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CHAPTER TWO ᴍᴇᴍᴏʀɪᴇs
I began to regret forcing my presence into Forks by the second week. It was as if I'd forgotten the closed mindedness of humans during my secluded stay in Canada, and although I'd missed their company- no matter of the fact if I talked to them or not- I did not miss their gossip. Each place I went, I was followed by a shadow of whispers, nipping at the back of my neck. But to me, it was as if they were shouting, unbothered about the words that drifted into my ears. I couldn't ignore them.
The sun was at its highest at noon and had shortly disappeared by four in the afternoon, leaving the rest of the evenings bustling with more people than seemed possible for a town that was home to no more than three thousand people. None of them seemed to mind the dampness that day often brought either, a tell tale sign that most days were tediously the same. And with that in mind, I tried to convince myself that this was as good a place to stay as any other could possibly be.
On one boring day, of which I spent sitting against the boot of my car, book curled in hand, I sat by the edge of the woods, a place that quickly became my favourite place in the whole of Forks- it wasn't hard, considering the fact that the town had a denser population of trees than people. I heard the hikers only seconds before I saw them, many yards away from my car, weaving slowly in and out from behind the mossy trunks. Two girls my human age, by the looks of it, no older than seventeen.
I kept my eye on them as they drew closer to the car, details becoming clearer every step they took. But I knew they wouldn't pay any mind to me as the two talked of nothing other than boys and clothes. I had heard them for the last ten minutes.
The one closest was a short girl, hair a dark brown and nose pointed and peaked. It was strange how much a human's appearance could hint at personality, and I wondered if it was the same for vampires. She looked stuck up, her chin halfway in the air as she barely listened to her friend that trailed slower behind. The second girl had light brown, curly hair that gave her at least a couple extra inches to her tall height, tiny leaves already dusted over it.
I waited breathlessly for the two to leave, before going back to the book at hand. They slowed as they neared me, obviously taking a few peaks at the car. It seemed that I was nothing of interest as the view of pink and yellow puffer coats disappeared rather quickly, the smell of young blood, however, lingering for another ten minutes more, making my arms ache with the force of shivers it caused.
I realised how hungry I was. I hadn't eaten in ten days, more than I had ever let myself go with since I'd realised how dangerous it could be. I needed to feed more often than others like me. New places always made me repel my natural hunger though, but it always caught up, and I wondered how dark my eyes had gotten.
I tried to concentrate on the book in my hand, one of three copies that I'd lugged around for at least one hundred years. I wasn't sentimental, until it came to these books. They were fine prints, embossed with detail on the leather covers, and were given to me by a friend that I'd left long ago. Somehow the pages were still intact, though still brittle and threatening to disintegrate even under my cold touch.
The words blurred together, as if my brain was malfunctioning the rest of my body, drawing me to feed. But as I flipped the delicate page, a slip of paper fell out, settling my distraction if only for a single moment more. Turning it over gently, I studied the yellowed page, smoothing the crinkles between my cold fingers.
Dark charcoal had smudged over the years and yet the shape still held in place: flowing hair, a cold, harsh stare and a contradictory smile. It was unfinished, yet I could tell there'd never be such a truthful version of myself on paper. Even with the single lines, unshaded in places, I was more myself there than I was now. And though I had never seen the resemblance, it was a drawing of how Thomas had always seen me.
But that was before.
I don't know why I kept it. Seeing the rough lines and burst of liveliness that came from a few lines of pencil made me envious, even if it was just a sketch. The unrecognisable person on paper seemed to have more heart than I did. Even the scribble of is signature, scrawled tightly into the corner square made me both scowl and want to cry simultaneously.
Slipping the paper into the back, I snapped the book shut, tucking it beneath the blanket I sat on. I jumped out, eager to hear the crunch of leaves and sticks, but my feet were silent as always.
