Hey there. This little ditty was inspired by Aztec Two Steps' "The Persecution and Restoration of Dean Moriarty." Please forgive what I did to Carlisle's integrity and general goodness. For some reason using Edward Mason Sr. just didn't work in my head as well. Also, if any of you read Roman Holiday, the next chapter is in the works. Unfortunately, this thing kept gumming up the works.
I really hope you like it.
I don't own Twilight, "The Persecution and Restoration of Dean Moriarty," or Dean Moriarty himself. Those are the respective property of S. Meyers, Aztec Two-Step, and Jack Kerouac.
BPOV – Denver
"Never forget."
My words, muttered softly under my breath, were echoes by the four people around me. We all stared at the empty tracks for another moment. We nodded to each other, and then they all parted ways without another word exchanged.
Somehow I knew they would all be here, though I hadn't spoken to them in a year. Somehow I knew I wouldn't be alone for my near-silent vigil.
The train station looked the same as it had a year ago. Empty, the lights flickering over broken tiles in a seventies yellow, the smell of something foul lingering in the air.
It was astonishing how little could change in one year. Or how much.
One year.
A year ago today, we five had stood together on this same platform, bidding farewell tot eh man who had – as it turned out – the glue to hold us together. Earlier in the day we had stood grieving over an empty casket lowered into a grave marked with his name.
Edward Anthony Mason Cullen.
At midnight we converged again, at this sad train station, to say goodbye in earnest. There were no tears, as we had done our mourning already. We hugged him and kissed his cheeks and laughed and wished him luck. I gave him a pack of Lucky Strikes and a kiss – my first and only kiss – and said goodbye.
He said only, "Never forget," and hopped on a train to ride the rails away from us. We nodded to each other and they walked away in pairs, leaving me alone on the platform.
I went home and told my parents I had been at an informal vigil for my late best friend and went to bed.
This night, the one year anniversary of Edward's surreptitious departure from our lives, I tossed a pack of Lucky Strikes on the tracks and whispered "Never forget," before shuffling back to my off-campus apartment.
My roommate was asleep on the couch when I got in. She had said she'd wait up for me, noting that I looked a little wild around the eyes. I woke her and retreated to my room.
I couldn't sleep. So I printed off a picture of Carlisle Cullen and set it on fire, leaning out the window to watch the flames consume his face and smoke and ash float away on the wind.
Carlisle Cullen. The reason for our vigil, the reason for our pain.
A year and week ago, he had killed his wife and managed to pass if off as an accident. But his son had witnessed his father push his mother into the pool and knew she hadn't slipped.
Carlisle kept him locked up, saying the grief was too much for his precious son to take.
A year and three days ago, Carlisle put his son in his precious Volvo, tied up and beaten up, rigged his son's foot to the accelerator and watched him speed away down a long country road.
A year and three days ago, Edward showed up at my door, bruised and battered, rambling about cars hitting rocks and loose teeth. I cleaned him up and put him to bed, thankful for my vacationing parents.
A year and two days ago, I watch the news reports in horror, as camera crews filmed the wreckage of what had once been a Volvo. Reporters theorized that Edward Cullen – son of prestigious surgeon and beloved citizen Carlisle Cullen – had crashed his car into the rock face out of grief for his recently deceased mother. His death was confirmed by the lone tooth that had survived the explosion and ensuing inferno.
A year and one day ago, our friend Jasper had surprised us all with connections to a side of Denver we didn't know existed. A pile of forged documents later, and Edward had a ticket to a new life far away.
Edward urged us not to say anything about Carlisle. He didn't know what his father was willing to do to keep this all hushed up. Don't talk about this, he said, but never forget.
By now the picture was totally consumed, so I closed the window and went to bed, murmuring 'Never forget' to the shadows.
EPOV – Chicago
It was astonishing how much could change in a year.
A year and eight days ago, I was a relatively normal seventeen year old, waiting anxiously for college in the fall. More than college, I craved escape from my house and my controlling, abusive father.
It's true what they say: you should be careful what you wish for.
A year and seven days ago. I caught my father killing my mother. My beautiful, perfect mother, who had never let my father kill her spirit.
A year and six days ago, I found myself locked in a closet, bleeding from the latest bruising from Father Dearest.
A year and four days ago, I did not go to my mother's funeral. Instead, I lay curled on the floor of a closet, nursing a bruised rib and sprained wrist, crying in a pool of my own refuse.
A year and three days ago I had been dragged from my closet and tied up in the driver's seat of my Volvo. Father Dearest put the car in neutral and pushed it out of our driveway to the secluded road we lived on. Then he rigged my foot to the gas, started the car, and waved as the car sped off.
Thankfully he was a doctor, not a Boy Scout, and his knots came undone easily enough. I managed – even in my damaged state – to roll out of the car before it slammed into a solid rock face at ninety miles an hour. The car exploded and I could feel the heat from where I lay crumpled twenty feet away. All I wanted to do was sleep. But I knew that Doctor Daddy would come to check that I had died and I needed to run. So I pulled myself to my feet, threw a tooth loosened by my father into the raging fire, and limped away into the woods.
I made it to Bella's house before I collapsed. Her parents were gone for the week. She let me in, let me shower, and made me food. I cried myself to sleep in her bed, drawing comfort from the embrace of a woman I realized just then that I loved.
A year and two days ago, I had watch my friends react to my secrets. I had never told them the truth about Daddy Cullen, thought they suspected things were not as they seemed. Their reactions were predictable, but comforting. Alice started to cry. Rosalie silently began looking for a knife. Emmett began loudly threatening Father Dearest. Jasper grew quiet and fingered the scars on his arms. It was nice to know they cared.
When I requested they keep this quiet and help me escape Denver, they argued, but eventually agreed. Jasper left quietly, saying there was something he needed to do. I worried, but let him go.
A year and a day ago, Jasper returned with a stack of forged documents bearing my face and the name Dean Moriarty as well as some clothes and other necessaries. My friends gave me money and helped me pack.
A year ago tonight I boarded a train for California. They were all there - wearing the clothes they had worn to my funeral and forced smiles. They told me goodbye and good luck.
I told them "Never forget."
The last person to say goodbye was Bella, who didn't say anything. She merely have me a pack of my favorite cigarettes and a kiss. It was the first, only, best, and probably last kiss of my life.
Then I boarded the train and left. I traveled the road a bit before landing in Chicago. I sold my jacket and bought paper and paint and brushes instead of food.
And now here I was, on a cot at the back of my art studio. Somehow I had made something of myself, of me – a nobody seventeen year old from no one knew where. I kept living in the office of the studio though. When questioned I merely said, "Never forget." It reminded me of my closet.
I got up with a sigh and entered my studio. There was no way I could sleep tonight.
I needed a smoke.
I reached into my pocket to pull out the only pack I had right now and fingered the worn, unopened box. I could still remember it brand new and fresh from the delicate hands of the woman I loved.
So instead of smoking, I painted. A woman's hand offering a pack of cigarettes. Darkness and smoke as a backdrop. Faintly the idea of a wall of monolithic rock. And the eyes, of course. Always a pair of eyes.
When art critics talked about me, they always mention eyes. The dueling eyes, they said, each pair denotes a different mood or feeling or even personality of the artist. There were two pairs, two sets of brown eyes that haunted my work. One pair – a honeyed brown – watched you from the shadows, followed you around corners, and stalked you in your dreams. The other pair – a deep chocolate – comforted you at night and soothed your nightmares.
And gave you cigarettes, of course.
The perceptive critics included my own eyes in their discussion. Unsound eyes, they said. More than eyes, said others.
It was the golden eyes I had painted over the one word on my studio door – "Persecution."
It was my eyes I painted on the door to my office/apartment, right underneath the new motto of my new life – "Never Forget."
BPOV – Denver
It was astonishing how nothing could change in a year.
The platform still smelled like cat piss, the lights hadn't been fixed, and the tiles were still that awful shade of yellow.
Most importantly, Edward was still gone. Carlisle was still roaming free, still Denver's most beloved surgeon and bereaved widower.
Two years had passed. Again we five found ourselves staring at empty train tracks.
Emmett and Rosalie whispered their lines and quickly left. Rosalie was crying and muttering angrily under her breath.
Jasper said his part then and left Alice and I alone.
I sat down on the grimy floor and stared at the tracks. I tossed another pack of Lucky Strikes to rest with its twin that was, surprisingly, still there. I wondered how many more packs I would donate to the empty platform.
Would he ever come back? Would I someday forget to care?
I could not believe that would ever happen. I loved Edward. I had known for years but had never had the nerve to do something about it.
Small arms wrapped around me and I realized I was crying. I turned and sobbed into Alice's silent embrace. We hadn't spoken in two years. What was there to talk about except that which we had sworn we would not? But now, on the floor of an empty train station, it was like no time had passed.
"I love him, Alice," I spoke, my voice muffled in her shirt.
"I know, sweetheart, I know," she soothed, her hands rubbing soothing circles on my back.
"He was so wild and free and yet he was always together, always himself. He was the wind in my sails, filling me joy and love and hope 'til I thought I'd explode. And his eyes, they could see to the depth of your soul. He was so beautiful, especially his heart and mind. He filled everything with life," I sobbed. "How was I to know the brilliant colors he shed on my days were just the light of the setting sun? How could I know he'd disappear just like that?"
"Shh, it's okay." Alice tightened her hug.
"But what if he died out there?" I gasped, my heart ripping to shreds at the thought.
"He's not dead. He is most certainly living," Alice snapped. "Don't even think that way. He'll come back to you."
"But how can he come back? And how can I go to him? Carlisle… what would he do? What will we do?"
"I don't know, Bella, I just don't know. But you just have to trust that everything will be okay. And never forget."
"Never forget," I echoed.
She left a few minutes later. I remained behind, staring at the packs of cigarettes, alone with my epiphany.
I had been hiding from the truth for two years. But now it was time to face facts. We had made a mistake letting Edward leave. We should have gone to the authorities. But we hadn't and now we had a mess on our hands. But of one thing I was as sure of as the sea was deep: as long as Carlisle Cullen remained a respectable part of Denver society, Edward Cullen would stay away.
My tears dried. I had mourned too long. It was time to act.
I pulled out my cell phone. "Emmett? I need your help."
The now Detective McCarty and I met in secret a few days later. It took nearly a month to finalize and prepare our plan. And when it was ready, I found myself doing something no one could have ever anticipated.
"Hello, Carlisle? It's Bella, Bella Swan. I was wondering if you would meet me for coffee."
EPOV – Chicago
It's astonishing how easily you can accept change.
Three years. It's been three years since I rode the rails out of Denver. Three years and I've almost made a home out here. I'm almost happy.
Almost. There is something very crucial missing and without it I can't be truly happy. I could do a good job of pretending though. But it wasn't enough. Without that one thing I was empty, just a shade. That one thing with a special pair of brown eyes.
"Ah, Dean, you must be very pleased," a strong hand clapped my shoulder.
"Yes, Eleazar, I am quite pleased. This will be a big night."
It was five o'clock and I only had a few hours before some of the curators and acquisitions people from the Art Institute came to speak with me about a short exhibit with them. I was thrilled. It was a dream come true.
"Well, when you're a famous artiste, don't forget who have you this studio rent free while you got your life sorted out. Never forget where you came from."
"Never forget," I affirmed, surveying my studio. It was spotless.
"Hey, that reminds me of a weird news story I heard today. Some crazy shit going down in Denver it seems."
My ears perked up. I always tried to pay attention to the news about Denver. You never knew when something might pop up about things you'd left behind. It still hurt like hell to think about it, but I had always been a masochist.
"So a few years ago, this doctor's wife drowns. Then his son commits suicide, drives his car into a wall or something. The boy's friends flip out. They all break apart, into couples only there's this one odd girl out – Becka or something. They won't talk about their friend's death to anyone, only say "Never forget" – which is why I thought of this."
My heart had stopped and was currently up in my throat, blocking airflow. I tried to quiet the thudding in my ears so I could hear Eleazar more clearly.
"So they continue this way for two years or so. Then this Becka girl calls up the dad and they start hanging out – all the time. Her old friends go nuts, but when asked about their friend dating their dead pal's dad, they won't say anything about it except "I guess she forgot." Becka or whatever still responds to questions with "Never forget." Weird people man, those Western types."
I thought for sure my heart would shatter. Bella? My Bella? Dating Father Dearest? It couldn't be, it just couldn't. I shook my head and tried to focus on Eleazar.
"It gets weirder, man. So the other night, the three-year anniversary of the kid's suicide, the girl and dad are out to dinner. He's pressuring her to make their relationship more serious – apparently she's been pulling the 'just friends' card for almost a year. She cites her reason as the dead kid – Edward. The doctor goes berserk, right there in the restaurant. He leaps up and starts shouting how he killed Edward and his wife, and what was she going to do about that?"
My heart somehow beat furiously and stopped simultaneously. This must be what a heart attack feels like.
"The plot thickens still, Moriarty. One of the old friends – now a cop – stands up and arrests the dad on suspicion of murder. Seems they all knew about it, but feared retribution, so the girl and the cop cooked up a plot to catch him. The girl was wired every time she met with the dad in case he spilled.
And now all of the dead kids friends have reunited, but they still refuse to say anything to the press except, "Never forget." Bizarre, huh?"
I looked at my friend and landlord, my heart thundering out of my chest.
"So the doctor's locked up?"
"Yup, seems they uncovered a lot of dirt now that they've started digging."
I turned on my heel and ran into my office to grab my jacket and wallet. I tossed my keys to Eleazar and headed for the door.
"I've got to go. Make my apologies to the Institute for me."
I sped out of "Persecution" like pursued by demons. I heard Eleazar from behind me, running.
"Dean? Where are you going, Dean? What's going on?"
"I'm going to Denver," I shouted over my shoulder. "And my name's not Dean, it's Edward!"
The look on his face must have been priceless, but I couldn't be bothered to look. I made the train station in record time. The next train to Denver would get in at midnight to that fateful station.
Life was coming full circle. Three years to the minute and I'd be back where I started.
BPOV – Denver
It was astonishing how much can change in a year.
The old platform was the same, but the people were different.
For one, the five of use weren't alone. There was a train from Chicago due in at midnight and people were waiting impatiently for its arrival. For another, the five of us were talked to each other.
We had played catch-up the past few days. Alice, Jasper, and Rosalie had forgiven my treachery. Rosalie had forgiven for his cavalier attitude about Carlisle and me.
Most importantly, Carlisle Cullen was now behind bars, where he belonged.
I was elated three days earlier when he finally admitted the truth in front of a roomful of people. Finally he'd get what was coming to him.
I must admit to shock when he snapped though. I'll never forget his deranged eyes as he shouted at me.
"Edward? You want to know something about your precious Edward? I'll tell you something – he's dead. Forget him, he's dead. I killed him, just like I killed his whore of a mother. They were trying to escape, they were both too free, they were both wrong, wrong, wrong! They got out of hand, but I controlled them in the end. They knew who was right then!"
I shook myself from my reverie. It was almost midnight. The mood was almost celebratory. Carlisle Cullen no longer stalked the streets. I couldn't celebrate though. Edward was still gone.
My watched showed midnight and I almost tossed the pack of Lucky Strikes to the tracks. The incoming train prevented it and I felt my shoulders slump. I wanted to go home and cry, not wait for the train to leave.
I watched the weary travelers and was caught on a wave of melancholy. How I wished Edward were to –
Edward. That was Edward Cullen exiting the train, looking tired but just as beautiful as I remembered.
My voice caught, though I wanted nothing more than to scream out to him. For a few desperate moments I thought he might escape before I could get his attention.
But then his eyes swept the room and met with mine.
Then he was running and sweeping me off my feet in a giant hug and I was home, safe and free after three long years.
He put me down gently and gave me my second, best, and certainly not last kiss. We pulled apart and I was lost in his eyes.
"Bella, you're here. How'd you know? How'd - " he stuttered frantically.
I put a finger to his lips to silence him and then handed him my pack of Lucky Strikes.
"Never forget."
EPOV – Denver
It's astonishing how much can change in a year.
One year. One short year since I returned from Chicago.
I stared up at the glass store front before me from my seat on the concrete sidewalk. There on the glass were Bella's eyes – chocolate brown and warm – under the word "Restoration." My new studio was much nicer than the Chicago one and I didn't feel the urge to live in the office in the back.
"Hey there." Warm arms wrapped from behind. I picked up the left hand and kissed the sparkling diamond there.
"Hey you. What do you think?"
"I think you should have used your handwriting instead of mine for your sign."
I laughed and pulled Bella around to sit in my lap. I enveloped her in a hug and buried my face in her hair. "But yours has a more creative edge."
"Yeah, whatever." She rested her face against my chest and I played with her hair.
"You remember about dinner tonight?"
She looked up at me and smiled. "Of course. Alice has been freaking out over the year anniversary dinner for ages. And besides, you know me. I never forget."
Fini
Please let me know what you think of this. Also, I'd really like to know if any of you have ever heard of Aztec Two-Step. And if you have, whether or not you went to college in the seventies. Because I might be the only person in the world who listens to them who did not go to the college in the earlier seventies... If you haven't heard of them (highly likely) try to look them up. They make me want to wear flowers in my hair and dance in meadows to bongo drums. Anyway...
Love you always,
OnlyOneSymptom