The Walkers (Twilight Fan Fiction)

Chapter Two

Chapter Two

The following morning was a brutal reminder of what time zone I’d come from. After hours of tossing and turning, I’d finally been able to fall asleep around four in the morning. Unfortunately, that had made waking up with my alarm at nine in the morning extremely difficult. During the previous night, I’d suffered through horrible nightmares of Edward leaving hand-in-hand with Jessica. Phil had been forced to shake me awake from my screaming fit. Collectively, I was probably sitting on about four hours of sleep.

With an additional stretch, I pushed my languid body upright and stumbled through the room into the bathroom. Looking at myself in the mirror was a surreal experience, and it took a few minutes of reassurance for me to believe it was actually me. It was painfully obvious that my week of malnutrition had taken its toll. The girl in the mirror had sad eyes, sallow cheeks, and a grimace that belonged to an old woman. I quickly splashed water on my face, hoping it would change what I saw; it didn’t.

I showered and dressed for the day—opting for a regular, white t-shirt and a pair of jeans—and made my way into the kitchen. Phil was sitting at the table, reading the paper. He raised his coffee cup to me as I entered. I was thoroughly embarrassed I had woken him the previous night, and I quickly skittered to my seat, avoiding eye contact with him. Renee, however, was bent over the stove—spatula in one hand, sizzling skillet in the other. To anyone else, this would have seemed ordinary, but they’d never seen her in the kitchen. A shot of panic hit me, and I remembered the many times the fire department had been called because of Mom’s cooking binges. 

“Mom?” I had jumped out of my seat the moment I’d laid eyes on the spatula and escaping to a few feet away from her. “What are you doing?”

Phil started to laugh, and I spun around and gave him a perplexed look. He had been there during several of my mother’s cooking fiascos, so I was astounded that he could find any humor in this situation.

Renee, on the other hand, turned around and produced a pile of yellow, fluffy, delicious-smelling scrambled eggs. “I’m making breakfast,” she announced happily, gesturing with the skillet. “Would you like some?”

“Sure,” I replied hesitantly. After deciding everything looked remotely edible, I returned to my seat. As soon as Renee had refocused her attention on the stove, I whispered to Phil, “So, when did she become Martha Stewart?”

“One of her colleagues has been taking a weekend cooking class,” Phil explained, setting down his paper and coffee cup. He threw my mother a sideways glance that sent a streak of pain through my body—there was so much love and tenderness in his eyes, it was difficult to bear. “She decided to go with her one Saturday, and she loved it so much that she made it a regular thing. She’s perfected breakfast. Next week they’re starting on Italian recipes.”

“All right,” Renee said with extra inflection in her voice, and she set down dishes covered with scrambled eggs, bacon, and biscuits in front of us. “Who’s hungry?”

I filled my plate with a sampling of everything. After silently hoping nothing would make me sick, I took a bite of the eggs. Saying that her culinary skills had improved was an understatement! The scrambled eggs were light, fluffy, and cooked all the way through. The bacon was crispy, but not burnt. The biscuits were equally delicious as well. After having the bare minimum of sustenance the day before, I was fully prepared to gorge myself. However, as Renee and Phil kissed one another softly and giving each other that long, loving gaze, I quickly found my hunger being overwhelmed by my own misery. After that, I picked at my food and apologized to Renee, commenting that my sleep deprivation was affecting my hunger.