New Moon

  "Sure. So, what brought this on?" Jess wondered as she drove down my street.

  "Brought what on?"

  "Why did you suddenly decide... to go out?" It sounded like she changed her question halfway through.

  I shrugged. "Just needed a change."

  I recognized the song on the radio then, and quickly reached for the dial. "Do you mind?" I asked.

  "No, go ahead."

  I scanned through the stations until I found one that was harmless. I peeked at Jess's expression as the new music filled the car.

  Her eyes squinted. "Since when do you listen to rap?"

  "I don't know," I said. "A while."

  "You like this?" she asked doubtfully.

  "Sure."

  It would be much too hard to interact with Jessica normally if I had to work to tune out the music, too. I nodded my head, hoping I was in time with the beat.

  "Okay..." She stared out the windshield with wide eyes.

  "So what's up with you and Mike these days?" I asked quickly.

  "You see him more than I do."

  The question hadn't started her talking like I'd hoped it would.

  "It's hard to talk at work," I mumbled, and then I tried again. "Have you been out with anyone lately?"

  "Not really. I go out with Conner sometimes. I went out with Eric two weeks ago." She rolled her eyes, and I sensed a long story. I clutched at the opportunity.

  "Eric Yorkie? Who asked who?"

  She groaned, getting more animated. "He did, of course! I couldn't think of a nice way to say no."

  "Where did he take you?" I demanded, knowing she would interpret my eagerness as interest. "Tell me all about it."

  She launched into her tale, and I settled into my seat, more comfortable now. I paid strict attention, murmuring in sympathy and gasping in horror as called for. When she was finished with her Eric story, she continued into a Conner comparison without any prodding.

  The movie was playing early, so Jess thought we should hit the twilight showing and eat later. I was happy to go along with whatever she wanted; after all, I was getting what I wanted--Charlie off my back.

  I kept Jess talking through the previews, so I could ignore them more easily. But I got nervous when the movie started. A young couple was walking along a beach, swinging hands and discussing their mutual affection with gooey falseness. I resisted the urge to cover my ears and start humming. I had not bargained for a romance.

  "I thought we picked the zombie movie," I hissed to Jessica.

  "This is the zombie movie."

  "Then why isn't anyone getting eaten?" I asked desperately.

  She looked at me with wide eyes that were almost alarmed. "I'm sure that part's coming," she whispered.

  "I'm getting popcorn. Do you want any?"

  "No, thanks."

  Someone shushed us from behind.

  I took my time at the concession counter, watching the clock and debating what percentage of a ninety-minute movie could be spent on romantic exposition. I decided ten minutes was more than enough, but I paused just inside the theater doors to be sure. I could hear horrified screams blaring from the speakers, so I knew I'd waited long enough.

  "You missed everything," Jess murmured when I slid back into my seat. "Almost everyone is a zombie now."

  "Long line." I offered her some popcorn. She took a handful.

  The rest of the movie was comprised of gruesome zombie attacks and endless screaming from the handful of people left alive, their numbers dwindling quickly. I would have thought there was nothing in that to disturb me. But I felt uneasy, and I wasn't sure why at first.

  It wasn't until almost the very end, as I watched a haggard zombie shambling after the last shrieking survivor, that I realized what the problem was. The scene kept cutting between the horrified face of the heroine, and the dead, emotionless face of her pursuer, back and forth as it closed the distance.

  And I realized which one resembled me the most.

  I stood up.

  "Where are you going? There's, like, two minutes left," Jess hissed.

  "I need a drink," I muttered as I raced for the exit.

  I sat down on the bench outside the theater door and tried very hard not to think of the irony. But it was ironic, all things considered, that, in the end, I would wind up as a zombie. I hadn't seen that one coming.

  Not that I hadn't dreamed of becoming a mythical monster once--just never a grotesque, animated corpse. I shook my head to dislodge that train of thought, feeling panicky. I couldn't afford to think about what I'd once dreamed of.

  It was depressing to realize that I wasn't the heroine anymore, that my story was over.

  Jessica came out of the theater doors and hesitated, probably wondering where the best place was to search for me. When she saw me, she looked relieved, but only for a moment. Then she looked irritated.

  "Was the movie too scary for you?" she wondered.

  "Yeah," I agreed. "I guess I'm just a coward."

  "That's funny." She frowned. "I didn't think you were scared--I was screaming all the time, but I didn't hear you scream once. So I didn't know why you left."

  I shrugged. "Just scared."

  She relaxed a little. "That was the scariest movie I think I've ever seen. I'll bet we're going to have nightmares tonight."

  "No doubt about that," I said, trying to keep my voice normal. It was inevitable that I would have nightmares, but they wouldn't be about zombies. Her eyes flashed to my face and away. Maybe I hadn't succeeded with the normal voice.

  "Where do you want to eat?" Jess asked.

  "I don't care."

  "Okay."

  Jess started talking about the male lead in the movie as we walked. I nodded as she gushed over his hotness, unable to remember seeing a non-zombie man at all.

  I didn't watch where Jessica was leading me. I was only vaguely aware that it was dark and quieter now. It took me longer than it should have to realize why it was quiet. Jessica had stopped babbling. I looked at her apologetically, hoping I hadn't hurt her feelings.

  Jessica wasn't looking at me. Her face was tense; she stared straight ahead and walked fast. As I watched, her eyes darted quickly to the right, across the road, and back again.

  I glanced around myself for the first time.

  We were on a short stretch of unlit sidewalk. The little shops lining the street were all locked up for the night, windows black. Half a block ahead, the streetlights started up again, and I could see, farther down, the bright golden arches of the McDonald's she was heading for.

  Across the street there was one open business. The windows were covered from inside and there were neon signs, advertisements for different brands of beer, glowing in front of them. The biggest sign, in brilliant green, was the name of the bar--One-Eyed Pete's. I wondered if there was some pirate theme not visible from outside. The metal door was propped open; it was dimly lit inside, and the low murmur of many voices and the sound of ice clinking in glasses floated across the street. Lounging against the wall beside the door were four men.

  I glanced back at Jessica. Her eyes were fixed on the path ahead and she moved briskly. She didn't look frightened--just wary, trying to not attract attention to herself.

  I paused without thinking, looking back at the four men with a strong sense of deja vu. This was a different road, a different night, but the scene was so much the same. One of them was even short and dark. As I stopped and turned toward them, that one looked up in interest.

  I stared back at him, frozen on the sidewalk.

  "Bella?" Jess whispered. "What are you doing?"

  I shook my head, not sure myself. "I think I know them..." I muttered.

  What was I doing? I should be running from this memory as fast as I could, blocking the image of the four lounging men from my mind, protecting myself with the numbness I couldn't function without. Why was I stepping, dazed, into the street?

  It seemed too coincidental that I should be in Port Angeles with Jes
sica, on a dark street even. My eyes focused on the short one, trying to match the features to my memory of the man who had threatened me that night almost a year ago. I wondered if there was any way I would recognize the man, if it was really him. That particular part of that particular evening was just a blur. My body remembered it better than my mind did; the tension in my legs as I tried to decide whether to run or to stand my ground, the dryness in my throat as I struggled to build a decent scream, the tight stretch of skin across my knuckles as I clenched my hands into fists, the chills on the back of my neck when the dark-haired man called me "sugar."...

  There was an indefinite, implied kind of menace to these men that had nothing to do with that other night. It sprung from the fact that they were strangers, and it was dark here, and they outnumbered us--nothing more specific than that. But it was enough that Jessica's voice cracked in panic as she called after me.

  "Bella, come on!"

  I ignored her, walking slowly forward without ever making the conscious decision to move my feet. I didn't understand why, but the nebulous threat the men presented drew me toward them. It was a senseless impulse, but I hadn't felt any kind of impulse in so long... I followed it.

  Something unfamiliar beat through my veins. Adrenaline, I realized, long absent from my system, drumming my pulse faster and fighting against the lack of sensation. It was strange--why the adrenaline when there was no fear? It was almost as if it were an echo of the last time I'd stood like this, on a dark street in Port Angeles with strangers.

  I saw no reason for fear. I couldn't imagine anything in the world that there was left to be afraid of, not physically at least. One of the few advantages of losing everything.

  I was halfway across the street when Jess caught up to me and grabbed my arm.

  "Bella! You can't go in a bar!" she hissed.

  "I'm not going in," I said absently, shaking her hand off. "I just want to see something..."

  "Are you crazy?" she whispered. "Are you suicidal?"

  That question caught my attention, and my eyes focused on her.

  "No, I'm not." My voice sounded defensive, but it was true. I wasn't suicidal. Even in the beginning, when death unquestionably would have been a relief, I didn't consider it. I owed too much to Charlie. I felt too responsible for Renee. I had to think of them.

  And I'd made a promise not to do anything stupid or reckless. For all those reasons, I was still breathing.

  Remembering that promise. I felt a twinge of guilt.

  but what I was doing fight now didn't really count. It wasn't like I was taking a blade to my wrists.

  Jess's eyes were round, her mouth hung open. Her question about suicide had been rhetorical, I realized too late.

  "Go eat," I encouraged her, waving toward the fast food. I didn't like the way she looked at me. "I'll catch up in a minute."

  I turned away from her, back to the men who were watching us with amused, curious eyes.

  "Bella, stop this right now!"

  My muscles locked into place, froze me where I stood. Because it wasn't Jessica's voice that rebuked me now. It was a furious voice, a familiar voice, a beautiful voice--soft like velvet even though it was irate.

  It was his voice--I was exceptionally careful not to think his name--and I was surprised that the sound of it did not knock me to my knees, did not curl me onto the pavement in a torture of loss. But there was no pain, none at all.

  In the instant that I heard his voice, everything was very clear. Like my head had suddenly surfaced out of some dark pool. I was more aware of everything--sight, sound, the feel of the cold air that I hadn't noticed was blowing sharply against my face, the smells coming from the open bar door.

  I looked around myself in shock.

  "Go back to Jessica," the lovely voice ordered, still angry. "You promised--nothing stupid."

  I was alone. Jessica stood a few feet from me, staring at me with frightened eyes. Against the wall, the strangers watched, confused, wondering what I was doing, standing there motionless in the middle of the street.

  I shook my head, trying to understand. I knew he wasn't there, and yet, he felt improbably close, close for the first time since... since the end. The anger in his voice was concern, the same anger that was once very familiar--something I hadn't heard in what felt like a lifetime.

  "Keep your promise." The voice was slipping away, as if the volume was being turned down on a radio.

  I began to suspect that I was having some kind of hallucination. Triggered, no doubt, by the memory--the deja vu, the strange familiarity of the situation.

  I ran through the possibilities quickly in my head.

  Option one: I was crazy. That was the layman's term for people who heard voices in their heads.

  Possible.

  Option two: My subconscious mind was giving me what it thought I wanted. This was wish fulfillment--a momentary relief from pain by embracing the incorrect idea that he cared whether I lived or died. Projecting what he would have said if A) he were here, and B) he would be in any way bothered by something bad happening to me.

  Probable.

  I could see no option three, so I hoped it was the second option and this was just my subconscious running amuck, rather than something I would need to be hospitalized for.

  My reaction was hardly sane, though--I was grateful. The sound of his voice was something that I'd feared I was losing, and so, more than anything else, I felt overwhelming gratitude that my unconscious mind had held onto that sound better than my conscious one had.

  I was not allowed to think of him. That was something I tried to be very strict about. Of course I slipped; I was only human. But I was getting better, and so the pain was something I could avoid for days at a time now. The tradeoff was the never-ending numbness. Between pain and nothing, I'd chosen nothing.

  I waited for the pain now. I was not numb--my senses felt unusually intense after so many months of the haze--but the normal pain held off. The only ache was the disappointment that his voice was fading.

  There was a second of choice.

  The wise thing would be to run away from this potentially destructive--and certainly mentally unstable--development. It would be stupid to encourage hallucinations.

  But his voice was fading.

  I took another step forward, testing.

  "Bella, turn around," he growled.

  I sighed in relief. The anger was what I wanted to hear--false, fabricated evidence that he cared, a dubious gift from my subconscious.

  Very few seconds had passed while I sorted this all out. My little audience watched, curious. It probably looked like I was just dithering over whether or not I was going to approach them. How could they guess that I was standing there enjoying an unexpected moment of insanity?

  "Hi," one of the men called, his tone both confident and a bit sarcastic. He was fair-skinned and fair-haired, and he stood with the assurance of someone who thought of himself as quite good-looking. I couldn't tell whether he was or not. I was prejudiced.

  The voice in my head answered with an exquisite snarl. I smiled, and the confident man seemed to take that as encouragement.

  "Can I help you with something? You look lost." He grinned and winked.

  I stepped carefully over the gutter, running with water that was black in the darkness.

  "No. I'm not lost."

  Now that I was closer--and my eyes felt oddly in focus--I analyzed the short, dark man's face. It was not familiar in any way. I suffered a curious sensation of disappointment that this was not the terrible man who had tried to hurt me almost a year ago.

  The voice in my head was quiet now.

  The short man noticed my stare. "Can I buy you a drink?" he offered, nervous, seeming flattered that I'd singled him out to stare at.

  "I'm too young," I answered automatically.

  He was baffled--wondering why I had approached them. I felt compelled to explain.

  "From across the street, you looked like someone I knew. Sor
ry, my mistake."

  The threat that had pulled me across the street had evaporated. These were not the dangerous men I remembered. They were probably nice guys. Safe. I lost interest.

  "That's okay," the confident blonde said. "Stay and hang out with us."

  "Thanks, but I can't." Jessica was hesitating in the middle of the street, her eyes wide with outrage and betrayal.

  "Oh, just a few minutes."

  I shook my head, and turned to rejoin Jessica.

  "Let's go eat," I suggested, barely glancing at her. Though I appeared to be, for the moment, freed of the zombie abstraction, I was just as distant. My mind was preoccupied. The safe, numb deadness did not come back, and I got more anxious with every minute that passed without its return.

  "What were you thinking?" Jessica snapped. "You don't know them--they could have been psychopaths!"

  I shrugged, wishing she would let it go. "I just thought I knew the one guy."

  "You are so odd, Bella Swan. I feel like I don't know who you are."

  "Sorry." I didn't know what else to say to that.

  We walked to McDonald's in silence. I'd bet that she was wishing we'd taken her car instead of walking the short distance from the theater, so that she could use the drive-through. She was just as anxious now for this evening to be over as I had been from the beginning.

  I tried to start a conversation a few times while we ate, but Jessica was not cooperative. I must have really offended her.

  When we go back in the car, she tuned the stereo back to her favorite station and turned the volume too loud to allow easy conversation.

  I didn't have to struggle as hard as usual to ignore the music. Even though my mind, for once, was not carefully numb and empty, I had too much to think about to hear the lyrics.

  I waited for the numbness to return, or the pain. Because the pain must be coming. I'd broken my personal rules. Instead of shying away from the memories, I'd walked forward and greeted them. I'd heard his voice, so clearly, in my head. That was going to cost me, I was sure of it. Especially if I couldn't reclaim the haze to protect myself. I felt too alert, and that frightened me.

  But relief was still the strongest emotion in my body--relief that came from the very core of my being.

  As much as I struggled not to think of him, I did not struggle to forget. I worried--late in the night, when the exhaustion of sleep deprivation broke down my defenses--that it was all slipping away. That my mind was a sieve, and I would someday not be able to remember the precise color of his eyes, the feel of his cool skin, or the texture of his voice. I could not think of them, but I must remember them.