doesn't care, when he's picking it up, watching fur drift away on the air, holding the thing by one corner of tattered, knawed on, laces, as though touching it might somehow burn his skin or holding it too much more might induce the necessity to rend it from existence.
It doesn't matter if it was six years ago in Cleaveland or days ago in Philadelphia.
He's already lost Carlisle. He can't lose this, too.
It doesn't matter that he's all powerful, or the world's most dangerous predator -- he spends it on a roof, hiding between pillars and pipes, nearly shaking with the force of the sound inside of his head. Hunger is even stronger having fed, being able to hear every foot fall, conversation and heart beat for such a greater distance. Its clogged up in his hands, pipes bursting when he clenches them and swears at the mess he makes, leaping away from it.
No one hears him, but it continues to spill across the roof, and he watches it with scalding scarlet eyes. His care for the mess is nonexistent, but his anger is blinding. The point of contention and fault squarely on the shoulders of his father.
The man who played God The Maker, God The Creator, God The Rules and God This Is How Life Is.
Who never once shown him how this would be -- being himself, his true self. Not once from waking.
Who let him grow complacent and expectant of his power, and of his decisions being accepted.
Who let him leave without a fight, as though his were not presence important nor necessary.
Who let him be alone when all of this suddenly made more sense and no sense.
Who let him have absolutely no one else to rely on in a decade.
The rage swells in him until he rips the bracer from his forearm and throws it as far as he can.
He watches it arc from his hand as his stomach falls. It bounces, clatters, and falls, somewhere, he can't see. He tried to stand still, listening to the voice, letting go of the last vestige of the lies and the walls. In lands, he thinks thatโs the sound. Or it could be offended alley cats. There's a little girl blocks from him, tiniest hands, tapping out a very poor rendition of Twinkle, Twinkle, Little Star.
Her father is counting the beat beside her, holding a metronome in his hands. He reprimands her for the deviations. She would rather be on the swing set in the park, but she wants so badly to please him.
Edward swore, black and bleak, frustrated at the contrived parallels evoked by his mind, in a mix of now fluent French and Italian. The bricks beneath his hands crushed into rubble and dust. At everything being clearer in him, every thought, every emotion, every unconscionable reaction and memory.
The first while is spent in a blur.
Night and day have never mattered except as details to a ruse, and now when there is no ruse, night and day matter even less. The finite lines that seperate them fading farther from his fingers tips and his mind.
With no other option, and far more history on how to than how not to, he adjusts into the cadence of a louder cacophony, feeling like an intruder in his own mind, a dictator trying to overturn a rebellious, untouchable force.
He lingers after the mess made of his first night. He can not fix it, nor go back and prepare himself for the onslaught.
There isn't really even that much cognesance about it. There is a woman still alive. If he'd been faster, even more focused, the way he is now, maybe she wouldn't have ended up in the hospital at all. But it proves the point, that it can be done. The girl isn't dead. His intruder isn't dead. He feels more than he ever has before.
The second time is not as messy.
Nor as judicially impartial.
The third even less.
He doesn't know how many days (or weeks) it's been when he finds himself tracing roof tops and alleys, the way his fingers keep returning to trace, coil circled, pointer to thumb curled, around the base of his bare wrist when he's watching them.
It takes many hours, before he finally finds it, on his hands and knees, covered in grime and only just catching the spark of nearly buried silver in the nested trash layer of the alley cat that had sprinted off when he snarled at on walking into this alley.
He doesn't care, when he's picking it up, watching fur drift away on the air, holding the thing by one corner of tattered, knawed on, laces, as though touching it might somehow burn his skin or holding it too much more might induce the necessity to rend it from existence.
It doesn't matter if it was six years ago in Cleaveland or days ago in Philadelphia.
He's already lost Carlisle. He can't lose this, too.
