I don't own these characters. They are the sole property of Stephenie Meyer. I only borrow them. No humans are permanently harmed through my actions, though I do confess to harassing, annoying, torturing, and exasperating them – just because it's fun. I make no money from my little stories, sad day. I only play in the sandbox, I didn't build it.

Chapter 2

"What was silent in the father speaks in the son, and often I found in the son the unveiled secret of the father." ~Friedrich Nietzsche

~Bad Blood~

All day at work, Edward had been out of sorts. Even his co-workers had commented on it, which only made his agitation worse. If others noticed, then he had truly lost control. The woman who had broken the seal on his memories was in his thoughts all day long. His thoughts were not complimentary.

Who did she think she was?

What purpose could be served by destroying his life? And why would she want to do so? He didn't know her. She didn't know him. Her motives were a mystery. Edward Cullen didn't like mysteries anymore than he liked surprises.

The whole situation was unacceptable.

Even though it was only Thursday, he had a strange compulsion to call his aunt. That realization only served to disturb him further. Not only had the woman disrupted his usual morning routine, she had ruined his day and now threatened to upset his entire schedule. She had better hope that she did not encroach on his privacy again. Of course, Edward did not allow himself to feel anger toward the woman; it was more annoyance than anything else. Annoyance was a safe and bland emotion. Annoyance did not flare into rage, not if one kept a tight rein on it.

Edward Cullen kept a tight rein on everything.

So when he arrived home that night, the sight of her sitting on the porch steps might have driven a lesser man to anger, but he merely sighed in resignation. Clearly this woman had to be set straight in the most clear and concise and polite terms possible.

She stood up when she saw him approach her, her expression tentative and wary. Good.

"I just wanted to -"

He held up his hand. "My name is Edward Cullen," he reminded her softly. Control. Moderation. "My father is Carlisle Cullen, my mother is Esme Cullen. These facts are a matter of public record. That is all I have to say." All of that was true; he had a birth certificate to prove it. It had been issued when he was fourteen, when he had died and been reborn.

He brushed past her, intent on unlocking his front door and getting inside the safe haven of his home. A place for everything and everything in its place. The narrow road is the righteous road. I shall fear no evil. He repeated his soothing litanies to himself over and over again in his head as he tried to get the lock open.

For once, his key did not turn smoothly. It was her fault. His hands were shaking. That was her fault too. He turned to glare at her. "Why don't you just go away?" he asked in annoyance.

She blinked at him and then smiled slowly. "I don't have any place else to be, and honestly, your story fascinates me. I need to know what..." Her shoulders slumped and her words trailed off.

He huffed and turned away from her, jiggling the key in the lock. If that kept up, he would be moved to cursing, and that betrayed an excess of emotion that would not do. At last, he felt the lock release and heaved a sigh of relief. As he slipped inside the door he turned and gave her a smug smile. "Then I feel very sorry for you indeed."

He closed the door, engaging the lock with a satisfied snick of sound.

It took ten minutes for her steps to move off the porch. He found that interval of time unacceptable and pondered calling the police. In the end, he decided against it. Not only would it complicate matters further and disrupt his life even more, uncomfortable questions might be asked. Edward Cullen didn't like awkward questions any more than he liked being tardy, or surprises, or nosy, exasperating women on his doorstep.

~Bad Blood~

On his way home from work Thursday evening, Edward had had to make a stop at the hardware store. This was not his usual Thursday night errand (that was a trip to the video store where he would rent one of the new releases whether he thought he'd like it or not). That deviation bothered him, nagged at his sense of well being.

He purchased the supplies to fix the hole that he'd made in the drywall by the door. What had been broken must be restored. After the annoying woman left him in peace, Edward got to work. As he made the repair, he admonished himself. "This is what happens when you lose control. First it's a wall..." He was never able to say the words that came next out loud. But he knew what they were.

Some might have said it was just a wall, but Edward knew for him there was no such thing. Nothing was "just" anything. Every action had a consequence, every consequence had a price. Every debt must be paid.

The beast was tethered but not vanquished. The boy who had once shivered, covered in blood and tears and the sweaty stench of fear, had become a man. In that man were the seeds of evil. Those seeds of evil could not be nourished or encouraged in any way. They must not be given opportunity or desire. Control. That was the key. Control in all things.

Control and routine led to serenity, serenity led to goodness. Goodness led to salvation.

That woman had stolen his hard won serenity. He would not allow that to happen again. The repair was finished, but the blank, unpainted space in the wall was a reminder, a penance. A price.

This is what happens when you lose control.

~Bad Blood~

Edward woke up early. He blinked for a moment, reaching to turn off the alarm. But, strangely, it was not the alarm which had woken him. He frowned at the clock by his bed, precisely arranged to rest parallel with the bed. It was in its place, but something was wrong.

He never woke up before his alarm. He never hit the snooze button. Having allotted himself the proper eight hours for sleep, there was no need to do so. He fell asleep within eight minutes of putting his head on the pillow and woke up at the first buzz from the alarm. Always. Until today.

It was that woman's fault.

Until she had shown up on his doorstep, he had never woken up before his alarm. Yes, at the beginning, when he was a boy and the horror was fresh, there had been nightmares. Horrific nightmares, if the look on his aunt's and uncle's faces were any indication. He had never remembered them simply because he had chosen not to – they were unimportant.

But now...

Now, his life was slowly slipping out of control. Today it was waking up four minutes early. Some might say that wasn't such a deviation from routine. Some might even say it meant nothing at all. Edward, however, knew the truth. Control must be maintained in all areas, even sleep.

Sleep was a vulnerable time for most people. Sleep was when demons tried to slip in past your guard and take up residence. Sleep was when you were weak if you allowed yourself to be.

Edward Cullen was not weak.

He stubbornly stayed in bed until his alarm went off, giving one short buzz before he hit the button.

The day was already off to an abominable start.

His coffee tasted off. He had prepared it as usual, so it should have tasted exactly as it did every other morning. But something about it annoyed him and set his taste buds to tingling unpleasantly. In disgust, he poured half of it down the sink. His toaster burned his toast. His grapefruit was too sour and carried an edge of bitterness. When he put on his left sock, he noticed there was a hole near his big toe. He threw it toward the waste basket. And missed.

Suddenly, he was reminded of a children's story he had seen in the book store one day. "Alexander and the Terrible, Horrible, No Good, Very Bad Day." Edward had a feeling that he and this Alexander might commiserate with each other.

Idly, he wondered if Alexander had had a similar experience with a nosy woman who asked questions about topics that were none of her business.

When he opened his door, he looked both right and left. This was not part of his usual routine and the necessity of doing so annoyed him. Grateful that he spotted no inquisitive brown eyes, he gave a sigh of relief and got into his car. It wouldn't start.

Of course.

It was indeed a terrible, horrible, no good, very bad day.

And it was all her fault.

~Bad Blood~

That night, he went to the bar that was next on his rotation. His body knew that it was Friday and it wanted to find release. He ordered a beer, nothing too strong that might lower his inhibitions. He would drink two beers tonight, as he did every other Friday night. Then he would limit himself to club sodas. There was no need to get drunk. He had no desire to do so. Getting drunk was unwise.

He looked over the available women, glad that he had gotten his car repaired in time to keep his routine as sacred as possible.

Later, he would realize that he should have expected it. It was inevitable the way the day had gone. A woman came to stand beside him. She wasn't dressed as provocatively as some of the women, so he hadn't paid her any attention. His sights were set on women who were likely to be open to a casual fuck. They tended to adorn themselves in the plumage that would get them the attention they desired. His eyes had passed right over her.

So when she spoke, it had surprised him. Edward Cullen still did not appreciate surprises.

"Hello, Mr. Cullen," she said, just loud enough for him to hear.

He stifled the curse that came to his lips and took a sip of his beer instead. When he had regained control of his emotions (control at all times in all things), he turned toward her. "Are you following me?"

She rolled her eyes and took a sip of her drink. He could smell the alcohol from where he stood and wondered if she had already made arrangements to get herself back safely, if she had a hotel room around here. She should know better than to let herself get intoxicated, especially if she was here by herself.

She annoyed him.

"Do you come here often, Mr. Cullen?" she asked.

He ignored her. He was further annoyed when she gave a little chuckle and remained at his side. He contemplated moving away from her but two things kept him where he was. One, this was his usual spot and he wasn't about to give it up simply because she had shown up. Two, giving into his annoyance was just another way of losing control.

Edward Cullen did not lose control.

"Go away," he instructed softly. Then he closed his eyes. He should have simply ignored her.

"Sorry," she said, not sounding sorry at all in his opinion. "But I like it here."

His body craved release and he was not going to leave until he found a likely prospect. Finally, he turned to her. "Why are you here? Why are you harassing me?"

She rolled her eyes at him and he felt the strangest urge to stamp his feet like a little boy. "I'm hardly harassing you," she said. "It's a public place. I'm here. You're here. That's all."

He turned away from her his jaw clenching tightly until he realized it and consciously relaxed it. The woman was insufferable.

"You seem to know a lot about me," he said tightly. "Yet I know nothing about you, miss. Not even your name – and that hardly seems fair, does it?"

She glanced up at him through thick lashes. "I suppose knowing my name would only be fair." But then she said nothing more and he once again had to restrain his emotions. This time he wanted to shake her. In less than 48 hours, this woman was making quick work of crumbling all of the carefully constructed walls in his life and he didn't like it – one bit.

"Well?" he finally ground out.

"Oh, you mean you want me to talk to you now?" Then she frowned. "But I thought you wanted me to stop harassing you?" Only the gleam in her eyes gave her game away; her tone was completely innocent.

"For the love of all that's holy," he muttered, running his fingers through his hair. This would not do. Such gestures were the hallmark of the weak.

She nudged him and he leaned away from her. She ignored his move and held out her hand. "I'm Isabella Swan, but my friends call me Bella."

"Well, Miss Swan, it's not a pleasure to meet you." He felt quite proud of himself for delivering that zinger in a completely polite voice, his expression bland and unconcerned. However, he childishly ignored her hand.

Isabella made a face at him, as if calling him a poor sport. He expected her to move away then, or perhaps annoy him with more questions. Instead, she seemed perfectly content to stand silently at his side. It made it very difficult to scope out prospects for the evening's entertainment. He began to feel a hum of tension run through him and he found his fingers tapping out an agitated rhythm on the side of his leg. He stopped the motion the moment he became aware of it.

A terrible, horrible, no good, very bad day by any standard.

"Are you a reporter?" he shot the question at her during a lull in the music.

She didn't look his way, just shook her head. Then she began shaking her hips when the music started up again. She tugged at his hand, urging him toward the dance floor.

Edward Cullen did not dance.

He remained stubbornly where he was and she finally gave him an exasperated look and moved to the dance floor by herself. She closed her eyes and gave herself up to the music, her body swaying in time with the heavy pulses of sound, her hair moving back and forth along her back like a metronome. Edward rather liked the predictability of the motion so he kept his eyes locked on her. Men moved closer and orbited her, but her eyes remained closed and she seemed unaware of them.

Then the song ended and she came back to stand beside him and he realized, rather belatedly, that he had missed his chance to make his escape. What had come over him?

"You missed a good song," she said. Then she ordered another drink and he frowned. He calculated the amount of alcohol he had seen her consume and estimated her body weight. Unwise. Imprudent. Reckless. These words seemed to describe Isabella Swan. Those were qualities he did not appreciate in anyone.

"I didn't miss it," he mumbled. "I could hear it. I'd have to be deaf not to hear it."

She laughed, and her hair swung as she turned to accept her drink from the barkeep. Her hair brushed his arm. He was grateful that he was wearing a long sleeved shirt, as was his custom. He did not want to feel the softness of her hair on his flesh.

Once more, she fell into what seemed a comfortable silence for her, an exercise in frustration for him.

"So...if you're not a reporter, then you must be a writer. Am I correct? Do you think you're going to write the next true crime book that will set the publishing world on fire?" He let his disdain show through each word.

Isabella shook her head. "No, nothing like that," she said quietly.

"Then why are you ruining my life?" The words came out with rather more heat than he intended and Edward took a deep breath. Control in all things.

Her expression was both sad and shocked when she looked at him. "I'm sorry," she said. "I didn't mean...I should have...Of course...you're right..." She shook her head and picked up her purse. "I'm sorry," she said again. "I won't bother you again."

He watched her leave.

Everything sane and rational inside of him said good riddance. He knew he should resume looking for a woman, get a release for the tension that built up in him over the week. It was a safe release, to lose himself in the warmth of a woman's body for a brief period of time.

Instead, Edward Cullen did something extraordinary. For the first time since he was fourteen years old, he acted on impulse. With a muttered curse, he put aside his routine and chased after her.

His annoyance increased. It was Friday and he was supposed to be getting laid. Twice. Instead, he was chasing after the most infuriating, exasperating, and annoying woman in the world.

When would this terrible, horrible, no good, very bad day ever come to an end?