"… Do you think he would have liked me?"
Edward felt like chuckling at the naiveté of his so called sister's question, but his current situation hindered such action. Was everything in her world always so black or white? Was that the benefit of legitimacy, of being sure of one's place in this world? Of course, being the product of an illicit liaison he didn't know the answer for that. And now he never would.
Objectively speaking, he had no reason to dislike someone he'd never met. And now that he'd met her, sort of anyway, Edward was forced to admit that she sounded nice enough, motherly even. Maybe they could have been friends … In another lifetime when he wouldn't have spent his whole life trying to measure up to the older sister his dad so obviously favored.
Esme was so well behaved. Esme was so beautiful. Esme was a brilliant student. Worst of all was seeing the proud smile on his dad's face whenever he spotted a picture of Esme on a newspaper or a magazine. Why couldn't his father ever look at him with such pride? And Edward tried so hard … He studied until his eyes couldn't stay open anymore, but to no avail—his highest grade was a B minus.
So, he turned to sports. He became a high-school star, dated the head cheerleader and was wildly popular—he was the picture of American perfection. Every now and then, there was some semblance of approval in his father's eyes—Edward had made them shine. And it had blinded him.
Shying away from that emotional quagmire, he wondered if the measure of one's life could be taken by the number of mourners on one's funeral, because if so, then his existence should have been considered a blessed one. However, notice the presence of the word "should", indicating that it wasn't. Why? For a matter of logic, really. If the deceased didn't know the majority of the people surrounding his coffin, it was only fair to assume that they didn't know him either. Therefore, they weren't truly mourning, were they?
Except for his sister, but the jury was still out regarding the sincerity of her tears. After all, crying over a dead brother, even a bastard one, was de rigueur, wasn't it? But then again, why the bitter words? He would have huffed in frustration, had he been able to expel air from his lungs. As it was, Edward asked himself if it even mattered.
To his everlasting surprise (did the term even apply now that he no longer lived? He was still a stranger to afterlife terminology, thus his confusion), after a thorough soul searching he discovered that he actually wanted to know the real Esme. The woman he'd hated for so long seemed so far apart from the one who kindly took care of his last expenses and cried over lost possibilities.
He regretted disappointing yet another woman. Maybe that had been his purpose in life—to teach women not to have high expectations towards the males of the species. Naturally, he'd been too blind to perceive his shortcomings as anything more than his God given right to behave like an asshole, for he was a man and that's what men did.
Such a self-righteous, self-indulgent, self-centered, self … No, point in berating himself. It was done. If only the proud little fool he'd been could see what he'd become–a shred of consciousness trapped in a rapidly decaying body.
That thread of thought was interrupted, for, as impossible as it was, Edward had an itch. Wasn't he supposed to be above something as mundane as that? He never gave much thought as to what followed death, but he always assumed the ethereal essence of one's being would move on to another level of existence. It was just his luck not only to be proved wrong, but to also have a freaking itch he couldn't scratch. Would he have it for eternity? Grumbling (inside his own head, of course), it took him a few minutes to realize that eventually the itch would be gone, for the worms would eat his flesh. Sickened, he wondered if he would feel pain. Since he was able to …
The thought would forever (and now that meant a really long time for him) go unfinished, for Edward felt the hand of his mother gently caressing his skin. The weight of her grief could not be denied, despite her being as circumspect in her sadness as she'd always been throughout her life. Maybe the quietness of her lament was the very thing that lent it so much intensity, made it so poignant. It made him ache for the ability to enfold her into his arms and give her the comfort she so obviously needed.
So many years he had wasted suppressing all affection for his mother, in a childish attempt to punish her for the less than desirable circumstances of his birth, for denying him on what he had perceived to be his time of need … The pained look on her face had given him the illusion of victory, but now he regretted all the hugs they didn't share.
"¿Mi hijito, que voy hacer sin ti?"
After all the things he'd said and done, his mother still loved him. What a gift awareness was, to know that you were unforgettable and irreplaceable, at least to one person—she would never get over losing him. It was a selfish attitude, but he never claimed to be a selfless creature.
"¿Te recuerdas de cuando eras un niño?, ¿De cómo nosotros brincábamos juntos la tarde entera? Siento falta de aquellos días, mi amor. Siento falta de aquel tiempo cuando tú me amabas."
No words could be spoken to assuage his mother's pain, for he no longer had the power to communicate with the living. The memory of all the encounters he had spent spewing venom at his sweet mother felt worse than death. Literally.
Despaired with his present, he allowed his consciousness to be swept away to times past, much before he had been poisoned by the bitter fruit of knowledge.
The smell of childhood once again filled his nostrils, awakening a long dormant craving for hotdogs, cotton candy and cuddles from his mother. It was as far as he could reach into the abyss of memory, even in death (wasn't his whole life supposed to flash before his eyes? How disappointed he'd been when that hadn't been the case!) he couldn't remember a time before the year he'd turned four, more specifically, said year's 4th of July.
His mother had been bouncing in gleeful expectation, for his father would be coming for a visit. The man was nothing more than a somber figure Edward tended to avoid—he liked it better when it was just he and mommy. But she received a phone call and cried for hours. Back then, he hadn't understood the harsh reality of being a second family or the disappointment bound to follow each broken promise.
Eventually, she stopped crying and to Edward's young mind, the ceasing of her tears meant that she wasn't sad anymore. Consequently, he demanded to be taken to the neighbor's party where all the yummy food was and all the children were playing. She tried to explain that mommy wasn't feeling well, but he wasn't about to change his mind.
Holding her head high and pretending not to notice the gossiping whispers of her neighbors, she took Edward to the party. Only an adult would have noticed the shame in her demeanor or the judgment in her neighbors' eyes, for they were starting to realize the nature of her relationship with the infant's father. However, said infant had been too distracted and too immature to notice, but now he could see that moment for what it truly had been. The first of many acts of selfishness he'd committed against Zafrina Masen, his mother.
After that party, came the first move. For little Edward it was an adventure; for Zafrina, an attempt to escape the vicious betrayal in which she'd been playing a part for the past twenty five years. At first his mother seemed to be normal and happy, but as the days started to amount to weeks and the weeks to months, even the inexperienced eyes of a child could perceive the fading light of a flame about to be extinguished. Zafrina no longer laughed, she merely smiled with the kind of effort that only a mother can manufacture in order to spare her child from the vicissitudes of life.
The image of his mother longingly staring at the horizon yearning for someone who was out of reach was imprinted in Edward's mind—the most bittersweet image he'd ever seen, one he'd come to inextricably associate with love. Every time he looked at her, Edward's heart broke a little, but not enough to take away the joy of having her all to himself; far, far away from his father. Besides, he'd made some friends and was happy … That's why he tended to avoid looking at her when she was in one of her "moods".
However, months turned into years and his mother no longer pretended to smile. Her beautiful face became wretched by unhappiness and Edward came to understand that women needed the company of men. Unfortunately for him, his mother seemed to crave only his father's company, for she'd never reciprocated any other man's interest.
Swallowing his pride, eleven year old Edward did what was best for his mother. He called Mr. Platt.
Edward mused about the oddity of the revisiting the events of the past from a mature perspective (had he matured, really?). Memories that should have been frozen in time were reshaped by the experiences he had acquired throughout his life. A look, a smile, a conversation–the nuances he had failed to capture as a child were so easily bared to his much wiser present non-self.
Love was the driving force behind every single one of his mother's actions; however the same could not be said about his father. Mr. Platt was an intriguing conundrum, an amalgam of tenderness, resentment and thoughtless words. The man's heart would forever remain a mystery for Edward, but he could now, as grown man, dead as he may be, see that his father had tried to atone for his sins by leaving his wife and moving in with his second family.
Zafrina had been so happy, falling all over herself in the vain effort to keep Mr. Platt happy. And he had been, for most of the time. But sometimes … sometimes he hurt her by naming the woman neither should wish to remember. Esme and her mother had been the models to which neither Edward, nor Zafrina could ever measure up.
Somehow, Edward always felt it was worse for him. He was Mr. Platt's flesh and blood, as much as Esme was, so why didn't his father afford him the same treatment? The conclusion he'd come to was unfair, ugly and so very true, even now when the limitations of human morals didn't apply to him.
It was because he was the child of an affair. The son of a loose woman. And for the longest time, he hated his mother for that. The only thing time changed was that he now hated his father for being a hypocritical bastard who hid behind a mask of sanctimonious self-sacrifice in order to conceal his own need to be with the woman he truly wanted.
Like father, like son.
The unbidden thought brought Edward back to the present.
The fluidity of death didn't mean the willingness to indefinitely defy the constraints of time. In life, avoidance had been Edward's way of overcoming painful memories and he carried that to his death. Except that his logic was flawed, for it was impossible to heal from wounds left unattended. The almost brush with the uncomfortable memories Edward preferred to suppress brought this simple, inescapable truth to the forefront of his mind.
Feeling out of breath despite no longer needing air, he felt the need to run away from the predicament causing him to panic. But how does one flee from death? How can a man keep from reassessing his life under the light of finally understanding the meaning of his own mortality? Nobody knows, nobody understands, not until the final hour when you know it's truly over. But then it's too late …
Too late to turn back time and avoid the devastating consequences of your own stupidity. Dismayed, Edward remembered how he'd once been a pretty boy, or so the girls used to say. However, years of being a drug user had wrecked havoc on his appearance, especially after his last relapse—a simple denial from the mouth of the woman he couldn't forget was enough to destroy all of his hard work and erode all his plans for the future.
No, he didn't want to think about her, it was too raw for a reason he couldn't explain. Better to focus on how his addiction had taken a toll on his mother, on how many times he threatened her in order to get money, on the nights she spent by his bed when he overdosed or got hurt roaming the streets … He hadn't been a good son to Zafrina Masen, but she had been the best mother he could have ever asked for.
The vicissitudes of death seemed endless, for now he was being forced to passively hear the sweetly delivered lies spilling out of his ex-wife's mouth and it had to be the wickedest form of hell ever imagined by Satan. They hadn't seen each other since the blessed day when they had officially ended their disastrous marriage, but she was claiming that they'd reconciled. Snorting would have been an appropriate reaction, but Edward had to settle for wishing her dead. Or maybe not, seeing that, if he was truly in hell, she'd become attached to him for eternity. How had she found out about his death, he wondered. Fortunately, he didn't have to play a guessing game as to her intentions, for they were pretty clear.
She probably believed all the pomp surrounding his funeral to mean that he had left a substantial amount of money to his heirs. Not that she could ever be considered one of them, mind you, but that wouldn't deter the grasping woman from trying to put her hands on something, anything—it was part of all parasite's nature, after all. Now that he thought about it, the situation was actually quite humorous. What would be the shrew's reaction once she learned the truth? Would he still be around to watch it? He prayed for whatever was above to let him see her face when she heard that he his state amounted to nothing but debts.
Not for the first time he marveled at his own stupidity in trying to be a righteous man for the ambitious fool who had loved him for as long as his inheritance had lasted. Seeing the calculating glint in her malicious eyes almost made him grateful for the loss of their child … Almost. Now that he was dead would he be able to see his baby girl? Would he be able to embrace the tiny little fetus who wasn't allowed to live due to a rare disease that expelled her from Tanya's womb? Shouldn't he be allowed at least this tiny little mercy?
He'd barely concluded that thought when the rich smell of sickening sensuality revolted his dead stomach. Tanya was close.
She had a few choice words to say.
"I think this is the place where I should say something corny like 'how the mighty have fallen', but I know how much you hate my penchant for dramatics, so I'll try to refrain."
The way Tanya's gaze surveyed Edward's lifeless body made him wary of her intent. Was necrophilia one of her many eccentricities? He truly didn't know. Would she violate his body? Given the lecherous look on her face he feared she might. Just his luck: to be assaulted by a succubus without any chance of defending himself. Would he feel it? Oh, please, no—he couldn't even shower to get rid of her stench.
"Even in death you still look good. You know that's the reason I was first drawn to you, right? It was my first college party and I was expecting the guys to be much cuter, but I was so disappointed … until I spotted you, that is. Seducing you was so easy. You were so damn eager … "
The mocking laugh that followed made him flinch (could he flinch? At least in his mind he did) in shame. The memory of their first time wasn't one he relished, for it had been clumsy and rushed. In his defense, he'd been a nineteen year old male with a healthy libido that had gone unsatisfied for far too long … ever since she had vanished from town without a word to him.
"I believe you already guessed that my pregnancy was no accident. Once I found out you were loaded, I couldn't let you get away, could I?
So far, I haven't really told you anything knew, have I? Then, why am I babbling this old tale to your cadaver, my sweet dead moron of an ex-husband? Well, I guess I couldn't refrain from adding some measure of drama after all."
The sneer contorting her deceptively angelic features let him know that the resentment she'd bore him after their divorce hadn't faded. After years of separation, despite the event of his death, Tanya still found it necessary to taunt him, even though he couldn't respond to her provocations ... Maybe because he couldn't react to her pettiness.
"You know the precious little baby you loved so much? The one that died before it was ever born? Guess what, honey? It wasn't a victim of health issues. It had already played its part in assuring my future, so I got rid of it. Yes, I used it to get you to marry me then killed it. How diabolical was that?
Now, for the grand finale. Why am I telling you this? Just in case all of those religious fanatics are right; just in case you do have an immortal soul listening to my words right now, because I don't want you to find peace or move on. I want you to be here, trapped on Earth, haunting me, hating me … Anything Edward …
Anything is better than the nothing you've always given me. Give me your hate, give me your vengeance. Just don't leave me …
Oh, God, just don't leave me!"
The melody of Tanya's broken heart found echo within the hollows and cracks of his wretched soul. The constraints of immateriality forbid the contact he craved at that moment, for the need to acknowledge her pain was strong and undeniable. The sincerity of her longing was humbling, the lengths to which she was willingly to go, almost scaring. Never had he guessed the depth of her feelings for him, and even if he had, would it have made a difference? Would it have prevented him from turning to drugs when his baby girl died?
For she had died, she hadn't been murdered—Tanya had lied, Edward was sure of it. The grief she'd experienced back then couldn't be faked, no matter how good of an actress she was. It was a testament to her desperation that she would lie about something like that. But then, that had always been Tanya's signature: to lie and deceive. Deep down she wasn't a bad person—he could only guess at what kind of life had produced a individual so insecure that lies where her only sanctuary.
No, he could never have loved her, but he should have treated her better. He'd been so keen on not repeating the mistakes of his past, that he never took the time to really look at the woman by his side. Neither did he try to console her once their baby had been lost—he simply walked out on her and let himself be swallowed by his own sorrow.
He'd failed her in so many instances … And he was going to fail her in so much more, for he wouldn't stay with her. She was right—he'd given her nothing and that's exactly what he'd offer her in the future.
That's when he discovered that even the dead can cry.
Astounded by the intensity of his emotional breakdown, Edward tried to fight his way out of the gloomy atmosphere that had descended upon him. It was megalomaniac of him to take the blame for all of the misfortunes that touched the lives of the women he'd known. At some point, he had to admit that his mother, Tanya, his first girlfriend and her were guilty of their own mistakes—how self-centered of him to think himself completely responsible for the fate of another human being …
But still he felt like he should have done more, he should have been more—somehow, he'd fallen short even when he'd attempted to overcome his limitations. Despair had him fighting to understand what is the point of living if in the end all that was left is the feeling of lost time and overpowering regret. Nothing made sense, neither staying, nor moving on–there was only a moment of absolute agony in which he feared he'd be forever trapped.
So caught up in his own suffering, Edward didn't see his mother approaching. As mothers are wont to do, Zafrina sensed her son's need, even if she could not explain it. The onlookers would say her eyes bore into empty space, however Edward knew better, for she stared right into his eyes as she sang the old song that had so many times before lulled him to sleep.
Now it simply reminded him that he'd loved and had been loved.
And that ought to be enough.
A while later, between half-heartedly weeps, something truly astounding happened. Edward could only stare in open mouthed awe (an expression, of course, given his incorporeal state) at his friend's sorry display of blind, stupid faith, or something like it. Had the man not been a true believer, Edward might be tempted to haunt him for eternity for putting on such a pathetic show. But really, how could he hate the man when he knew that the unfortunate fool was truly trying to help?
Maybe he should even thank Eleazar for the moment of lightness among all the emotionally charged encounters he'd had so far. The old goof surely managed to be damn funny even when his intentions were deadly serious. Like right now, when he was trying to elevate Edward's soul to heaven, by pushing it away from his body. It had to be one of his new religion's rituals, Espiritism if Edward wasn't mistaken—ever since he'd converted to it, Eleazar had adhered to some really strange beliefs.
The movements were bizarre, for Eleazar seemed to be making a huge effort going as far as sweating. Edward was well aware that he'd put on some weight over the past couple of years, but did it truly affect his soul? Was a fat man's soul heavier than a thin one's? If so that was damn unfair—death should be the end of something as silly as bodily weight. In any case, it wasn't working, for he hadn't lifted a single centimeter towards heaven.
Maybe Eleazar should try to send him below. Snickering (oh, well, by now you know how that works) Edward observed the satisfaction gracing his friend's face when he announced that Edward had finally departed to the next level. A fond smile touched Edward's lips when he regarded his dear friend.
Some people were much happier living with their illusions.
After hours of non-events, Edward was truly bored. The whispered conversations held no interest for him, because really, what's the point of hearing juicy gossip if you can't pass it along? Besides, most of the names being slandered were completely strange to him which diminished greatly the fun of learning of their fall from grace. Here and there he was somewhat entertained, but still it was not enough to stop the uneasiness taking hold of him.
Curiously, the agitation grew tenfold when Esme's "boyfriend" (hell, that sounded so juvenile that Edward felt a bubble of mirth rising from the center of his being) came near his coffin. Was he experiencing a surge of brotherly over protectiveness? No, such feelings could only derive from love and, as much as he regretted it, there was no love between him and Esme.
So, what was it about the man that disturbed him so? Reviewing all he'd heard about Carlisle, Edward found nothing that could explain his wayward reaction to the unremarkable man. No longer bored, Edward followed Carlisle's every move, dissected his every word, fascinated by his own fascination with someone who meant nothing to him.
A slight breeze came through the open door, bringing to Edward the faint smell of a fragrance he'd never managed to forget. One he remembered so, so well; one he'd hoped to bask in for all of his days. For a second, he pretended not to notice anything and lost himself to the fantasy of her and the sweet perfume of lilies of the valley.
For some unfathomable reason, the vision that should have brought him peace and contentment seemed wrong and distasteful.
Feeling torn and forlorn, Edward wished for the non-existence of an immortal soul, so that he could find relief from the oppressing experiences of his afterlife. Did all fellows go through this bullshit? The never ending agony, the second guessing and the unwelcomed revelations were eroding whatever sense of contentment he'd managed to find in his life, and by extension, in his death. What was a man to do if he found out that every single step he'd taken had led him in the wrong direction?
A deep need for certainty burned inside Edward, making him ache for the strength to take a stroll down memory lane and shed the veils of prejudice, yearning and selfishness in order to see the past for what it was; to finally let himself see the truth. However, that required a level of openness Edward was unsure if he was capable of achieving. The constraints of fear were too tightly wrapped around him, clouding his judgment, for what man wanted to find out that his life had been nothing but a collection of unfortunate choices?
Nevertheless, he steeled whatever was left of him for the most painful experience he'd ever endured, for he was about to revisit the time he'd shared with the woman who'd elicited the warring emotions presently torturing him. As the veil of time lost consistency, the mist of memory started to take form, painting the forgotten images of a sunny afternoon. The hues of shinning gold, clear blue and unmarred white combined, forming the image of perfection nothing could erase. Right before his eyes she smiled again and he called her name.
Rosalie.
Their coming together was a foregone conclusion from the start—the clichéd union between the sports' star and the blond cheerleader. The golden couple revered by many, envied by all, was nothing more than a sham—a carefully construed lie meant to serve egotistical purposes. For him, it had been about fulfilling the image of an all American boy so that he could finally gain his father's approval. Her motives had never been clear to him back then, only after the developments of the recent months he had been able to put together the puzzle of Rosalie and finally understand her behavior.
At the beginning, he'd been excited about the prospect of ripping the full benefits of dating the stunning cheerleader, but after a while the frostiness of her rebuttals to his every advance made it clear that she wasn't about to indulge his teenage ardor. Of course, he'd been frustrated and ready to walk out on her, despite the sincere tears Rosalie shed when she begged him not to, but the look of wonder, perhaps even envy, on his father's eyes prevented him from doing it.
Sometimes, he even inwardly laughed at the absurdity of dating an excruciatingly attractive girl for more than two years while remaining a virgin, an unkissed one at that. Other occasions were spent in quiet contemplation, asking himself if all the deception was worth the little reward he got for it. Every once in a while, he felt a twinge of hate towards his companion in deceit—why couldn't she want him like he wanted her? What was so wrong with him?
It was during one of those episodes of wrathful wondering that he met her.
Perhaps the best way to describe what had taken place that day would be to say that he had acknowledged her, instead of met her. She'd always been one of those strange creatures existing on the fringes of events, hiding on the shadows of unpopularity. Living in a small town their paths were bound to cross, but, much to his everlasting shame, he'd never taken the time to really look at her.
Not that there was much to look at, mind you. She wore baggy clothes, her hair was dull and greasy and she was constantly hunching her back. She was just about as unremarkable as they came, but something in her called to him in a way that wouldn't and couldn't be denied. His eyes followed her clumsy steps, eagerly absorbing the little quirks of her gestures, trying to learn her personality.
Consumed by the girl only he noticed, Edward disregard many rules in his pursue to discover every little shred of information about her. He went as far as following her home—he'd been shocked and dismayed when he realized the kind of neighborhood from where she came. Truly worried about her safety, he started to walk her back home every day (more like follow her home, but to his young mind that was a simple matter of semantics).
However, it wasn't enough, for he wasn't there to protect her when she walked to school. Being an intelligent man, Edward was fully aware of the idiocy of his behavior and knew that the only rational solution to his predicament would be to introduce himself to the girl. Forging some sort of relationship with her would be tricky, but he was willingly to give it a try. In truth, he was more than willingly—it was a need consuming his every waking moment. But he never admitted that—at least, not as long as he was alive.
In death, Edward was much more open to the truth.
Too bad it wasn't always as comforting as he'd hoped it would be.
"Hello, Edward. I've seen you looking better."
The melodic sound of her voice didn't reach him from the past, for he was vividly aware of her nearness. More than ever, he wished he could escape from the puzzle she presented, he wished he could move on before dealing with the tangle of emotions that existed between them. He wasn't surprised when he stayed right where he was—why would the Guy above start listening to his prayers now? Moaning inwardly, he steeled himself for another angry female's rant, but that's not what he got.
"God, I feel like such a moron. Talking to a corpse of all things."
A sad little smile painted her features with such dignified grief that Edward was forced to really see her for the first time since he'd noticed her presence. She wore no makeup and there were dark smudges beneath her eyes—clear signs of how much she felt for him. Seeing physical manifestations of her emotions only added to the guilt growing inside of him, for he knew beyond a shadow of a doubt that he'd broken her heart more than once and, against all odds, she still mourned him.
"Or maybe I'm a glutton for punishment?"
Of course it was a rhetorical question, but he longed for the ability to answer it, nevertheless. He'd misused the gift of words during his life by saying things he didn't mean, in order to get things he didn't want. And now, when he needed it the most, he wasn't able to console the person he'd hurt the most.
"Oh, Edward. I've lost you so many times, in so many ways, but this is so final … I don't even know how I feel anymore. That's why I'm here—I need you to help me understand."
Oh, Bella, how you devastate me, thought a wounded and torn Edward.
"Did you know that I never told a soul about us? As much as I was your dirty little secret, you were my sweet secret dream. Even in my biography, I went to great lengths to conceal your identity—out of respect for you, because I knew you were ashamed of the time we spent together."
No, Bella. It wasn't like that. I just—
He stopped himself from telling yet another lie, for he would truly be only lying to himself. It was damn difficult dropping all pretenses and abandoning all excuses and looking at himself through the crude lenses of the truth, but he figured he owed her that. At that moment, Edward didn't like himself very much, for there was no denying the fact that the golden boy had been ashamed of the white trash girl.
Although he'd gotten the chance to apologize for his mistreatment of her, he'd never truly understood the extent of his sins until this moment, for Bella made no attempt to conceal the raw pain she still carried after all these years. She'd forgiven him, but would he ever forgive himself for being so corrupted by group mentality that he'd lost sight of what truly mattered? For being so selfish that he'd failed to help a girlfriend who was slipping into madness and a lover who was being swallowed by her unfavorable circumstances?
"You were the very first person who ever cared about me and for that I'll always be grateful to you."
Isn't it sick that I knew that? And sometimes even played that card when I felt you trying to distance yourself from me?
"I know you knew how love deprived I was and I also know you used it against me, but I can't fault you for that. In your place, I'd probably act the same way."
Never a boring second in her company was Edward's response to the startling comment.
"Do you remember the day Fluffy died?"
How could he ever forget? The brutality of seeing Renée's friends beat a little dog to death wasn't something a person could easily forget, not even after decades of valiant efforts in that regard. Edward had openly cried for the poor animal as well as for the desperate girl he'd held in his arms. Together they mourned the happy little animal until the men left and they could bury it. Afterwards, he took her back home and they snuggled in her tiny little bed. What followed was the biggest mistake of his life … and the one thing Edward selfishly couldn't bring himself to regret.
"Grief led me to ask you for something I shouldn't have. After the 'fact' I was left sore and lonely … You just got up and left, making me feel dirty and used. It was the worst night of my life."
I'm sorry. I wish I could explain—
No, no excuses—just the truth. I was a virgin, Bella, I didn't know what I was doing. And I left because I felt like a bastard … taking advantage of you, cheating on Rosalie. I never stopped to consider how it would make you feel. I know, I know … but we've already established that I'm not a very good man, didn't we?
"Then later"—a sob interrupted her speech and she had to pause for a second before regaining some semblance of control—"later you kept on coming back to me, to my bed. And I was happy because I finally had someone, even if only in the dark, if only cloaked by secrecy … In those precious hours you were mine. And it meant the world to me."
How very pathetic, how very sad … that I felt exactly the same way.
A faraway look dawned on her face, turning her usually expressive eyes into two impassive stones of insurmountable beauty. The detached way in which she contemplated their past relationship more than unsettled him—it sent Edward into a spiral of guilt, despair and shame. He wished he could fall to his knees and howl his emotional pain—anything to relieve the burden of being confronted with the methodically chosen words spoken in an icy distant voice that accurately uncovered things he'd rather deny.
"You weren't getting sex from your girlfriend, so you turned to me. I get that. I can live with that. Many teenager boys do that. I was not the first girl to be used for sex and it's fair to say I won't be the last one. What I don't understand, what I can't accept is the way you played with my emotions.
"Why did you have to comfort me? Embrace me? Spend so many nights only talking to me? Sometimes, you looked at me in a certain way that made me feel … unique, perhaps even loved. Why did you have to make me believe that we could be more?"
Bella took a shuddering breath and allowed the mask of coldness to fall. At that moment she wasn't a woman in her mid-forties—she was the socially isolated fifteen-year-old whose heart Edward had abused. Nothing could ever be more disturbing than honesty, as Edward discovered right then. He remembered those sweet moments they'd shared—as inexplicable as it was, he'd relished the intimacy of simply being with her almost as much as he'd enjoyed her body.
Had it been love? Had he loved Bella? Had he possessed a beating heart it would have been trying to escape his chest, for if the answer was in the affirmative it would negate the validity of his past choices as well as the foundations upon which he had tried to rebuild his life.
Wouldn't that be ironic?
Attracted by an unfathomable unseen force Bella's gaze slowly elevated from Edward's deceased body to where his essence remained. Even for someone who could be described as a ghost, the emotions that followed were startling, for all sense of self disappeared, consumed by the threads that linked him to Bella. The tiny little filaments running back and forth between them simmered and shinned telling the forbidden story of what wasn't meant to be. Instead of pulling away in dread, he came closer, fascinated by the beauty of what was being displayed to him—Bella's soul.
Age had changed her personality, of course, but the very core that constitutes a person is unchangeable–her soul was still as beautiful as it had always been. That's what had always been her most attractive trait—not the amazing body she hid underneath hideous clothes, or the witty mind gained from reading of many books, but her compassion, her ability to love, her strength of character.
Still, he always walked away from her … His soul cried in despair, shouting a mantra whose words Edward wasn't ready to understand. A great truth struggled to come to light, but a doomed man always fights until his very last breath (figuratively speaking) before accepting the guilt for his own fate. Edward was no different, despite the promise he'd recently made to Bella.
Their connection was irrefutable and endless; it lasted for a moment and for all of eternity … But it was cut short by the presence of another visitor, the only person to whom Edward had told the story of Bella.
Edward felt relief.
And he felt her rage.
Carmen, the whore to whom Edward had gone after Bella had dismissed him from that fatidic job interview, all those years ago; the one who had silently watched his relapse into addiction … the one who had eventually saved his life by calling Zafrina and asking for help. Underneath Carmen's hardened streetwise exterior, a caring woman stubbornly survived and Edward appreciated all she'd done for him. He'd tried to return the favor, but her pride got in the way and they lost contact. And now she resurged like an avenging angel, ready to battle Bella … didn't Carmen understand that he was the villain of the story?
However, as women are wont to do, Carmen surprised him greatly. The fury was directed at him, for she shamelessly let out a long litany of Spanish words that he correctly assumed to be damning words. Bella quizzically observed the woman, momentarily forgetting the serious outpouring of emotions of just before.
"Come here, chica. You seem like you could use a hug."—in typical Carmen fashion, she didn't wait for an answer, simply involved Bella in a tight embrace.
Bella melted, for she was truly in desperate need of physical comfort after such emotionally draining conversation, especially knowing that there was so much more to come.
"I know you must have a lot more to tell the fool before you can say goodbye. I can't believe he never understood, never did something about it … Such a waste!"—indignation was replaced with sadness before she continued—"I just couldn't leave before telling that he never stopped talking about you, even when he was out of his mind with drugs, it was your name he spoke—not Rosalie's, not his ex-wife's, not mine, not any woman's … yours, only yours."
"How do you know—"
"Once he showed me the only picture he had of you two together. You know, there is a certain way soulmates look at each other. The same way the two of you did in the picture, the same way you looked at him right before I interrupted."
"Before you came I was staring into space."
"Were you?"
With that enigmatic statement, Carmen let go of Bella and calmly walked away.
A simple word spoken with flippancy had the power to overwhelm Edward to such a degree that all the defenses he had erected throughout his life came crumbling down. The voice of doubt, so carefully suppressed for the sake of his sanity, could no longer be ignored—it shouted painful questions he'd rather not hear and it whispered answers that had the potential to destroy whatever was left of his soul.
The too perceptive Carmen had come and wreaked havoc on his already not-so-peaceful afterlife, for what excuses could he make now that he had no vodka to drive him to oblivion, no cocaine to lead him to impossible worlds? What was left for a man who couldn't run away from uncomfortable situations? Who could no longer hide behind half truths? Who didn't have the benefit of time to postpone the resolution of intricate situations?
Soulmates. A word his mother had used so many times when talking about his father … Something he'd come to fear to the point he'd sworn to avoid it at any cost. What was the point in having a love bigger than life, a connection deeper than words could explain if it brought no joy, only tears? He'd rather not have a soul than to carry the burden of loving someone so deeply.
Carmen had always been a romantic—she hadn't understood his reticence back then, she surely didn't respect it now. She had never said it in so many words, but now that the knowledge was out there it couldn't be ignored. It had always been Bella, that's why he'd run from her. His heart had always been hers and because of that he'd hurt her.
She was the other half of him. And right then he hated himself more than usual. In a very twisted way his treatment of her made sense. And for that he cried for the second time in his afterlife.
"Your friend has some imagination, doesn't she?"
An edge of bitterness tinted Bella's voice, a glint of accusation shone in her eyes and a grimace of displeasure disfigured her otherwise loveable features. Edward couldn't gauge her weird mood, it seemed to be something between denial and outrage, but being a man, he couldn't be sure.
"Soulmates are supposed to be each other's everything. They aren't supposed to turn their backs on the other and feed them to the wolves! They are not supposed to look down on their already devastated partner and act like she is nothing more than an annoyance! My soulmate wouldn't have chosen a girlfriend he didn't even like over me!"
Edward had no defense. The cruelty of his teen self bore no excuses or explanations, for he could easily have chosen to stand by Bella's side and face the "social disgrace" that Rosalie would bring upon them. But the day his girlfriend had confronted him about his so called affair and threatened to ruin his golden boy image, he chose to betray the one he truly loved. Even after Bella disappeared from school, Edward refused to feel remorse for what he'd done, preferring to tell himself lies to assuage the pain twisting his heart and conscience.
As an unscrupulous bastard, for years Edward refused to carry the weight of his actions, until he lost his baby girl, descended into hell and went to therapy. There he learned to stop running away from his demons—confronting them, Edward learned that he'd never truly put Bella out of his mind, but he thought it was only about guilt. Had his therapist been a little less lenient and a bit more dedicated to his job, Edward might have been able to get to the root of his problems and realized the nature of his feelings for Bella. In retrospect, so many possibilities were lost … but what was the point of clearly seeing the path once the option to walk it was forever lost?
"My soulmate would have taken my hand when it was offered. He would have made a different choice. He would be alive today!"—her voice rose in her frustration, both her hands combing through her hair. Bella resembled a woman tortured by a thousand demons, burning with the need for answers she would never get.
Neither of them noticed the enraptured audience holding their breath, eagerly waiting for the disturbed woman's next move. Tactfully, Zafrina directed the mourners to the anteroom where elegant snacks and expensive beverages were being served. Convincing Tanya to let the unknown woman have her moment with Edward was a trial to Zafrina's admirable patience, but she managed it. Zafrina realized that the stunning brunette needed closure and, perhaps, so did Edward—if he was still there—and for that they would need a bit of privacy.
Zafrina just wished he'd had the time to love his soulmate like both of them deserved.
Nothing burns like the emotionless stare of a loved one whose faith was tested beyond all limits. One word accomplished what a series of offenses hadn't, for Bella was out of forgiveness when it came down to Edward. Something brittle and uncouth turned the woman he'd always known into a stranger without a bit of warmth in her jaded eyes. Despite being dead for quite a while, it was the first time Edward truly felt cold, for there was nothing more terrifying than seeing hopelessness overtaking the other half of him.
The other half of him … The better one, the loving one—to see her turning into stone before him and, worst of all, because of him was nothing more than he deserved for all the cruelties he'd perpetrated against Bella. But what about her? Didn't she deserve more? Was that all she got? A half assed chance at love with a stupid and uncaring man?
For a long time silence dominated the room, until Bella's eerily calm voice cut through the air with the subtlety of an arrow destined to hit its mark.
"All of this is pointless, isn't it? What if you were the great love of my life? There is no way of knowing for sure because you never truly talked to me. You made your choices, but curiously, and unfairly, I'm the one who will have to live with them.
"Doubt will forever be my companion … I will never know … never understand … And for what, Edward? So that you could play Prince Charming to Sleeping Beauty? The thing is I don't think you loved her—not then, not yesterday.
"Among all the things I wish you could tell me, the one I truly need to know is: why have you always felt the compulsion to be her hero?"
Because I knew what was being done to her and I did nothing to stop it.
Because I didn't want to listen when she tried to tell me.
Because she almost died trying to get rid of the material proof of her father's sins—her child, her brother.
Because insanity followed her brush with death.
Because I hated you for occupying my mind so thoroughly that I failed to care for Rosalie.
One girl for another.
I punished you for my sins.
Because you are the stronger half of me and I knew you could survive it.
But none of Edward's motives could be voiced—they were realizations meant to only further torture his already ravaged self. He'd always been so blind to all the ways in which he'd fooled himself into believing the whispers of his misguided sense of honor. And what were the results of his efforts? One woman slept, completely oblivious to the sacrifices he'd made in trying to save her; the other, seemed to be in a place between shattered and indifferent, perhaps unable to reach the level of trust to ever love again. Not to mention himself, a deceased man who remained oddly attached to his own body.
If he could have only one wish it would be for Bella to make peace with the past and move on. A part of him, the less honorable one, wanted to be unforgettable and irreplaceable, but his most noble self, one he was, unfortunately, just discovering would rather cease to exist right at that moment than to see Bella spend her life without falling in love and building a family.
It would have been our family, if I hadn't been so damn stupid until the very last day of my life.
Like a man sitting before a movie screen, Edward endured the painful experience of reliving the events that had led to where he currently was. All the misconceptions, the wrong choices, the things he should have done … would it have made a difference? He had no way of knowing—he could only brood … brood and remember.
The night preceding the fateful events that culminated in the unfortunate and permanent loss of his corporeal self was spent making life altering decisions. He would finally commit to a woman—body, heart and soul. He would be completely devoted to her—no more wondering eyes or cheating ways. He would be her faithful companion throughout the rest of their lives. All he had to do was manage to rouse her from the deep sleep in which she was currently immersed.
A certain part of Edward's body (certainly not his heart) had fallen deeply in love with Rosalie during their one and only brief encounter during her imagined killing spree. Seemly, she recalled their night together as a violent encounter; however Edward's recollection was that it had been eerily erotic. Nevertheless, from then on, he'd been on a mad chase to find the object of his "affection". However, her destiny had remained unknown for almost a whole year—he was almost losing hope when the detective he'd hired called with the information Edward craved.
Learning of her situation, he'd felt deflated, almost to the point where walking away from her seemed to be the best alternative. Maybe he would have, had it not been for a faint memory of Rosalie's eyes silently pleading for his help—and the sour recollection of his indifference to her plight. The urge to save her was bigger than the innate need to protect himself from pain and disappointment—unlike he'd done in the past, he put her first.
Perhaps, Edward's outlandish plan wouldn't have resulted in his death had he not been invaded with the urge to surpass his shortcomings before pledging himself to Rosalie. In his quest to become a better man for his mate-to-be, Edward once again sought the forgiveness of the one woman he couldn't truly forget—not out of guilt or a misguided sense of honor, but because she was the one for whom his heart yearned.
The thundering beat of his heart was passed as a sign of anticipation for the life he was about to start instead of excitement for being in Bella's presence after so long. His request for a meeting was met with a timely acceptance, so they met at a small coffee shop where they sat in awkward silence after the initial greetings. Try as he might, his lips refused to form the words he'd been rehearsing for so many years.
However, he needed not fear—Bella no longer was a scared little mouse balking at the first sign of trouble. It was a subtle change, but it was there in the bold way she gazed at him; in the knowing smile tinting her face with infinite wisdom; in the confidence she exuded—Bella was reaching for her full potential, she was trying to become the better version of herself she could possibly be. For a fleeting second, Edward was invaded with baffling jealousy, but it was gone before he could dwell on it, chased away by Bella's low chuckle.
"The last time we saw each other you were so eager to say your piece. Now, you seem extremely reticent."
At his continued silence, Bella turned inwardly, carefully scrutinizing her own feelings in regards to him. In the past few years, she'd learned to always be brutally honest with herself. In doing so, she couldn't deny how hurt she still was for all that had happened back in high school, but she was also intrigued by the prospect of getting reacquainted with the only man who had ever stirred up her emotions.
"I'll just make a wild guess here and assume you want to tell me what I refused to hear that day in my office. That day I could see in your eyes the need to apologize for our unfortunate past."
Edward's bewildered gaze confirmed Bella's suspicion. Smiling slightly, she continued.
"It's the past, Edward. If it will ease your conscience, I forgive you."
The reckless words were out of her mouth before she could stop herself. The dismissive way in which she'd said it wasn't in harmony with the truth of her feelings, but she didn't care, for she had a bigger fish to catch.
"Now that the unpleasant task is out of the way … How has life been treating you, Edward?"
Feeling more at ease, Edward proceeded to give her a detailed account of his life so far, but for some reason he could not explain, Edward made a conscious effort not to mention Rosalie. After gathering the information she needed, Bella made her move.
It was bold.
It was very unlike her.
She played all her cards.
And she lost, for he declined her invitation for a dinner later that week. When she asked why, he told her the details he'd omitted. When she asked him to look her in the eye, he couldn't – he closed them as he offered his version of sincerity. But, he felt no peace and no satisfaction–just the gnawing pain of emptiness. Bella left while he still talked since she had little patience for his bullshit.
When Edward realized Bella's departure, he simply shrugged and left the coffee shop in pursue of a gift of flowers to his lady love—although Rosalie couldn't fully appreciate the gesture, he still wanted to do something nice for her. "Never try to woo a woman empty handed—we love to feel cherished and pampered ", his mother used to say. An inscrutable sense of melancholy sat heavily within Edward's chest while he made his way to the florist. The sun was hidden under a thick layer of clouds; nevertheless the world seemed to have acquired a vivid array of colors, each one blending into the next, as if the world was a mad artist's canvas. Edward fancied he could hear a music playing in the background—almost like a soundtrack for the mundane act of walking.
When he got to his destination, Edward couldn't help but hesitate before crossing the threshold of the charming little place. In its window sat a line of vases adorned with tiny little bluebells … The sight of such an unpretentious flower made him want to howl in despair, because underneath its delicate appearance lay the strength to endure the worst of weather and in its simplicity it was more beautiful than the other garish flowers that usually attracted the eye.
An epiphany fought its way to the forefront of his mind, but it was a lost battle. Edward regained control of his wayward emotions and shook away his strange mood. He had no business noticing bluebells, for he'd come for Rosalie's favorite flowers. While he waited for the lilies-of-the-valley to be arranged into a pretty bouquet, Edward tried to envision the future that had been so clear just the other night. For some unfathomable reason he couldn't, and that only added to the maudlin thoughts darting through his mind.
After receiving his purchase, Edward should have left the shop, but he couldn't—his feet seemed glued to the ground; his mind debating whether he should or should not buy some bluebells as well. Or if maybe he should return the flowers he was holding and leave the shop with only the vase of bluebells. For him it was merely about flowers—Edward refused to acknowledge the symbology of the choice he was about to make.
Had he been a better man he wouldn't have debated which flower he should pick—he would have known beyond a shadow of a doubt. But Edward wasn't a better man—he was merely a better version of his teenager self and a very far cry from the man he could have been, had he picked the right girl. He stood trapped in a moment of indecision when an electric blue van came careening into the shop, throwing him into the air. As his body hit the wall and his neck broke, Edward's only thought was how he wouldn't have to decide which flower he liked best after all.
"But you didn't get to be her hero after all."
The soft whisper awakened Edward from the shattering memory of his death to a reality where Bella stood bathed in sunset, looking eerily beautiful and tragically wounded. For a fleeting moment Edward allowed himself to bask in the illusion that his life hadn't been abruptly interrupted, that all he had to do was extend his arm and he would feel the fine texture of her skin against his fingertips. A few soft words and she would be his—body, heart and soul. They'd make love, have children and grandchildren … But even his daydreams weren't meant to last—Bella was finally ready to say her goodbyes.
"I'm sorry, Edward. I've been unfair to you—I've been standing here making accusations, demanding explanations … I said I had forgiven you and I must stand by my word.
"More than that, I think I've truly forgiven you. I think I was just trying to make myself hate you, because it would make this so much easier. But it was a silly way of dealing with grief, I see that now.
"I just wish you had accepted my invitation for dinner. And for that final act of rejection, my love, I will never forgive you."
The words weren't said in the bitter tone of a spurned lover, but instead with a fond touch of reprimand and a sad little smile on her pretty lips. She kissed his forehead, turned on her heels and disappeared through the door right before the mourners returned.
Bella had found closure.
But Edward still wasn't ready to accept his fate—he felt troubled and disinclined to leave behind a world where the other half of him would keep on living. It would take a nudge from a little angel to make him understand the nature of love.
And move on.
"Knowing how to love is as essential as the feeling itself."
Although they had never met in person, the newcomer's identity was no secret to Edward. Through the joy of expectation and the pain of loss they shared a bound as delicate as the first flowers of spring, as lasting as existence itself. The dearest hope of his heart, the one he dared not voice or fully acknowledge had come to fruition, and in its awake everything else palled, even the impending separation between the two halves of his being.
"Give her what she needs. Right now, it's distance—to grow, to become herself. Remember your pain is her pain—be happy and she'll be able to move on. Stay and pain will be the legacy of your selfishness.
"Understand that fate isn't a vicious harpy—there is always another chance waiting in the corner. Maybe it won't come as fast as you wish, but be certain that love always comes around again."
"When did you grow so wise, angel?"
"We are all carry the wisdom of the world inside ourselves — we just somehow manage to forget it between being born and dying."
As he took the proffered hand of his own personal angel, Edward couldn't help but wonder what his epitaph would say. Nothing too agreeable, he imagined since he'd managed to disappoint all the women in his life—for all his efforts, he'd somehow managed to be nobody's hero.
"For what's worth you've always been my hero, daddy."