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Because suddenly the weight of forever holds her captive by way of her left hand. you were right, I'm sorry, I love youmini_heartbeat.jpg picture by M-Shizzle-Bang lovely banner by Maurader by Midnight

Hey there. Since Breaking Dawn is now out I know I'm going to get a lot of grief about this. Please keep in mind I wrote it before BD was released, mkay? Thanks. =]

1. Chapter 1

Rating 4.5/5   Word Count 780   Review this Chapter

She is in a dress, a white dress of satin and lace. Her dark hair has been curled, sprayed, and pinned into perfection beneath the white veil, and the tendrils that remain free shine like the river winding beyond the window. A delicate string of pearls rests against her collarbone and her pale cheeks have been stained pink.

She looks like the perfect bride, and she hates it. Because suddenly the weight of forever holds her captive by way of her left hand. Because suddenly there is an ache in her chest like nothing she’s ever felt before. It takes her breath away and she finds herself doubled over with her hand across her heart while she gasps for air.

When she can finally fill her lungs with oxygen again she can hear her heart beating in her ears, drumming out a desperate, determined rhythm.




The little one called Alice is still at the church, “attending to a few very-last-second-details.” With the bride-to-be all dolled up and flawless-- a mimicry of what is supposed to come later-- she shouldn’t have anything to worry about. She’ll just return to the big, otherwise empty house and cart Bella away to let her become something she doesn’t want to be, not anymore.


The house is empty. There’s no one to stop her… She knows she must move quickly if she is to make it--a clean break-- but her feet are cemented to the carpet. So she begins at the top. Her trembling fingers toss the veil away and find the dozen or so clips and pins buried in her stiff curls and soon they are gone too. Her hair hangs in a frizzy curtain around her made-up face, but she doesn’t care. She has to get out of here.

She slides the satin off of her shoulders and the material makes a soft whispering sound as it pools around her feet. She picks it up and lays it gingerly on the bed (after all, they never really did anything wrong, and they deserve the most respect that is possible at a time like this) along with the pearls, and then the hairpins are added to the pile.

Finally, nothing remains but the ring.


She slides Elizabeth Masen’s ring over her pale (but it will never be that kind of pale) knuckle--


--and at the exact moment the piece of sparkling jewelry makes contact with the fine material laying limp on the bed, the bedroom door opens and her heart leaps into her throat.

When she turns around a blonde head is peeking in.


“Rosalie,” she breathes. “I didn’t know you were here.”

“Yes… Alice called and wanted me to check on you,” her ocher eyes are curious. Appraising.


“I’m… I can’t do it, Rosalie.” Bella declares in a voice that wavers at first, but then is strong. “I’m sorry you all went through so much preparation, but I realized I just can’t do it.

“You don’t have to be sorry.”

Rosalie knows it will hurt to see her brother in pain once he knows, but knows it would hurt worse-- for everyone-- to see this young woman throw away her life and then wish she could have it back years later.

As much as she was never fond of the girl, she wants her to get her happy ending.

A moment of silent, mutual understanding passes between them.

“Do you want me to drive you?”



Rosalie drives faster than Bella had ever seen Edward drive, and Bella is grateful. She comes to a stop on the side of a road and gazes at her with eyes like her own will never be.

“Make yourself a good life, Bella Swan,” are her parting words.

Bella nods. “I will."

She begins to run toward La Push before the red car has pulled away.

The girl is exhausted and out of breath when she finally reaches the street the tiny red house sits on. Her heart is louder than ever.




But for a moment it seizes up and she stops dead in the middle of the road. What if… what if he’s imprinted?


And so her feet beat the pavement until she feels she will collapse. When the faded red paint comes into view, so does a black motorcycle and the dark figure of a boy climbing onto it.

She calls out to him; her voice is hoarse. He hears her.

He is confused, but when he sees the smile on her face, he slowly lets one spread across his own, and it is bright and warm, like the breaking of the dawn.

They speak no words as they draw nearer, nearer, nearer.

When he has her in his warm arms, she is home.