A/N: I do not own Twilight

Journal entry before the deed

Carlisle tells me this will make it easier. I love and trust him, so I will try it once again. However, I doubt this writing on a page, will take away my pain. I think I will have to convince Emmett to rip apart my chest, to stop the heart I feel is breaking.

How can that be? I am considered dead. Or undead. Then how does my heart hurt so? It makes no logical sense to me. And yet the pain is intense. I am a fool. I pine for a love I still have. And yet I plan to leave it standing far behind me. I plan to run away. Coward. That's what I am.

She will be better off. Tonight proves it more than any argument I have had with myself in the last year. Some beautiful and wonderful birthday celebration. She is covered in blood, in my mind's eye, and instead of stitches, Jasper has sunken his teeth deep into her warm and pulsing throat. The silken throat I love to kiss, like a sparrow's egg, quivering with life and delicacy and desire for me.

How can I call myself other than a monster? I toy with her life! I do not deserve to even be within the radius of her exquisite scent. Predator! Beast who salivates with deadly venom when she breathes in my ear. I cannot even hold her as I wish, kiss her deeply, love her as she longs for and deserves.

Enough! These words are knives that pierce me! I will not write in here again. It just creates more pain. It doesn't help at all. It just shows me on paper, what I know I must do. Leave her.

To save her. It sounds like a death. Death of hope. Death of sweetness. Oh...these words cannot help...

Edward drops the pen on the journal, knocks back the chair, rushes out. Carlisle watches him go, pain in his golden eyes, a saddened expression on his beautiful face.

Edward tries again

Well then, I am told, again by Carlisle, well-meaning to be sure, that I must practice this writing, to journal what I am feeling. I see no sense in it, but I have promised him I will try again.

I find the page looks vast. There is so much I could say. But what does it change? She is a human girl. I am not.

She lives and breathes. I do not.

I do not live. I exist. I stand at the edge of life, here in the wings of the play of the lives of living beings, and I observe them. At times, I wish to be one of them. At other times, I wish to end them. Some look at me with lust. It is pitiful. They admire a lie. They call me beautiful. Only I know the truth. I am a beautiful monster.

She has cast me in a role that is not the truth. She is in romantic love with me, and she thinks I am a beautiful suitor, sent to sweep her off her feet, make a life of romance where she will be eternally happy and without care. I cannot do this. Unless I kill her.

I will not do that.

Oh how I hate myself! What I truly am! I wish to be that man she dreams of. The man she tells herself I am. Instead of the beast that might, at any moment, be responsible for her accidental death.

Bella's death! Oh how could I continue to exist! If I played some part in that...well, I refuse!

I simply refuse! Now I must plan my withdrawal.

I must make her hate me.

Edward lays down the pen, walks out to the landing, looks across the yard to the trees. Esme watches, a shadow crossing her heart.

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