Twilight Saga - Breaking Dawn - M.S.Rishikesh (short story to read .txt) 📗

I'd had more than my fair share of near-death experiences; it wasn't something you ever
really got used to.

It seemed oddly inevitable, though, facing death again. Like I really was marked for
disaster. I'd escaped time and time again, but it kept coming back for me.

Still, this time was so different from the others.

You could run from someone you feared, you could try to fight someone you hated. All
my reactions were geared toward those kinds of killers--the monsters, the enemies.

When you loved the one who was killing you, it left you no options. How could you
run, how could you fight, when doing so would hurt that beloved one? If your life was
all you had to give your beloved, how could you not give it?

If it was someone you truly loved?

1. ENGAGED
No one is staring at you, I promised myself. No one is staring at you. No one is staring
at you.

But, because I couldn't lie convincingly even to myself, I had to check.

As I sat waiting for one of the three traffic lights in town to turn green, I peeked to the
right--in her minivan, Mrs. Weber had turned her whole torso in my direction. Her eyes
bored into mine, and I flinched back, wondering why she didn't drop her gaze or look
ashamed. It was still considered rude to stare at people, wasn't it? Didn't that apply to
me anymore?

Then I remembered that these windows were so darkly tinted that she probably had no idea if it was even me in here, let alone that I'd caught her looking. I tried to take some
comfort in the fact that she wasn't really staring at me, just the car.

My car. Sigh.

I glanced to the left and groaned. Two pedestrians were frozen on the sidewalk, missing
their chance to cross as they stared. Behind them, Mr. Marshall was gawking throughsaid the name with reverence. I had a feeling this guy would get along well with Edward
Cullen, my... my fiancé (there really was no getting around that truth with the wedding
just days away). "They aren't supposed to be available in Europe yet," the man went on,
"let alone here."
While his eyes traced the contours of my car--it didn't look much different from any
other Mercedes sedan to me, but what did I know?--I briefly contemplated my issues
with words like fiancé, wedding, husband, etc.

I just couldn't put it together in my head.

On the one hand, I had been raised to cringe at the very thought of poofy white dresses
and bouquets. But more than that, I just couldn't reconcile a staid, respectable, dull
concept like husband with my concept of Edward. It was like casting an archangel as an
accountant; I couldn't visualize him in any commonplace role.


Like always, as soon as I started thinking about Edward I was caught up in a dizzy spin
of fantasies. The stranger had to clear his throat to get my attention; he was still waiting
for an answer about the car's make and model.

"I don't know," I told him honestly.

"Do you mind if I take a picture with it?"

It took me a second to process that. "Really? You want to take a picture with the car?"

"Sure--nobody is going to believe me if I don't get proof."

"Um. Okay. Fine."

I swiftly put away the nozzle and crept into the front seat to hide while the enthusiast
dug a huge professional-looking camera out of his backpack. He and his friend took
turns posing by the hood, and then they went to take pictures at the back end.
"I miss my truck," I whimpered to myself.

Very, very convenient--too convenient--that my truck would wheeze its last wheeze
just weeks after Edward and I had agreed to our lopsided compromise, one detail of
which was that he be allowed to replace my truck when it passed on. Edward swore it
was only to be expected; my truck had lived a long, full life and then expired of natural
causes. According to him. And, of course, I had no way to verify his story or to try to
raise my truck from the dead on my own. My favorite mechanic--

I stopped that thought cold, refusing to let it come to a conclusion. Instead, I listened to
the men's voices outside, muted by the car walls.

". . . went at it with a flamethrower in the online video. Didn't even pucker the paint."

"Of course not. You could roll a tank over this baby. Not much of
a market for one over
here. Designed for Middle East diplomats, arms dealers, and drug lords mostly."

"Think she's something?" the short one asked in a softer voice. I ducked my head,
cheeks flaming.
"Huh," the tall one said. "Maybe. Can't imagine what you'd need missile-proof glass
and four thousand pounds of body armor for around here. Must be headed somewhere
more hazardous."

Body armor. Four thousand pounds of body armor. And missile-proof glass? Nice. What
had happened to good old-fashioned bulletproof?

Well, at least this made some sense--if you had a twisted sense of humor.

It wasn't like I hadn't expected Edward to take advantage of our deal, to weight it on his
side so that he could give so much more than he would receive.

I'd agreed that he could
replace my truck when it needed replacing, not expecting that moment to come quite so
soon, of course. When I'd been forced to admit that the truck had become no more than
a still-life tribute to classic Chevys on my curb, I knew his idea of a replacement was
probably going to embarrass me. Make me the focus of stares and whispers. I'd been
right about that part. But even in my darkest imaginings I had not foreseen that he
would get me two cars.

The "before" car and the "after" car, he'd explained when I'd flipped out.

This was just the "before" car. He'd told me it was a loaner and promised that he was
returning it after the wedding. It all had made absolutely no sense to me. Until now.

Ha ha. Because I was so fragilely human, so accident-prone, so much a victim to my
own dangerous bad luck, apparently I needed a tank-resistant car to keep me safe.
Hilarious. I was sure he and his brothers had enjoyed the joke quite a bit behind my
back.

Or maybe, just maybe, a small voice whispered in my head, it's not a joke, silly. Maybe
he's really that worried about you. This wouldn't be the first time he's gone a little
overboard trying to protect you.

I sighed.

I hadn't seen the "after" car yet. It was hidden under a sheet in the deepest corner of the
Cullens' garage. I knew most people would have peeked by now, but I really didn't want
to know.

Probably no body armor on that car--because I wouldn't need it after the honeymoon.
Virtual indestructibility was just one of the many perks I was

looking forward to. The
best parts about being a Cullen were not expensive cars and impressive credit cards.

"Hey," the tall man called, cupping his hands to the glass in an effort to peer in. "We're
done now. Thanks a lot!"

"You're welcome," I called back, and then tensed as I started the engine and eased the
pedal--ever so gently--down. . . .

No matter how many times I drove down the familiar road home, I still couldn't make
the rain-faded flyers fade into the background. Each one of them, stapled to telephone
poles and taped to street signs, was like a fresh slap in the face. A well-deserved slap in
the face. My mind was sucked back into the thought I'd interrupted so immediately
before. I couldn't avoid it on this road. Not with pictures of my favorite mechanic
flashing past me at regular intervals.

My best friend. My Jacob.