Title: Born into Hell
Pairings: None. Carlisle/OC in later chapters
Rating: M. Theme of abuse
Disclaimer: I don't own Carlisle If I did, he would be chained to my bed.. but thats a whole 'nother story. All recognized characters props to Stephenie Meyer. Carlisle's father is not given a name in the books, but I do not claim ownership of 'James Cullen'. Any unspecified OC's in later chapters belong to me.

A/N:This is my first story, so I'd love some feedback (:

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The floor of the church was icy cold, the grey slabs of stone hard against the young mans back, as he lay alone, wishing for sleep to claim him, for however short a time it would surely bring relief.

The dull thudding at his temples that had subsided into a throbbing ache made its presence known once more and he let out an all but inaudiable groan through clenched teeth. He rose slowly from the floor, his muscles screaming in protest at what they deemed an unnesecarry movement. Surely it would be more beneifical at this moment to lay where he had been thrown?

No. He needed to get out. Now. Before his father's anger turned any more ugly than it already was. The pastor did not practice what he preached, the young blonde thought wryly as he made his way to the oak doors of the church with a slow step that his father would have called slovenly had he risen from his drunken stupor to see his son make an escape into the dank streets of London town for an hour of precious time away from the harsh hand and lashing tongue of the man he was bound by blood to call father.

Once outside the doors, face turned up to the rain that had pounded the church roof for three days straight, the pastors son felt a kind of freedom. Yet, it was a freedom that he could only grasp at with weak fingers as it eluded him, time and time again, to leave him locked in a house with the man he loathed but was forced to love by the will of some cruel god.

It left him beaten and broken, sobbing for mercy on the ground of a place that proclaimed to give mercy to all.

How wrong first assumptions often were, the young man thought to himself as he closed the heavy door behind him, yet how right they could sometimes be. He had assumed, that his father would simply drink himself into oblivion and then sleep, after his mother took her leave from the world of the living, sped by a quick hand and a lack of medical care.

That assumption, in part, had been correct but the next part, he had not expected. For the thing that he had ignored, throuh fear and ignorance for so many years, to be transfered to him in the blink of an eye.

It was a good ruse. Being a man of God meant that no-one could suspect him. James Cullen preached about the devil, yet had the young Carlisle been able to speak of his father in less than deferential tones, he would have said that his father was the devil. One of Lucifers children, Satans own son.

The insults that were thrown at him, time after time, truly belonged to the insulter, not the blameless victim who had done no wrong in nineteen years. It was the man who spat at the boy, with purest venom in his voice. It was that man who belonged to hell, rather than the innocents he hunted at midnight and condemned to death on baseless accusations, drawn from superstition of the unkown and the ridicule of the different. Hair colour, eye colour, temprament, the inability to bear children, the rare gift of foresight; the list went on. These people were innocent and even when it all started, when Carlisle was at the tender age of thirteen he could see it.

The terror in their eyes, the screams, the crack of bone and the roaring of fire and then the whimpered pleas that were only answered when death came to claim the unfortunate souls that hd done no wrong, only inheirited the 'demon' genes.

Now at nineteen, he could still see what was happening before his very eyes, only with better clarity. He fell to his knees on the cobbled pavement, ignoring the stabs of pain the action afforded him and curled up into a ball, shutting the outside world just that. Out.

Then he wept softly. For those that had died who had no reason to, for those that had suffered needlessly at the hand of his 'father', for his mother, whos memory had been tainted by the whorehouse girls who accompanied the pastor home. And then he cried for the golden haired boy whos innocence had been stolen away.

In that boys place stood a man who was not yet a man, yet not still a boy. Was he stronger or weaker than the boy who's ashes he rose from and discarded like a torn shirt?

Stronger. He was still fighting. Still alive. Still winning, but only by some small margin that afforded him an existance, yet nothing that could truly be termed as life.

Weaker. Every day could be his last. It hurt more each time. Words and blows that he endured silently, tears streaming down his face.

He slowly pushed himself up from the cramped position. Carlisle could feel himself shaking, so he balled hs hands into fists and buried them within the pockets of his thin, rough hewn trousers. His linen shirt was thinner, providing scant comfort from the cold wind that danced with the icy rain as it tore through the air. His blonde locks grew tousled and unkempt, the winds teasing fingers playing with the strands until all semblance of order was lost