AN: This chapter has a good bit of changes, especially in Edwards' thoughts.

WARNINGS: This chapter is very heavy. You have been seriously warned.

Chapter 2

~Edward POV~

I guess some would call me weak minded; less than intelligent, someone who loves to feel pain, a person with a twisted outlook of what love truly is or life for that matter.

And I guess I would agree with that assessment, only to a certain degree. I am well aware that I'm weak minded, nor am I very intellectual, but as for calling my outlook on love twisted I beg to differ. I understand that I have not had the best life or been shown "normal love" which is my understanding for a TV program. But it was and is, I guess, life none the less and I get whatever sense of the feeling of love I can receive. I have these things so who am I to complain. One day I could have neither.

This fear of losing what love I do happen to receive terrifies me; I fear loneliness. I have experienced this loss; I have felt the threads of pain through my soul, a stitch of pain and weariness every time I plunder the thought. I can recall a voice over the television explain her deepest despair of losing; losing her parents, her home, her freedom, innocence and the sense of a chance of love that floated by her open eyes. She narrated that she once came upon a poem that read "Loss", she spoke that in the poem the poet had scratched out three words he had written. She said, "You cannot read loss, only feel it." Oh, how true her words ringed in my ears.

My parents gave what they could. It wasn't much. I've always had a roof over my head, well sometimes, both parents even though they were rarely home, and food, well sometimes for that also. None the less I have no room to complain. My childhood was short lived, since I was the care taker for both my drunken and drugged parents. But it was my job to do this for them; my feelings for them were unconditional.

They took care of me as an infant so I only saw it fit and respectable that I returned the gesture. Every since I can remember I was the one to bring the money home. And trust me my parent's, especially my father, knew ways I could bring in the income. I loved both my parents so I did what they asked of me. Every time they asked things of me they said they loved me, and at those words my heart swelled, because for them to utter those sentiments was a rarity. I'd do just about anything for them as long as they expressed endearments. Though if I am honest with myself, sometimes my parents did things to really hurt me, make me feel ashamed, embarrassed, and unworthy but I always stood these things to make them happy. I knew I deserved to be punished, for my parents told me so, and they were always right. In the end I knew every hit I received and every dark verbal slur uttered my way was rightfully given to me.

I never complained. I only wish I still had their love.

Flashback

I was sitting on the grime covered wooded floor on my make sift bed. Today was my ninth birthday but my parents didn't remember. So to entertain myself I collected two cockroaches that where passing my spread out sheets and a left over slice of bed from my breakfast early that morning. My room was basically vacant; I didn't have a bed or even a dresser. I put my clothing on the closest floor. I placed the two insects side by side, holding them in place with my finger and then placed the bread a few inches away from them. My goal was for them to race each other. Times like this I really wished for real friends. Before I could place my attention back to my two new buddies my father's slothy voice shot through my ears along with my half hinged bedroom door. He looked completely wasted.

"Edward, come here son, come to your daddy." Something didn't feel right…well I think it didn't feel right. My body trickled with uneasiness as I made my way to his open hand. I placed my hand in his callous trap as he led me to the living area, and he set me down on his lap.

"You love your papa, right?" No question about it that I did and he knew it. So I nodded.

"You know I love you too son. Always will. But I need you to do something for me and the thing I want you to do will please me greatly. You might be scared at first but it's normal."

That's when I felt his hand move into my baggy jeans, under my boxers and touching me on my private area.

"Dad?" I rasped out, unable to fathom this action.

"I thought you wanted to please your daddy?" he said in a drunken slur. The whiskey on his breath made me feel ill but his actions of rubbing his hand down there installed a reaction that I didn't fully understand. It felt pleasurable but every motion he made screamed it was wrong, so very wrong. But he was touching me, he rarely ever touched me in a gentle manner. I think this action meant he really loved me them. Yes, he loved me.

Still it felt wrong.

"Yes, dad, I do but … this … isn't this wrong?" I started to cry out.

" I love you son, nothing's wrong with showing that."

He loved me, and oh how I loved him. Still it felt wrong.

"I love you to dad, but I …I don't want you down there, can you stop, please." I said, shaking at this point and a small moan/ whimper leaving my lips as my senses became heightened. My private area was kind of becoming a solid. This had never happened before. I didn't understand what was happing to me.

"Oh are you so sure about that son, was that a moan I heard?" I felt something on my behind. It was hard and long and I realized it was the same thing he was playing with on me down there. He started to rub me against it.

"No, I didn't … I didn't mean to make that sound. Please stop I'm begging you! We aren't supposed to be doing this I don't think." Every fiber in my being told me it wasn't right to be in this position with my own father and as I thought about it, it wouldn't have been proper with my mother either. With this thought I tried to remove his hand from the confines of my jeans. A very wrong move. It was as though something almost logical snapped in him, though at the same time a shame he was trying to cover up.

"You little fagot, you trying to seduce your own father!" he yelled at me, slapping me off of him, a sharp pain went through my neck and face because of the blow.

Stunned I just stared at him. I had no clue what he meant by "seduce", I think I was sure I didn't do anything wrong. He was the one who come into my room, sat me on his lap, and touched me where I don't think he should have been, but maybe he should have been there. But maybe I was wrong, maybe those where touches of love.

"Fucking answer me you piece with worthless shit. Did you like making me touch you there? I think you did, your little twinkie dick seem to enjoy it." He pulled me off the ground by my unruly strange looking hair, and pressed me against his stomach and I felt that hard thing again on my chest.

Trembling I answered in a small voice. "Waa... What do you mean? I don't understand. Please I didn't want this."

And I was true to my word, I didn't. My body was responding to its own accord. It was never my intention to give into this foreign sensation. I tried to well it away. Shame washed over me. Yes, this was the cure.

"Don't play coy with me boy. You know what you tried to do. Since you started it then you are going to finish it." I see vacancy in his eyes as he says this. He brings us back to the torn leather couch. As he sets down he pushes me upright until I am stand directly in front of him.

"Strip."

"But… but… it's co...cold." I state hesitantly.

"Strip."

"Don't .."

Wham! I didn't realize he took off his belt as he lashes it to my ribs, the belt wrapping itself around me.

"Strip." I comply. I bow my head as I lower my boxers putting my hands in front of my exposer.

"Daddy I don't like this. I wasn't trying to make you do anything. Isn't this wrong?" I say sobs building in my chest. I ache from the pain in my face, I ache from the pain in my side, and I ache from the pure disgust I feel for what is transpiring.

"You love your daddy don't you? You want to please me; you want me to feel loved, don't you. ?"

"Yes-s."

"Well then, why are you making me unhappy, you're disappointing me. Do you want me to leave?"

"Please, no don't leave me, I do love you. I'm sorry." He smiles at my obvious neediness. My fear of being needed, loved, not alone. I have given him an incentive. And he will use it to his advantage.

The stranger I see before me stands up to remove his clothing as well. This stranger is a strong man, muscles that are threatening to my eyes. They scream control, control and power he can posses over me. His private is pointed at me. Why is it like that? He sits back down on the sofa. That thing is still up but it's not pointing at me it's to the ceiling. Something is seeping from the top. It's like a water fountain, though without the serine beauty fountains have. This thing is an instrument to shattering the familial bonds my father and I would once posse. It is the red line into a dark abyss.

He is looking at me with an expression I feel shouldn't be directed to me. He expands his hand.

"Come here." Says this stranger pulling me to sit over his legs with my thighs on either side of his, the thing is on my stomach, stilling seeping filth, the filth covers my lower stomach. He holds it in his hands moving it up and down. He moans throwing his head back. Why is he moaning, and shouldn't my privates be in the same state his is in?

God where is my savior? Someone save me from the disgust and embarrassment I am feeling. I don't understand any of this. I'm confused. Is this supposed to be happing? He said if I did it, it would please him. So yes this is right to be doing.

No it's not.

He moves his claw to grab my hand and puts it on his thing. It's slippery. I jerk my hand away. If looks could kill I would be dead right now by the look he gave me by my action. The stranger places it back to its previous spot, now his hand is covering mine, moving it up and down. He holds my hand over it with a death grip.

"God... so good. My little fuck boy." He moans out, grunting at the same time. My hand is not mines anymore; my body is not mine anymore. I am not me anymore. I feel acid in my throat. I hold it back along with my tears, along with my shame. I perform this action so he won't leave me, so he will continue to love me. I thought he was supposed to love me without me giving something of myself away. I guess I am wrong.

I don't feel like myself anymore. I am two bodies existing in one. My mind leaves my body so I can see this through.

His motion goes faster against my hand. My arm hurts. I hurt.

The motion stalls. The filth shots out of the thing all over my body some lands on my lip. I can't still my reaction of licking my lips, its flaming fire; its poison.

"Fuck you're better than your sorry ass mother. But I have so much to teach you." He says looking at me. Then something changes. Rage, the eyes never lie. My father throws me off of him. I screech in pain.

"Get off me you dirty faggot." I don't understand, I did what he asked. God he's going to leave me. He gathers his clothing to leave, his back to me.

" NO! Don't leave me please, please just don't." I am not too proud to beg. He turns around to my pledging.

I look at the face of the man whom I called my father. The man that I loved because I had no one else to love, besides my mother, as I will my eyes to look over this now stranger, it's as if I am looking through a liquid transparency. I don't know him. I feel alone in this house, in this house with a man, I feel alone in the blank stare he is giving me, all I see is a cloud of darkness over shadowing everything, I feel abandonment. That very feeling brings a spike of fear through my body. I dislike this feeling. It scares me. I fear loneliness. I scream for my mother, she isn't here. I'm alone. I scream for help. It doesn't come. I'm alone. I pray for a savior, who never shows. I am alone.

Flashback Ends

I knew that night would generate repeats. I loved both my parents so I pleased them. I couldn't be alone and I refused to.

With a deep sigh I resign myself, which is when I notice the time. Oh god. Then I hear a loud thud hitting what sounded like the kitchen island.

"Why the fuck isn't my dinner ready!" Oh my God, James.

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