Amelie Gray's Week 7 Entry: Bound Heroin

Amelie Gray
Monday






Amelie Gray's Choice: Picture 2

Title: Bound Heroin

I try my best to keep away from the book, but something about it seems to call to me.

At work, I am fidgety - sweat beads on my forehead, and I squirm in my seat so much during a meeting that Carlisle actually pauses to ask me, "Are you feeling alright, Bella?" Eyes all turn to stare at me, and I blush as I respond in the affirmative, but the burning sensation still lingers on my skin and my nerves jitter and all I want to do is race like a bat out of Hell out of the building, to the curb and flag a taxi to take me back home to my house - and the book, waiting where I left it on the shelf.

Angela warned me not to use it, and as I feel the impatience weighing down my shoulders, the fixation, almost like I'm a druggie waiting for my next hit, I can understand why. It is not something a human is supposed to handle.

Magic can be addicting, Bella. You shouldn't play around with things you don't understand.

Of course, I hadn't listened - story of my life - and now I am bouncing up and down in my seat like a toddler hyped up on sugar. As soon as the meeting is dismissed, I scurry out the door, barely pausing for my belongings before I am bolting out the door, ignoring the calls of a concerned Carlisle behind me.

I'll try my best to think up something tomorrow.

When I reach home, I fumble with my keys, cursing as - with the proximity between me and my new addiction - the burning seems to increase, flames licking underneath my skin, across my face...worse than any superficial burn or injury I have sustained in my long, clumsy existence.

I stumble through the open door towards the bookcases, tall, dark, seeming to leer down at me disdainfully as I yank the sand-colored book off the shelf and spread it open.

The fire gives out.

The tingling melts away.

And I smile as I stare into the wide green eyes of my true love.

I should have tried to hold on longer, fight the anguish as much as I could - I deserved it, after all - keep at it until I could ignore the call of the book, until Angela came home and removed temptation from my grasp.

But I wasn't strong enough.

And as soon as I can stand up on both legs without wobbling, I tuck the book under my arm, grab a pen, and head for the bathroom to draw a nice, long soak.

The empty page beside the face of Edward Anthony Masen stares up at me, just itching to be filled with words. Now, more than ever, the writer inside me could appreciate the magic of the written word. Words held magic when they were written down, power that humans never dreamed they could harness.

And these words could conjure up the perfect man for me.

All I had to do was write.