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Like Knives

She is waiting for the lightning to strike the metal of her bones and electrocute her. She is waiting for the warmth of Hell. [edward/rosalie]

I figured I'd jump on the Rosalie Stares Forlornly Out A Window bandwagon. Please enjoy!

1. Like Knives

Rating 0/5   Word Count 545   Review this Chapter

She wanders around in the darkness, because her eyes feel like knives against the tender flesh of her eyelids, and if she opens them she’ll only have to close them again, and it will cut, cut, cut. Her forehead rests against the glass, but whether she is inside or she is outside, she doesn’t know. Frost beads along her eyebrows, turning the tiny hairs to white icicles.

She is a statue. She is beautiful, but implacable. She is timeless, but empty – or full, full of concrete and marble, too full for a heart or a brain. Only a face, a pretty face. And she was shaped by a sculptor’s hands, in a time when that used to be enough.

Her fingers dance along the window pane, over the latch that keeps her world private. The metal is cold, paint chipping over the mud-colored metal. It fits into the lock securely – but it trembles under her touch. It bends. It squeals and off comes more paint, more paint, until the metal shivers. It is naked, and she clothes it again in the ridges and swirls of her fingerprints. But it clashes, it clashes, so she presses harder… and it snaps.

The predator can get out now, and the prey in. But her eyes stay closed, the swords sheathed. For now, she can pretend it is only glass, matte and dense with fog – where it is actually clear, and if she dared to look, it would light up bright red and scream like a siren.

She has broken a promise to someone. To God, to Vera, to herself.... She has broken a promise, and she is being punished. She is being carved again, here against a wall, palms as flat and hard as flint. She is waiting for the lightning to strike the metal of her bones and electrocute her. She is waiting for the warmth of Hell.

It comes. It creeps reluctantly, snaking around her waist, hard but hot. Like iron bars stretched into the flames of a fire, forked to mimic her silent tongue. Long ago, it might have been like that – so that’s what her mind calls into being, summoning a warmth that isn’t there.

“It passes.” The words give it an identity, a name. Edward’s voice is smooth as molten gold, his breath hollow along her throat.

Her eyelids itch, her heart constricting like a wild thing in chains, that rears and bucks. Air whistles through her veins; the wind shakes the trees beyond the window, ghosts singing cemetery songs.

She draws her hands from the broken latch and balls them into the fine fabric of his shirt, every thread squealing beneath her unbroken nails. She rests her head in the crook of his neck and shoulder, where the water doesn’t gather, where the ice on her face melts in the heat she’s trapped between their cold bodies.

“It passes,” he murmurs, hands stiff around the blades of her shoulder. He swallows, throat tensing against her... then he is a statue too.

Her lashes flutter open and she stares fixedly at the holes she’s scratched in his clothing, the thin pinstripes she’s left on his skin.

“It passes,” she whispers, ruby lips wet and glistening. Her lungs shriek in the silence, But that’s exactly what they told me about life.