The Dream of a Boy
The intro to a forgetten fanfic:
My mother always used to say bad things happened to good people, I quite never understood it. I guess I was too young and innocent to believe that harm could just as easily run towards someone with a good heart as one with malicious intentions.
The date was October 24th, 1999. I was six years old when my neighbor of all my life died. Disappeared. He never quite made it to adulthood, something that I knew saddened the boy since he’d been excited about his upcoming birthday for months -- though he only turned seventeen that summer. I didn’t understand what was going on, why the boy’s mother wept and wept and wept while she crumbled to the ground, convulsing viciously while the only sounds that escaped her were silent heaves. It was heart-wrenching to watch. Her usually quiet and joyous face -- one I aspired to attain as I grew older -- , now twisted in agony. I looked away.
My mother held me as they kissed the casket goodbye, fixing it over the square hole in the ground, a handful of youthful men who I recognized as Edward’s friends, all clad in black and empty expressions. I could feel their sorrowed disbelief from where I stood.
Everything occurred in a dream-like fashion: Edward’s mother continued to weep, grasping to her husband for support, they lowered the casket and she cried out a word I couldn’t discern as it was cut off abruptly by my mother covering my ears. Whatever it was, she apparently didn’t think it would suit a young lady such as me; people went one by one up to the resting place of the once lively and caring Masen, leaving their prayers and farewells with the lonesome roses they tossed in; dirt was sprinkled in as the priest recited the “ashes to ashes” speech. Little by little the crowd dissipated and the rain came in.
I closed my eyes before our family’s departure, wishing the best for the missing boy. For the boy that had given me so much love and protection and had seen me growing up all my childhood years. For the boy that had given me hope and reason in the world. For the boy who once told me that I could take on the world and have it at my feet. For the boy that whispered to me once, while I flitted about the edges of dream and reality, falling quickly asleep, that dreams were not impossible and that he would see little me, Isabella Marie Swan, making my mark on the world.
For the boy that I had spent my years dreaming over and over about. For the boy labeled, not Prince Charming but Mr. Isabella Marie Swan.
My mother always used to say bad things happened to good people, I quite never understood it. I guess I was too young and innocent to believe that harm could just as easily run towards someone with a good heart as one with malicious intentions.
The date was October 24th, 1999. I was six years old when my neighbor of all my life died. Disappeared. He never quite made it to adulthood, something that I knew saddened the boy since he’d been excited about his upcoming birthday for months -- though he only turned seventeen that summer. I didn’t understand what was going on, why the boy’s mother wept and wept and wept while she crumbled to the ground, convulsing viciously while the only sounds that escaped her were silent heaves. It was heart-wrenching to watch. Her usually quiet and joyous face -- one I aspired to attain as I grew older -- , now twisted in agony. I looked away.
My mother held me as they kissed the casket goodbye, fixing it over the square hole in the ground, a handful of youthful men who I recognized as Edward’s friends, all clad in black and empty expressions. I could feel their sorrowed disbelief from where I stood.
Everything occurred in a dream-like fashion: Edward’s mother continued to weep, grasping to her husband for support, they lowered the casket and she cried out a word I couldn’t discern as it was cut off abruptly by my mother covering my ears. Whatever it was, she apparently didn’t think it would suit a young lady such as me; people went one by one up to the resting place of the once lively and caring Masen, leaving their prayers and farewells with the lonesome roses they tossed in; dirt was sprinkled in as the priest recited the “ashes to ashes” speech. Little by little the crowd dissipated and the rain came in.
I closed my eyes before our family’s departure, wishing the best for the missing boy. For the boy that had given me so much love and protection and had seen me growing up all my childhood years. For the boy that had given me hope and reason in the world. For the boy who once told me that I could take on the world and have it at my feet. For the boy that whispered to me once, while I flitted about the edges of dream and reality, falling quickly asleep, that dreams were not impossible and that he would see little me, Isabella Marie Swan, making my mark on the world.
For the boy that I had spent my years dreaming over and over about. For the boy labeled, not Prince Charming but Mr. Isabella Marie Swan.