Roses

                                    

                                          
I was in my art class, the class I had right before lunch and right after gym. It was conveniently placed; after gym, working on art always calmed me down for my other classes and settled my mind.
                          
I'd always loved to draw, paint or basically create anything with my hands. Art was a way for me to lose myself, to forget pain and sadness. My iciness was my way of dealing with the world and protecting myself from hurt. Since I never expressed myself in words or shows of emotion, I poured my heart out into my pictures. It kept the tears back whenever I thought back over the horror of my life before Forks, my mother, him, the accident, how people couldn't look me in the face after, the screaming woman. It was all my fault. I felt the familiar weight fill my chest and close around my heart and I turned up my mp3, drowning myself in the music that mirrored my own predicament:
                          
Pain, without love,
                          
Pain, I can't get enough
                          
Pain, I like it rough,
                          
'Cause I'd rather feel pain than nothing at all
                          
You're sick, of feeling numb,
                          
You're not, the only one,
                          
I'll take, you by the hand,
                          
And I'll show you a world you can understand
                          
This life, is filled with hurt,
                          
When happiness, doesn't work,
                          
Trust me, and take my hand,
                          
When the lights go out,
                          
You'll understand.
                          
Pain! Without love,
                          
Pain! Can't get enough,
                          
Pain! I like it rough,
                          
'Cause I'd rather feel pain than nothing at all!
                          
I threw myself into the picture I was drawing. I was using charcoal, alternating between the pencil and the actual stick. I had drawn a woman standing on the edge of a cliff, not looking like she was going to jump, but conveying a sense of such misery that I felt a knot in my throat. I shaded in her dress a bit, and added some last minute detail to her face. I was beginning to get the feeling of peace that usually came with drawing; I was in my own little world. That's when Edward walked past. He had every single class with me and always found some excuse to speak to me. All I wanted was to be left alone. People didn't know how to listen, just judge and accuse. I'd already fallen for someone once before, and he'd hurt me worse than I'd ever been hurt before. I was making the same mistake again.
                          
The bell rang, making me jump. Kids started filing out of the classroom, going to lunch while I hurriedly put my things away, carefully putting my drawing down on Mrs. Morrello's desk. Before I turned away though, something caught my eye, a flash of red. I turned back to see a beautiful red rose, shown from the top, with the leaves from the stem cupping it. It was drawn with pastel on black paper, which made the color stand out more and the color was so expertly mixed that each petal looked as if I could stretch out my fingers and feel the soft velvet and lean in and inhale the sweet fragrance coming off the flower.
                          
I stared down at it, mesmerized, tracing the lines and curves with my eyes, and disappearing into the swirl of colors. My world was broken apart once again by a voice, quiet and gentle, but curious, as that voice always seemed to be.
                          
"Do you like it?" I turned around slowly, knowing exactly who to expect.
                          
"And why should you care whether I like it or not?" I asked Edward in a voice that wasn't very hostile, but wasn't very nice at all.