Author's Note: My name is not Stephenie Meyer. Therefore I own nothing but my own characters.
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And I need a beta for this story.
Possible lemons later
Edward's Crime Fighting Spree
Edward's Point of View:.
"I'm leaving, Carlisle," I said as I turned to face him.
He stared at me, his eyes solemn, "Why? What did I do?" Carlisle sounded genuinely concerned.
"I'm sick of being a vegetarian," I said, smiling a little. Our term for what we do is amusing to me. "But I'm not just going to kill anyone. That would be cruel. I'm going to go after the rapists and murderers and other criminals."
Carlisle managed to overshadow his thoughts with complicated math. "What made you do this? I thought you were happy!" He replied slowly.
"The other night I was out—in the city," I began cautiously; Carlisle didn't like it when I went into the city at night. He looked at me disapprovingly, but did not reply, "I saw—I saw a man stabbing his girlfriend and walking away, brushing his hands together like nothing happened and all he was doing was dusting his hands." Carlisle continued to remain silent, but the look in his eyes made me feel like a rogue child. "It's just not right!" I blurt out, breaking the barrier of silence. "That man," I pause, "is probably going to walk the streets free for a long time; he may never be caught. And even if he is he will get sent to jail for only a short while, and then be free to do it again. He deserves to die." I finished fuming. Carlisle shifted his position and was about to speak when he moves to swiftly embrace me.
"Then go." Carlisle smiles a bit, his eyes locked with mine.
He backs up and turns to leave; I race towards him and place my hand on his shoulder. I kiss his cheek softly and hug him tightly. "Bye," I whisper as a lone tear slides down my face. I realize this is mirrored on his face.
"Come back, sometime," he whispers back solemnly. I nod and let myself out of the house.
Once outside, I take a deep breath and run off into the night.
.:Carlisle's Point of View:.
I watch the boy I have come to know as my son exit the house. I sit on the couch and break down.
"It's just a rebellious phase," I assure myself. I want to believe it—I need to believe it. He can't be gone forever. But until his return what am I to do?
Should I continue?