Text Size Large SizeMedium SizeSmall Size    Color Scheme Black SchemeWhite SchemeGrey SchemePaper Scheme        

Death Of A Soul


His heart swells. His unbeating heart. It aches like never before. He has to let her go, he knows this. But why? Why? Why not him? What did he ever do wrong? If Bella had picked Jacob instead of Edward in Eclipse, and she told Edward, how would he react and how would the conversation go?


Ok, so I'm not really a Jacob fan. At all. But I was thinking of how the conversation with Edward would go if Bella had picked Jacob. All the Edward-lovers can just kill me now. :( Also, I am a COMPLETE Edward Cullen fan but I just wanted this to be written. So, please, please don't kill me. :(

3. Extra - A Blinding, White Light

Rating 5/5   Word Count 1729   Review this Chapter

"Edward," Her tortured whisper reaches his ears. He glances up from his newest composition, a lovely song about her, and looks directly at her.

Seventy Years Later

In an old, shabby house in the middle of the mountains, a young man sits. The parts of him that haven't been viciously slaughtered are breaking right now. This very moment. If you look closely, almost too closely for human eyes, you'll see he's shaking. Shaking from the agony, the misery, the bone crushing weight on his cold heart. A broken sob breaks from his full lips as he bangs his hands roughly on the dusty, fading keys of the piano in front of him.

His dark, depthless pits of eyes look down at the newspaper in front of him. He crumples it into a small, neat paper ball and throws it towards the other side of the room. But even the growing distance between him and the newspaper doesn't help clear the image of the obituaries in his frazzled mind, Loving Mother, Friend, Daughter, Isabella Swan, Dies. He screams, the mental image causing him a searing pain behind his eyelids.

He calls out, begging and pleading for someone to help him. He needs someone to support him because he's wasting away to nothing. He can hardly sit on his own. He can't even support his own weight. He rips at his chest, trying to claw out the dead heart inside of him. It feels so heavy, like a ton of bricks, and the weight of it is killing him inside. He continues to claw out, viciously snapping and yelping. He looks more like a monster now than he ever has with his bronze hair ruffled in all directions, his blazing eyes full of anger and pain, his speedy movements too quick for the human eyes. His venom-coated teeth snap loudly and he screams.

Hours later, he calms himself. Well, physically at least. His mind is still racing a thousand miles per hour; picturing her perfect face, her perfect soul. He settles for grabbing into his pockets, his hand comes back out with a neatly folded paper clenched in his taut hand. He unfolds it and studies the flawlessly written and composed notes.

He sets the composition down in front of him and places his tremoring hands back on the ivory keys. He lets out a deep sigh and closes his eyes, his ritual before he ever plays the piano now. He knows the sound of the music will hurt him, will remind him of her, but he needs to hear it. He's never even played this song before, but he needs to now. Strangely enough, he almost wishes it had played at her funeral. Death Of A Soul, he reminds himself of the title. Yes, it most definitely should have been played at her funeral.

His breath blows the fragments of dust away and he starts moving his slender, shaking fingers. They tremble, making the notes sound hauntingly pain filled. A ghost of a smile rests lightly on his face.

In an old, shabby house along the Washington coast, an old man sits in a chair. His long, gray hair falls in beautiful waves. Crystal tears fall silently from his dark eyes. His russet skin seems to glow chillingly in the dawn breaking above him.

He watches as the brilliant sun sets before him. He gulps, listening to the breeze, the sound of the crashing waves. He wishes she was here, his wife. He bitterly reminds himself that she's gone, dead. Gone with the wind.

Like a cold embrace, he hears the breeze carry a sound to his ears. A piano. A beautiful composition. He snarls, knowing who is playing the stunningly perfect music. It's him. The bloodsucker. He looks wildly around, wondering if he's nearby. When he doesn't smell a sweet stench floating about, he relaxes. The leech isn't here.

He hears gravel being stepped on behind him and he looks around. His grandson runs up to him and hugs him tightly around the neck. He returns the hug, wondering if he'll ever see his wife again. Little Tommy asks him a question, but he's too distracted to respond. He's too busy listening to the flowing music that's growing around him, like an invisible fog. It wraps its arms around him and seems to carry him away. And that's when the thought hits him. Where is the leech, anyway? He's never left La Push, but the moment his wife died from a battle of cancer, he almost felt the presence of his sworn enemy leave.

Without a word to his questioning grandson, Jacob Black stands up and walks briskly away. He doesn't look behind him once, not even looking at his home for the last time before he dies.

The keys move swiftly under the slender finger's touch. The young man sits stiffly, not relaxing in the least, as his fingers glide effortlessly. The music he makes is surely heavenly, and he's too caught up in it to notice when thoughts invade his mind. When the back screen door opens and his enemy walks in this deserted house that's he now inhabited.

He's almost done playing. Quicker, quicker, now. He wants to get this over and done with. Playing this specific song causes him pain, and he doesn't know how much he can handle. With anticipation for the perfect ending, he leans forward. His eyes seem to light up for the first time in many decades as he plays effortlessly. He smiles menacingly, because after all, he's forgotten how to smile. His best shot at giving some kind of emotion is a grimace that's supposed to be a smile.

His enemy crouches up behind him, his grey hair gleaming in the rising sun. He's searched for this leech all night, he's not going to let him get away. He phases, so so quietly, for the first time in many years. The man at the piano doesn't even realize the tearing sound. Not even with his sensitive hearing, he's simply too caught up with his work. He twitches occasionally, so damn eager for this perfect ending. The dramatic, yet gentle, tune slowly creeps up and starts to fade away as he learns he has just three notes to complete.

The giant, grey wolf lurks up behind him. As the man has just one note to finish, the wolf swipes his gangly paw in the air.

The man at the piano is dead before the final note is finished. The perfect ending never came.

The head of the bronze-haired angel falls as the wolf leaps upon the body and rips it to shreds. He snarls viciously, letting out his anger. He freezes, swearing he heard something. The cold, marble shreds beneath him are almost dust because of how many times he's ripped them apart with his sharp claws.

He looks around, hearing a sobbing sound echo around the room. He swears a woman's in here, a woman whose presence is just too comfortable. A cold, airy caress touches his wasted, furry cheek. He flinches, wondering what is going on. He feels the embrace flow beneath him, towards the shreds of his enemy. He watches as a misty air clings to the pieces, shielding them from him with his teeth and claws. He snarls, not having the patience for illusions, and grabs a lighter and watches as his enemy is doused with flames.

He howls, knowing what is wrong here. He sniffs and growls as the fog continues to stay at the side of the marble shreds. His wife has not chosen him in death. He's chosen her other fate, her other destiny. The bronze-haired angel.

And with a deep sigh, his heart who has seen one too many traumas, drama, and magic gives out. A simple heart attack.

In northern England, tiny Alice Cullen gasps as her shimmering eyelids open wide. Her mate, Jasper, holds her in his arms as she cries. He knows, too. He knows just from her wild, crazed emotions that his brother is dead. And so is his sister.

Alice sobs, harder than she ever has before. She knew her two, star-crossed lovers for siblings would die soon. She just never thought it'd be so quickly. She grasps onto Jasper because at this dying time, he's the only stable rock in her life. He won't leave her. Ever.

And on this peculiar night, where three people whose destiny's were fatally tied, Alice Cullen mourns not for these three important people. No, definitely not. She mourns for the life she knows she would of had if her beloved sister hadn't of picked the wolves. She mourns for the joy-filled life her brother deserved, but didn't gain. She mourns because Jacob's actual imprint is dying and not once in the old woman's life did she experience love. And she could have with Jacob.

And as the stars creep into their twinkling spots in the sky, the now small family of six lights candles. Alice Cullen dances lithely up to a stereo system and pushes one button: Play. Because, after all, Edward wanted this one specific composition to be played at Bella's funeral. He just never thought it'd be played at his, too.

The grim family goes silent as beautiful notes woven of eternal love and adoration float out of the speaker system. Emmett Cullen hums the tune softly to himself as he sways. Rosalie Hale tries not to be affected by all of this, but the music weaves its way into her soul and touches a spot in her heart she thought she no longer owned. Jasper Hale gazes to the starless sky, wishing more than ever that he could cry for his fallen family. Esme Cullen curls in on herself, she's lost three children now and the pain is horrendous. The music brings little relief to this distressed mother. Carlisle Cullen closes his eyes, imagining his son playing this melody, not a pathetic, plastic piece of machinery. And Alice Cullen simply sits and stares, trying more than ever to see her taken siblings in future.

But all she sees is a blinding, white light.