Edward's story.
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Please be advised
this chapter comes
with a TRIGGER WARNING
for suicide.

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Thanks to:
Di, my editor,
and Paige and Aileen, my prereaders.

Stupid Little Game
Chapter 15

The night felt as if it belonged in a fairy tale. The dragon—me—had been let loose to do my worst, and was heroically calmed by an enemy who no longer meant me harm. The pain and anger that had ruled me so intensely over the last few months was only a smoldering ember now, and the one who had caused it all, was the balm. It was unaccountably confusing, yet at the same time, it wasn't.

Because Edward had heard me, and he hadn't broken. He'd taken every bit of my hatred and anger, and he'd apologized.

I remembered his eyes, stripped bare in sorrow and agony, feeling what I felt. With me every step of the way. And then he'd caught me . . . snatched me back from the abyss he'd once helped cast me into. It humbled and awed me, and still had me reeling. I hadn't known, couldn't have even suspected, that my heart could shift this way so dramatically.

He was waiting for me.

With light steps, I left the bathroom with one arm wrapped protectively around my middle. Even though I knew it was safe now, my newly shifted heart was still sore. And, I still felt a little self-conscious.

Edward was leaning against the end of the kitchen counter, one ankle casually crossed over the other. His gaze was still impossibly gentle, and I felt it like a caress against my skin. Those eyes of his twisted something in my chest, stealing my breath. It seemed as if the intimacy of this night, of our shared pain, was still cradling us in its arms.

He handed me a cup of tea, then reached for my free hand as if it was nothing, his fingers warm and strong around mine. And I let him, because I wanted his touch. Even after sitting, we didn't let go; I guessed because after everything, after my breakdown and after his, neither of us seemed to be able to be apart.

Silent, our eyes met bravely, until I ran out of bravery and dropped mine to our clasped hands. His wrist was perched on top of my bare knee, and his thumb was lightly brushing the skin on the back of my hand.

We both seemed unwilling to break the silence, to ruin this tender moment I found myself inhaling like a drug.

The long moments of gentle peace began to grow shorter the longer we sat there, as reality began to encroach again. It made me sad, because I didn't want to talk anymore; but I also didn't want to lose these new feelings for him, or say goodbye to him yet. This budding truce was everything I'd needed and I wanted to protect and hold it close, because things tended to change with the light of day.

"You were so brave," he murmured, breaking the silence. He squeezed my hand, drawing my gaze back to him. "But you were always brave when it came to dealing with me. Thank you. For telling me. It was . . . everything I needed to hear."

I took a sip of the tea he'd made; it was laced liberally with honey, and coated my itchy throat.

"Sorry I got so emotional," I whispered with an apologetic look.

"No, don't apologize. And don't talk." One of his fingers stroked the skin on the outside of my throat, and I arched my neck like a cat, giving him better access. "No more talking."

He leaned forward and pressed the heat of his palm against my neck, his thumb skirting the bottom of my chin. With a ragged sigh, his eyes fell to my lips.

Immediate heat shot through my body. Did he . . . did he want to kiss me?

"I can't stop touching you," he whispered, confusion on his face.

Reeling, but trying to go with it, I smiled slightly at him. He was still so close, almost within kissing distance, and my temperature continued to rise as I stared into his uncertain gaze. Then, I tapped my fingers against the wrist of the hand I still held, reminding him it was the same for me.

It might not be this way between us tomorrow, but it felt right . . . for now.

With a heavy exhale, he sat back, taking the warmth of his hand away from my throat. But his fingers tightened around my wrist, his thumb pressing against my erratic pulse there.

"I'm all mixed up inside right now," he said, his eyes fixated on my mouth again . . . making it clear what he meant. "Because of what we just went through, I'm feeling close to you. It . . . feels like we just survived a war together."

I nodded and held his gaze, trying to express with my eyes that I understood exactly what he meant. My body felt as though it had been through a phase of hell, but the process had been cathartic, and had given me a new perspective. And now I felt as if I was going through a glory hallelujah, I'm alive and I think I like you phase. Seeing his confusion, I had a pressing urge to cup his cheek, to run the pads of my fingers along that sharp jaw . . . to press a kiss to the underside where it was beginning to bruise.

My eyes followed the path of his broad shoulders down to his wrists. He'd rolled the sleeves of his shirt up slightly, and I saw light-colored hair on the backs of his strong forearms. Very masculine looking.

I wanted those arms to hold me again.

But that was wrong. We weren't . . . that. And we couldn't be.

The gentle push and pull of tension between us flared as I met his eyes again, lessening only when I looked away. He had nice hands—broad palms, long fingers, clean, perfectly square nails. Capable looking, especially since my hand in his looked so small and delicate.

I felt the fan of air across my skin as he sighed, and hoped he didn't notice the goosebumps that rose in response. A fruitless hope, I saw, when his thumb swept across them, soothing me.

Then, he cleared his throat and spoke, his voice low. "You never asked why I was such an asshole to you, why I treated you that way."

The look on his face was one of shame. Almost of despair. As if pain was eating him alive deep inside.

"You never asked why," he repeated in a whisper, his grip tightening around my hand, shaking it a little. "Not that there's justification enough for doing what I did to you . . . but, if you're interested, I'd like to help you understand."

Brows knitted, he studied my face, waiting for my response.

Wondering why he had been the way he was had always been at the back of my mind. Until discussions with Seth and Alice, until growing closer to Edward, had made me a little fearful of learning the reason. Because the pure hatred he projected on me had to have been eating at him . . . had to have been driving his actions. And it had to have come from somewhere.

Was I strong enough to hear the reason why? Was I a big enough person to sit through an explanation without wanting to judge or shame him?

I inhaled shakily, swallowed, and gave him a little nod.

Yes, I want to hear.

Edward nodded once, slow and decisive, before his own eyes dropped to our clasped hands. As he spoke, he began clenching and unclenching his hand around mine in time to his words, something I was sure he didn't realize he was doing.

"As you said, I was privileged when it came to money . . . but that's where it ended," he said dryly. "From the time I was old enough to learn what money was, my father dangled it over my head like a carrot, as if that was the only thing I could care about. I grew up hearing that I'd never get a dime of any of it if I embarrassed him, or if I didn't make him proud; if I didn't make the honor roll at school; if I didn't hit a home run; if I didn't get a baseball scholarship. 'You little shit, you have to try a hell of a lot harder than that to make me proud,' he'd say after every one of my games, after every report card. And, 'I'd rather give it all to the Sunland Golf Club before leaving it to you, you inept ingrate.' By the time I was eight or so, I'd come to hate the damn money as much as I hated him."

I imagined a young Edward being viciously, unfairly scolded, while he stood there with an unhappy look on his face, and my heart ached for him.

"He liked to mimic the way I talked; he'd repeat my words in this horrible stutter. When I was younger, I had speech issues . . . and used to stutter," Edward said, giving me a quick, apologetic glance before he winced. "I was in speech therapy for years to get rid of it."

A dart of pain shot through my chest hearing that. Also, one of anger, because he'd known that humiliation and had knowingly inflicted it on me.

He carried my hand to his mouth and pressed a kiss there. "I'm so sorry, Bella," he murmured. "Anyone who appeared unsure of themselves, or anyone who I heard stuttering, was a trigger for me. I was an epic bastard."

The sympathy I'd felt for him, for what he'd gone through with his father, stung when I heard that. Yes, you were an epic bastard. I curled my fingers, lightly digging my nails into his skin in punishment.

"I know," he breathed. "I deserve that and more."

After a moment, he pressed on. "I was so . . . angry. All the time. I started making fun of kids in grade school. But I was too smart about doing it, and never let any of the teachers catch me. When anyone complained, it was always my word against theirs . . . but I was a good liar." He smiled painfully. "If it was wrong or in bad taste, I knew how to do it well. In high school, you and Tommy Garth got it the worst from me because you both happened to have a stutter."

I didn't remember Tommy Garth, but I felt sharp kinship and sympathy for him. And while I didn't know if I was more relieved or heartbroken that I hadn't been the only one, I was shocked Edward had begun his bullying career so young.

"I was told by my psychiatrist that it was a learned behavior."

I shook my head at his psychiatrist's analysis. Cop out. "Asshole," I mouthed at him, my nails digging.

"Yes," Edward admitted with a frown, the veins in his forehead suddenly prominent. "I was that and worse, acting out what had been acted out on me at home. I was blind with rage at absolutely everyone."

He raised the cup of tea to his mouth, and I saw that it shook.

"When I was six, my mother had another child. Anthony was the antithesis of me. Soft-spoken, quiet, emotionally strong. I never . . . I never saw my father or his actions get to him like he got to me. Although, my father sure as hell tried. Being an asshole was a default setting for him. I don't think he liked anyone, but out of everyone, Anthony came the closest."

Edward's face morphed from pain to gentleness as he spoke about Anthony, and I could tell he admired his brother. That despite being the younger one, Edward looked up to him. But I was nervous, because Edward was nervous.

"My father tolerated him because Anthony was good at everything, and he never fought back. He'd just . . . hunker down and take the beatings and the abuse, then do what Father expected of him. Not at all like me . . . I was a hellion with my father, because fuck him. He was obviously going to do his worst no matter how we behaved. Anthony used to beg me to shut up, 'Edward, please, just shut up and do what Father wants,' he'd say over and over, so I wouldn't get beaten so badly. But I couldn't be like him," Edward almost whispered, his tone one of reverence, then of despair. "And we both paid the price."

Moving both hands to the one of his I held, I squeezed. Edward's eyes returned to mine, and I gave him a look as pain-free as I could manage.

"Anthony was a straight-A student, and when he was older, into soccer. He was usually the MVP of his soccer team, too. He was naturally gifted; he could actually bend a ball like David Beckham. He was amazing to watch. My father used to brag about him to his cronies. 'Yeah, my younger son is on the scholarship track,' he'd say as if I was lacking." Edward laughed harshly. "And I was, because I wasn't very good at baseball. Or soccer, basketball, or football. There was no chance I'd win a sports scholarship. My grades were good enough to get a small scholarship, but that wasn't prestigious enough for Wallace Thomas Cullen. So, for a while, I even resented Anthony," he whispered with pain etched on his face.

How horrible to be torn into two over the brother you loved and admired, I thought. But why did talking about Anthony make him sad?

"At home, we all—my mother, Anthony, and I—had to be on our best behavior when Father was around. No talking unless we were asked a question, no horsing around, and definitely, no disrespecting him. Of course, what we thought was my best behavior seemed to differ," Edward said with a bitter-looking, downward twist of his mouth. "At the dinner table, Father used to kick the rungs of my chair until I sat up straight enough. One time, the chair broke, and he got so mad that he kicked me. He was a big man, and he didn't hold back. I think I was eight at the time."

I fought to keep my expression neutral. To not give in and cry for the scared, abused boy he once was. To not ask where his mom was in all of that horror. But it was as if he heard my unspoken question.

"My mother was as much of a victim as we were. Worse, she drank. She was usually drunk by dinnertime. She's probably drunk right now," he said derogatorily, his face severe. "She's still with him because she's holding out for the money. The last time I saw her, she was drinking half a bottle of Beluga a day. She'll probably be dead before him, and it would serve her right."

His tone was cold and impersonal, as if his mother was a stranger . . . and I realized Edward had grown up with two monsters for parents. While I didn't condone his behavior against me, or against the rest of his victims, I understood the reasons for his rage. He'd essentially been screaming out for help, and no one had noticed.

My hands tightened around his again, drawing his distant gaze back to mine. His brows were furrowed, his beautiful eyes bleak and clouded with remembered pain. And then, he seemed to age before me; his expression fell and his shoulders slumped. The hand he had clasped around mine began to squeeze me, tighter and tighter, until I almost couldn't take it.

"My first year in college, I came home for Thanksgiving," he said in an even, deadened tone. "Father required it, and I was still under his thumb at the time. But I also wanted to see Anthony; we took turns holding each other together, and with me gone, he'd been the sole object of my father's attention. He never said what he went through; it wasn't his way, but I could tell by what he hadn't said that it was bad."

Edward's breath and words began to shake. The hand holding mine practically vibrated, and my heart began to race.

"I heard my father yelling as soon as I got inside the house. 'You lying piece of shit! You've been lying to me all along, faking and pretending, haven't you?'"

Then, his words began bleeding into each other because he was talking so fast.

"'So help me God, if you live through this, I'm going to make you so fucking sorry. You think you're going to die in my office? Little fucking ingrate!' And I began running because I thought he was beating Anthony again, and I was going to stop him this time. I'd been working out; I was stronger than him by then, and I was going to make him sorry, so fucking sorry," Edward gritted, his voice deep, lethal sounding. "And I-and I came around the corner into his study, and didn't know what I was seeing at first."

Edward's gaze was far away and on some remembered trauma with Anthony and his father, his agony palpable. I was stiff all over in distress for him, for whatever he was going to say next.

"It looked like they were dancing. Like my father had picked Anthony up and was twirling with him," he whispered. "But then I-I realized Anthony was hanging from one of the ceiling beams and my father was grasping at his thighs. And I thought he'd told Anthony to hang himself as some sort of show of allegiance, because that's just the sort of sick thing he'd do, but then Father saw me. 'Help me get him down,' he roared. 'The fucking idiot is trying to kill himself!' But Anthony's head—his head," he choked, "is sideways. He's purple. And I know he's dead. He's gone, my brother is gone."

I was holding on to him as tightly as he was me at that point, and God knew what look was on my face, because I was horrified.

"But my father keeps berating him like he's still alive and listening. So I punched him. I hit him so hard that I broke his nose. But I don't stop there. When he falls to his knees, I kick him right in the groin like he used to do to us. And I keep on kicking him until I can't see anymore and I fall beside him," he gritted. "And all the while, Anthony is just swinging there . . . dead!"

I blinked away the tears in my eyes, because I had to be strong for Edward like he was for me. And I tried to pull him into my arms, but he resisted me, and I realized he wasn't there with me; he was trapped in that other moment.

"Anthony had internalized all that pain and anger, and it had eaten him alive. So much so that he'd–that he'd killed himself. And not in his room. No, he'd done it in Father's office to make a statement."

He shook his head as if still in disbelief that it had happened, his eyes squeezed tightly shut, bending forward over our hands.

"That's when I knew," he whispered harshly. "I finally knew how much my father had damaged us. And it terrified me. Broke me. I'd lost my brother, my best friend, the only person who'd meant shit to me, because I hadn't been strong enough to break us out of my father's destructive pattern."

Edward straightened, and his face was white, his eyes agonized and glistening with tears.

"Anthony was thirteen at the time. Only thirteen."

I gasped and bit my lip, unable to keep the tears in my eyes from overflowing anymore. Edward lifted a shaking hand to follow the trail, as if he welcomed the distraction. He ignored the tears that ran down his own face.

"I failed Anthony in so many ways," he told me in a shamed manner, as if he was confessing to a priest. "We should have gotten help. I should have gotten him help."

"Your mother," I whispered brokenly, unable to remain silent. "She failed you. She should have fought for her children, for both you and Anthony!"

He smiled sadly, his thumb wiping at my other cheek.

"My mother is a drunken ghost. Incapable of staying in the present. I've tried many times to reach her, but she is too damaged. Too far gone."

In answer, I brought the hand I still held to my lips, pressing a hard kiss against his palm. He stared at me as if I was . . . some kind of angel, and it hurt. I wanted to tell him not to look at me that way, but he was talking again.

"I . . . wasn't the same after that. I . . . knew I had to deal with my anger. So I got help. I learned about the cycle of bullying, about how it can affect you. Destroy you. I also learned about the damage you can do to others," he said, swallowing hard. "I went through a five-step program that took years. And I wanted to kill myself, too, for all the hurt I'd caused to so many . . . for all the ways I'd so obviously failed."

He was still caressing my face, still soothing away my tears, still looking at me in a way that caused my heart to turn over in my chest. And I could feel that I was looking at him in the same way, because how could I not? Ever since I'd pulled myself up out of his lap, we'd been a mirror of each other's emotions.

"With the help of my therapist, I confronted my past. Deconstructed it in order to make sense of everything that happened, and why. Anthony's death . . . it saved my life," he breathed, and more tears coursed down his face. Mine, too, because it was utterly heartbreaking and tragic that had been the impetus for Edward to seek help.

"I wrote apology letters to my victims," he said, tears trailing down to his lips. "To you."

Then, he cupped my cheek, holding me in his palm. "My past, how I hurt others, how I hurt you, is something I have to live with. Something I have to forgive myself for every day. It will always be an ongoing process, and I'm okay with that. I'm okay with showing you how truly sorry I am every day. For however long I know you, Bella," he said simply, with his heart in his eyes.

As declarations of apologies went, it was the most powerful one I'd ever heard. He'd already said he was sorry many times—something my heart, my soul had heard—but I was hearing it this time with my head.

Could I ever forgive him?

I searched for my own pain and anger. The memories were still there; they still hurt, but they lacked the lick of fire and hate that usually accompanied them. Because now that Edward had shared his story with me, I had reason, context, and understanding.

The rope that had tethered me to all my anguish was no longer choking me.

"Edward," I whispered, and his eyes flickered up to mine, then sharpened. His mouth opened.

"You said my name," he murmured, and in his voice was the sound of wonderment.

I nodded and took a breath. This was important. Important enough to address him by his name.

"Edward," I whispered again, and raised my hand to his cheek, and we were both holding each other close enough to kiss. "I forgive you."

For a moment, he looked stunned, overwhelmed. Then, his face began to collapse.

"You forgive me?" he whispered brokenly.

I pulled him into my arms, and he came readily, as if he was a child needing comfort. He convulsed once, his face pressed tightly against my chest. As he'd done for me, I tightened my arms around him, trying to hold him together as he released his own tears of absolution. Bent over and around me, his weight pushed me back, and back a bit more, until I was nearly prone on the sofa. I let him come, his body shaking against mine, just trying to hold on.

He didn't stay broken for long; not like I had. From what he'd told me, I knew Edward had broken and pulled himself back together a long time ago, and that this—my apology—was extra closure for him. But he'd also wanted it passionately, and getting it seemed as though it mattered a great deal to him. Maybe as much as it felt to me to finally forgive him.

I'd thought it would be difficult; I'd thought I would have been kicking and dragging my feet about forgiving him; but feeling it, saying it, had been almost effortless. Somewhere in between the time I'd fallen to the floor in front of him and climbed out of his lap, I'd released my grip on all the pain. Holding it close had done me no good, and I knew that now.

And it felt good, forgiving him. It felt good wrapping my arms around him, holding him close; it felt right. Although nothing made the act of bullying acceptable, Edward had suffered, too. Even more than I had.

When eventually, he pulled back, he gave me a gorgeously sheepish smile, tugging me by my forearms up into a sitting position. His hands moved down to my wrists, to my hands, where he released me gently. Then with a heavy sigh, he rubbed the heels of his palms against his eyes.

"Fuck," he said.

And then we were laughing. Laughing through our tears. Broken by and rebuilt by each other. Stronger for having gone through the pain. Stronger for being brave enough to share it, to go through it together.

After the laughter died, our smiles persisted. We leaned back against the couch, facing each other, simply looking at each other. Our shared traumas had broken down all the walls. There was no hiding. No need to hide. We'd already bared our worst truths.

"Say my name again," he requested softly.

I complied readily in a somewhat scratchy tone of voice. "Edward."

As if it was the most beautiful sound ever, he rewarded me with one of his breath-stealing smiles.

"Edward Cullen," I said gently, "it turns out that you are a very nice guy."

Where did we go after that?

To my kitchen. I had all the ingredients for a swiss cheese and mushroom omelet. We made toast and coffee also, bouncing off each other in my little kitchen like balls in a pinball machine and laughing, then we sat at my bistro table on the porch and ate it all.

"To a new beginning," I said, and raised my cup of coffee.

"To you," he said, and I shook my head at him.

He left just after five a.m., after we hugged lingeringly at my front door. We were slow to part, slow to let go of our newfound intimacy.

Slow to say goodbye to who we were to each other at that moment.

A/N: I have a Group on Facebook called Powered by 23 Kicks Fanfiction where I've been sharing EPOV snippets. Come join it if you want to see!