Ruthless and Ivory (Twilight Fan Fiction)

Chapter 9: Memory

Chapter 9 - Memory

Goosebumps prickles my skin. It's so quiet I only hear myself breathing. But my insides tremble.

I watch the sun brighten my skin. The fine hairs rise to attention as a new surge of cold flows through me. My hair trickles down my back and drips on the bed. I grip the towel folding myself in it. It smells like him, too.

Warmth from the unwavering sun beams rays around me. I stand and follow it hypnotically, closer to the edge on the tall clear window. I sigh.

I don't see anything different from what I saw through the bathroom window. My teeth nip at my lip from the memory. A forest of trees, grass and skies. The day looks inappropriately calm and sunny for what I'm feeling.

My mind drifts to all the events of the day before. The surreal moments like an endless nightmare. I can't escape the doctor's words echoing through my mind like a broken record. My mother...murdered. It can't be true.

I reject it.

My body tells me to run, to find escape... anywhere. The rapid beat of my anxious heart tells me to find the answers. The seeker in my nature wants to dig for proof. But I also want to scream loud enough for someone to hear me and get me out of this glass prison. For Charlie to hear me. He would clear away the lies. He has to.

I have to keep focused and strong. I can't show them fear. I promise myself, standing here, that one way or another, this confusion will be cleared. The demon doctor has the answers. My entire body tenses. I fist an angry tear away.

A slight shift in the room makes me turn. Edward is standing at the door fully dressed with a bundle tucked under his arm. His jades bore into my brown watery stare. I turn away clearing away the stray tears with the towel discreetly.

"Get dressed," he says. His voice lacks the typical sternness. I hear him drop the clothes on the bed. I turn again and he's gone. The door closed.

The clothes are cotton and comfortable. The style isn't something I'd see in a store. The lack of labels tells me they're probably hand made. I pull on the fitted black pants and a loose long shirt touching my upper thighs. The only revealing part is a slit running from my neck over my left collarbone. I slip on slippers that remind me of ninja shoes I've seen in movies as a kid. They're oddly comfortable.

As I'm slipping on the last shoe, the door swings open. He walks in with a tray of food in his hand. He slips it on the bed next to me.

I look at its contents. My stomach rumbles and I realize I didn't eat solid food the whole time I was out. Visions fill my mind of poison killing me.

I look up at him to find any sign of malice over his face. He quietly sits on the chair he brought in last night looking out the window. He's eyes squint against the sun.

"If I wanted to poison you I would've done it long ago. Poison wouldn't be the most creative and indulging way to do it," he says, never looking away from the window. He's read me. Without a doubt.

He reaches for his side and lifts his knife. He picks at his nails with the end looking genuinely bored. His hair is still dark and damp from the bath. His tired eyes didn't wash away. I wonder if it's permanent as I glare from his remark. His eyes cut to mine. I look away scared.

I eat quietly, never looking up at him. Every bite I grow more anxious. I'm famished. With shaky hands I wash down toast, fruit and cinnamon oatmeal with orange juice. Before I can take a deep breath, I've eaten everything in a gulp.

I wipe my mouth with the back of my hand. I freeze.

The silence around me makes me grimace. I look up and he's staring at me. His arms are crossed over the back of the chair, knife mid air in one hand. My teeth find my lip sheepishly.