For You ↠ Alice Cullen ✓

09 ; crimson

Eyelids flutter softly, lashes tickling the sharp cheekbone underneath. Inside, the heart was still, but the carcass was very much alive. Outside, the chirping of birds was a soft melody, the leaves were rubbing against one another, creating a slightly scratchy sound.

Then, Tate opened his eyes.

He was met with a glass wall, followed by the view of a bush outside. His eyes instantly took in the pigment of the leaves, seeing the miniscule droplets of water still collected on the top of the leaf's surface. The veins on the leaf were seizing softly, sucking in the water like a parched mouth.

Diverting his attention, Tate scanned the unfamiliar room around himself. He caught sight of the cream walls, which had paintings hanging from them. Like the leaves, Tate saw everything about the painting, every brushstroke to intermingling pigment. He knew everything about the painting, almost as if he'd painted the canvas himself.

Tate then focused on gathering himself up from the white mattress he was laying on. As the thought left his mind, he was already sitting upward, long legs sticking out in front of himself.

Golden colored curls flopped against his eyes, shiny and each strand was a bundle of hundreds of cells. Tate lifted a hand, one that was already gripping the curly strand by the time he thought about lifting his arm, and was gently twirling the strands of hair around his finger.

His eyes caught sight of his hands, looking at the skin on his palm. Tate let his hand drop his curls, instead choosing to heavily study his hands. Instead of the lines on his palm, there was nothing but smooth, serene skin.

"Tate?"

Snapping his head upwards from his palm, Tate caught sight of the female in the doorway. His mind snapped to focus, remembering who she was.

Esme's hair burned his retina's, the strands looking like flames licking upwards at the female's chin. She was leaning against a white wooden doorway, fingers gripping the side of it a bit tightly. A purple spring dress swayed at her knees, and Tate could count every stitch in the freesia colored fabric with just a glance.

"I know you're confused," Esme said, stepping into the room. Tate noticed that she was wearing heels, and he could see the contact Esme's shoes made with the floor. Something, no one else would be able to see, just hear.

"What happened to me?" This was another voice, reading Tate's thoughts aloud.

Then, Tate realized that it was his  voice. His voice, sounded so unfamiliar. It instantly reminded Tate of classical music. An uppity beat to it's sound, which both calmed and animated the listener. It was also smooth, like a stone gliding across the surface of a lake. Satisfying, in a way Tate wouldn't ever compare to a voice - or his own voice.

Esme took her time in answering his question. "You went to the docks. You were attacked by a stranger. Alice and Edward found you, took you here, but something happened to you and by the time they'd rescued you, it was already too late."

Tate curled his hands into fists, ready to feel the build up of perspiration there, only to notice that it was absent. As was the thrumming, thunderous beat of his heart. In fact, Tate couldn't feel anything inside of his chest, and he lifted a hand to the space on his chest where his heart rested, pressing down in order to try and see if his findings were correct.

"Where is my heart?" Tate asked, voice holding a slightly hysteric edge. His new classical voice didn't sound good with that certain tone it, made it sound scratchy, high-pitched.

"Tate-"

"Why can't I feel my heart?" Tate pressed down harder on his chest, trying to feel anything thrum underneath his hand. He stared at Esme, begging for a response. "I hear and see everything. I smell, I smell-"