Edward
Edward opened his eyes in the early morning darkness of Bella's apartment. He lay curled around her, face buried in her sweet-smelling hair. Her breathing was peaceful and even. He rested there a moment, enjoying the sensation of holding her. His internal clock told him it was around five in the morning. He never needed much sleep, and usually got out of bed immediately in the early mornings, using the time to work and plan for the day. It meant his adversaries were behind from the moment they got up. He had never given a lover the pleasure of waking up beside him.
But today—he decided that today would be different.
He smiled into the darkness. The night had been fulfilling in more ways than one.
Laurent had called him during the night with the coded responses that indicated that the location of the clubhouse was safe for the foreseeable future, and that more cops had been made to look like incompetent fools. They would be more vulnerable at the next round of budget cuts. No evidence of Rapture possession had been traced to Volterra, and the cops were chasing after his planted red herrings.
He brought his lips to the back of Bella's head, kissed her. She murmured in her sleep but did not awaken. He remembered Bella's beautiful, firm body lying under his, her innocent, soft cries and all-consuming kisses. She had been so responsive to his touch, so delightfully enthusiastic about following his lead. The intensity of his own reaction to her had stunned him.
Bella had whispered, "I love you," after they had taken pleasure together. For the first time, he had felt an odd twinge at those words. He had heard them many times before from so many people, and it had previously only given him a sense of gratification. Yet another soul had fallen to his blandishments.
Under his control.
Control.
Power.
He craved it, intensely, more than anything else. For so long, nothing had mattered more than bringing as many people as possible under his dominion, expanding his own influence and wealth by whatever means necessary.
He needed power, so that he could never be touched again.
So that no one could hurt him again.
But now for the first time he wondered if there was something more.
Last night had been overwhelming. Terrifying. Completely different from anything he had felt in his life. When they made love Bella had held him as though she would never let him go. It had been her first time, so he was not surprised that she should be so emotionally affected. But what was surprising was his own reaction. It disturbed him like nothing had for many years.
He had truly thought himself incapable of feeling certain emotions, had thought they had been burned out of him long ago. He had accepted that state, even welcomed it; emotions only limited his actions, hindered his rational, linear progression towards his goals.
But now, with Bella warm in his arms, he wondered. A part of him he had thought long dead was coming to life again. Although it was intensely painful, he did not want it to stop. The way a person with nerve damage welcomes the pain of pins and needles as the signal of awakening life, so did this pain remind him of another Edward Cullen, of the child he had been a lifetime ago, when he had once been loved, so long ago, before everything changed.
He still remembered bits and pieces from his early life, odd and disconnected scenes, snippets of emotion. He remembered his mother, warm and beautiful with long curly hair that he could grab in his small fists, soft hair that tickled his skin when she bent over him. How comfortable and secure it was to be held in her arms, and how sweetly she sang to him, although he could no longer remember the tunes. She smelled like flowers, and her voice itself was like a melody.
She played games with him, reading and counting games. She had been so proud of him when he loved math. She cut up his meat and he counted the pieces and laughed. She clapped her hands and he spun in a circle, jumped up and down.
But so much was gone. What was left was vague as though a gauzy curtain had been drawn over it.
On the other hand, everything afterwards had been seared into his memory. In sharp focus.
Sharp, cold focus.
He had been five years old. He was at home watching television after dinner with his parents and older sister when four intruders burst into their house. He remembered glancing up from the TV, uncomprehending, as they entered the living room.
"All right!" one shouted. "Everybody down and don't move!" The boy froze, staring at what he realized was a gun.
His father, tall, dark-haired and imposing, stood up slowly. "What is the meaning of this?"
The leader pointed his gun at him. "Shut up and get down on the floor!"
It happened in what seemed like an instant. His father, enraged, charged the guy and managed to knock him to the ground. But one of the others must have fired. The shot was so loud, the young boy felt it in his eardrums and mouth more than he heard it, and the echoes rang in his head, muting the sound of the television. His father crumpled to the floor and blood oozed from beneath his shirt.
His mother screamed. She was crying, shrieking in panic and fear. One of the others slapped her face. "Shut up, bitch!" But she seemed unable to stop. His sister sobbed and wailed, adding to the din.
"Shut up or I'll shoot you all!" someone shouted.
The young boy, crouching motionless on the floor, wanted to urge his mother and sister to please be quiet; couldn't they see what was going to happen?
And then it did. Two more gunshots made the boy's ears ring even more. His mother and sister collapsed on the floor. Blood spurted from his mother's wound and spread across the hardwood floor.
"Come on! Tie him up and let's go." One of them pulled out a couple of zip ties and locked the boy's wrists to the arm of a heavy wooden chair. They pounded up the stairs.
He heard them stomping and cursing upstairs. He stood alone in the living room staring at his family, not moving, for what seemed like a very long time. Eventually, there were more thumps on the stairs; they ran downstairs and were gone.
He learned later that it had all been a mistake: their neighbor had been involved in a drug deal, and had kept cash in his mattress. Somehow their house had been mistaken for his. His family had been shot over nothing.
He stood there, chained to the arm of the chair, listening to the footsteps die away. And then it was silent in the living room that had once held the three people he loved most in his life. In the silence he gradually became aware that his mother was still alive. She was whimpering and gasping.
"Mommy," he called, but she did not respond, just continued with tiny moans and cries of pain. Blood seeped from her wound. 911, he thought, he had to call 911. The telephone was on the kitchen counter. He began dragging the heavy chair, slowly, in that direction. The sharp plastic hurt his wrists, but he kept on going.
After what seemed like a very long time he managed to get to the kitchen. But he had a problem. He could see the telephone, just above his eye level, on the counter. But he couldn't reach it with his hands locked to the chair. He tried lifting his bound hands to counter level. He tried over and over again, but he was just not strong enough. He tried to see if he could reach the phone with his head, push the buttons with his nose or mouth, but he was just a little too short. He collapsed over the chair arm. His eyes stung with tears.
Then he told himself he must not cry, and the tears dried up. He tried to slide his hands out of the zip ties, but they were clamped over his wrists too tightly.
He thought of trying to get out the kitchen door to go for help, but he could not reach the doorknob. He thought of flicking the light switch on and off to signal a neighbor, but it was also out of his reach. He tried shouting for help, but no one came.
So he methodically attempted once more to slip his hands out of the zip ties. He worked and worked at it for a long time, as the whimpers and cries from the living room gradually became fainter and fainter until they stopped altogether.
When they finally found five-year-old Edward the next morning, still handcuffed to the chair in the kitchen, the soft skin of his wrists was so battered it looked like raw meat. The ties and chair arm were covered in blood.
Much later, they told him his family was dead, but he didn't cry. He never cried again.