Chapter 34

Haunted. Grief-stricken. Lost.

Edward's expression looks as pained as I've ever seen it, including on the day of Esme's funeral.

His face is pale, and his hair sticks out in every direction as if he's been pulling on it. There are dark hollows under his red-rimmed eyes, which somehow manage to be swimming with emotion and flat at the same time. He can only hold my gaze for a moment, and then he chokes back a sob, his chin falling to his chest. Tears leak out from behind tightly closed lids.

I have to look away or I'll start to feel sorry for him. I can't let that happen. Not this time.

Carlisle puts a hand on Edward's elbow and guides him over to an armchair on the other side of the room from where I'm sitting.

"Are you sure you're up to this?" the weary blond man asks me again. "You don't owe anything to anyone, especially him."

Edward cringes at the thinly-veiled reproach.

I let out a long, trembling sigh. "I know. But it's got to happen at some point. I just want to get it over with."

Carlisle stares at me for several seconds before answering. "Alright," he says at last. "Cee and I will wait in the kitchen. We won't be trying to listen in, but if you need one of us, all you have to do is speak up." His gaze shifts to Edward, who is hunched over in his seat, his hands covering his face. "I'll be back in about twenty minutes to see how things are going."

I barely notice when he leaves the room; my attention is on the one who managed to turn my world upside down overnight. It's weird how he seems so young and lost and defeated after what he did. My conflicted emotions are fighting more than ever, and I have no idea how to begin the conversation.

Edward does it for me.

"I'm sorry," he whispers to the floor, not able to look at me. "I'm so, so sorry."

His voice is breathy and rough, like wind through dry leaves. The words hang in the space between us as I try to figure out how to respond.

First things first, I guess.

"How, Edward?" I ask dully. "How could you do that to me? How could you think it was okay?"

"I-I don't know!" he cries, grabbing at his hair and pulling hard. "Everything in my head was spinning around, and there's so much I can't remember..."

"Huh, imagine that," I reply, letting sarcasm warm my monotone inflection. "You know, lots of guys get trashed all the time, but you don't see them trying to r—" My throat closes. I swallow angrily and try again. "They're not forcing themselves on someone else like you did. You'll have to come up with a better excuse than being drunk."

"I can't…I don't…there isn't any excuse!"

He looks like he's about to fall apart any second. I understand that feeling—really, I do—but am tired of the burning eyes and stuffy nose. Now's the time for answers. Shaking my head in frustration, I grit my teeth and blow a gust of air out through my lips.

"Why were you even drinking in the first place? No, wait...go back further than that." If we talk about the worst things he did right away, there's a good chance I'll be too upset to find out the whole story.

"Let's start with what happened at Primo's. The jealousy and the stuff you said about my clothes—you realize I'll never be okay with that, right? I meant it when I told you I'm not like the women and girls at your church who wear long skirts and keep quiet and always let the men be in charge. Is that what you want? The way you were going off last night about me dressing like a slut and making you look bad—do you really feel like that? Or did you just say that stuff because you've heard it from your dad...er, Mr. Masen...so many times before...?"

"No, of course I don't really think those things!" Edward replies quickly.

Almost…too quickly.

Eyes narrowed in doubt, I study his desperate, panicked expression. Right now, he'd probably agree with anything I said. But it won't help matters if he can't be honest with me—or with himself.

I need to dig deeper.

"How do I know you really mean that? Tell me why it was such a big deal last night when you never talked to me about it before," I demand. "Yeah, you've always been a little possessive—which is actually kind of nice in small doses—but you looked like you were about to start a fight with Eric right there in front the restaurant!" I pause for a second when I hear how loud I'm getting. After taking a deep breath, I continue at a lower volume. "And what about your problems with my clothes? That came out of nowhere. Has all this been building up for you, or did something randomly set you off...?"

"Well, I…I…" Edward's fingers dig into his thighs as his gaze becomes unfocused. He goes quiet for a long minute, just staring at his hands on his legs. Every so often, his mouth opens and closes like he's trying to tell me something but isn't able to make the words come out.

"What is it?" I probe when the silence gets to be too much. "Just tell me already. I need to know what the hell was going on with you."

His responding mumble is so low that I can't understand it.

"What?" I snap, growing more irritated by the second.

"I couldn't stop thinking about it," he blurts out. "The stuff Brother James said—I couldn't get it out of my mind."

"James?" I'm both surprised and confused at the mention of the man's name in this particular conversation. "What does James have to do with—"

But Edward's so worked up that he doesn't notice I'm talking. "And I knew none of it was true…" he rambles on. "I knew...I know it's not…" His fists thud down hard on his legs.

"What wasn't true?"

I've already heard plenty from Mr. Masen about what he thinks of me, so I'm not expecting anything different or surprising from James. But I want to know exactly what it was that influenced Edward's actions last night.

He hesitates before stuttering out a reply. "I know you're not that type of person, Bella. He was wrong. I mean, I know you're not the same as Potiphar's wife—a temptress so full of the lust of flesh and pride that she sent an innocent man to prison. I know you're not a harlot like Delilah who seduced Sampson, tricked him into betraying his vows to the Lord, and then brought about his downfall."

He glances quickly at me, like he's embarrassed.

"If anything," he whispers, "you're Queen Esther…smart and beautiful and brave…the one who risked her own life to save others."

It's obvious that he's sincere, but I'm no closer to understanding the connection.

"Well, it's nice of you to say and all," I huff, "but if you really think that, then why did you accuse me of dressing like a 'harlot'—as you so nicely put it—to get attention? You really hurt my feelings."

"I know, I'm sorry!" Edward cries. "It was stupid—I was stupid. I just got so jealous and mad when I saw you with that guy! My head was messed up from Brother James, and the things I said to you sort of...came out. I know I should've apologized right away, but I was embarrassed and upset and—"

"Hold on," I interrupt loudly. "You still haven't told me why you were thinking about James all of the sudden. Why was he even in your head? Does that...does that happen a lot?" I frown, worried about the implications. "Maybe you should talk to Dr. Anderson about this."

"I did! That's the whole reason I was so messed up! He's been saying that I needed to talk about what happened or else it would eat away at me forever, and yesterday, he just wouldn't let it go. He kept pushing me to tell him about that night, and how Brother James attacked me, and h-how I fought back and…" Edward's anguished eyes flutter closed. "I told him," he whispers brokenly. "I told him how I killed Brother James."

My responding gasp is loud and immediate.

Of all the things that could've come out of his mouth, that was about the last thing I expected.

It's been three months since Mr. Masen's attack, and Edward's been to a lot of therapy sessions. He's opened about his dad, the way he was raised, Esme's death…but not once has he gone into any sort of detail about what happened that night in Emmett and Rosalie's backyard.

All anyone knows, including the police, is that Edward tried to fend off an attack and James somehow ended up bleeding to death from a cut on his neck. Because everyone was wearing winter gloves, neither Edward's prints nor his dad's were on the long knife that made fatal wound. Mr. Masen told investigators that Edward had killed James. Edward didn't deny it, saying only that he couldn't remember much about the entire incident. And given how badly he'd been hurt, no one pushed him on the subject. The police cited both self-defense and a lack of evidence when deciding not to press charges.

Edward's psychiatrist, however, thinks it's important for him to try recalling what happened. According to Edward, Dr. Anderson believes he's repressing the memories. Sometimes I wonder if maybe he remembers more than he lets on but just doesn't want to talk about it.

Looks like I'm about to find out if I was right.

"I never heard him coming," Edward intones in a barely-there murmur. "Maybe if there wasn't so much snow…or if my hat hadn't been over my ears…I dunno, maybe things would've been different…"

I want to argue that there's no point in thinking about the "what ifs," but instead mash my lips together to keep from making a sound. He's finally opening up to me, and I don't want to shut him down by accident.

"I'd just finished getting the wood from the pile and was about to turn around when someone grabbed me from behind. I tried to fight back, but there was a hand around my neck, cutting off all my air. The next thing I know, I'm waking up on the ground and Brother James is waving a makhaira in my face."

"That's when h-he...um, Masen...came out from behind the shed," Edward stutters, visibly shaken by the memory. "Brother James went over to him, and they both started talking about all the sins I'd committed, how they planned to deliver me from evil.

"I wasn't really listening; I was too busy trying to get my breath back. I just kept coughing and choking. But then I heard them say your name..."

Edward's face twists into a pained grimace.

"I wish I hadn't," he rasps. His gaze drops back down to his hands, which now lie palm-up over his knees. "What they were saying—the things I told you—it was the worst kind of blasphemy. I couldn't stand to hear it. I just…couldn't let it go on."

"What happened?" I ask, my heart beating faster. Even though it's all over, though he's only telling the story, I feel an irrational—yet very real—fear for him.

"I jumped up and tackled Brother James…I think." Edward's brows knit together. "It all happened so fast. I remember slamming him against the side of the house and trying to get the makhaira from him. We fought, but it didn't take long for him to turn us around and pin me. He held the makhaira against my neck and said he'd kill me if I gave them anymore trouble. But I was just so mad. I told him I'd rather be dead than go with them.

"And then he laughed. He laughed and said it would be shame to kill me, but at least I'd get to see my mom again in Hell. He said that...that…" Edward's voice gives out, and he has to try again. "He said that soon you'd be joining us, too, and I just...lost it. I started hitting and kicking, and somehow, I managed to get a hand on the makhaira. I was just trying to stop him, trying to make sure he could hurt anyone, but the next thing I know, he was...he was gasping and holding his neck and there was blood everywhere and he stared at me like he couldn't believe it and...and…"

Just when I think Edward's about to break down into tears, his jaw shifts, and his eyes harden. I can tell he's biting hard on the inside of his cheek to keep his emotions from spilling out.

"I'd forgotten that Brother James wasn't alone," he goes on after a few seconds of internal struggle. "My d—Masen grabbed me and threw away the makhaira in my hand. You came out of the house right after that, so I guess you know the rest."

"Yeah," I whisper sadly. "I know the rest."

Our eyes meet, and he can't hold it in any longer.

"I killed him, Bella!" he sobs. "Brother James is dead because of me! And if you hadn't stepped in, I would've killed my d-dad, too! I'm a sinner of the worst kind. I don't blame you for not wanting to be with me."

"Edward, come on now, that has nothing to do with—"

"But it does," he insists. "What I did to them...I couldn't get it off my mind, even after I left Dr. Anderson's office. For the rest of the day, I tried to act like it wasn't bothering me, but I kept seeing their faces and hearing their voices and thinking of how I was just as evil as them. Then, later, when I found you talking to Eric, part of me thought you'd be better off with a guy like him. You know—a guy who's normal, who didn't grow with religious freaks for parents, someone who didn't try to kill his dad and who actually killed one of his dad's best friends." Edward shakes his head sadly. "Even then, I knew you deserved someone better than me. But when I thought about you being with anyone else, I couldn't stand it! I was sick to my stomach and angry at the same time. I couldn't let it happen. I had to get you away from Eric."

"And that's one of the places where you went so wrong," I say quietly. "You can't make those decisions for me; I won't let you. You can't tell me who I can be friends with or what kind of clothes are okay to wear. You can't decide what's best for me all on your own. And you most definitely can't…" My voice cracks from the flood of emotion rising in my throat. "You can't decide my feelings on sex and then come up some stupid, horrible plan where you fucking ra—force yourself on me so that we'll be cool in the eyes of your god! I mean, really, Edward, what the hell was going through your fucked-up head last night?"

I don't realize that I've gotten off the couch and am stalking toward him with fisted hands until Carlisle's concerned voice cuts through my angry fog.

"Is everything okay in here?" he asks, standing in the entryway to the living room. "Do you need to take a break, or…?"

"No, we're good," I grit out, glowering at Edward as if daring him to say otherwise. I send Carlisle the most reassuring look I can come up with and go back to my seat. "I was just about to find out what went down at the fun party he went to."

After staring hard at both of us, Carlisle nods, reluctantly, and returns to the kitchen. I'd bet he's more shocked by my language then the volume. He knows I'm not a fan of swear words; Mama always cussed a lot more whenever Greg was around.

Edward seems even more stunned than Carlisle, but I don't have any patience left for him.

"Well, let's hear it," I growl, crossing my arms as I lean back against the couch cushions. "Tell me about how you got trashed with your BFFs while sitting around talking about how to get in my pants."

He opens his mouth as if to correct me, but my scathing glare makes him think better of that. His shoulders slump forward when he finally does speak.

"I never even wanted to drink," he murmurs ruefully. "By the time we got to Josh's house, all I wanted to do was come back here and tell you how sorry I was. I figured I'd call Carlisle since no one was gonna be ready to leave, but then, uh, I sorta got sidetracked. Everyone at the party made such a big deal when Cole and the rest of us walked in the door. Josh and some other seniors came over to say hi, and I couldn't just leave in the middle of them being so nice, you know? It would've been really rude."

"Glad to see you've got your priorities straight," I mutter, my voice full of spiteful sarcasm.

"I'm so sorry, Bella," he laments. "It was really stupid, and at the time—"

I cut him off with a sharp wave of my hand. "Forget it. Keep going. I'm waiting to hear how all this alcohol got in your system when you supposedly didn't want to drink in the first place."

"Well, uh, I...I…" Edward's clearly flustered by my harsh tone as he stumbles to tell the story. "When the group split up, I told Cole that I was gonna go. He tried to change my mind since it was my first party and all, but I really wanted to see you. Grant argued with him and said that he knew how much it sucked to be in trouble with your girl. Then he told me you'd be more willing to forgive me if I...uh...uh..went down on you."

Edward's face is bright red as he mumbles out the words, and mine quickly turns the same color.

For all the actual sex I've heard and seen during my life, it's almost kind of funny how embarrassed I can get about the subject.

"I guess I looked really confused," he continues reluctantly. "Grant figured out right away that I didn't know what it meant. He laughed and called Kevin over so they could educate me on, um, 'how to be a man.'"

I groan at the thought of what the other guys probably told Edward. I'm sure he got an earful, complete with plenty of graphic details. It must've been a shocking eye-opener for him.

"At one point, someone handed me a little cup with watery green stuff in it, and I wasn't really paying attention when I drank it. Cole smacked me on the back after I made a face at the weird taste and asked me if that was my first Jello shot. Then he asked if I knew how to take a tequila shot." Edward pauses to rub his hands across his still-red face. "I felt like such a clueless idiot, so when they said they'd teach me, I went with it."

Even if I didn't already know how it turned out, it wouldn't be hard to guess. In fact, now that I think about it, it'd be more of a surprise if he hadn't gotten smashed, especially since he was by himself with the other guys. A tiny bit of guilt over abandoning him creeps into my mind, but I quickly beat it back. He's the one who screwed up, not me.

And Edward is having no problems admitting that himself.

"I should've left right away, and none of this would've happened," he cries into his hands. "Or even after that first Jello thing, I probably would've been okay. But I guess the tequila hit me pretty hard because I started feeling kinda happy. I started to forget what had been bothering me. Nothing seemed to matter as much anymore—what Brother James said, how I reacted to it, what I did to him, the terrible way I treated you—none of it seemed as bad. It felt like, for the first time since Mom died, everything was going to be okay...and I didn't want that feeling to stop.

"I don't know how much I ended up drinking, but at some point, I started to get sick. I threw up a couple times, and after that, everything bad I'd been feeling came back—only worse. I knew I'd screwed up again, and I got scared. I was sure you'd leave me to be with someone else. But all the other stuff about Brother James and my dad was running around in my head, too, and for some reason, I thought of that Exodus verse. It seemed like the perfect answer. If we would, uh, lay together and I did what the guys told me, you'd be happy. I'd be happy because our shared sin would mean we'd have to get married, and then I'd never have to worry about you leaving me, no matter what kind of person I was in the past." Edward shakes his head, his face still buried in his hands. "And that's what last night was about. I know it doesn't make much sense now, but that's why I did...what I did."

Holding back an exhausted sigh, I stare at his trembling form. It takes me a minute to gather the mental energy to respond, and even then, I have to force the words out.

"I'm not sure exactly how to feel about all this," I finally say. "There's a part of me that can sort of understand it, especially after finding out about your therapy session yesterday. Telling Dr. Anderson about James is huge for you, and I'm really glad you did. I just...I wish I'd known he'd come up in your session; I probably wouldn't have taken the things you said as seriously. Heck, I probably would've been trying to make you feel better instead of going off on you. Then maybe I would've stayed, and you wouldn't have gotten drunk, and...and..."

"Yeah," he replies morosely when I trail off into silence. "I should've talked to you or at least given you a clue instead of trying to pretend nothing was wrong. But I was just so sick of it, you know?" His fingers curl into his wrinkled flannel pants. "I'm so sick of feeling bad all the time, of thinking about how messed up my life has been! I just wanted to go to the basketball game with you and forget everything else!"

I can't tell by his voice if he's angry or sad; probably he's both. I know I am, and a whole lot more. I'm mad at the crappy situation we're in and everything that's led up to it. I'm pissed at Cole, Grant, Kevin, and anyone else who played a part in Edward's condition last night. And of course I'm furious at Edward for what he did to me and to himself.

I'm frustrated because I'm sick of feeling bad, too. My own therapist tells me I'm on the right track to healing, but that track seems too long and too hard. I want everything to be better now, for me and for Edward.

But most of all, I'm sad. Sad and broken-hearted. Because despite how I can make sense of Edward's actions last night, despite how truly sorry I know he is, I've come to realize that it's not enough for me.

Our friendship has had its problems, especially over the past year, but this problem...this one's just too much. I can't forget what he did, and I can't put it behind me. Not now, and not anytime soon. He scared me, he hurt me, and worst of all, he broke my trust. I don't know if he'd ever be able to get it back. I don't know if I even want him to.

My heart lurches painfully in my chest at the thought of what I'm about to do. I wonder if maybe I should wait, maybe I should think over my decision longer before saying things that will crush us both. But deep down, I know my mind's not going to change, and the longer I put this off, the harder it will be on us both.

"I think you're a good person, Edward," I begin in a whisper, my eyes dropping to a spot on the rug in front of his chair. "I think we're both good people who had really bad stuff happen to us. You've been my best friend for a long time and helped me get through the worst of it. That means so much to me, and I'll always love you for it."

"Bella," he breathes in sudden, wondrous surprise. Though I'm not looking at him, I can tell that happiness is written all over his face.

It kills me to keep going, but I make myself plow ahead before I can lose my nerve.

"Yes, I care about you: I always have, and I always will. But that can't fix everything...it's just not that simple." Stinging tears well in my eyes, but I ignore them. "The problem is that, this time, you were the one who did the really bad stuff. I know you didn't mean to, and I know you're sorry, but it's just not...there's no way you can...not for this…"

I'm floundering as it is, but then I make the mistake of glancing up at him. If there was hope in his eyes a minute ago, it's long gone now, replaced by fear and anguish.

I think somehow, already, he knows.

"What are you trying to say, Bella?" he rasps, his lips barely moving. "You can't forgive me?"

My lungs feel like they're struggling to take in air, and my pulse pounds in my ears.

"It's not about that," I manage to choke out.

"Then what? Tell me how to make things right with you. Tell me how to fix this, fix us!"

The tears spill over my lashes. "I don't think you can."

"No." His head shakes slowly back and forth. "No, there has to be a way. Whatever it is, I'll do it. I'll do anything...please, Bella…"

The red around his damp eyes makes the familiar green inside seem brighter than ever. I remember being filled with happiness every time I saw that unique shade peeking through the hole in rickety fence between our houses. Without a doubt, the best moments of my young life happened in the presence of those eyes.

But I also remember their drunken darkness hovering inches above my face as his body weight pushed me into the mattress last night, as he held my hands above my head, as I struggled to get away…

The feeling of terror tightens in my chest, and I jump up from the couch.

"It won't work, Edward!" I cry. "It's too late. You can't undo what happened, and now...now I can't be near you, I can't look at you, I can't even think of you without remembering. It's too much for me to handle, and I need...I need to go. I need to go now."

I start to move toward the kitchen but then freeze in place when Edward leaps up, too.

"Wait! Are you leaving, or are you...leaving?"

"I'm sorry! God, I'm so, so sorry." I can barely see now for the tears flooding my vision.

"No, please, no!" Edward gasps. "Don't do this. You're the most important thing in the world to me. I need you. I love you!"

A broken sob shudders through him as he throws himself to the floor, his knees folded under his body, his forehead pressed against the rug.

"Have mercy upon me…according to your lovingkindness; according to the multitude of your tender mercies, blot out my transgressions…"

Startling backward, I stare down in alarm at his prone figure as he passionately recites what I think is a Bible verse. The phrases slip out of his mouth without effort or hesitation, as if he has spoken them many times before.

"…For I acknowledge my transgressions, and my sin is always before me. Against you, you only, have I sinned, and done this evil in your sight—that you may be found just when you speak, and blameless when you judge…"

Horror shivers up and down my spine at the sight. It looks like some sort of repentance ritual, maybe one that Mr. Masen made him perform as punishment. Except I don't think it's his dad's god that he's praying to this time.

"Edward, no!" I exclaim, deeply unsettled. "You don't have to do that…"

"Do not cast me away from your presence, and do not take your beautiful spirit from me. Restore to me the joy of your salvation; and uphold me by your generous spirit…"

He's crying openly now, his words becoming garbled with gasps and sobs. What's left of my heart shatters in my chest, and I find myself moving to kneel down beside him.

"Edward, please…"

But he continues on, the anguish in his voice increasing to fever pitch.

"Deliver me…from the guilt of bloodshed…you are my salvation…do you desire sacrifice?...to you I would give it…would you delight in a burnt offering?…a broken and contrite heart…"

His upper body rises just enough to angle toward me as he presses the heels of his palms against his eyes.

"…my b-broken and contrite heart…"

I lay a tentative hand on his shoulder. His whole body shudders violently in response.

"Bella, please!" he cries, grabbing at the material of my sweatpants and touching his forehead to it in utter supplication.

If I would've expected my reaction to his quick movement, maybe I could have stopped it. But instead, I let out a screech and shove him away from me while scrambling backward.

The two adults seem to appear out of nowhere and rush over to us. Carlisle pulls a weeping Edward into his arms on the floor while Cynthia squats down in front of me with her hand out.

"I want to go home," I whimper, wrapping my arms around my body to keep from shaking. "I want you to take me home."

Edward struggles in vain against Carlisle's hold as Cynthia helps me to my feet; he's not much of a challenge for the work-hardened landscaper. His desperate pleas follow us to the front door, and I can feel my own grief deepening with each step away from him that I take. But as much as it hurts, I have to make the choice that's best for me.

Cynthia grabs her purse from a side table and opens the door. She waits for me with the gentlest expression of sympathy on her face. Before I walk out of the house, however, I turn to Edward one more time.

He goes still against Carlisle when our eyes meet, and for one tenuous moment, I want to change my mind, take back everything I said. With his wrinkled clothes and rumpled up hair, he looks more than ever like the sad, hurting little boy on the other side of the fence. My legs want to take me over to him so I can hug him tight in my arms, kiss his beautiful tear-stained face, and promise that everything's going to be okay.

It makes such a perfect picture in my head, and I want it so badly.

I want to step inside that fairy tale scene and stay there forever.

But I should know better than to consider a fantasy. Real life isn't a perfect, happy little illusion. Pictures only show small slivers of time.

"I'm sorry," I whisper. "I want to, but I can't."

It's an apology to Edward.

It's an apology to myself.

I choke back a soul-rending sob and turn back to the door. I'm running away from him for the last time.

-o-o-o-o-o-

Makhaira - a short, curved, single-edged sword

Edward's prayer of repentance is based on Psalm 51. I quoted the New King James Version for ease of understanding, but Mr. Masen would've studied the King James Version. Edward adapts the verses to his needs.

Eternal thanks to Powered by 23 Kicks for her insights and feedback! All mistakes are mine.