Twilight : Rewritten

"You aren't still mad at me, are you?" Charlie asked.

I could not look at him. Instead, I pressed my nose against the truck window and watched the trees rush by. I wished that I could roll down the window so I wouldn't have to look at his reflection in it.

"I did it in your best interests, you know," he said, turning back to the road. "Your mom… wasn't doing well."

"That doesn't give you any right to take me away from her," I said, fiddling with the lock on the door.

"It was for your well-being, Bella," he said. "I know you love her, and your devotion is commendable. But you can't keep putting your schooling aside for her interests. She's better off where she is. Full-time care, nurses at her every beck and call…"

I couldn't speak. The lump in my throat was too heavy.

"Besides, it'll be nice to have a change of scenery," he said in a faux jovial tone, that tone that parents use when they're trying to fool you into thinking everything is fine. You know, that tone you stopped believing when you were five?

"But she knows what's going on!" I said. "She's not a complete vegetable yet, Charlie. She knows something is wrong with her and she's scared! She needs me. She's going to think I just abandoned her!"

He adopted a firmer tone of voice, the no-nonsense one. "It's temporary. You can see her every weekend, hun. She'll be transferred up here next week. Everything will be fine."

"No, it won't!" I said.

"Bella Swan!" he said.

I winced. I hated that name. It sounded like a Barbie doll's. It was as bad as naming your kid Rose Bush. Probably what comes of your parents naming you when they were barely out of childhood themselves.

"Honey, I'm just as upset as you are," he said, gentler. "But you've just got to buck up. You can't keep holding yourself responsible for your mother's health. Go out, live, be a kid. You've still got your life in front of you. Don't let it end with hers."

I chipped at the curling plastic on the doorframe with a fingernail, struggling to keep the tears back. I was vaguely aware of the blinker clicking, of the truck turning, of the crunch of gravel beneath the tires.

"And here it is," he said. "Home sweet home!"

I looked up. Pinned between the ancient trees was a two-story white house badly in need of painting. Overgrown bushes seemed to be at war with the lawn and the front porch, and winning, by the looks of it. Wrapped in the shadows of the trees, it looked like the setting of a horror movie.

I suddenly felt claustrophobic. In Phoenix, we don't have trees like this – trees that have been around before Columbus was born. We have trees that live in little brick islands, twisted trees stunted by the heat. You can see the horizon in Phoenix. Here, the trees rose up like prison bars, cutting out the sunlight and clustering closely like silent, judgmental eavesdroppers.

"Your room is in the top floor," Charlie said, pulling up to the garage. "It has a great view. I think you'll love it."

I nodded, but tried not to meet his eyes. It was hard to think of Mom being so far away, in a room she did not know, surrounded by strangers.

"Where's Bella?" she'd say, in that small and frightened bird's voice. "Where did she go?"

>>>>>>>

I couldn't sleep that night in that strange new bedroom. It smelled like mothballs and had a fusty under-odor of old people. I startled at every creak and groan of the house – habit told me that mother was up and that she needed help getting back to bed again. It only reminded me that strangers back in Phoenix watched her now. To add insult to injury, the dappled moonlight playing on the ceiling was distracting; I kept seeing frightening shapes in the shadows.

I tossed and turned for hours, watching the shadows shift around the room, dozing fitfully.  When I woke from yet another microsleep, I realized that the room had become very dark. I glanced at the ceiling. A huge black blot obscured the dappled moonlight. My heart thudded in my chest, and I slowly turned my head to look out of the window.

A human shape was silhouetted in it.

I froze.

It ducked and disappeared.

My heart thudding in my chest, I crept out of bed and peered out of the window. I saw nothing. Only the trees, their branches swaying in the wind, and the house-eating bushes, and the scraggly lawn.

I tiptoed to Charlie's room, turning on every light as I did. My heart sank when I saw that his bed was unmade.

"Sometimes I'm called away late at night, but it's nothing to worry about!" he had said. "This old town is safe as can be…"

I grabbed the phone and dialed his cell.

"Hello," he said.

"Dad!" I said.

"You have reached the voicemail of Officer Charlie Swan," he said. "I am not at the phone right now, but if you'd leave your name and number, I will get back to you as soon as possible."

I sobbed when I heard the beep. "Dad," I said, "It's Bella. Look, I think I'm in trouble. There's somebody here at the house – a burglar, I think. They were up in my window, and I think they're still out there! Please, please call me back. Please come home."

I hesitated, trying to think of what else to say. Shivering, I turned just slightly.

There, in Charlie's window, was the silhouette. I could not see the features of the person's face – just their shape – the unmistakable shape of a man.

I screamed and threw the handset at the window. The shade disappeared again, dropping away just as suddenly as it had appeared. The phone cracked against the window and clattered against the floor, the dial tone humming.

I knew then that it was all up to me.

I flung open Charlie's closet and pulled out his golf bag, selecting his driver. Lips pressed together, I turned off all of the lights, one by one. I crept down to the ground floor; every shadow and shape was dark and strange and full of hostile intent. I opened the door, and stepped out – barefoot, my nightgown whipping around my ankles.

He was waiting for me in the lawn.

He was tall, thin, and leggy, all angles. He wore a hoodie, jeans, a ski mask, and gloves – all black, patched, and faded. What skin I could see around his eyes was white as flour – face paint, perhaps. His eyes were strangely feral – golden, predatory, like a hawk's, and just as hungry-looking.

"Who are you?" I asked. "What are you doing here?"

"Just wanted to see who the new girl was," he said, taking a step forward. I instinctively took a step back.

"Go away, or I'll scream," I said, lifting the driver in what I hoped was a threatening manner. I considered fleeing briefly, but something in me said that turning around and running would be a bad idea.

He cocked his head, like a wild dog listening to a far-away sound. "Your father's at work, and there's nobody around to hear you," he said. "Don't worry. Not going to hurt you. Just want to talk."

I glanced from his face to his hands, expecting to see a switchblade or a crowbar clutched in his hand. But his palms were empty, shaking, opening and closing over and over. I swallowed.

"About what?" I asked, voice trembling.

"About anything," he said. "Sports, or television, or cars, or whatever you like. I'll listen."

He slumped to the ground, crossed his legs, and stared expectantly up at me. He couldn't seem to stop moving his hands. In fact, he seemed twitchy all over.

"Uh," I said, lowering the driver. "Well, I'm… I… I don't know what to say. I mean, it's… well, it's three in the morning."

"Is it?" he asked, rocking back and forth. "Then do you mind if I talk?"

"Sure," I said. "Um, what is your name?"

"Edward Cullen," he said, sitting up straight. "Your neighbor."

"Oh, I didn't know we had neighbors," I said, my voice far too high-pitched. "Nice to meet you."

"Nice to meet you too!" he said, too loudly and too quickly, and extended a hand. His arm was as rigid as a broomstick. He didn't look like he wanted to shake my hand; he looked like he wanted to execute a karate chop.

I reached out woodenly, but before I could take his hand in mine, he jerked his hand back to his chest and folded it into a fist.

"Sorry," he said softly. "My mistake. Too forward."

"Okay," I said. Don't panic, I told myself. You'll only make it worse.

"Sorry," he said. "Sorry, sorry. Sorry I frightened you. Haven't talked to anybody in a long time. Too afraid to. Out of practice now."

I nodded rapidly. Maybe, if I got him to talk long enough, Charlie would come home, and then…

"Do you know," he said, rocking back and forth, "that I know everybody here, but nobody knows me? Can't say hello. And the locals… the locals aren't stupid enough to come out here anymore. Nobody comes out here anymore."

"What?" I asked. "What are you talking about?"

He didn't seem to be listening now. "It starts out fine, every time!" he said, tugging at his hoodie. "Then it goes wrong, wrong, wrong! Want to get it right, just once. Please, help me get it right."

"Get what right?" I asked.

He held out his hand again. This time, it was shaking. "You're not afraid of me, are you? Tell me you're not afraid of me."

"You need help," I said.

"I need help!" he said, nodding. "I know! I know! And you can help me. Help me be a normal human again."

"I don't understand what you're talking about," I said. Despite my best efforts, my voice was beginning to crack.

"It's this," he said, and yanked the ski mask off of his head. When he looked me in the eye again, my heart leapt into my throat. He had the face of a boy my age, but there was something old lurking in the corners of his eyes. His irises were a dark gold-orange ringed with white-yellow. His skin was white, but not the white of a basement dweller – it was the white of sickness, of chalk, of bone. It was when he grinned at me, with that terrified boy's face, that I saw the two sharp fangs jutting out from where his canines should have been.

"I'm a vampire," he said. "Do you believe it? The last people didn't. Really, a vampire! Blah!" He curled his fingers into hooks and made a face at me – a desperate grin. The corners of his mouth stretched back too far – it was like he had the jaws of a snake.

I felt lightheaded.

"But you don't have to be afraid of me," he said quickly, slapping his hands on his lap. "I'm a good vampire. I live off of deer and rabbits and mountain lions and birds and that kind of thing. So I've been staying out in the abandoned house – just down the deer path. I have a television and a radio and a piano. I can play the piano really well. Can you play piano? Would you like to come over?"

"Maybe later," I said. I was afraid to move. If I moved, my knees would give out and I would fall down, and then – would he pounce on me, like a cat would on an injured bird?

"It's about that family that died here, isn't it?" he said. His face fell. His pupils expanded until his irises were thin golden rings.

"Uh," I said.

"That was a mistake!" he said, wringing his hands. "We were friends! They were nice, right? They had two kids and a dog. The little girl had a blue fish named Arthur. She liked to draw. She drew me a picture of a unicorn – do you want to see it?"

"Well," I said.

"I liked them, don't you see? Really liked them! They were great people. Just like my family before everything went wrong. So you see, it was a mistake!" he said. "Would never want to kill anybody! It was just a drop of blood – can't you understand how hard it is to resist the smell of blood? The little girl got a paper cut, and… couldn't stop, you see, that's all!" He turned away and bit his knuckles; his fangs pierced his skin, but he drew no blood.

"I'm sorry," I said. "I mean – I'm sure you didn't want to kill her."

He whirled around, and his eyes met mine.

"I'm sure you're very nice," I said. "I mean, we just met, and you haven't tried to kill me at all. You just scared me, that's all."

"I haven't!" he said. "Isn't that proof that I'm a good guy?"

"Of course, sure," I said, nodding.

He stood up smoothly, fluidly. He made that simple action look like part of a dance – and it frightened me for some reason I couldn't define.

"What was your name?" he asked.

"Bella," I said. "Bella Swan."

"It's very, very nice to meet you, Bella Swan," he said. "Can we meet again? I'd like to meet you again. We can talk about things, anything you want. I can't come out if it's too bright, of course, but… but if it's overcast, I could come out, or at night, or in the evening if you'd prefer that. Maybe even early morning. Your choice."

"Of course," I said.

He held out his hand. I took it. His hand was as hard and cold as ice, and his grip was that of a vise, but I focused on his face and smiled. I hoped that I didn't look as terrified and confused as I felt.

His face softened, and he cocked his head again.

"Until next time, Bella," he said.

Edward dropped my hand, turned around, and sprinted toward the trees. I caught my breath. He ran like an Olympic sprinter, so quickly that my eye could barely follow him. But even his swiftness couldn't have prepared me for the sight of him jumping: he bent double and sprang thirty feet into the crown of the tallest tree.

He turned to wave at me, grinning like a loon, and then took off through the branches – weaving beneath and over the boughs, clearing gaps between trees with ease, darting faster than a minnow from an errant human foot.

And then he was gone.

It took me a second to realize that, in all of these incredible shows of superhuman speed and strength, he had not made a single sound.