#twilight bree

Because she missed Diego. The Diego she knew but, mostly, the Diego she had believed he was—the Diego she imagined. They hadn’t known much about each other anyway except, perhaps, that they were young, and lonely, and clueless so, who would have blamed them for searching instead of finding each other? Did that matter, anyway? Everytime Bree remembered him, she would slightly alter her ideas of Diego, or them, or what they could have been if—maybe, perhaps. 

             (Over and over: the way the curls bounced over his knitted-tight eyebrows; the freckles spreading like wildfire on his smooth, taupe skin; the echo of his laughter, reverberating inside her; their fingers interlocking without asking or looking, a perfectly coordinated and silent click—the quenching of that part of her that so deeply wanted to belong, and to be loved. And then, over the dismembered bodies and salt-like way Riley said his name: the endless possibilities of two cageless teens, holding fists like hands, running to the ends of time and back, singing whenever they felt like crying...). 

Everytime, Bree exonerated the body of her silence and firmly held onto it, reminding herself that it was real—even now, when he was gone. Gone forever, she thought, biting on every syllable, forcing them down her throat until they landed over the impotence that lived in her stomach. Forever, repeated—the thin voice of her mother, the fearsome one of his father, and lastly, just hers. (Forever, forever, forever…) 

The claw-like fingers (as if these weren’t hers) sank in Bree’s hair, drowning in the wavy strands. Her pupils were trembling—never able to shed a tear again—and still bright red. It didn’t matter how much she wanted to please the Cullen’s, it didn’t matter how much they tried to help; how reassuring they were, how Rosalie made her stare just so she could realize that, in her amber eyes, there wasn’t a bit of disappointment—just concern. Pain she could handle, yes, but not hunger. And she knew because she died for it, because she fucking condemned herself for it—because she always wanted too much, even when life had given her nothing or, perhaps, because life had given her nothing. Was this what she was, then? an unyielding craving, a gash that kept bleeding? Forever. She almost laughed—mad, and trembling, and hungry. 

How God—if there was one—was able to bear with it all, she couldn’t understand.