Disclaimer - I don't own Twilight or its characters, this is written for fun.

A/N Thanks to Rita01TX for applying the polish, Keye for making time in her life to pre read and Claudia for the kick ass banner. I wanted to remind everyone, this is a work of fiction and since I've never spent time in a UK prison, let alone a US one, I'm relying on Google, documentaries and word of mouth for the facts, so please go easy on me.

I want to repeat, this story is going to be a long one. It will be Edward and Bella, but it won't be a quick fix, we need to walk a little in our boy shoes first.

Warning re physical assault applies to this chapter.

I think we've all waited long enough to hear from him. I hope you enjoy.

Chapter 4

EPOV

Wearing soft-soled sneakers, the walk along the steel gantry was surprisingly quiet, just the swishing sound the legs of my jumpsuit rubbing together made as I followed along behind the guard. I deliberately didn't peer into any of the dingy cells we passed, scared of what I might see. Images from The Shawshank Redemption clouded my already shit-scared brain, threatening to send me screaming over the rail if anyone so much as looked at me cross-eyed, let alone cat-called. I tried to project a tough guy image but, as an eighteen-year-old suddenly thrown into a prison full of hardened men, they probably saw right through the outward swagger down to the anxious, green kid I really was.

"In here, Cullen," the guard barked, indicating with his thumb, and I shuffled past him into the cell, my few scant belongings clutched in my hands. A towel, soap, toothbrush, spare underwear and a family photograph…all my worldly goods.

My good upbringing and ingrained manners had my mouth open to say thank you but the anxiety gripping my throat wouldn't let me say the words. Instead, I just stood dumbly and looked around my new home.

Oh, God! I didn't belong in here. Of course, I was guilty of a crime. I'd beat the shit out of Royce and, for that, I suppose I deserved some kind of punishment but, if the real story could be told, I had no doubt he'd be the one standing here quaking in his sneakers and I'd be treated as some kind of local hero. However, I'd made a promise…one that meant burying the truth forever and facing the consequences.

My eyes flickered around. Even though it was only a small cell, my brain refused to take it all in at once, just isolated snapshots of chipped paint on the walls, a steel framed bunk and a girlie calendar hanging ridiculously low on the wall, the topless cutie beaming as she pushed her perky tits in my direction. Her vibrant colors, softness and warmth stood in stark contrast to the cold, steel sink and toilet bowl on the opposite wall. The reality of where I was hit me like a wrecking ball to the gut and I dry heaved.

"Don't fucking puke on anything of mine or I'll break your legs," a voice rumbled from the darkness of the bottom bunk, explaining why Perky Tits was hanging at thigh level.

My heart was thumping painfully against my ribs. I hadn't even noticed I wasn't alone. I squinted into the gloom to make out who was there, terrified by his easy threat of violence. Even though my temper had landed me in here, I didn't really want to have to fight my new roomie...not on the first day, anyway.

"Hey." There was a fucking lump in my throat the size of a golf ball, one big enough to choke me. I nervously juggled my things from one hand to the other. "I'm Edward…Edward Cullen."

Silence. Great. This was going to be a long eight years with no conversation.

He shifted a little and put down the magazine he was reading. I couldn't see the cover but, if I had to guess, I'd put money on there being tits in there, too. His face was in the shadows, giving no indication of his expression but I figured he was sizing me up. I had a decision to make…I could either scuttle off to the top bunk, curl up and cry like a baby or I could gather every ounce of bravado in my six foot two frame and give him attitude, make a stand and let him know who he was dealing with. I could do bad ass…I mean, how tough could this guy be?

"Well, since you're leaving the introductions up to me, maybe I'll just call you Alice?"

Jasper's girl. It was the first name to pop into my head. I kept my voice low, trying to sound menacing. His lack of response left me holding my breath, waiting for the inevitable explosion, my muscles tightening in case I had to throw down.

"'Cause for twenty-four years, I been living next door to Alice!" a disembodied voice from a neighboring cell sang out.

"Alice! Who the fuck is Alice?" several other voices chimed in musically, followed by gales of raucous laughter.

I noticed the guy on the bunk wasn't laughing, though. Slowly dragging himself out from his cave, his large, bare feet slapped the floor and my eyes bugged at the heavy legs and massive thighs attached to them. A meaty fist wrapped around the frame of the bed as he pulled himself out and stood before me.

Uh, I think I might have made a slight miscalculation, this guy was easily three inches taller and about seventy pounds heavier than me. His jumpsuit was hanging half off, the sleeves tied in a knot around his waist to keep them from falling down. Huge, over-developed muscles rippled under the heavily inked skin of his chest and arms. My throat strained in an effort not to swallow as I tried my best to brazen it out. The last thing I needed was to tip him off to the fear induced saliva pooling in my mouth.

"Hey, McCarty! Don't beat up the kid too bad. Dude's got a wicked sense of humor on him," one of the faceless inmates cackled.

McCarty lowered his shaven head and growled, his dark eyes burning into mine.

"Shut the fuck up!" he boomed, glancing away, and there was instant silence beyond the wall.

His glare swiveled back to me. I flexed my jaw and sucked in a deep breath through my nose. There was no way I could back down even though it was obvious I was going to get pulverized. My only hope was if one of the other inmates showed a grain of mercy and called for a guard before I ended up in the prison infirmary.

"Funny guy, huh?"

He swiftly raised his arm and rubbed his chunky fingers across his stubbly chin. I forced myself not to flinch at the sudden movement. It was a test to see what I was made of. Would I would crack, fall to my knees cowering, or beg for mercy?

He nodded sagely. "I can understand that. I enjoy a good laugh just as much as the next guy."

The tension started to ebb from my shoulders. Okay, maybe he was just yanking my chain. We'd probably both have a good laugh about this tomorrow.

"Then again, I do have a reputation to maintain. I can't be seen to just let things slide, if you catch my drift."

Without warning, his sledgehammer fist connected with my temple. Blinding pain radiated through my face before I dropped to the floor and the world went dark.

My head was swimming and I had no idea where I was. I tried to pry my eyes open but winced against the light. My left eye didn't seem to want to cooperate. I groaned and rubbed my palm over my hair as the blurry surroundings began to snap back into focus and misery descended.

I was in bed...no, on a bunk. The top one, judging by the proximity of the ceiling. Gingerly touching my fingertips to my cheek, I prodded around my eye socket. Shit, that hurt but it didn't feel swollen enough to be broken so, most likely, it was just a black eye. My heart sank to my sneakers as I realized I couldn't even remember how I got up here. All I knew was my cellmate had no sense of humor and I didn't know where any of my stuff was. Stolen and shared out between him and his loud-mouthed cronies, no doubt.

I couldn't care less about the toothbrush, or the clean underwear, for that matter, since there was no reason to impress anyone in here. Completely the opposite, in fact. Growing a beard, even a patchy one, and going unwashed, might just have the added benefit of keeping potentially unwanted admirers at bay.

But I did care about the photograph.

Next to the Harley, it was my most precious possession. The only picture I had of him. Most of the time, he'd been the one behind the camera making sure the moment was captured forever; too busy making memories for the rest of us to stop and think he might not be around to look back on them with us. My father, Carlisle Cullen. The man who raised me, shaped me and made sure I knew how to ride his vintage Harley Davidson before he died.

I took a deep breath and stared at the lumpy plaster of the ceiling, trying to force back the tears prickling my eyes.

Like him, that photo was absolutely irreplaceable.

That Neanderthal, McCartney, McCarthy, or whatever the fuck his name was, had no idea how much that simple family snapshot meant to me and I didn't think I could bear to tell him. It would be like offering up my soft underbelly for him to kick. Gut instinct told me this was not the place to show any kind of vulnerability or sentiment. I turned over on the narrow bunk to face the sickly green painted wall and thought of my father. The bed springs creaked under my weight and I heard a movement beneath me.

Great…he was coming back for round two.

"You awake, kid?"

His voice was low, almost a whisper, and close to my ear. At his height, he didn't need to step onto the ladder to reach me.

It was my turn to ignore him. The masochistic rebel in me wanted to call him Alice again, just to poke the damn tiger, but I managed to contain myself.

"Here," he said, then moved away.

I raised my head to look back over my shoulder and there was my mom and dad and my sister, Rose, all grinning wildly next to me in the sunshine. I carefully picked up the image and fingered the bent over corner.

"Um, thanks," I mumbled. He'd already disappeared, the springs creaking as he sank back onto his bunk.

"No problem," the voice rumbled. "She's a real pretty girl."

I glanced at Rose, her head resting on my shoulder, seeing her for the first time through a stranger's eyes. She wasn't pretty; she was stunning. Willowy and graceful, like a ballet dancer, with long blonde hair and clear blue eyes, her celluloid grin wide and bright. It had been so long since she'd felt the urge to smile and that was the thing I missed most about her. A pang of sadness stabbed me in the chest and I said a silent prayer she'd somehow find a way to be happy again one day.

"Yeah, she is."

There was a beat of silence and I drew a finger over "happy" Rose's image before shifting my gaze to my father, his arms wrapped loosely around my mother's shoulders as she gazed up at him. We all looked too happy, like actors posing on a film set. A fake family, made up of specially selected, beautiful people. I couldn't bear to look at it any longer…not tonight. The emotions it evoked were still too raw. I tucked it under my pillow and lay with an arm slung over my eyes, desperately trying to empty my mind before the lights went out.

I don't care how tough you think you are; the first night in prison is terrifying.

The electric cell door bolts swung across, locking us in and the lights dimmed. It wasn't quite dark enough to conceal the truth of our surroundings, allowing me to pretend I was back home lying in my own bed instead of this barely adequate facility mattress in a cement lined box. Odd, disembodied voices floated through the gloom, calling out before rough authority bellowed for them to can it.

This is the time where loneliness and regret stalks you, the ghosts of misdemeanors past. It's the time when you are reduced to your component parts. If you're lucky, you'll find sleep quickly, freeing your mind to roam far beyond the bars and without the mandatory orange jumpsuit. Otherwise, it's a long night of guilt and aching remorse dancing around your brain, taunting you with if onlys and what could have beens.

For me, it was the grinning face of my best friend, Jasper Hale. I pictured him leaning casually against the flat bed of his truck, feet crossed at the ankles with the brim of his cream colored Stetson pulled low as if shielding him from an angry, Texas sun. Even in high summer, Forks could never give him the fierce heat his southern soul craved.

In my memories, he was waiting for Alice to swing by, ready to give her a ride to wherever the hell she needed to go. She was his girl and damn near as crazy about him as a girl could get. Jasper had been my best friend since kindergarten and there was no way I was going to let a girl who only wanted the use of his truck lead him around by the nose so I'd put some time into studying her reactions. As it turned out, I didn't need to worry…it was all right there in her eyes. That flash of excitement whenever he walked in the room, the way she would steal glances at him when she thought no one else was watching, and the way they lit up as he whispered sweet promises in her ear. Yeah, there was no doubt about it. She was his girl, through and through.

It made my heart ache. No one had ever looked at me with that depth of devotion and, now that I'd screwed up my whole life, I doubted anyone ever would. I was here for years, rotting on the inside, while my outside hardened. I didn't know how much hurt I would have to take or inflict to survive my time in this place but I knew everything would leave a mark. Some would be visible, some deeply hidden; a combination of heavy scar tissue and denial to seal away this young boy's innocence forever.

It was dark and the streetlight in front of Royce's parent's house was about to give up the ghost. It fizzed and crackled and, with its final death throes, cast a golden light across the wet asphalt that waxed and waned. By choosing to stand to the side, I avoided being painted by its glow, preferring instead to be cloaked in charcoal shadows.

From this vantage point, I could see into the living room. There he was, sprawled out like an idle king on a leather recliner while the football highlights played on the big flatscreen. He held a cold one in his hand and looked relaxed, unruffled, like it could have been any other night.

Fucking sadistic bastard.

That was the night everything changed. I felt the rage building into a white hot, seething animal, coiling around my guts like a python, squeezing me in a pulsing, constricting pressure, softening me up before it chose to swallow me whole. The more he raised the can to his lips, or grinned at the screen, the more my anger intensified its grip.

I wanted to scream, to throw back my head and howl until my lungs ached and my throat grew raw, to call him out into the street with a tribal war cry, but I couldn't move. I was pinned to the ground with feet of lead. Through narrowed eyes, I watched as he wiped a rogue dribble of beer from his chin with the back of his hand and winced at the tenderness of his knuckles.

That did it.

In an instant, I was shocked into mobility again, my legs moving, taking me closer to the property line. My hand slid into my pocket to retrieve a small cell phone, its glitzy case shimmering pink in the moonlight.

"Royce, come to me."

That was all it took. I saw his jaw flex as he read the text, believing it came from her. A moment's hesitation while he raked his fingers through his hair before he was on his feet and storming through the house, car keys in hand.

My heart was thundering in my chest, breath coming in short gasps as I hid among the bushes, waiting for him to emerge into the chill night air.

It didn't take long. He jogged down the stone steps at the front of the house and cut across the lawn to the spot where he'd abandoned his car.

I let him get within a foot of his goal before I struck, coming up fast from behind and throwing my jacket over his head to startle him.

He tried to fight back. I wouldn't expect anything less from such an aggressive asshole but I had the element of surprise and a seemingly bottomless well of rage and hatred to fuel my fury. He never stood a chance.

I attacked him on autopilot, a frenzy of fists and feet as I rained down a volley of unending, bone crunching punches and kicks, each one harder than the last. Eventually, he stopped trying to lash out and pulled himself into a fetal position, his hands seeking to protect his head. I was out of control, flashes of her face, the bruises, the blood, dancing through my mind. I was doing this for her, delivering the vengeance and justice she couldn't.

He fell to the ground, whimpering as my grunts became louder, an outlet for the pain as my knuckles split open. But I still wouldn't stop. He had to pay. I needed him to suffer like she had, to feel the pain and humiliation she felt. I was only sorry we were on his parent's soft, manicured lawn and not in some grubby, back alley with hard, wet asphalt under his back.

There was blood…so much. It was everywhere; on my hands, more of it on him. I didn't know whose it was and I didn't care. He had to pay for what he'd done.

My knuckles were so busted up I couldn't form a fist anymore so I relied on my feet. His body had long since gone limp. It was like kicking against a rolled up carpet. I knew he was unconscious and that it was time to pull away but I couldn't stop...couldn't or wouldn't. I wasn't sure any more.

Royce's body sagged over onto its back, one arm flopping to the side and I saw his face. Only it wasn't his face…it was mine. Glassy, green eyes stared up at the sky without focus. The skin was bloodied and swollen but it was definitely my lantern jaw that hung slack, shaping my mouth into a silent cry for help.

I screamed in fear and pain. Staggering back from the abomination at my feet, my eyes slid shut.

Strong hands gripped my shoulders and shook me roughly. I blinked my eyes open and found myself lying on a strange mattress, sweat-soaked and disorientated, staring through the gloom into the concerned eyes of McCarty.

"Jesus, man! That was some nightmare," he whispered and I wondered why he bothered keeping his voice down when I'd been making enough noise to wake the dead. "You okay?"

"Um, yeah. I...yeah," I croaked, my throat feeling tender, like it had been sandblasted. I must have been doing some serious screaming. "It was a dream."

"Well, shit. You keep having dreams like that, the next eight years are gonna feel like a fuckin' life sentence."

A life sentence! It all crashed over me with the force of a tidal wave. What the hell had I done? Suddenly I couldn't breathe. I don't know where I thought I could go but I needed to get away. Gasping for air, I fought against my cellmate's grip and the contents of my stomach rolled over, making me retch.

"Oh, no you don't!" he yelled, snatching me clean off my bunk and dumping me next to the cold steel of the toilet as if I weighed less than a limp rag doll.

I gripped the sides of the bowl, my knuckles turning white as I gave up trying to contain my panic and let my body get on with purging itself.

"Listen, mamma's boy. This better not be a regular thing. Place smells badafuckin'nough without you puking every five minutes."

My throat was on fire and my sides ached. I felt like curling up in the corner and crying but something inside didn't want me giving McCarty the pleasure of seeing me crack; not this soon, anyway. Drawing in a deep, calming breath, I dragged myself to my feet, rinsed my mouth out and crawled back up to my bunk.

He scratched the back of his neck as he watched me pass before muttering something under his breath and shuffling back onto his own mattress.

With aching guts, I turned on my side and stared at the lumpy concrete wall, willing away the still clear image of myself lying battered and broken on the dew-soaked grass. My fingers crept under the pillow to find some comfort at touching the edge of my family's photograph.

A/N Don't know if y'all have heard the Roy "Chubby" Brown version of Living Next Door to Alice, but if you have you'll have got the joke.

Thoughts...

Claire x