This is a work of fanfiction, and I am not S. Meyer, nor am I Simon or Garfunkel, or Edwin Arlington Robinson.

No, I have not abandoned my multi-chapter WIP. This little idea cropped in my head the other night and I spent a couple hours writing it up. It's only lightly beta'd so please pardon my rough edges. Clearly, this is inspired by the poem 'Richard Cory' by EA Robinson, and a bit more so by the Simon and Garfunkel song of the same name (Check it out on youtube... great song).

LFC helped out when I tried to tell too much of a story, so she whipped the plot bunny for me this time. Thanks, dear!

Please enjoy.

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Edward Cory

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The whistle above the line screeched and brought the conveyor belts to a halt. We all cleared our areas into the troughs and started hosing off the slime line. Break time was a bitch and we wished we could hire just a couple of young guys to handle the clean-ups and totes, rather than kill precious minutes cleaning before getting to our lunches.

Fish guts were embedded in the mesh of my mail gloves and I spent several more minutes of my break cleaning the gunk from the metal rings. Even in three layers of gloves, my hands were stiff and pale, making all the cleaning jobs twice as hard. The lukewarm water at the scrub sinks burned like it was boiling.

They weren't an indulgence- chain mail was necessary on the job, since no machine could gut and filet a fish as quickly, cleanly and cheaply as a human. We were disposable anyway. There's special insurance from the government for fishery workers because it isn't a matter of if you get injured, but when and how many fingers, so no regular company will insure us. Deep sea parasites, nasty spines that can puncture through the heavy clothes and oilskins we wore, and skin infections just went with the job.

'Slime line' is an affectionate term for a fish processing plant. You can make a shit-ton of money fast because you're practically slave labor and don't get a chance to spend a dime until the job is over. I'd spent my breaks and summers working the slime line since I was able to lie my way into a job at the age of fourteen. You work an eighteen hour shift, clean your gear, shower, crash, then get pushed out of your bunk by the angry, smelly fucker you share a tiny cabin with whose job it is to kick your ass out for your shift.

They could brag all they wanted about being the largest American fishing and cannery company, as well as the biggest at a number of other things, but those of us who spent our days being pushed to cut, slice, and haul faster every season deep in the foul belly of a boat knew that no matter how many flags were hung up and stamped on the boxes we packed product into, we were nothing but cheap labor, and we were reminded constantly.

It sucked, and I usually needed to spend some money at the hospital when I finished a job, but I'd still break over ten grand for a couple weeks work, and my summers paid my expenses for the rest of the year. Now at least I had a 'real' job that I kept through the off season, but this was my dream money. That hard earned money would seed my own fully stocked and staffed shop and so I'd never have to look at the Cullen Capital Fisheries sign ever again.

I had plans for that money, and they all started with her.

Bella and I had been inseparable as kids. She moved away when her parents divorced, but came back a few years later to finish up high school. We picked up where we left off and then some. When she went away to college I had a whole new reason to work hard on the lines during the spring breaks and summers, and build up my mechanic business at home. I wanted to give her a home and a life. I wanted her to marry me, and I'd be damned if we were going to live in a converted garage on the rez where I grew up.

Then, one day during a break at the lines, as I sat for a high calorie meal and bucket of coffee to keep me going, I flipped through a newspaper. We didn't usually get to read the paper, the bosses don't want us distracted by the outside world, and I noticed that it was about two weeks old. Hell, I hadn't even seen the sun for a few days, so if I hadn't heard it yet, it was news to me, right?

The sports section was gone and the so were the headlines. All that was left was Seattle's local section where you see the hobnobbing society people doing nice things in nice places with their nice money. It was pretty surreal to look at the gowns and tuxedoes when your hands were mostly clean but your shirt cuffs had caked fish blood ground into them. Then I saw the picture.

The caption read, "Edward Cullen and his guest at the Cullen Capital Ventures Charity ball."

That was no guest- that was my Bella! And she was being held on the arm of my boss's boss's boss's boss, his other hand holding up a martini glass, complete with an olive. For the first time in years, the line made me feel sick. I wanted to quit right there, fuck the money, fuck the mechanic shop I was more than halfway done building. And fuck Edward Cullen.

The next week was hell. I refused to slow down the lines for the new guy and barked at him to hurry up, not even caring that the rest of the line had to cover for him as I pushed my rake harder in the chute, slopping blood, guts, and god only knows what up over the tops of my boots. I didn't care anymore.

When that job was over, I spent almost a grand getting wasted and ignoring every piece of ass that waved in my face. The older guys toasted me like I was finally one of them, wanting nothing more than to clear my nose of the stench of the ship with sweet amber poison. I woke up in a hotel alone and with a hangover that reminded me that I was native, and had no business hitting the firewater like a white man.

Fuck Edward Cullen and his fancy martini glass. Fuck his olives.

Bella left messages about what we would do for the few days we'd see each other in the summer, but I ignored her and signed up for the longest and nastiest job I could find.

I'd see pictures of them in the paper, and she called a little less often. My dad took her messages and gave me little slips of paper with her address (as if I'd go) and number (as if I'd forgotten) in Seattle. I hunkered down in La Push and took mechanic jobs, handing most of them off to my friends so they could earn some money while I packed up to sit at the docks, hoping to get offered a job. Cullen Capital signs were everywhere and every job I took paid me a check with his fucking name on it.

The pictures bothered me, and I obsessed over how she was losing weight. High society appeared to be taking its toll on her, even though I'm sure she was told every day how fabulous she looked, I knew better. I saw her on television once, as Edward fucking Cullen was handing out some humanitarian award. She stood off to the side like a game show hostess, holding his jacket while he set his big drink down to pick up the crystal award. He was sweating out the liquor, and his hands left thick smudges on the sculpted award that he handed to the shy-looking man doing his best 'aw shucks' act. It didn't stop the guy from accepting the fat check for his service to his fellow man.

You want to serve your fellow man? Put more soap on the slime line.

Cullen's eyes were puffy and he wobbled, taking a hard pull on the drink. Bella took his arm and carried his jacket back to their table. I could see her ribs moving as she breathed in the open backed dress.

Doesn't he feed you, Bells?

I worked the whole summer, and avoided the news like the plague. When the job was over, I walked away from that job with a pack of checks totaling almost twenty thousand dollars. I joined the other old guys and burned my season's work clothes in the barrels by the docks.

I got home and saw the news on the television. Cullen was at the opera, carting Bella around. She looked awful. He looked bloated; he'd padded my pocket and his ass that summer. I wished I could take Bella to the little diner in town so she could eat her favorite burger, but I was pretty sure I'd have to make an appointment if I even wanted to talk to her on the phone now.

Then I saw another woman walking with them, on his other arm. A gorgeous blonde in heels that made her taller than Cullen, and she towered over little Bella. Bella was dwarfed by them both and looked like a child, dressed up in pretty clothes and playing pretend. They all left in a limousine together.

I called her phone that night, but hung up before it was picked up. At four am my phone rang once and the caller ID listed her number. Her number was disconnected the next day when I tried to call her.

A month later, I saw a picture of the three of them at a yacht party somewhere. Bella was dressed in a cute sundress, but it hung on her shoulders like she was a coat hanger, and the blonde was arching her back, jutting her tits out like a whore displaying the goods. The yacht was no sailing vessel, it was a party barge, and it probably rarely left the dock. Big white tents were erected alongside the spot the boat was docked and people were handing things over the rails.

Cullen had an arm slung over each woman's shoulders, a standard issue preppy-asshole sweater tied around his neck that looked right on him, but would have gotten me laughed out of town if I wore it. His crisp pants had a perfect break over deck shoes that would have sent him to his ass on a real boat, like the ones he owned and had people work on. He looked a little better in this picture, but Bella clearly was worse. She'd never had such dark circles under her eyes, even during finals week.

I'd resigned myself to thinking that she'd either marry him, or get dumped by him and get glued to another martini swilling society fucker, so I took hard jobs and fewer breaks. I was making a ton of money and at this rate, would be able to quit working like this in another couple years, even if I slowed down. Then I could get some licenses and work in a cushy shop for the rest of my life. Maybe find another girl and marry her. Maybe not.

My chain mail was finally clean and I patted the gloves down and hung them to finish drying. I ate fast and headed back to the line to finish my shift. I kept my head down over the line as my knife worked fast, slicing open a fish and dumping the guts into the troughs to be processed into cat food or wherever that shit went.

When the shift was over, I noticed that my boss was on the boat phone. That's nothing new, but usually he does it during the down hour when we clear the chute and spray down disinfectant. I actually like that job, the blood and bits turn dark brown and black, then they get pale and wash down the drains. The chute smells almost clean for about ten minutes every twenty four hours, until the next set of drag nets comes up and we load the chute again.

The boss looked worried, and when he saw me watching him he waved his plastic clipboard at me, motioning me to get out of the room and hit the showers. The boat went on information lockdown after that.

When the job was over two weeks later, I found out why he was so freaked out.

Edward Cullen, the boss's boss's boss's boss's boss, was dead.

He'd been at another gala, showing his populist touch and fundraising ability for a local politician, and had spent the evening glad-handing and pressing flesh for his causes and pet projects. There were pictures and video of Bella, looking fragile in a dark blue dress, on his arm once again as he carted her around, the blonde sparkling nearby. Bella sighed and kept a smile plastered on her face as Edward introduced her and the blonde to a line of elegant people in fancy clothes carrying pretty drinks and eating tiny food.

Bella was elegant too, I just preferred her in plaid flannel. I happened to know she preferred it as well.

Edward Cullen was found by a Miss Isabella Swan and a Miss Rosalie Hale after hearing what they believed, and what turned out to be, a gunshot from his bathroom. Fucking Cullen put a bullet in his head while he soaked in the spa tub, a martini with extra olives still perched alongside.

The rich prick didn't even bother to slink away before blowing the left side of his head off. He just did it in the house while they were still there. He made Bella see...that.

I packed my shit into my giant army surplus duffel bag and caught the next bus to wherever I could rent a car from. I had no idea what I was going to do to find her, but I knew she knew I thought of her. Otherwise, why would she have called that night?

I got home at five in the morning, and had travelled for nearly a day and a half straight. When I opened the door to my father's house, my home base for all the travelling I did, I had plans to dump my bag and pack a suitcase, ready to crawl through Seattle to find her.

I didn't have to.

She was curled up on the sofa, wrapped in the comforter from my bed. It was the same one that had been there since we were in school. We'd made forts with it as kids, picnicked in my bedroom on it, and had more than a few romps on and under it after she'd returned in high school. It was worn and threadbare and unevenly faded from all the trips through the washing machine.

And she clung to it in her sleep, the circles under her eyes not as dark as from the pictures, but still far too deep to be on her face. I gathered her up and took her to my room and laid her on the double bed, the only change I'd made since I was fifteen. It took up half of the room, but at least I didn't fall off the damn thing.

I covered her up and walked through the house to lock up again. Bella had nothing with her but two or three bags, and no car. There were no laptops or cellphones either. She'd come here to escape the spotlight and hide from the world he'd abandoned her in. As best I could tell, she'd left it all behind her, too.

I pulled off everything but my shorts and t shirt and slid next to her. She sighed in her sleep and leaned her head towards me. Her heavy hair, longer now than I remembered, flopped to lie along her neck. I smoothed them away and let her settle back to sleep, drifting off myself and ignoring, for the moment, the year and a half of separation we'd been through.

In the morning, the cloud filtered light kept the room dim and peaceful. We knew we had some bridges to mend with each other, and some deep wounds that needed time to heal. Bella needed time to regroup, to reconnect with her dad, and recover from everything she'd been through.

All I knew was that my girl was home, in my house, and with me. Sure, we had some things to work through, but that was life, and life sometimes wrecks the train so you can build new tracks. She'd been introduced her to a world she could never fit into, but she fit just perfect in mine, and I would never leave her.

I never went back to the lines.

...

Just a little one-shot. Hope you liked it.

-sfiddy