Because who doesn't want to start off the New Year with some good ol' fashioned angst? Originally written for the Beyond the Bedroom contest, but eh, decided to post as an experimental exercise instead. Happy almost 2017, everyone! Warning: Serious angst ahead. You won't walk away with a smile on your face. And yes-everything is deliberate here :)

Inspired by An Occurrence at Owl Creek Bridge.

An Occurrence

"We can talk about this," the man pleaded, his hands behind his head. "Please don't-don't leave."

The brunette simply blinked in response, glancing up at the ceiling, even as the tears silently trailed down her pale cheeks. "I can't. I'm sorry."

The man stood up and moved threateningly towards her, his fists clenched. "We won't have a chance the second you open the door. We won't be able to go back."

She wiped away at her eyes, the agitated, jerky movements starkly in contrast to her previously wooden expression. "There's no place to go back to," she cried. "There's no place for us anymore. Don't you get that?"

The man had started to pace in response to her first question, until he stopped in front of her and pointed, his finger hovering a few inches from her face. "No. NO-you don't get to do this. Why are you saying this, Anna? Why are you telling me this?" He shook her shoulders, adding to the tremors that overtook her body from her sobs. Waves of raw pain and loss finally caused her to collapse against the wall, so that he was somehow holding her upright and tearing her apart.

He punished her mouth with his, the desperation fueling flickers of lust, inappropriately timed as they were. For a second, she didn't react, until she reared back and slapped him. He broke from her with resignation but not surprise.

The brunette swallowed and stretched to every inch of her height, still barely meeting the man's nose. Her skeleton never seemed more brittle to her, as if it were an empty shell, misleadingly strong. At the same time, she felt determination sink in, so that the bones slowly forged into iron.

She placed her lips right next to his ear, her tears staining his cheek like rain on freshly poured concrete. "Because I don't ever want to see you again."

"CUT!"

I took a deep breath, breaking my gaze from his, fighting the instinct to run back into my dressing room. Professional, I reminded myself. You need to be gracious and supportive. Ben, our director, waved us off impatiently, licking his lips in concentration at the worn and marked script pages in his hand.

He nodded approvingly, the only praise of which he was capable. "Decent take," he murmured, underlining another line absently with his ever present red pen. "Let's go from scene 137. I really want this to come across as authentic as possible, so remember-neither of the characters know the truth about each other, and this is their dance. It can't be cute but it can't be too cautious either."

He paused. "Just remember that none of it is real."

I nodded before walking off the set to hurriedly change into the expected outfit-a semi-sheer nightgown, much to my annoyance. Why men think every woman wears this to bed was beyond my understanding, but I rolled my eyes and secured the straps to my shoulders, not taking any chances.

Each step amplified the pulse thrumming in my ears as I approached him. Edward Cullen. The once promising box office draw turned reckless playboy who had been arrested for drunk driving and forced to rehab. It didn't matter that I had cheered him on as many times as I had bailed him out. It didn't matter that he was now on the verge of a professional comeback while I struggled for roles. Once the camera turned on, he was someone completely different-Masen Queen, my character's love interest, who would unknowingly lead to her ruin.

The parallels were still eerily similar, even if that assessment was slightly unfair.

My breaths accelerated as I felt the familiar rush of slipping into character, desperate to shed my skin and adopt their feelings, hopes, and dreams. Their wants, needs, and desires. Their fears, addictions, and weaknesses.

"Quiet on set!" Ben yelled. "And...action!"

Masen stretched his arm against the leather cushion of the couch. Of my couch. "You're trying too hard," he coached. "No one at the auditions is going to trust someone who still has the bright-eyed, deer in the woods look."

I bristled, crossing my legs and watching his eyes linger on my exposed skin. "I don't recall asking for your advice. Or your presence." The silk material flattened to the front of my thighs as I stood and walked to the kitchen, pulling out a glass from the shelf.

He followed me, footsteps heavy against the hardwood floors. "I'm giving you constructive criticism. Friends do that right? Helpful ones, that is." He grinned cockily and leaned against the counter, his presence far too imposing in the small, studio kitchen.

"Yes, I'm thinking about the colors of our friendship bracelets as we speak," I deadpanned, pouring myself some water. "Why are you really here?"

Regret flashed in those murky green eyes before it was replaced by a strained smile. "It doesn't matter. You wouldn't believe me anyway."

My breath hitched at his improvisation. Inhale, exhale, inhale, exhale-

Goddamn it, why had no one called cut yet?

I slowly traced the rim of the glass, never breaking his stare. "I don't believe in anything. Least of all you." Controlled rage kept my tone curt, even if it hinted at the volatility of our relationship. Professional and otherwise.

He spread his hands on his thighs, as if in surrender. "Maybe that's why I'm here, B-Anna."

Ignoring his slip, I continued, creative adrenaline strumming my veins. "I don't need you, Masen. Maybe I would have a few years ago, if we met under different circumstances, but that's not true anymore."

He looked away. "You don't know what you need," he murmured darkly.

Fucking hell. I strode up to him and against all reason and sanity, placed my fingers under that sharp jaw, tilting it towards me. "I need air. I need water. I need shelter. I need to fight and breathe and give and take and prove myself. I need to survive. But I do not-I will not, need you."

Defiance burned under my lids, as that mysterious spark seemed to brighten the green irises, the contrast so sharp that it made you wonder if you were looking at technicolor before. His hand wrapped around my wrist, barely skimming my skin. His thumb slid to my pulse, and I watched his pupils expand as he discovered the rapid fluttering. Sanity returned briefly, motivating me to tug myself free, but his grip secured itself and he narrowed his eyes in warning.

"Cut!"

In an instant, the string around my lungs loosened, and I stumbled back in relief. Patting my dress down to stop the tremors of my hand, I walked calmly over, avoiding Edward's unyielding stare.

"Uh, that was...creatively adventurous," Ben labeled, his eyes rapidly bouncing between both of us. "I like the tension-that's definitely what we're trying to capture here, but let's stick to the script next time, alright guys?"

Ben was an up and coming director who had been plucked from the music video world, and even though this was a small, indie movie that would probably be shown at a few hundred theaters, it was still his first "big" film project. His politeness, though well-intentioned, was also extremely annoying because it reeked of uncertainty and novice. He had no idea how to cultivate his actors to give him the performance he wanted, simply because he had no idea what kind of performance he wanted.

Then again, what did I know? After all, I had been labeled a "box office curse" after my fourth film flopped.

Nevertheless, we both nodded curtly. Ben cleared his throat authoritatively, pleased that his "directing" was going so well. "Let's take a break for five and then set up for the next scene. Bella-" He pinned his eyes on me, the corner of his lips tugged downward.

"It will be a closed set, but you have to be ready," he explained.

"Of course." I answered his implied question. "I can do this."

My determination was lost on him, as he averted his eyes uncertainly-too polite to lie but too transparent to hide his doubt. "Ok," I inserted unncessarily, before nodding and walking back to my trailer.

Once the door gingerly closed, I sunk down into the chair next to the mirror and fisted my hair tightly, wincing at the sting of my pulling. The trailer was much smaller than I was used to, but quite generous given how dimly my star now shined compared to a few years ago, when I played Trina Trammel, America's favorite quirky IT girl/high schooler.

Solving cybercrime before Algebra, one tagline had bragged. Hacking her way through high school, another had proclaimed.

Now, of course, the headlines were much uglier and less flattering. I can't exactly say I miss the days when magazine covers would speculate if I were pregnant or secretly married, but perhaps they'd be preferable to "Swan Reverts Back to Ugly Duckling" and "Bella Out-Why Hollywood Refuses to Cast Her".

The migraine that had been lurking on the edges of my nerves finally broke through, and I shakily reached into my purse for the yellow prescription bottle. I considered popping two pills and forced them down, the slippery coating sliding down my throat like artificial bugs.

"Shit," I mumbled, shoving them aside. I couldn't risk messing up the next scene.

I looked up at my reflection and decided to re-apply some of my makeup instead, adding a fresh layer of powder to cover any traces of exertion from the previous rehearsals. I dabbed and brushed until my skin was smooth and blemish-free, practicing my reassuring, "million dollar smile" until it looked natural, and not psychotic. Slowly, my lips relaxed while I held onto the way my eyes crinkled and brightened with that dewy starlet sparkle, the pretty shiny coat of paint over a rusted, misshapen piece of scrap metal.

A knock came on the door. "Bella-they're ready for you."

I swallowed. Lights, camera-

"ACTION!"

I turned on the shower handle, the spray immediately hitting the glass. Carefully, I untied the sash around my middle, the anxiety causing my stomach to contract. Without thinking or looking back, I brushed the soft cotton of the robe off my shoulders, well aware that the camera would pick up every wrinkle, every freckle, and every imperfect wobble of my body.

The water hit my chest first, slowly dampening the strands of my hair until I fully submerged myself, my head bowed directly under the spray. I clasped my hands under my chin as if in prayer, and kept my eyes closed. In this scene, my character discovered Masen had betrayed her on the same day she had lost out on a major role to much less qualified actress. She was to pout prettily while naked, the very definition of gratuitousness, and display her body at just the right angle to serve as fodder for masturbatory fantasies across the nation.

Too fucking bad.

Instead, I slowly wrapped my hands in my hair and tugged, reveling in the sting as the last pieces of preparation settled into place. My hands slid down my body, between my breasts, before I held them out in front of me, watching them visibly quake under the flourescent light.

Then, as if a switch had been flipped, I curled my fingers into fists and banged on the tiles in front of me, yelling and crying out in hysterical frustration. Over and over, I continued to hit at the cool hardness, uncaring but not unfeeling. My fists would no doubt be bruised by the scene's end, but I didn't give a shit. Not in this moment, when I felt nothing but sensation that caused my body to swing forward violently, attacking at the wall in front of me while I broke myself down.

It was only when my voice was too hoarse to continue that I ceased, my hands lying flat against the smooth tiles. I plastered my body against the wall and felt the spray skim my back, shivering as I made myself smaller and smaller, until I believed I could disappear.

Gone from this town. Gone from this career. A life erased for a new beginning.

The spray stopped, the cool air blowing lightly on my skin. I opened my eyes suddenly, first seeing the fluffy towel stretched out in front of me that strategically hid my nakedness. Edward stared at me unblinkingly, stepping close to wrap it around me.

"We called cut two minutes ago, Bella," he explained quietly. "Come out."

I waited for the mortification to come, but felt nothing but pride. Maybe it hadn't strictly been acting or pretending, but I had given my all for that scene-those precious few minutes that might end up on the cutting room floor, discarded before anyone new could see it and soon to be forgotten by the cast and crew who had filmed it.

Still, I would remember. Even if I accomplished nothing else, I would remember the ferocity of the pounding, the intensity of my screaming, and the shocked silence that followed as I held my head high and was guided back to my trailer.

I dropped the towel and quickly dressed, ignoring Edward's presence. He had been intimately familiar with it all anyway, and I was too old to fake coquettishness and insincere bullshit. Only after I slid on my sweater did I pivot around to face him, stony faced with crossed arms that bulged against his tight black shirt.

"This is when you leave," I pointed out, tapping my foot impatiently.

He leaned forward, scrubbing his hands on his face. Tired lines that only appeared in the last few years emerged, their presence like cracks on a pretty surface. "Talk to me, Bella," he asked firmly. "What the hell just happened in there?"

I scoffed, drying my hair. "It's called acting, moron. Apparently you're good at it again. I didn't realize rehab was so valuable to the moviemaking process." My voice dripped with bitterness as much as it did sarcasm, which I no longer bother to hide after my performance/breakdown.

He sighed again, as if the fate of the world was currently at stake. "Do you want me to apologize again? I'm sorry I didn't tell you I was cast before you, that I didn't give you a chance to back out." He paused, sliding forward. "We hadn't spoken in years. I didn't have your number anymore."

I rolled my eyes. "This is Hollywood. You could have easily gotten it from my agent." I tied my hair up and secured it into a bun, my lips tightening. "Don't play the martyr with me, Edward. We're far past that."

He fixed his unrepentant gaze to mine. "Let me fix this," he pleaded lowly. "You don't have to be alone this time."

My head tilted back as I laughed. "Reading Lifetime scripts?" I asked, giggling. "And here I thought those were beneath you." I slid forward, mirroring his stance. "You do not have the luxury of fixing me, you arrogant ass. If I am broken, then I choose to remain broken. As long as you don't come anywhere near the pieces, I'm as fine as I'm able to be."

A noise of frustration escaped from his chest, desperation coating his gaze like a layer of grimy filth on a fishtank. "Don't fight me," he warned. "Not today."

I exhaled in disbelief, my hands dangling off my knees. "Your callousness is incredible, Edward. Despite your team's image control, you're still the same clueless asshole that you were ten years ago."

"And you've become the washed-up bitch who no one will hire," he spat, fury drawing his features tight for the first time.

Adrenaline shot through me with welcome familiarity. Yes. This I could do. This version of us I could accept, picking at the undone seams but ignoring what had ultimately ripped us apart.

"And who's fault is that?" I attacked, taking a step closer. "Why did I take on some of those shitty roles and give up better ones? Why did I force myself to stay in L.A. while you traipsed around the world, drunkenly partying with models?"

I swallowed and blinked the tears away. Why hadn't I broken up with you?

He groaned, knowing he had taken the bait for the millionth time. "There's nothing I could say that would matter," he croaked. I focused on him in surprise, his thickened voice almost making it sound like he was crying. "Knowing she's buried-"

I shot up. "Stop." I shook my head. "Shut up. Shut the fuck up, Edward!"

He stood, as if anticipating my reaction, and reached out for me. "It's ok. I just want to be here. For whatever you need."

The first few tears spilled over as my mouth parted with saddened shock. "Oh you want to be here? Now?" I grabbed the nearest object near me-sadly a pillow-and hurled it at his head, smacking against the wall in the process, disappointedly silent.

"Why the fuck weren't you there then?" I demanded, feeling the sobs ascend to my chest. "Do you honestly think you can rewrite history, just because you're ready to talk about it? Because you've suddenly turned your life around and you're what, trying to tie up loose ends?"

"Christ, of course not," he gritted out. "You were never a loose end. Maybe we're not what we were, but-fuck, I can't watch while you tear yourself apart."

"Then don't," I rasp. "I'm not your charity ex. I don't want to remain on good terms with you or part amicably. Don't give me that bullshit from your team, Edward. If you feel like you owe me anything, then owe me authenticity."

This time he marched up and flattened me to the wall. "I was never fake with you. Not with you," he snarled. "There were many things I did that were unforgivable, but tearing my fucking heart out of my chest-that was real, even if you want to pretend it wasn't."

We were too close, inhaling each other's breaths greedily, reintroducing ourselves to the details of our faces. The few scars from the car accident that led to his arrest were still carved into his cheek, despite his agent's recommendation to cover it up. He had let his eyebrows and hair grow out naturally, no longer pigeon-holed by his younger, pretty boy days. His lip still curled, and I remember smoothing it down playfully when I first found this charming quirk, years ago. It was the only characteristic that made him look slightly villainous, going against the hero roles that he used to play. The IT girl and the superhero, the headlines raved. #Bedward #couplegoals

Every couple enjoyed a honeymoon stage, and when both people were involved in the most thrilling and well-lit circus show on earth, the passion and excitement were astronomical. But It only made the fall much more dangerous, guaranteeing nothing but multiple casualties. Every date was meticulously documented, recording details of the couple's orders, expressions, and clothing-the last of which would be sold out by the next day. Body language became a science rather than an art form, with major "news" networks hiring "behavioral experts" to break down each pose, each smile, and each gesture. Questions of secret engagements evolved into secret marriage which evolved into secret divorce. Trinkets and proclamations of love morphed into shouting matches and tearful voicemails. Accusations were hurled by both camps, until at the end of it all, Bedward was buried six feet under.

There was only one thing that the magazines had gotten right, by sheer luck. By then, that too had suffered the same fate as our "PR" relationship.

The green blurred and I felt pressure at the sides of my face. His fingers gently wiping away the trails on my cheeks. "I love it when you cry," he admitted.

I raised my shocked eyes to his, seeing the small smile peek out from his lips. "It means that even after everything, you're still real. I don't care if it doesn't matter. I don't care if it doesn't make sense."

He lowered his cheek to mine and shook his head. "You're my compass. Through all the bullshit and vanity, I only need you to survive. Even if you can without me."

"This isn't healthy," I force out. "We aren't good together."

He held me tighter, his hand securing around the back of my neck. "We can be. But you have to decide to let me try. I-"

I could feel the Adam's apple move up and down as he swallowed. "I don't want to be alone."

He was alluding to today's date, and the events that had caused both of us to commemorate it with misery and disillusion. My eyes closed as he held me, even if my arms were still by my side. Only more pain existed at the bottom of this rabbit hole, but I felt like if I didn't tell him, if I didn't start talking RIGHT NOW, then I would risk losing the opportunity forever.

I'd seen enough relationships to know that you don't get one true love, if at all. When you're younger, every action and inaction resonate like fireworks, the sonic boom thrilling and beautiful, so that you burned bright and shimmered across the night sky. But relationships age like people, and the inevitable wear and tear start to show, such that you can either embrace the cracks in the foundation or replace it with something else altogether. Edward and I thought we lit up the fucking world, only to realize the spectators had merely watched and waited until the bright colors faded into sparks that disintegrated into darkness. Despite our attempts to create something wonderful, we could now only grieve in the aftermath of our failed efforts.

"She was six pounds," I manage to start, clearing my throat. He stiffened as if he stopped breathing. "There were only a few wispy strands of hair on her head, but-"

I swallowed. "The color was definitely yours. She had my eyes though, and my lips."

Edward's hands had slid down to my shoulders as he clasped himself tightly against me, using me as the sole piece of wreckage to brace the storm. His breaths were low and heavy, whooshing in and out exaggeratedly, almost as if he were breathing into a paper bag.

I had given birth to our daughter on this day four years ago, even though I had been informed it would be a stillbirth months prior. The memory of my sobs as I held her, pale and soft, tore a new hole in my chest.

"She was so quiet," I whispered, feeling him shake. Feeling my own chest concave from holding in my sobs. "So small, which sounds stupid, I know." A self-deprecating laugh with the purpose to distance myself burst, even if awkward silence trailed after it. "For a second, I felt her squeeze my finger. I swear-even if it was technically impossible, it happened, Edward."

His tears were wetting my neck, pooling onto my collarbone silently, and I absorbed his grief, merging it with mine. "She would have been the best kid. Probably so well-behaved, like her mother."

I pursed my lips and narrowed my eyes, deliberating. "She would have been totally fucked up."

He half-laughed, half-sobbed, brushing his lips against my neck. "Completely miserable," he agreed.

"But so loved," I interjected, a fresh wave of tears pouring forth. "Tell me we would have loved her."

He froze and slowly pulled back, lifting his regretful but determined gaze to mine. "I would have done anything for her. For us. We would have been happy."

A strangled cry escaped from my lips, but he held his face in my hands, almost as if he were memorizing and absorbing my pain. Whispers of encouragement and safety passed through my ears like springtime rain dripping down a thick forest, the pitter patter peaceful and soft.

For the first time since that day, we were equals. Equally hurting and healing.

It was a mystery, then, why my nipples had suddenly tightened and a familiar ache returned between my thighs. Twinges of shame, guilt, and just plain what-the-fuck plucked at my body, but I watched his pupils slowly start to expand. Our breaths deepened and slowed, the rhythm indicating something else entirely.

Something confusing but not unwelcome.

I opened my mouth. "Edwa-"

The second his lips slammed against mine, I reacted. Neither of us knew what was happening, what this meant-if anything-but bulldozed past the hazard signs and warning lights. It wasn't too late; we did have a choice; we weren't drunk-

We just didn't give a fuck.

I tugged his shirt upward, scraping his chest in the process, accidentally leaving behind striking red marks against his pale skin. In response, he ripped the seams of my shirt and pulled down my bra, not bothering with the hook. I growled, reaching behind me to do his job as he unbuckled his belt, something I'd always struggled with in the past. We both kicked off our jeans and underwear at the same time, matching each other's rhythm, an optimistic sign of what we'd be doing in a few minutes. Seconds.

I gasped as he slammed me to the wall of my trailer, the sound echoing throughout the metallic box. "Up," I demanded, briefly detaching myself from his lips, as he obliged. My legs automatically wrapped around his hips, sliding a few times as he struggled to balance my weight with his arms. He growled, the sound of pure male frustration, until he finally maneuvered my legs around his waist, his fingers digging into the backs of my thighs.

"Oh!" I cried, scratching against his shoulders, reveling in the streaks I left behind. His lips fastened around one nipple, his tongue licking hungrily around the areola before he sucked. I felt the brief flicker of pleasure, tilting my head back. He gently released and blew on the sensitive skin, the darkened irises watching me as I bit my lip.

"No," he protested. "I want to hear everything. I want this to be real."

Just like we used to be, he added with his eyes.

I dropped my head with a slight nod, and he repeated his ministrations on my other nipple-this time each flare of my nerve endings was acknowledged verbally, though I drew the line at saying his name. Past was already meeting present in ways that I hadn't expected, and I felt like I was frantically gripping at the last vestiges of my reality.

Sensing my impatience, Edward slid me down slightly, perfectly aligning our lower halves. I groaned this time, finally surrendering to the inevitable fucking as his dick rubbed against my pussy, already wet from god knows what. "Are you still as tight?" He asked, his eyes fixed on his prize hungrily.

I reached down to grab his cock and push it insistently against me, gasping at the hardness of it, feeling it pulse between my fingers. The thick head sunk in and I forced myself to relax. Sweat dotted my forehead and I adjusted my position, bringing him closer to fully sink down onto him.

Once the entire head was finally in, I gazed at him triumphantly. "Does that answer your question?" I panted, clenching.

His arms flexed, the veins popping against his translucent skin. Those green eyes narrowed to slits as he watched my mouth part on a silent scream while he pushed himself further inside me. "I love watching your face when I first sink inside you," he confessed. "You look like you can't believe how good my cock feels-so fucking good."

He pulled back slightly to thrust, the wet sound embarrassingly loud in the silence. "Tell me, sweetheart."

"Don't," I sharply objected, grinding against him for an orgasm I deserved. "Not for this."

His jaw clenched at my outlaw of any sweet titles or nicknames. "Whatever you want," he agreed. "I have what I want."

I didn't know if he meant sex or everything before sex. Closure-at this point, was that even possible?

His thrusts were consistently solid, and felt far better than they should. But something gnawed at me that it wasn't enough. What would follow, exactly? A few more thrusts, a few more moans, twin orgasms, and then awkward goodbyes? Was that how this would end?

No. No fucking way.

I opened my eyes again and grasped his face in my hands, registering his surprised expression. I needed to be just as active in this-whatever this was-with him. I needed to take just as much as he did, as much as he had. My fingers dug into his cheeks, making him seem more gaunt, holding him in my hands and between my legs. His lips parted, panting with exertion, his eyes wide with pleading.

I mashed my lips onto his.

Violence upon violence. We didn't need fuck or to be fucked; we needed to destroy and be destroyed.

So I pushed his rhythm, slamming against his thighs, the rough sounds furthering our feral impulse, until we couldn't distinguish between lust and the aching sadness that had started it all. The walls shook and banged behind us, making it sound like there was an earthquake threatening to disassemble the entire fucking thing. Neither of us knew whether we fucked to ruin or salvation but it was clear this was an escape. Hard, rough, frantic, pleading, loving, hateful sex-the kind where you don't know if you hate this person or you hate that you love them so much it hurts. The kind where you vomit the blackness, the rage-every ugly, jagged, scarred piece of you until your nerves are exposed, the pain a brilliant exhilaration and the most torturous kind of freedom.

It was fitting then, for my orgasm to wrench out of me first, silently shaking the foundation of what I knew until I felt nothing but numb. I peered down tiredly at Edward, who was still pounding away, and started to countdown to the conclusion. This would end like all the other scenes, and nothing would be different, even if we were no longer the same people who had performed all those times before.

"Bella," he yelled, his throat contracting visibly. I leaned in and tenderly kissed him again, the whisper of a goodbye.

Shiny trails of sweat caused my grip to loosen and slip, as he panted heavily, still anchoring his body to mine. Finally, those clear green eyes opened. Filled with satisfaction of a different kind, steady with hope.

"It's over," he whispered. "We're done."

A small smile graced my lips. Finally.

"CUT!"