Hey everyone :) This is a fic about Bella/Edward. Maybe it's all human. Maybe it's not. One thing is certain though: no sparkling whatsoever. Sparks, there may be, but sparkling skin, no. Basically in this, Bella is 20 years old, and has moved from Forks. She's poor and living in a tiny town southeast. She works two jobs, trying to deal with her dark past, an incident that has scarred her forever, both physically and mentally. She doesn't trust anybody. While she's working at the local university, she meets someone interesting though. Is Edward really who he says he is and why does he remind her so much of someone else, someone horrible else? And can manage the impossible and actually help her?
Rated T for language, being slightly dark and possible future lemons.
----------------------
I'm not going to lie. Being poor does bother me. It bothers me every fucking day I have to live through it, constantly worrying about money and about rent, if today's another day I'll go hungry, not even being able to afford even the cheapest kind of greasy, tasteless Mac and Cheese. It bothers me just as much as the two scars I have across my face, that trail my belly and back, a reminder I cannot take back. I try not to let it show though, this irritation and anger. I grit my teeth and live with it. Complaining and/or asking for help is a sign of weakness, I know. Letting other people see your weakness is like giving a wolf pack a tiny lamb; there will be no mercy.
I work. A lot. At a trashy supermarket that sell stale bread and sour milk, though us employees have to remark the cartoons. It's ridiculous but I do it anyway, but I refuse to beam at the customers. At Smileymarket (yes that is the name) our slogan is "You shop while we make your sad face drop!". It's ironic, really, me working there. My no-smile policy gets me knee deep in shit and I argue with my forty-something boss constantly. "Not smiling is no, no, no," she chirps in her nasal voice, running a hand though that ridiculous pinkish/blondish wig of hers. I have learned not to upset her now. Because 1) I want to keep my job, because believe me, jobs in this town don't grow on trees and 2) her pinched voice drives me nuts. So instead of glaring at customers I now bare my teeth which supposedly at least looks like a ghost of a smile. I think it's more like a wolf's grin, baring my teeth at threats. I'm no predator, though. If anything, I was the pray.
I smile rarely. Sometimes it feels as if the muscles in my face have forgotten how to pull upward. I don't have many things to smile about, I guess.
The other place I work is at the fancy university that I live next door to. It's the kind people go to when they want to go out of state. Fancy buildings, wonderfully freshly mowed lawns, stinking toilets. I'm lucky to work there. They usually don't hire non-students, but no one wanted to take the last spot on the clean team so after much begging and stubbornness from my side I got it. I like it. Love it, even. Not because of the pay because let's face it, McDonald's employees get better paid than I do. But frying hamburgers doesn't really get you the same education you get when you stand outside one of the classrooms, cleaning cart in front of you, where a evening class is in full swing.
See, I don't have any money for college, naturally. My mother left me when I was little, fleeing to Europe with a French man, forgetting all about children and responsibilities. That left me, a tiny baby with a drunk for a father. We lived in your regular small town in Washington, me, growing up to be an underfed, smallish and scrawny teenager, trying and studying hard because back then I'd been happy and actually believed I could go off to college. Just like everyone else gets to say good-bye to their teary-eyed mother, stuffing bags and boxes in the trunk of an rusty old Volvo, a graduation present. Boxes packed with the parts of their childhood they cannot bear to leave behind. A little something they can cling onto, as they make their way through the life filled with traps and snares: adulthood. I don't think they know how many times they will catch their breath along the way, sidestep around problems that in my mind seem simple. But maybe I haven't seen it all. Nor do I really wish to. But there was one point in my life where I realized I wouldn't get the whole package: college, roommate, mayor, brown-haired, blue-eyed boyfriend with manners to impress my father, graduation, a career, a husband, a child, a lab, a family.
It was that awful night that bought me two scars and an assurance that I'd never forget. As I was laying there, my back on the dirt-packed earth feeling the blood on my face, hot and slippery, I came to a conclusion. Never have dreams. Or hopes. Or expectations.
After that, after I'd stumbled home and scraped the blood off but left the memories, a burning truth, a birthmark that now defined who I was. After that there was a time when I didn't know if I'd make it through. But I did. Not healing, but closing and getting angrier and angrier for each day. Maybe I shouldn't call it anger, though. More bitterness and determination. And a sick feeling of vengeance that always burned a hole in the pit of my stomach, as gruesome as acid. I dropped my happiness altogether with my dreams and so-called childhood in the gutter. I promised myself to never, not ever, be so naïve again. I knew I couldn't stay there and become another drunken mess, like my father. I couldn't stay where the memories where fresh and the wounds ached and claws tried to grasp me every night. A place where no one knew what'd happened, not really, though they suspected something and therefore kept their distance; like you do to strays. A place where I'd sworn I'd never trust anybody ever again. So, the morning after my graduation, I packed one, single bag and left the house, smelling of vodka, vomit, abusiveness and hated memories, and the people I resented so much, behind. I swore I'd never come back.
I kept my promise. For two years I traveled - from place to place. Some people might call it "discovering oneself" like in the movie Into the Wild. Let me tell you, that was not the case. Living at the cheapest motel you can possibly find (and yes, cockroaches do come with the price) didn't help me find myself. I guess it was kind of hard to look for myself when the entire room reeks of sweaty balls, urine and ache for reassurance, nice souvenirs from former residents, hookers, drunks and horny teenagers. Or maybe just people without dreams
I took jobs here and there, making and twining my way through the states. Worked my way southeast. To where the winters are milder and the rain less heavy. To where I would, maybe, not be haunted by my past. Somewhere where I wouldn't glance constantly over my shoulders, ready to jump or flee if I had to. Maybe I would fight. I still blamed myself for not doing just that all those nights ago.
Then, after what felt like a lifetime of looking, I found a place I felt a connection to. Way down south, where the landscape is swampy, where the weather is pretty humid, like the fog inside a bottle, tiny water drops that cling to my skin. A place where and no one else knows me. Here I fit, fore some odd reason I can't put my finger on. Probably because the small town is filled with misfits. People who are even more messed up than I am. The people at the U are somewhat normal though. Whatever classifies as "normal" these days. That's one of the reasons why I prefer to take the graveyard cleaning shift. In the hot, pressing silence of the night, no one lets their gaze linger a moment longer on the two scars on my face, a puzzle-piece that doesn't quite fit in. A rope with ragged ends.
I also like it because I can listen to the classes going on. After I've cleaned up half of the mess (and saved the best for last: the soiled toilets) I lean against the wall next to the classroom where they study psychology. It's really interesting, the way the mind works. Learning about it is truly fascinating. That is what I do now, linger outside the door, the only sound my breath and the voice of the professor. I press closer and peer inside the room.
Two dozen people or so are in there. Not too many. The day classes draw more people, obviously. The ones who live on campus. The people in the evening classes are usually a bit older, too. Learning something a little too late, maybe making up for mistakes that haunt their past. Maybe some of them are like me. I shrug that off though, that bitter taste in my mouth I don't feel like dealing with right now. Not when the best part of my day has just begun.
The average age of the students is one of the reasons why my gaze falls upon the youngest guy out of the bunch; probably 18 or 19. 20 at most. Like me.
His whole presence and air isn't anything like me, though. His hair is a weird, coppery color and a smile tugs at his lips. He's sprawling over the chair and scribbles something in his notebook, long, pale fingers following the outline of the words. He looks superior and cocky and I feel a flash of anger. I've met enough superior people in my life. None of which have ever brought any joy or luck into my life. He doesn't look too bright, I think and take in his posture and clothing. He's wearing a shirt that doesn't quite fit him but sure does look expensive. His jeans are slightly worn-out on the knees though I'm sure that worn-outness is fabricated by small Chinese children, working for some fucking clothing brand, like Armani or Levi's or somewhere along that bullshit. Bullshit I have never felt a need to buy, nor had the money for. I snort and he turns his head and looks right at me. Narrow his eyes.
I gasp and stagger, taken aback. Not because of fear, I don't get scared anymore. No, I am startled, something that also is quite rare. I draw a breath and take a step forward, my face still in the shadows. There is no way he could've heard me, so far away. He also shouldn't see me, my face almost completely hidden. Yet, apparently, he does and now his eyes, bright green, are piercing me to the wall, set in a face that is quite beautifully sculpted, I catch myself thinking. His gaze travels me up and down, lazily. Then he grins, unexpectedly. Rr maybe I should've expected it, after all, it oddly feels as if I've witnessed this before.
He holds one finger up, waving it in the air teasingly, like you dangle a mouse in front of a cat by the tail, completely helpless. Just waiting for it to get caught in a strong jaw and swallowed whole.
"Excuse me, sir, I have a question," he drawls. I can't place his accent. I can hear my heart pounding away in my chest
The older man, the teacher, turns his graying head towards him.
"Yes, Mr. Cullen?"
He grins more widely. "Don't you have to pay to be here? To take part of this magnificent - ah- education? So you don't end up working like - oh I don't know ... a cleaner?"
He grins then, at me by the door. His eyes are filled with mischief, his cheeks dimpling, softening his features and giving him an even more boyish look. My face burns with shame and anger and I back away even though I feel like bolting in there and ripping is jugular out, wiping that triumphant grin off of his face. I hear the mumbling reply from the puzzled professor. I don't care. I stagger down the hall, stumbling like I haven't done in two years. That asshole, I think furiously. That fucking asshole.
I know he was just teasing. But somehow, I can't deal with it and anger clouds my judgement in a way it hasn't done in a while. Suddenly I'm running, my soles barely touching the floor and all I hear is blood in my ears and then I remember. That grin. Planted on another, equally handsome face. Five fucking years ago.
When I've reached the end of the fourth hall I remember the cleaning cart. Oh, fuck. They will notice it when class is over. Then they will report me and I'll have to talk to my boss. He doesn't have a nasal voice, but still. I worked hard for this job. Ruined by the boy with red hair. Shit.
Somehow I find myself to caring and I slide down the wall and sit on the floor. Whatever. Maybe I'm overreacting. They can't really fire me, can they? Maybe I could sue his ass for insulting me.
Before I can decide on what to do, there is a noise that jolts me out of my swirling thoughts. At once, I'm on my feet, prepared for whatever. My boss, a student, my past. Old memories and new nerves trigger my pulse and I feel my breath go up a notch. The noise gets louder and I realized what it is. It's my cleaning cart. Being pushed my someone who isn't me.
The first thing I notice is his hair. The second one is grin which awakens fury in me. Before I can stop myself and think rationally as you are supposed to in pressed situation, I walk right up to him. He grins wider.
"Though I'd see for myself, what it felt like. Cleaning up other people's shit." His voice is as lazy as his gaze, mocking and taunting. I narrow my eyes, my fingers itching to slap him across those high cheekbones.
"Why don't you try cleaning up your own shit first?" I retort and boldly try to yank the cart from him. I quickly discover that that's impossible. He's got it in an iron grip and teasingly drags it backwards so I have to follow. I trip and my knee hits the edge of the cart. Furious, I glare at him over it, thinking about my options here. Tossing him in the bin? Nope, he's too goddamn sturdy built for that. Empty it over his head? Childish. Even if seeing him covered in trash does bring some sort of satisfaction to this bullshit situation. So I do the one thing I can think of, since my own fragile, short body isn't going to be able to shove his away. I take my brush, flip it over and jam then handle into his hip, using all the force I can muster, thinking about handsome faces and cockiness and revenge.
It works perfectly. He winces, groans and lets go of the handle of the cart. I yank it to me and roll it a few feet away. Then I turn back to him. He's getting up now, hands clasped to his side. Even so his smiling. The goddamned son of a bitch is smiling.
"Why, aren't you a fierce little one," he gasp through his teeth, as if he's laughing and in pain at the same time. His weird green eyes shine amusingly. He takes a step toward me. I clutch the cart tighter and try to stare him down. The broom is on the floor - not much use anymore. I brace myself, but what happens is he picking up the broom, slowly handing it to me. Then he smiles crookedly.
"I'm Edward," he says.
I just stare at him, speechless. Sudden mood changes in people make me even more suspicious than I usually am. Does this asshole suffer from bipolar disorder?
"Bella," I say stiffly.
He smiles then, a real smile. Then he leans in and I stagger aback, hating the closeness. If he touches me I know I won't be able to control myself. I won't care. I'll beat him until he and his sticky hands are off me. I don't want anyone to ever touch me again. This is my promise to myself and I've kept it for five years. He won't be the one to come in the way.
"Don't you touch me," I spit.
He cocks his head to the side.
"Believe me, I wasn't planning to."
He doesn't look angry. He just looks amused and curious.
He holds his hand up like there's a barrier between us. Then his whole face breaks into a grin.
"Nice to meet you, Bella. By the way, you're bleeding from your leg."
Then he turns and leaves. I stare after him. Then I look at my leg, covered in my two-sizes too big scrubs. There's no stain whatsoever on them. What did he ... - then I feel it. That sickening warm and sticky stuff making its was down my leg. I don't see it and I don't feel the pain, I never do anymore, but feeling the hot blood making its way down my leg makes my vision blur and it makes me sick to my stomach. This feeling bears too many bad memories.
As I lean down, rolling up the scrubs, trying to breath slowly through my mouth and examining the damage, I don't even think about how weird it is that cocky Edward Cullen knew this.
------------------------
I hope you all enjoyed it - I have a few ideas where I'll take this and please, review it and share your thoughts with me :)