Diary of a Madman
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Diary of a madman
Walk the line again today
Entries of confusion
Dear diary, I'm here to stay
Manic depression befriends me
Hear his voice
Sanity now it's beyond me
There's no choice
A sickened mind and spirit
The mirror tells me lies
Could I mistake myself for someone
Who lives behind my eyes?
Will he escape my soul
Or will he live in me?
Is he trying to get out
Or trying to enter me?
(written by: Daisley - Kerslake - Osbourne – Rhoads)
September 13, 1927
Every man who has ever existed on this planet has searched for the answer to the same question: for what purpose have I been created?
Every man also chooses to believe his purpose is great. He may even see greatness where it does not exist. Yet he lives each day searching for the deed that will win the favor of those around him as well as favor from his God.
I, too, have pondered this question, though I am not a man. Not anymore. Still I search for a purpose; a reason for my mutated existence. Not for approval or acclaim from others, and certainly not for salvation from God who abandoned me in my time of need. I only seek solace from the relentless drive for answers. It has become a craving that is just as much physical as it is mental.
What is my worth?
.
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Edward placed the pencil nub on the dirty floor. He closed his journal, placing it on floor as well. There was no furniture in the abandoned apartment which sat above a boarded-up storefront. There were remains of prior occupation scattered about the two-room dwelling: shards of a mirror, torn photographs, tattered pieces of cloth, a headless, naked doll. It didn't matter the place was in shambles; this wasn't his home. He had no home. This was simply where he kept the one thing he couldn't seem to exist without – his journal.
Though he didn't really understand why.
As best he could tell, it was the one habit he brought with him intact from his human life. He could remember his father journaling every evening. Though the defining lines and contours of his father's face were as lost as Edward's humanity, he could almost pull at the frayed edges of a vision of a tall, thin man sitting in his leather chair, cup of chamomile tea at his side, as he wrote down his thoughts at the closing of the day.
As a child, Edward understood he was only to observe his father when he journaled – not disturb him – or he would be disciplined, usually no dessert after dinner or he would have to retire to his room early. It made no sense to Edward why writing about anything could be so important. Yet, being an inquisitive child, Edward started his own journal once he could write in complete sentences. He hid the book of pages under his mattress.
One day, a leather-bound journal appeared on his bed. A new one appeared every few months. Obviously, his mother had found his first journal, and this was her way to encourage his behavior. He, in turn, found more clever places to hide his book of thoughts as he entered his teenage years and his views became more introspective as well as controversial.
Edward hung his head. How his mother would cry if she saw the words he had been writing lately; if she could see what he had become.
Carlisle still insisted it was at her request he changed Edward. Carlisle liked to use innocuous words such as "changed" for unpleasant discussions. Edward wasn't changed, like a caterpillar that became a butterfly. He was raped of his life, his soul, and his humanity.
Carlisle saw the world was a forgiving place where self-sacrifice led the way to a better life on Earth and rewards in the afterlife. Yet, Edward could feel inside his body, a body that surged with untapped strength, there had to be a reason for his incredible strength, unique mind-reading ability, and endless days. That purpose certainly could not be living a pseudo-human existence in the hope of serving a penance to God for being a vampire. Wasn't it God who created vampires as much as He created humanity? So why repent?
Edward's life had become a conundrum. Only it wasn't a life, per se. It had become an existence — one that was cursed with eternity. And what was the reason of existing forever without a purpose? There must be purpose!
Edward rose from the dusty, threadbare floor and paced. He felt like a tiger in a cage; a fierce animal being hollowed out by maggots until all that would remain was a hard shell of a being. He had escaped from Carlisle's unending façade of a human life only to find himself no closer to an answer.
The burning in his chest now rivaled the incessant burn in his throat.
Edward gazed through the faded drapes at the street below. The notorious north side of Chicago was a haven for criminals – and they came in all shapes, sizes, backgrounds, and wore many hats. Some even wore the caps of the men in blue.
He continued to deny he had found himself in Chicago seeking guidance from a father who would somehow speak to him from beyond the grave to guide him in his quest.
With no idea how to proceed, Edward had found himself spending his days inside train stations listening to the thoughts of the commuters, searching their minds until he found it only fed his frustration. Humans didn't have any answers. Their insignificant, abbreviated lives were spent worrying about frivolous things – money, careers, status, alcohol, sex.
Until one night while stalking the streets of the city he would have called home, he passed a man whose eyes appeared as black as his own. As if his feet had a mind of their own, Edward changed directions and followed the man.
The stranger slid into a speakeasy and took a seat in the back of the cramped, smoky establishment. As soon as he was seated another man glided next to him. And in the noise and raucous of jazz music and drunken laughter, the two men plotted a murder.
Edward followed the two men at a distance when they exited. He listened as they reviewed their plan in their individual minds before they drifted into gluttony, mapping out the items they would purchase with the money from "the hit." It was the cool calculation with which they thought about killing that intrigued Edward. But as he stood in the shadows and watched the two strangers stab a man as he locked up his business for the night, Edward viewed the scene with dispassionate, starved-black eyes as life ebbed away from the man like the blood that pooled around his quaking body.
"Help me," the man croaked feebly.
Edward approached. What did it look like for a human to die? The drive to kill so great in the vampire, yet Carlisle said it was the one sin he could never commit.
His curiosity drew him closer and closer to the dying man. He had forgotten he had gone too long without satiety. Edward's fascination quickly warped as the smell of fresh human blood filled his nose and his ravenous body reacted, overruling his mind. Unsteadily, Edward dragged his fingers through the chilling blood painting the concrete in crimson. Carlisle's voice echoed in his mind, over and over, telling of the danger - the atrocity- of consuming human blood. It was the road to personal ruin.
Then why did he want it so badly?
"Take it, man! What are you waiting for?"
Edward leapt in front of the victim, landing in a crouch; a growl seeped from his snarled lips. Why had he not heard the man's approach?
The onlooker threw his hands up in mock surrender. "I have no plans to steal what you have claimed, mister." The intruder stared back at Edward and cocked his head in curiosity. His movements were strange, unnatural – for a human.
Edward straightened to his full six-foot height. He was at least three inches shorter than the other vampire, and from the looks of him, Edward was several years younger at his change. Edward had not met another vampire until now. Though he wasn't afraid of the man, something about him was alluring as well as repelling…
When Edward didn't respond, the intruder inched closer. He glanced at the bloody man, and swallowed hard before staring at Edward's face. Again, he cocked his head. "Why are you starving yourself? Drink! Waste not…"
"I … I can't." Edward barely recognized his own voice. It seemed so distant, as if it wasn't his own. And maybe it wasn't. Maybe it was Carlisle's.
"Bloody hell, man. Why can't you?"
"I am not a monster. I will not take a human life."
The vampire raised a mocking eyebrow. "I'd say that has technically been done by monsters in the shape of men. We are just the clean up crew, I'd say."
Edward glanced down at the victim, whose heart was now pumping erratically as the chambers lacked enough volume to meet even their own needs. Death was imminent. Was it so wrong to taste the forbidden fruit when he would not be the cause of the man's demise…?
"Do it. Does the lion contemplate the rightness of taking down the weaklings in the herd? Does it question its own nature? No. Because God made him what he is. So clear your conscience, young man. This world needs the predator; he serves a purpose."
When Edward remained still as a statue staring at the final seconds of the man's existence, venom oozing from the corners of his mouth, the other vampire closed in.
"No!" Edward's command stopped the intruder in his tracks.
"Change of heart?"
"Change of purpose," Edward responded. Shutting out the voice of any creator, vampire or divine, Edward finally let instinct rule. He shook free the last vestiges of a humanity forgotten and released what had been slowly gnawing away at his insides for years. The predator went for the carotid and the jugular. Waste not…
And as the fluid which sustains life flowed into his mouth, Edward found answers. Every neuron in his brain fired and flooded his senses with satisfaction he couldn't have ever imagined possible. His body hummed with a harmony and sense of well-being unrivaled.
It became clear in that second: he had only existed, dragging his eternity out one laborious day after another, fighting his nature. And for what? Men were killing other men by the dozens in a city held in the greedy grip of the mafia. They killed over alcohol and money. Mostly, they craved power. They were predators themselves, preying on the weak or the witless.
Too soon, the blood refused to comply with Edward's desire as the heart gave up the fruitless effort to maintain life. Edward's mouth pulled at the arteries and veins like he was sucking on a clogged straw. His anger erupted at being denied more of the succulent fluid that refused to be drained from the corpse.
With a wail of desperation, the crisp snap of bone, and the wet ripping of flesh, Edward tore the man's head from his shoulders.
More blood seeped from the stump of the corpse's neck, sending an elicit thrill through every fiber of Edward's energized state of being. Nothing existed outside of his mind and body. It was simultaneously the clatter of chaos and soothing comfort peace.
Edward's first foray into nirvana was cut short by the other vampire. "Not very subtle," he tsked. "The knife wound was your opportunity to let the investigators blame it on the mafia. This," he pointed to the severed head in the sewage-polluted gutter, "will take a little more effort to conceal."
The buzz in Edward's brain quieted. He tried to focus on the vampire, but his sight seemed blurred.
"My name is Samael. I see my work here is done."
He was gone as swiftly and silently as he had appeared.
.
November 28, 1927
Nature finds a way. Over time, creatures come to adapt to their environment, and through evolution, they near perfection. The weaker or unprepared are selected for death so the fittest can endure. I learned this lesson through Samael's words. In so many ways, he was more my creator than Carlisle.
The rotting flesh of Chicago, the malignancy thriving within its body, has to be removed. It is my purpose, the reason for my honed predatory skills, my ability to hear the minds of potential killers. Their deaths are my victory, and how sweet their final sacrifice. It sustains me and gives me the strength to continue my mission.
I, too, have evolved.
.
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Night was Edward's companion. Under the cover of shadows and free of the betrayal of the sun, he was free to stalk. Speakeasies were the place he found his leads. Alone, he would sit in the darkest corner; his head bowed over a glass of bootlegged whiskey… listening.
Under the influence, the human mind was uninhibited. Their senses dulled by the intoxicant. Mostly people thought of sex, surprisingly, females as much as males. Their drunken mating dance disgusted Edward. Less and less he valued their lives, for how petty and simple they were. Their emotions flung all over the room – laughing, crying, brawling and lusting. While some would approach Edward, their instincts often kicked in when they saw his ruby eyes, and yet some, were drawn closer, as if desiring a dance with the devil himself. Edward rebuffed them all. He had to remain focused. He imagined his parents would be pleased he was rooting out evil from their city.
Edward did become more cautious with the remains of his conquests. Not out of fear for discovery by law enforcement, the mafia, or the iron hands of the vampire world, The Volturi. No, he only wanted to avoid Carlisle's interference.
Though Carlisle never spoke the words, Edward knew the vampire's mind like the back of his marble-smooth hand: Carlisle would end Edward's life for becoming a destroyer. It was the one consequence he dreaded when he chose to make a companion. His biggest fear was that one day he'd have to end the life he created. Dr. Frankenstein and his monster, indeed.
.
June 5, 1928
Six. Six men met their maker at my hands today. I find satisfaction in their last second confessions, their attempts to rationalize their crimes of hate. Although, I find it has less to do with hate and more to do with how they benefit. Greed. I can almost taste it tainting my reward. Still, they repent as I stare into their wide eyes and plunder their panicked minds. They never saw the end coming, and that surprises them. They think they are the ones in control. They beg to God, but He grants no reprieve, lending proof that my course is justified.
.
.
Restless, Edward headed back to the streets after making his journal entry. He had gorged himself on blood, almost forcing it down to revel in his bloated sense of victory. But in the back of his complex mind, he avoided the truth: it has taken more blood to give him the rush he has come to need to sustain a feeling of well-being. It has nothing to do with sustenance any longer. It was an ugly truth he chose to leave in the recesses of his mind, where the clawing feelings of loneliness and memories of Esme and Carlisle resided. After all, they only served to cloud his purpose.
It was three o'clock in the morning. The streets were quiet save the occasional sharp sound of sirens in the distance and the laughter of the women of the night as they cajoled their potential customers. But Edward had honed his mind, and he soon picked up on a mind with a singular purpose. Abruptly, he changed direction.
The alleys between the buildings formed a maze of narrow passages. They were a shadowy haven for those who wished to hide their intent and they reeked of urban decay. The stench of rotting trash made following a scent challenging, so Edward let his mind take the lead, seeking out evil like a divining rod. Soon, his hunger for blood rose up from within like a re-born phoenix, pulling him forward, filling his mind with a one goal: drink. His mind diverged on several tangents: how could Carlisle have even expected him to live with the burn every second of every minute? Expect him to suffer the craving for eternity? How could Esme have thought her love would be enough to overpower this need for human blood? Could anyone look at the blazing red eyes Edward had earned and still say they felt love for him?
The skies opened up above him, drenching him in rain as he pursued his prey.
As Edward closed in, he realized the man he was following had sensed a pursuit. He cut down another alley, and when Edward closed in on him, the man was ready with a knife in hand.
Rain rolled down the men's faces as they stood in a half-crouch facing each other.
"Listen, son, I don't know what you hope to gain from following me. I assure you, if you don't turn around now, the cold of this rain will be the last thing you feel. Get my drift?" The man waved the knife slightly.
Edward felt the slayer, the part of him that Samael released, relish the moment. His body relaxed into the singular purpose of his being. It had become so easy.
"Did you know I can hear the cries of your victims echoing in your mind? I can hear how your victims begged for their lives," Edward stated flatly. "But they were shown no mercy. I shall show the same to you."
With speed unimagined, Edward seized the man by the lapels of his coat and lifted him straight up in the air before slamming him against the brick building. The shock of Edward's assault dazed him, but his eyes grew wide and the knife clanked on the wet ground.
Edward sneered up at the terrified man, "How much did they pay you to end his life?"
"What? I don't know —"
But before he could finish his denial, Edward threw him like a child's rag doll across the alley. The man hit the wall. His body splashed to the ground.
Edward hovered over him. "How much?" he roared.
"Okay, okay," the man conceded, raising his scraped hands toward Edward as if to fend off another attack. "Five hundred for the hit. I'll….I'll cut you in for half!"
"Two hundred and fifty dollars? Is that what your life is worth?" Edward questioned.
"My life?" Fear and confusion colored the man's voice.
"Oh, yes. You see, I am not here to extort money from you. I'm here to kill you."
Edward again heaved the man into the air, hurling him against the wall of the opposing building. The force of the impact created an unsettling sound of splintering bones and squelching internal organs. Blood dripped from his nose and ears as he slipped into unconsciousness.
"Now, now. You shouldn't play with your food, my friend."
Edward recognized the voice immediately. Samael.
"I'm not in the mood to share," Edward growled at the being he'd yet to visualize in the darkness.
"You are full of blood. You can spare this for an old friend. Unless you lie about your purpose?"
Edward searched the darkness and veil of falling rain. Still, he saw no one.
"My purpose is clear. This scumbag was a killer of many. A professional, albeit, small-time hit man. He has no value except for his blood. Waste not, as you say."
Baffled by Samael's continued invisibility, Edward acted, once again grabbing the man by his coat lapels. "Look at me!" he yelled as he shook the man.
Though his head lolled around upon his shoulders, the man managed to open his eyes. For the first time he took in Edward's unnatural eyes. "Fuck you, demon," he pushed out between bruised lips and spat in Edward's face.
Edward let out a throaty laugh. "You curse instead of repent? Then you can go to Hell!"
Edward opened his mouth as wide as he could and bit into the man with such a vengeance, flesh as well as blood flooded his mouth. The man's heart continued to beat with determined spite. Spurting blood covered Edward's face and upper body.
Laughter rang out, clear and possessed of warped elation.
Then everything went black.
Edward found himself slumped against the cold, wet brick building. The body of a man – or what had been a man – lay in mangled pieces around him. Bite marks covered his body parts. His head hung off his shoulder by slender strands of tenacious tendons and ligaments. Edward mourned the blood that ran diluted by rain down a sewer grate. As he watched he thought what a waste it was.
He gathered the pieces of the man, ditching them in a dumpster in the alley. And as Edward staggered way back to the apartment for the stash of clean clothes he had taken from his trophies, he wondered why Samael had created such havoc for him to clean up…
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November 28, 1929
How suffering brings out the worse in humanity. Their stock market has crashed and they function like chickens without heads, scrambling about with vacant looks in their eyes. Many have committed suicide. The plethora of dead bodies only eases my burden. Unemployment has led to a dependence on handouts to get by; desperation has turned more to crime as a way to deal with the sudden onset of poverty. Yet I have found a breed of sinner beyond all sinners. Worse than the rapists who exercise power and control over their adult victims and more demented than the murders motivated by greed. I dealt this one such devil tonight….
.
.
Edward would admit to himself he was naïve to many things. His parents, affluent and of good position, protected him from the uglier side of life. Even war was misunderstood in his young mind, only conceived in what the media spouted about bravery and loyalty to one's country. Living in the pseudo war-zone of Chicago during Prohibition and the crash of the stock market had educated him on the full human experience.
Yet when his mind caught the musings of a man performing such acts Edward's mind could not comprehend, he was left baffled, enraged and incredulousness. There was no way to qualify this behavior. Deviant was too benign. Heinous too kind. This type of need for control puzzled even his now jaded mind and death would be too gentle a punishment.
As Edward held the man down by the neck in his residence of torture, he looked around at the toys that bore no shame for their part of luring victims. The jack-in-the-box smiled widely, the dolls with their movable eyelids glared wide-eyed, and the train sat ready at the station.
With his fingernail, Edward carved out the word "molester" into the man's forehead. The blood soon obscured the words, rolling down into the struggling man's eyes and ears.
"Now all will know what you are," Edward ground out, pleased with his actions in marking the immoral human.
"I couldn't help myself," the man began to confess, sobbing as the words left his lips. His, more than any other confession, Edward wanted to hear for he couldn't understand the motivation of victimizing children. "I have a problem! I tried to stop, I tried, but I couldn't. It's part of me. It's what I am."
The man swiped at his eyes, red with blood, and stared at Edward, whose eyes also reflected blood. In those eyes, the man appeared to find a connection with his attacker. "Certainly you must understand the hopelessness when your own self-control has been lost. There's no one you can turn to to find redemption. You're alone with your vice. So alone. And it hurts to admit it, doesn't it? The self-loathing."
The man's eyes reflected pity as they looked into and though Edward's. Yet not into his soul, Carlisle had taken that from him years ago. With a snarl, Edward gouged out the man's eyes with his thumbs. What right did he have to judge others?
The man's wails of pain echoed so loudly, Edward had to snap his neck to silence him.
He left without drinking a single drop.
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July 31, 1930
All the depravity of one city cannot be corrected by one person, man or immortal. Each day the desperation grows. Their minds grow increasingly twisted. Thoughts pass through their brains and I question whether they will act on them or if they have just become so hopeless, nothing is sacred.
.
.
Edward had left behind the act of seating himself in the speakeasies. The rancid smell of cigarettes and bootlegged liquor made him feel ill.
He had become like the shadows in Chicago, lacking substance and will. The city he had once thought of as home, drawing him to where he still had human memories, now felt like his prison. Killing after killing, remembering each one, and not seeing any betterment around him had hollowed him. Living on the periphery and only seeing the dregs of society had desensitized him. Little by little, the environment of hopelessness and helplessness permeated his being.
Time was passing with little meaning, and satisfaction came only from the blood he consumed. Nothing had meaning except his next feeding. The dependence had seeped into him like a long-acting poison. It whispered to him. Came to him as the voice of Samael saying, "you need me."
And so he'd wait.
On the nights where no guilt and malice was detected, he searched for the slightest thought of premeditated murder. Preempt the killer - was that not better than waiting for a crime to be committed?
On a hot summer night, he sensed such thoughts. Hatred. Deep, angry hatred. Despite the late hour, the streets were crowded in the sweltering heat. Outdoors was miserable, but indoors was unbearable. Slowly, persistently, he hunted through the throngs of sweaty poor, the rushing water of opened hydrants, and the stench of the baked city.
When he zeroed on the culprit-to-be, he was taken aback. It was a middle-aged woman. Not that he expected the fairer gender to never have thoughts of murder; it was just the intensity of this woman's hatred that caught him off guard. She was not someone who was acting in the heat of a moment by committing a crime of passion nor was she motivated by personal gain. She had suffered a wound which had remained unhealed so long, it had festered into a life-threatening disease. She was acting as if her very life depended on it.
Edward followed her for some time. She walked aimlessly, he realized, avoiding something. Her mind raced and at times was too chaotic to comprehend. Visions of her children, her own childhood, reflections of her face bruised and cut flashed through her thoughts.
After several trips around a city block and the visions looping several times in rapid succession, her mind switched and the plan of murder crystallized in her head. She was now a woman set on a mission to kill. Her whole body vibrated with purpose. Edward knew the feeling and the rush of satisfaction that came afterward as he feasted. He wondered what this woman's satisfaction would be…
Edward followed her into the tenement building. At that point, she became immediately aware of the being behind her, her hypersensitive senses gave her warning.
She spun on her heel to face him.
Edward's derby was seated forward on his head and the brim covered his eyes; he had no need to see ahead of him. But now he raised his head and locked eyes with the woman.
He sensed no fear from her.
This puzzled him, so as per his protocol, he questioned her reaction. "Don't you fear me?"
To his surprise, she laughed. "I sleep with the devil. Fear has little effect on me."
Frustrated, Edward took the woman by the upper arm and dragged her to the closest boarded door. Effortlessly, he ripped the barrier down. Once inside, he pushed the woman into the open room and roared, "You will fear me. I bring judgment."
Again, she laughed as she stood straighter, jutting out her chin. "You know nothing about me."
"You are about to kill. I hear your mind, don't deny it. But I will stop you."
At his statement, she did show a flicker of puzzlement. Her eyes blinked rapidly several times. Still her defiance did not waiver. "And how would you know that?"
Since the woman was about to meet her maker, Edward relished the opportunity to share what he truly was capable of. "I can read your thoughts."
"And how long have you been reading my thoughts, demon?"
"Demon?" Edward laughed a mirthless laugh, for true laughter only came from happiness and hat emotion had departed long ago. "I am not the evil-doer. I have seen your thoughts for two hours now. I know what you plan to do."
"Judge, jury, and executioner? It must be nice to see everything in black and white."
So, she wished to spar with him? She would lose, he thought confidently. "All that matters is the final outcome."
"I agree. You've seen my thoughts, have you? What have you seen?"
"Children, happiness, your bruised face…these were in yours thoughts." Edward watched for her shock and disbelief, but it never materialized.
"Yes. My children and I deserve happiness. And I deserve to never be beaten again. If I have to die for wanting that for us, so be it. My husband will kill me one day. But that is not in his thoughts for you to read. But if you will be more merciful and make my death quick, let that be my fate. Someone will die tonight. It seems you will be the one to choose. Will it be me, who has been treated worse than a mangy dog for seven years, or will it be him when I end the rein of a heartless tyrant?"
Edward swallowed hard. He had been hunting – patrolling – the night for what he needed. He grew agitated when the lines began to blur and his gratification delayed. "Do not question me. You plan to kill!"
"And he doesn't plan to kill me when he beats me, throws me down, kicks me. But it will happen. Does that make him innocent to you since my death would not be premeditated?"
Edward could barely think over the smell of her blood. Her heart rate had quickened and the thrumming of the blood coursing through her body increased his urgency to pass judgment. Again, he heard Samael telling him what to do.
He moved in for the kill.
The woman didn't speak, but her mind did. She shoved images of her husband striking her again and again. As he watched through her eyes, the room spun as the man's fist struck her in the stomach.
Edward paused. It was not without effort...
"Don't leave my children without a mother."
They were the last words she uttered.
.
.
Edward walked quickly back to his apartment. Blood stained his dark shirt, but it could be mistaken for sweat stains in the heat of the night.
He couldn't seem to get back to his dwelling fast enough, so he abandoned the streets and took to the rooftops.
Once indoors, he stripped the shirt from his body. And tore it to shreds. Still the scent of the woman's blood remained in the room, on his body – within him.
He paced, running his long fingers repeatedly though his hair.
The visions of woman's beatings were circulating over and over in his mind until finally her face was replaced by Esme's. And that was when Edward tumbled off the precipice of sanity into the deep chasm of insanity.
Looking into the remnants of a mirror hanging on the tattered wallpapered wall, Edward saw Samael looking back at him.
He bolted from the room, from the crowded block, from the city, and from the state of Illinois.
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November 15, 1930
Esme's face has taken up residence in my thoughts. She haunts me. Esme was once a woman who had viewed her face bruised, lip split, and life in shambles. I will avenge her as I did the woman whose blood I consumed, ending her plight and allowing her final peace. Her children will be better off freed from the mental damage of their mother and control of their cruel father. Orphaned, as I was, they will learn to become stronger from their experience. As I have. I am filled with a new purpose. One I know will bring the satisfaction that has eluded me for some time. I search for Charles Evenson.
Edward traveled by foot with all haste to Columbus, Ohio. He ran with speed fueled by human blood. Physically, he felt whole, and he used a mental focus of Esme's approving face to push his search for the man.
He reflected on the soft-spoken woman who had entered his home unexpectedly. Before he had left, Esme and Edward had assumed the outward role as brother and sister. At first, Esme had not been welcomed by Edward. Her newborn mind was a constant distraction, her lust for blood fed into Edward's cravings. Then, as she and Carlisle fell in love, Edward felt the loss of importance in Carlisle's life. Once Carlisle's most valued companion, he was now relegated to brother-in-law status. Carlisle's thoughts dwelled less and less on Edward and revolved around Esme. It was not easy to accept. Edward began to think he was merely tolerated instead of prized as he once was. A third wheel.
It wasn't until Esme's newborn mind started to settle that her past came to light. Carlisle had come home from the local hospital where he worked. He had lost a patient. A child, actually. It had come to his attention the nurse had not given the correct dosage a medicine resulting in the child's death. Fury burned within him, but he maintained his professional demeanor until he arrived at home. Within seconds of crossing the threshold, Carlisle lashed out in anger on the furniture. The sound of splintering of wood attracted Esme's attention and she burst in the room to find Carlisle in a rage.
It was the first time Edward had ever experienced a flashback through the mind of another being. Like Esme, Edward rushed to the sound of destruction within their idyllic home just as Esme relived an event that led to her near-death. The impact of the released repressed memories hit her so hard, it had brought Edward to his knees.
Edward made himself scarce for several weeks after that event as he attempted to put space between himself and Esme and Carlisle's minds while they tried individually and together to repair Esme's broken understanding of self. She had suffered her abuse a second time, not physically, but mentally. And the impact was just as real. Edward watched her heal and redefine herself not as a victim, but as a survivor. Given a second chance, she made it her mission to only seek and give love and forgiveness. She had evolved.
Edward had found a reason to protect and respect the woman who resided under Carlisle's roof and abided by his rules with fervor. Unfortunately, as Edward was still questioning his position within their new triad, Esme's shining example of Carlisle's tutelage only seemed to shine a spotlight to Edward's struggles. The four walls had become too confining.
He now often wondered if they were, indeed, happier without him…
.
.
It was not difficult for Edward to locate Charles. His family had owned a business in Columbus for years, and the close-knit community was all too enthusiastic to direct Edward to him.
Surprisingly, Charles appeared nothing like what Edward had imagined. He supposed no one could look as evil as he had pictured Charles in his mind.
As Charles left his office building and walked the distance to his home, Edward followed. Stalking his prey had become a favorite pastime over the years. The anticipation of the rush of blood, the confessions, the overwhelming feeling of power as he alone held the fate of someone in his hands…
Charles whistled a tune as he shoved his hands under his sport coat and into his trouser pockets. The picture of a man without a care in the world. Master of his domain.
Instead of listening to his mind, though, Edward heard only the echoes of Esme's fears, sadness, and regrets that surrounded Charles. His hands balled into fists at his side.
The twilight of the evening ebbed into darkness, allowing the master of fates the cover he coveted. As Charles made a sharp turn up the walk to a two-story townhouse, Edward held his tongue no longer.
"You hurt her. You have no idea how much you hurt her, do you, Charles?"
Charles spun. "Who are you? This is private property! What are you talking about? I've hurt no one."
If ever Edward had felt galvanized in his mission, the moment was now. The sum of his loneliness and search for purpose and worth had found its perfect storm in the man before him. The fury of hell burst forward, tearing from Edward's diamond-faceted skin. But it came out as a shout. An unintelligible rush of words betrayed his loss of logical thought.
Charles ran toward the door of his dwelling, but Edward intercepted him. He took Charles by the lapels and lifted him off the ground. The man's legs dangled as Edward's hands came to rest just under Charles' chin.
"Confess."
"C-c-confess?"
The waiver in Charles voice revealed his fear. Edward absorbed it like a sponge, enjoying the terror he evoked in the man. He thought it poetic justice.
"Confess!" Edward roared. "Confess what you did to Esme!"
"Esme? My w-w-wife? She's gone!"
"No. She lives. She is like me." Edward liked the game. It drew out his pleasure.
"What are you?"
"Strong. Immortal. Unforgetting. Unforgiving. I saw what you did to her. I saw it in her mind. I saw your face in her mind. Now confess."
"If you saw, why do you need a confession?" Charles challenged.
Edward dropped him.
Having been deprived of much needed oxygen, Charles crumbled to the ground, gasping. Edward placed a booted foot on Charles' chest to keep him in his subordinate position.
"You're right. I don't need a confession." Edward leaned forward, resting his forearm on his knee, pressing his foot harder into Charles' chest. The man again struggled to breathe. "I want an apology. I want an apology to take back to Esme."
"You're deluded! Esme has not been seen or heard from in years. You won't get an apology from me. If you know her, you'd know. She has already forgiven me. That was Esme's greatest gift – and weakness."
"Stand up," Edward commanded. He removed his foot and waited until the man stood.
"Are you going to kill me?" Charles asked once he stood to his full height.
"Eventually," Edward responded. Then, for the first time in his human or vampire life, Edward threw a punch.
His fist connected with Charles' jaw. The crunch of bone against stone reverberated off the brick of the house. As Charles lay ten feet from where he had just stood, Edward walked to tower like an avenging angel over him. For a brief moment he contemplated changing Charles; watch him go through the agonizing change for three days and then Edward would face Charles on equal ground. Vampire to vampire, he'd fight to the death with man who drove Esme to the very brink of death.
"Wake up!" Edward yelled at the still body sprawled on the front lawn. In annoyance, Edward kicked him, and Charles' body reflexively groaned as the air that remained in his lungs was forced out.
"Drink!" Edward was not surprised to hear Samael's voice urging him to complete his task. He should not waste what pleased him.
In blind fury and desire, Edward grabbed the unconscious man and bit into his neck. The blood was hot, but it didn't rush into Edward's mouth; the beating was more than Charles' mortal body could handle. Still, he drank as if his life depended on it. Nothing in that moment mattered except the fluid that provided him with meaning and satisfaction.
"Daddy?"
Alerted to the presence of another, Edward snarled. This was his kill.
"Daddy?"
Despite the fear the boy should have experienced, he ran toward Edward and Charles.
By the light of the front porch, the boy took in the mangled neck and slack, broken jaw of his father. With bravery Edward had not witnessed before, the boy lashed out at Edward.
"You hurt my father! You are a bad, bad man!"
Edward felt the blood cooling on his face. He could not deny his actions. "Your father hurt others. He deserved this fate."
Oblivious to the red-eyed, bloody-faced menace standing before him, the small boy began to strike Edward about the legs with his small fists. "You're bad, you're bad!" he cried out over and over. "I hate you! I hate you!"
Edward picked the boy up by his left arm. The boy began to cry hard sobs. Still, he swung at Edward with his clenched right hand.
"You're going to be just like him, aren't you?" Edward pondered aloud. "Another man who would inflict your fists and will upon others."
"He should die, too," Samael's seductive voice rang in Edward's mind. "Save countless more. You are the hero of this story."
Venom filled Edward's mouth. His eyes focused on the pulsing of the angry boy's thrumming carotid arteries.
"My child!" a woman screeched as she emerged from the house onto the porch. Her eyes wide, fixed on her child as he dangled from Edward's hand. "Don't hurt my child, please!"
As if the child has suddenly burned Edward's hand, he released him, and bolted into the night.
.
December 24. 1930
Human blood is the road to ruin Carlisle had said to me when I questioned the stringent lifestyle he pressed upon me. Why had I not listened to the man who had existed centuries before my birth? Was it my youth at my change not allowing me to trust the man who would have witnessed the truth? I left in search of my worth, and in the process I have lost myself. I have lost everything.
.
.
Edward sat in an unknown city. It was four o'clock in the morning and the dew-wet park bench he was seated upon in the city's square was his alone. Alone.
He had been five days without consuming blood. His hands noticeably shook. He had ventured aimlessly in the vacant forested lands of several states, keeping clear of human minds and the smell of human blood. He could have turned to animal blood to meet his needs, but somehow he knew it wouldn't be enough. It wouldn't provide what he needed. And that would only add to his distress.
He stiffened when the smell of blood approached. An inebriated, scruffy older man plopped next to Edward and appraised him none too subtly.
Determined to show restraint, Edward held his seat. He ceased to intake air.
"I know that look," the man stuttered out. "I tried to give it up too – once or twice."
Edward turned his head to face the man, knowing his black eyes would be of no concern to the man, especially in his state. "I doubt you have given up what I have."
"Oh, yes, I have," the man insisted, lighting up a cigarette. The tip burned brightly in the darkness. "At first it seems like your friend, doesn't it? It makes you feel so good. You feel like the king of the world!" The man threw his arms up toward the sky, almost knocking himself off balance and off the end of the bench.
Edward turned away.
"Listen son, I know drink gets into your soul. It changes you. That feeling you lived for at the beginning, well, it's not the feeling you are left with in the end. I've been chasing that euphoric feeling for years. Drink is not your friend. It is clever though. It lets you believe you have it all. It lets you deny you are losing your family, your dignity, and your value to society. It tells you you are the one who's right and they are all just idiots. They don't understand you, you say. They are standing in the way of your happiness, so fuck 'em. Until you look around one day, and drink is all you have left. You hit rock bottom and you realize it's time to make a choice. Pick the seducer, and eventually, it kills you."
The sound of snoring alerted Edward to the face the man had passed out. But his words lingered in playback in Edward's brain. He had been chasing the rush, the feeling of strength and worth and purpose he thought he had found, but was he really saving anyone? Or was it just a thinly veiled reason to drink what he craved. Had he simply justified all that he had done like the humans he reviled?
His path had almost resulted in taking the life of an innocent child.
Now what would become of him? He wasn't human, and he couldn't carry on being the monster who took human lives. He was nothing.
Again, Esme's face surfaced in his mind. Charles had been right in one thing: Esme had forgiven Charles. She believed events happened according to God's plan and everything happened for a reason. Without Charles' abuse, Esme would have never found her way to a life with Carlisle. She had reconciled her need for blood for life with the man she loved. A man Edward knew he had loved as well.
He had hit the proverbial rock bottom.
.
May 6, 1931
Like the prodigal son, I have returned. Yet my shame does not allow me to reveal myself. The confessions I demanded of my victims would be my offering to Carlisle. But I will not confess my sins with the red eyes of a killer. I know Carlisle. He would need my eyes to be the window to my heart. Only golden eyes would show I truly had changed my ways. So I remain in the shadows searching for the light.
.
.
Edward had tried to keep his distance from Esme and Carlisle, but he needed strength. He longed to see the light at the end of the tunnel. With each animal he took down, forcing the bland liquid down his throat to ease the burn, the more intense Samael's whisper became in his mind, speaking the words Edward wanted to relent to.
On this day, he perched high in a tree, remaining downwind as he watched them. Esme and Carlisle hunted with abandon. Streaking through the woods, it appeared hunting was just an excuse to use the extraordinary vampire traits they possessed. After a meal of deer, Edward heard their thoughts turning to intimacy. He darted away through the tops of the trees.
He found it ironic to be again dwelling on the periphery. Once angered by being vampire attempting to blend in as human, he now longed to leave his vampire badge of dishonor behind him to blend in with Carlisle and Esme. He wanted nothing more than Carlisle's acceptance and Esme's forgiveness.
Each day he checked his reflection. The redness stubbornly refused to leave. He gorged himself on animal blood until he could barely keep it contained within his body. He embraced the loneliness as his penance, for certainly suffering would wash clean his sins.
When Carlisle left for work, Edward would watch over Esme. Though their home remained a safe distance from prying human eyes, Esme fussed over the landscaping. Flowerbeds were meticulously weeded, vegetable gardens tended to with care as the harvests were donated to the local soup kitchen, and shrubs trimmed by hand. He longed to hear her voice, but settled for venturing close enough to hear her mind. It brought him immense comfort.
Except when she thought of him. He had caused her such pain. Though Esme continued to deny Edward could lead the life of a true vampire, Carlisle had no doubt. It caused much tension in their relationship. Her thoughts confirmed if Carlisle had any clear indication where Edward was, he would have confronted the evil he had created. But Esme sensed the dichotomy in Carlisle. He chose to isolate himself in his work, keeping his attention focused on work. He was withdrawn and in pain. She tried to comfort him, but there was a place in Carlisle's heart that Esme could not reach; a place that was Edward's alone.
.
November 4, 1931
I find fear has replaced my sense of urgency. As much as I long for home, I am paralyzed by the unknown. What if I am rejected? The thought of it has me paralyzed in a state of limbo.
.
.
Edward found himself inching closer to the home he once shared with Esme and Carlisle. Carlisle had been preparing Esme for a move for they had dwelt too long in one place. Esme subtly had been rebelling, thinking once they had left, it would appear they had abandoned Edward. But in her heart, Esme began to feel foolish for clinging to hope.
Edward sat in the tallest tree in the highest branch that would support his weight. It was as close as he dared to come. It may as well be a million miles away. It was hard to cling to what little hope he had left. And then he heard it. Music. Piano music.
His still heart leapt as he remembered how much he loved his instrument. How his mother nurtured his talent for playing and Esme encouraged him every day to play – to play for her.
The player's skill was rough, but he was able to recognize the song. It was the song he had composed for Esme.
Without thought of the consequences, he was physically drawn to it. Drawn to the instrument he had not played in years, to the comfort of the music and the memories of Esme's smile whenever he played her song. His heart ached with such longing he thought it would tear from his chest.
Until there he stood. On the doorstep. His hand extending to the doorknob…
He drew it back. Turned to leave. He had taken one step off the large, wraparound porch when the music stopped. Instinctively, he looked over his shoulder.
He jumped when the door flew open and Esme stood staring back at him.
She must have read his mind, or his eyes, for she shouted, "Don't run! Edward, don't leave, please. I'm begging you."
In the blink of a human eye and in the beat of a human heart, Edward witnessed through her mind all the time she had spent learning how to play the piano; learning how to play that song. How she had hoped it would bring him home, or at the very least, keep his presence close to her.
Relief washed over him. Freed of the heavy burden of being alone, unloved and unable to belong, he collapsed to his knees. And sobbed.
Esme rushed through the door, fell to her knees as well and embraced him. As he shook, she held him tightly, kissing the top of his bowed head.
"Forgive me."
It was the simplest of requests yet Edward knew it was asking the world of one of the kindest, most loving women he had ever known. With one exception – his mother.
"Edward, we have all made mistakes. We have all fallen. But you have chosen to get up. To ask forgiveness, and even though I don't know if I'm qualified to give you absolution, I can give you my empathy."
Edward looked into her perfect, golden eyes with a questioning look.
"I have fallen as well, in your absence. Given into our nature. God tries us every day, but we must understand, we are worthy of love as long as we are willing to ask for forgiveness and give forgiveness. Even though we are supernatural, we are not perfect."
"Will I ever be more? Am I forever to be stuck as a seventeen-year-old boy, who thinks and acts impetuously?"
"How long have you been working your way back to us, Edward?"
"Seven months."
"That took fortitude and reflection. You can be whatever you want to be. You are more than the sum of your parts."
"Maybe…maybe what I need is someone to foster me." Edward paused. He wasn't sure how Esme might react. Still, all that he had been through, he had journeyed full circle and was ready to give himself, if not to God, to the guidance of the individuals who had shown him unconditional love. "You have posed as my sister, but I need a mother. Esme, would you be that for me? At least until I am able to find my own way?"
Esme beamed with joy, her light diluting his darkness. "Of course, Edward." Then she stood and pulled him to his feet. "Welcome home."
.
.
Edward sat silently in Carlisle's study. He had sat there alone, silently awaiting Carlisle's return for an hour. Edward knew it would take much convincing and reconciling to win Carlisle's approval. Edward had overstepped his boundaries within their coven, and worse, within their family. He was in for a stern dressing-down. And he would take it, every word of it.
Edward heard Carlisle's approach and not soon after, his thoughts. They were guarded and skeptical. Carlisle was afraid to believe his son was home. He was unwilling to have his heart broken a second time.
Edward vowed to never let Carlisle down again. He would give Carlisle the respect he deserved, for Carlisle had earned it many times over.
When the elder Cullen entered his study, smelling of antiseptic and clean cotton, Edward kept his eyes cast downward in a show of submission and repentance – and esteem for the head of his family and coven.
Carlisle sat in his chair across from Edward. Edward knew he was being appraised, judged, but he dare not look up. Carlisle's mind was just as silent as his words. Edward rushed to fill the silence —
"I am so sorry. For what I did to you, to Esme. I know I have no right to ask you to take me back but if you do, every day I will fight to be the person you have mentored me to be."
Carlisle's chair creaked as he sat back and folded his hands in his lap. "Look at me, Edward."
Edward raised his head and his eyes. He met Carlisle's intense stare.
"What you have done will always be a part of you. You will have to reconcile that with yourself and who you want to be going forward. It will not be easy."
Nothing could have been truer. "That voice — the voice of the killer. I hear it sometimes. Samael speaks, but I don't listen to him. It is you and Esme I will listen to —"
But Edward stopped short. It appeared, although it could not see how, that Carlisle had gone paler than he thought possible for a vampire. His jaw twitched once, but it was enough to see Carlisle was unnerved.
Edward's eyes narrowed. "That name. When I said Samael, you- Do you know him, Carlisle?"
Without a word Carlisle flashed to his bookshelves. A moment of browsing was all he took before pulling a book from the shelf. It was a very old text from the look of the worn leather cover. All the while, Carlisle's mind repeated: It can't be.
The anxiety coming from his unflappable creator had Edward on his feet. As Carlisle flipped through the dusty pages, Edward stood next to him. Carlisle pointed to the text under the heading: Samael.
Edward read it aloud. "Samael in Hebrew means 'Venom of God.'"
"Go on. Read more," Carlisle encouraged.
"Samael is a powerful archangel who has had many roles, with the most well-known being that of destruction and death. He is skilled as an accuser and a seducer. In this way he had been compared to Satan as the embodiment of corruption and amorality. However, according to Hebrew lore, Samael is regarded as both good and evil as the executioner of death sentences decreed by God."
Carlisle closed the book. He still appeared pale.
"Edward, Esme told me you killed those who brought harm to others. Can it be that Samael seduced you to be his right hand in passing judgment? I'm left to question – were those deaths decreed by God?"
Edward stepped backward until he stumbled dumbfounded in a chair. He was stunned beyond words. Had he been seduced by the angel of death to do his bidding? Or had he just been consumed by an addiction to human blood?
Everything happens for a reason….
Carlisle's mind buzzed with confusion, but he continued steadfastly, "I cannot judge you, Edward. And I will not. But going forward, I need to know the voice in your head will not seduce you to commit murder of another human being. I cannot live every day of this eternity wondering if evil lurks under your skin, under my roof. Please, tell me I can trust you once again."
Edward knew the voice of Samael would be something he would hear again. He had let it in, and it would not willingly leave. The life Carlisle asked him to lead had never been effortless. But now, the difference was Edward knew his worth – as a beloved son to Carlisle and Esme. As someone who was, and would again be, worthy of love. Someone who would one day find someone to love him as a mate.
Until then, he vowed to let no one else in.
AN: Thank you so much for reading. This was my ruthless rebel Edward for the Red Eyed Edward contest. If you like a blood-thirsty Edward, you can read the other entries to the contest by searching under the Writer Name of Red Eyed Edward on ffn. I was the very proud recipient of YellowGlue's Judge's Pick for Canon.
In addition to thanking the contest sponsors, YellowGlue and Capricorn75, I'd like to thank my Beta Sherry Dean Cullen, who is an awesome supporter!
Your comments/thoughts are welcome.