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themidnightsonIt's day six of Bella's week of being grounded without guest hours for Jacob's spectacle with the bike, and even though Edward has stopped wanting to tear off the child's head and all his limbs for it, it drags. He knows where he most wants to be and can't. He knows that it's insane that so few hours should bother him. He's in near every class with her, and he spends the late nights with her.
But neither is truly a time when they can talk freely. Or for long.
Nor were Visiting Hours. But it's galling to have anything stripped away.
He's home instead, not focusing on that or the time ticking slowly, human minute by human minute away until it's late enough. Laying on the couch in The Closet, head on a pillow, feet thrown over the far end, staring at the ceiling. He's a stillness humans would be unnerved at, but it's the stillness their kind sinks into. Where humans would find it more and more alarming they longer they noticed it, their kind sinks and sinks into it, only more comfortable the less they move, the less they pretend to be what they aren't.
But he isn't lost in that. His stillness is a precision. Told easily by the pen upright in his frozen hand, and the black moleskin notebook left open on his stomach. There are dates and question marks, notes all over it. (In fact, there are several pages. Several devoted to specific names. Some devoted to rough sketches. All of it to only untangling one thing.)
But neither is truly a time when they can talk freely. Or for long.
Nor were Visiting Hours. But it's galling to have anything stripped away.
He's home instead, not focusing on that or the time ticking slowly, human minute by human minute away until it's late enough. Laying on the couch in The Closet, head on a pillow, feet thrown over the far end, staring at the ceiling. He's a stillness humans would be unnerved at, but it's the stillness their kind sinks into. Where humans would find it more and more alarming they longer they noticed it, their kind sinks and sinks into it, only more comfortable the less they move, the less they pretend to be what they aren't.
But he isn't lost in that. His stillness is a precision. Told easily by the pen upright in his frozen hand, and the black moleskin notebook left open on his stomach. There are dates and question marks, notes all over it. (In fact, there are several pages. Several devoted to specific names. Some devoted to rough sketches. All of it to only untangling one thing.)
