Edward's Diary

The Violent Delights with Violent Ends (Jacob's POV)

Dear Diary, 

“Who says Love is beautiful? Love is violent, befuddling, painful as a spear going right through your heart, lonely as the lone moon, destructive as a storm in the dead of winter. It won’t let you live, breathe, smile. But it also won’t let you cry, mourn and die. But that’s the beauty of it. That’s why we flock to it—because we all have a death wish.” 

        They don’t understand. Not one of them does. Even after witnessing the phenomenon almost daily with me and Nessie, and hearing and learning about it, it’s hard for them to comprehend what it means to us: imprinting. How could they? They fall in love with their own kind. We, on the other hand... 

        The love they talk about in the books is just it—fiction. It’s not real. You don’t actually feel electricity running through your body when you touch the person you love. There are no premonitions, no one track minds, no hazy, blissful days of sweet remembrance. 

        Love is . . . a fire. The words don’t do it justice, no. It’s not a tingle that you just feel—it’s a blazing inferno that you cannot ignore. It’s a pit of chaos, despair, passion, disappointment and lust all wrapped up into a sweet, decadent delicacy that you’re just compelled to taste. That’s no electricity that you feel when you touch her, no. It’s a storm. It’s a cyclone and spring sunshine all somehow concentrated into that small area of where your hand meets hers, or where her body mingles with your own.  

        Love is when you look for her in a crowd, even when you know she’s not there, like she’d somehow turn up just for you. Love is when you stand in a group talking to everyone but not really listening, because all you can see is how her hair has changed today—how she’s wearing it up instead of down. Love is the sweet, sweet wine of accomplishment you feel when you make her smile, and it is lonely, plunging dread that haunts you when she won’t even look at you. Love is the thirst for her glance, the yearning for her touch, the desire for her words, the prayer for her laugh. It is the constant acknowledgement, the blatant reminder, the blazing fire of her presence in the room that distracts you involuntarily, makes you go almost crazy with the itch of being with her.  

For us, though, it’s stronger.  

        It’s as if we are driving at the speed of two hundred miles and hour, and suddenly, we get hit by a rocket and crash into a wall. The impact of it . . . stuns you. All feelings, all thoughts you’ve had until then cease to exist. Where you had thought that you had felt everything in the world . . . you are now shocked into reverence: because this isn’t just a feeling. It’s a command. It’s a command from the higher power that we all believe in at one level or the other. It’s a compulsion.  

        Nothing in this world is as strong for us as this compulsion. We might be warriors, fighters, statues of self assured cockiness, but we have no control over our significant other. They own us—it’s as simple as that. It becomes our duty to do whatever they want, give them whatever they want. It’s the mission of our life to put it in gentle terms.  

        I tore through the forest with my muddy paws pressing into the ground with the weight of a thousand thoughts. How the land could hold me up I did not know, but I felt heavy. This was where I was torn between two worlds: the role of an alpha and one of a brother. And I still didn’t know which one to bring into play when I would see her.  

        It hadn’t taken long to locate where Leah was—just north of the border near a little brook. Her mind had been like a beacon in the darkness with all its bittersweet agony and exuberant joy. How she hadn’t gone crazy already I didn’t know. I knew I was about to.