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Nightshade - Waking Nightmare

Summary:
Chapter Thirteen/ Forty-One is out.

A new score of vampires threatens life as Bella knows it. Responsible for gruesome murders and missing children, they are now roaming the northwest portion of the United States. The decision had come, to change Bella or not to change Bella? Either way, the small Cullen family does not seem to have a chance at protecting Forks with Emma on the fritz, even if they have help from your friendly neighborhood werewolvesr;  All of this belongs to Stephenie Meyer. I am just playing with it. Incase you have not figured it out yet, this is the sequel to Nightshade.

Everything is ready for Bella to be changed into a vampire. She has made all of her cuts from society and has begun to emotinally withdrawl from her familiy. Then, as the Cullen family hunts one last time before the fateful day, a friend from Bella's past shows up. To her, Bella is Izzie and Izzie is the only one that can help her.

All of this belongs to the beautiful Stephanie Meyer. She made up Twilight. We all her a debt of gratitude. Yea!


Notes:
Be happy that I don't own this. Or sad. If I did, Bella would already be a vampire. But, she's not. Darn.


11. Chapter 11 - Forgetting Him on Tuesday

Rating 4.5/5   Word Count 2478   Review this Chapter

Chapter Eleven - Forgetting Him on Tuesday

Brian called on Tuesday. He wanted to take just Emma to go see a movie. Emma would not go because she did not want to leave me. Brian gave in and said that I could go too. I did not want to go. There was still a whole in my heart that I did not like. I could only think of Edward. Where was he? Why had he not come back? My best friend was I think, afraid to leave me alone. I was just as afraid. I had not told Charlie what I had found, but I did tell him that we had found his gun while looking for the board games. He put it somewhere else, whether out of concern for me or Emma, I am not sure. Emma called Brian and canceled. Then, I felt bad. So, I made Emma call Brian and say that she had changed her mind. He picked us up at noon.

We actually had a lot of fun. We went to see Ratatouille. It was hysterical. I loved the concept. A rat named Remmi could cook better than the descendant of the world’s best chef. It was so quagmirally impossible. I loved it. Emma did too. She rested her head on Brian’s shoulder. He grinned a self-satisfied smirk and put his head on hers. They were so cute together.


After that, he took us to an art club. It was called Third Street Stuff. It was abstractly painted. The walls were a myriad of pinks, yellows, oranges and sky blues. The chairs were all individually painted. Each person who worked there made a chair. The tables were as unique as the chairs. The cafe sold drinks, pastries and exotic teas.


There was an art shop in half of it. It sold paintings, cute little toys and unique gitgads. There were pins that Emma just had to have. They said funny quotes. Raising teenagers is like nailing Jell-O to a tree, I took the road less traveled now where the hell am I, praise be to the people who do my dishes, God must love stupid people because he made so many of them, I don’t do drama, I smile because I have no idea what is going on and I am not awake until nine cups of coffee after ten were just a few. She absolutely loved them.

We sat down and ordered. I had a green chai tea. Brian ordered a cinnamon croissant and a tall black coffee. Emma got a hot chocolate. We sat down and listened to the artists come up onto a little black stage and perform. Several people did lyrical poems. Lyrical poems are were a person will recite a poem that they have either written or memorized to sound. Most people used music. There was one woman who had beat shoes onto the stage as she talked about the beat of the city. It was not a poem that she had written. It was one of the few that I had memorized. Harlem Nights, by Langston Hughes. It was an unusual approach to the jazzy poem.

Emma scrawled on a napkin, inspired. Next, a short, pudgy man with the most effeminate voice declared his work. It was called Conscious.

“There is a little voice inside my ear,
It is my good friend and my faithful ally
telling me good things, things I ought to hear.
Within me my innermost thoughts does it rally.

“It keeps me sane, keeps me hopeful and joyful,
It tells me that everything will be all right.
It makes me both resentful and grateful.
It keeps me following You, keeping You in sight.

“This wonderful little friend of mine and yours,
Has been given a name that is widely known.
It is a name on which the mighty eagle soars,
and a name that all and none can rightfully own.

“This little voice can be my conscience,
or may it be labeled my brain telling me right from wrong.
Whether figment of my imaginative license,
I call it by one name alone.

“My friend and companion,
My enemy and nemesis,
My brain and thoughts in motion,
My conscious.”

People wildly clapped. I threw my hands together with no effort. I was not impressed in the least. Neither was Brian. He made a face at me and I laughed. Emma had not even heard the abominable poem, she was so engrossed in creating her own.

A tall, stick-like woman with the longest neck that I had ever seen went up next. She sang a little ballad. The only music was a piccolo that her girlfriend put in her nose and blew.

“Suffering,” she sang in a nasal voice,

“Him. That is the reason for my misery, my suffering. I try and talk to him, tell things that I need to say, and he just laughs at me, blows it all away. Thinking it’s just me, my feeble attempts at buffering.

“He tells me that I don’t need it, that it is just a phase, yet somehow as I look into his eyes, I know he pretends to care about something so insignificant as pretense. His silvery words entrapping me in this unending maze.


“My tears and pleas fall upon silent ears, the desperation in my voice is heard by none, my days bleak and bleary with no sun, and from my onset path do I unfortunately veer.


“He is gone, fading into the memory of the abyss, he has left me for another, a younger, bonnier lover. Together they lay in the emerald fields with the stars as their cover, and I know that never shall I relive the fantasia of his kiss.”

I understood her pain. I clapped for her. Several people felt the need to stand. I followed suit. They were almost finished by the time that I did, but my effort was noted.

Then, the owner of the cafe came to the stage. “At this point, I will open the floor up to any artist who wishes to share his or her work with the world,”

Brian immediately grabbed Emma’s hand and threw it up in the air.

“Ahh, you young lady, come up,” the proprietor called Emma.

“I don’t want to come up. He,” she pointed at Brian, “Raised my hand,”

“She has a poem,” Brian countered Emma.


“If you have a poem, darling, we insist that you come up and share it.” The man grinned.

Several people started catcalling Emma, daring her to go up. Emma glared at Brian. She stood up and pulled out her poem. The napkin was crinkled and the ink smeared. She had already memorized the poem. Taking a deep breath, her melodic voice spoke the sad poem into existence.

“Rain of Tears

“I hear the rain. It talks to me, saying words I never thought to be. It whispers in my ear, it’s voice high-pitched and fiery like the lightning it prophecizes, it’s laughter low like the thunder that rumbles with pleasure.

“When the rain wishes to speak, gently it raps on the frosted window pane, it’s thin fingers beckoning me outside so I may speak to it, face to face. The rain is beautiful. It has the face of an angel, and the grace of the most elegant human. It is suave and coquetry in movement, with an abounding curiosity.

“As it falls from the sky, it takes the time to candidly observe the ground below. It wishes that it could hang suspended in the air forever. That way, it could see all. It is happy when it falls, the intoxicating thrill of the drop is never tiring. The love of the rain is amazing.

“Smile does the rain whenever it passes through the fogged cloud, the ripe earth below it. Blink does the rain when it falls past the atmosphere, the rush blinding it to all else. Scream does the rain when the roller coaster ride is at it’s peak, with the final plunge just ahead. Laugh does the rain when the plunge is over and the gentle descent is all that is left. Shriek does the rain.

“Cry does the rain, cry does the rain when the fall is over. Pain, antagonizing and brutal, does the rain feel. Though it may try to shrug away, the rain cannot. It must face the consequences of it’s actions. Little did the rain know that the end would bring hurt, and destruction, and death.

“Many many times have I heard the screams of the rain. Each time, I rush out and scoop it up, only to find it gone. It had not listened. Had it listened to and heard it’s predecessors instead of contentedly watching from too far away, it might not have made the plunge. It might have lived.

“I cry as I see the rain, racing down the sky. Our conversations are always brief and always reminding of how to listen, for one does not know when death is knocking, asking us to come out and play. If only they had listened, if only I had screamed. Then maybe, just maybe, he would still be alive today.

“Thank you,” Emma sat back down. Every one immediately started clapping. Except for Brian. He looked at Emma, wanting to k now who he was. Emma gave me a small grin. She was starting to heal.

Everybody went nuts over her poem. She blushed and refused to talk to anyone about it. I was the only one besides Emma who would ever know what the poem meant, who it was about. I was not the only one who cared.

Unbeknownst to me, Edward had arrived at my house. He was frantic. The smell of Victoria was everywhere. He left in a hurry to get back to Alice and the others. They would know what to do.

Brian drove us back home. “Thank you for inviting us, it was a blast,” I said before I went inside. Emma lingered for another five minutes before she joined me.

“Did you have fun?” she asked.

I emphatically ducked my head, “Yes. I did not think that I would like modern poetry so much. But I did,”


“Me too,” Emma grinned. “I am still slightly annoyed at Brian, but he is cute enough for me to forgive him,”

“How are you doing?” I asked, suddenly serious. She was still in agonizing pain over Logan. Was she trying to heal to quickly? Would Brian just hurt her heart even more?

“I’m not sure. I like Brian, I mean, I really like Brian. But it is nothing compared to what I felt for Logan. Not even close.”

“How strong were your feelings for Logan?”

“Do you know how much you love Edward?” I shook my head, “Well that is how much I loved Logan. His death has left me completely devestated. The few friends that I did have left me alone, I have changed so much. I cry myself to meditation almost every night. There is a hole, an empty space that used to be filled. Now, it just hangs in my heart, hurting more and more with every breath that I take. I try to distract myself. It works, sometimes. Being around you has really helped. But, unfortunately, I still think about him. He is always on the corners of my mind. I love him more than I have ever loved, Izzie, and I will never love another this way.”

I hugged Emma. She loved Logan the way I loved Edward. His leaving had completely destroyed me. What would his death do? Emma hugged me back. I wished that she could shed tears. She had to settle for her body writhing and seizing. Poor Emma.

In silence, I made dinner. Emma was in no shape to cook, despite her protests. I felt horrible for having her cook for the week that she had been here. I felt so guilty.

“Izzie,” Emma said really quiet, “Why does every one else call you Bella?”

“When did you notice?” I asked.


“The first day that I was here. Everybody that you talked to called you Bella. I keep waiting for you to correct me, but so far, you have not.” Emma explained.

“I started going by Bella in the fourth grade. It seemed cooler than Izzie. But, I am past that phaze. I do not mind if you call me Izzie. It sounds right, in a way,”

“Do you prefer Bella or Izzie?” she questioned.


“Normally Bella. But from you, Izzie,” I answered her.

“Are you sure?”

“Positive,”

“Okay, Izzie.” Emma grinned a little bit, “Sorry for the downer these past few days,”

“I think that I started the whole downer thing,” I smiled, “But you are forgiven, despite the fact that you have done nothing wrong,”

“Thanks, you are forgiven too.” She pre-empted my appology. I smiled even bigger. We knew each other too well.

Charlie came home at seven and we ate. Emma said that she was not hungry and watched the television, at Charlie’s insisitence. He made sure that Emma was absorbed in ‘Friends’ before he addressed her eating habbits.

“Bella, does Emma snack a lot during the day?”

I shook my head, “No. Not that I know of, any way,”

“I’m worried, Bells. She never seems to eat. When she does, it looks like she forces it down.”

I laughed. Charlie thought that she was anorexic. “Don’t worry, Dad. Emma does not have an eating dissorder.”

“Are you sure? She is an awful small girl, like you. You are just starting to put back on the weight that you lost when Edward left,” he spat out Edward’s name. I bristled. Charlie saw it and did not bring Edward back up, “I don’t think that she can afford to loose it, is all that I am saying.”

“I promise, Dad, I will watch her and make sure that she eats something.” It just would be something that Charlie found completely unappetizing.

“Thanks, Bella. I just worry about the both of you,”

I grinned. It was awkward at first to have Charlie be affectionate. But, I was starting to get used to it. Actually, I kind of liked it…

Emma helped me clean up afterwards. Thankfully, she went at human speed. We talked about the poetry, the different people, the comradary among the odd. It was fun. After the dished, Emma persuaded me to let her paint my toenails and then she did my fingers without my permission. She did hers after me.

We changed into our pajamas and curled up in front of the television. Charlie tried to discern why two teenaged girls wanted to watch the news. We never told.