ᴅᴀᴡɴ ᴏꜰ ᴄʀɪᴍꜱᴏɴ ─── ᴇᴍᴍᴇᴛᴛ ᴄᴜʟʟᴇɴ ³

ᴄʜᴀᴘᴛᴇʀ ɴɪɴᴇᴛᴇᴇɴ: ꜱᴇʟꜰ-ᴄᴏɴᴛʀᴏʟ?

     A month had slipped by, and every single day I found myself back out in the forest, singing that same damn song.

In the beginning, Emmett, the Cullens, and even my Grams were right there with me. They offered quiet support, stood by without question, their presence a steady comfort. But as the days dragged on and nothing changed, I asked them to stop coming.

I needed to do this alone.

Each time I failed, their eyes on me felt heavier, like a spotlight on my weakness. I couldn't bear it. The weight of their hope, their futures, all of it rested on my shoulders. And with every failed attempt, that weight grew unbearable.

After the first week, when nothing happened, I snapped. The frustration boiled over until I was screaming into the trees, my voice raw with rage and desperation. I punched boulders until they cracked, tore up roots with my bare hands, and hurled entire trees across the forest floor.

I needed an outlet, some way to release the storm building inside me. Letting it out through destruction was the only way I knew how to regain myself.

And then... There was the feeding.

The Cullens hunted together; it was a ritual for them, as they had done it for decades. Emmett never left my side, not once. He stayed with me through every hunt, his voice patient, steady, guiding me like a teacher who refused to give up on a stubborn student.

He showed me how to track, how to listen, how to go for the cleanest kill. 'In time, it'll feel natural,' he'd say gently, always with hope in his eyes.

But even as he repeated the motions, even as I mimicked his movements, all I could see was that first time... that first time I fed. The way the animal's heartbeat had filled my ears, the way its blood had rushed against my tongue like fire and silk combined. The way I'd clung to it, lost to hunger, completely and utterly consumed.

I hadn't wanted to stop.

I remembered how I felt, killing an animal for the first time. How I was covered in blood. I remembered the shame that followed, how I couldn't look him in the eyes afterwards. The guilt lingered like a stain on my soul.

I kept telling myself it would get easier, that eventually, I'd grow used to it. That the act of feeding would become routine, something I could do without thinking, without feeling. But it never did.

Every hunt, every animal I fed from, was a reminder of what I had become. I forced smiles, played the part of someone adjusting, someone strong, just so Emmett wouldn't worry. I couldn't bear to see the concern in his eyes. So, I pretended. I laughed. I nodded. I lied.

But the truth was far uglier.

Because every time that warm blood hit my tongue, every time it slid down my throat and lit up my nerves like fire, I enjoyed it. I wanted it. And that terrified me.