Chapter 9 - Purple Room
Edward hasn't felt right after the fallen girl. He hasn't been as calm or settled. He walks around in circles in the space he's made for himself since he was twenty.
No one has ever invaded. Only bugs, snow, and cold. So much cold.
He barely remembers life before. He barely remembers his own age. There's no time here. No way to connect and that was the one thing he sought after for a long time. This is what he wanted, to be away and be under the stars. But even that sounds romantic. He just wanted calm.
Being himself around others wasn't easy. Being around others was effort. His family was all right, his brothers the same, but not school, and not work—those made him question the validity of purpose. What was the point of it all? Everyone moving, working every day for things. Have a car, a house, kids, a wife—empty aspirations. Nothing's real or genuine. Living a life built by a twisted, broken society. Have these things or live on a sidewalk. Be better. Be smarter. Network. Know important people. Get the next promotion. More money. More worries. More bills, less time to find self. Work more to get more.
He knows he's not perfect. He sins. He takes and takes from others. He figured out weeks into isolation that it's impossible not to depend on humans, to truly and absolutely be alone. There's always something you'll need from someone. For him, it was food. But he couldn't, he still cannot find a way to live a life like others. He doesn't have a plan or path. It's not for him. What he wanted was to get lost, and not find anything, not even himself. He stepped into the woods, roamed around until he found himself lost. That was fine with him.
He left work one day, the day he decided to seek … something. He couldn't put it into words. He drove and drove right past his apartment in Massachusetts. He went to a college there and got an electrician certificate. Some of his brothers also did. Five boys and one girl, the youngest, with health complications. She's the one who stayed with Mom and Dad.
When they were still all living under one roof, life was so quiet in the Cullen house in rural Maine, it was like a library. Nights after grade school were spent reading, Mom and Dad in their rocking chairs, books on shelves everywhere in their two-story farmhouse. Dinner was made on a wood stove with firewood they split themselves, food they tilled with a tractor on a two-acre garden; Potatoes, beans, corn, and pumpkins. They'd hunt moose or deer. A black, bearskin lay on the bedroom floor of his parent's room, evidence of his father's precise aim.
They kept to themselves. They were reserved. Not even neighbors knew much of them for years, never saying a hello or a good morning.
They weren't the most affectionate family, but they were the brightest. What they needed, they build with their hands. Dad expected a lot from the boys, and they all served up to that expectation. He wanted them tough, not strong. He wanted them clever, not intelligent. That's what they were.
That's what Edward still is.
He found himself living in Massachusetts after school, working as a home and car alarm system tech. He drove around in a white 1985 Subaru Brat. And with that Brat, he drove away, never leaving word at his job or returning his tools.
He headed nowhere in particular.
He left it behind and drove south until he hit Florida. He slept in his car and old motels, ate take out or in desolate diners. Then, when he was bored with that, he drove back through the woods of Maine, passed his childhood house, up to the woods, until the road wasn't paved.
He got out of the car, tossed the keys on the console, and left it there. That was the only plan thus far. From that moment on, he didn't have one … and that felt exhilarating.
He never had to speak a word, just be. Him and his own thoughts. No effort. Just quiet and peace. That's all he needed, to get lost.
But this girl … she came and left her hair stuck to his pillow. The fibers soaked up her clean skin.
She lingers.
What if she tells someone? He's afraid, terrified. This can't be ruined.
He didn't leave for weeks after she left. He'd hear the hikers and raffish campsite residents splashing in the lake. Conversations and secrets between some as they passed by. He hears everything, even things about himself; his ears grown sharp. They always have something to say about the hermit living in the woods—a ridiculous name. Labels; they're what people need to make sense of things they don't understand. He knows what they say, but they don't know he's there to listen.
He was hungry. The hot dogs were gone, and he had to go hunting for food to his dismay. Winter will come, and he'll need all the supplies he can get.
This time, he'll try the cabin with the swing by the yard. He hasn't been back by all summer, not since he stole the chickens.
He hides. He stakes out. The cabin should be empty by now. The owners leave midday to sunbathe at the shore. He knows the patterns. He lifts that rock and grabs the single key he put there.
The cabins always smell different when there are people living in them. His stomach growls because what he smells is something delicious. He knows that whatever he takes from this cabin always tastes so good. He aims straight for the kitchen. He fills up his bag and looks around. Batteries, he needs batteries. He knows the hallway cupboard is where they keep the extras. Creatures of habit.
But he doesn't know one thing; This house belongs to the girl, the fallen one.
He rummages. Once he's found what he's looking for, he looks up. Face to face, he stands staring at her dark chocolate locks. Her smile is frozen in the frame on the walls, pearly whites he can't recall. He remembers then he's almost out of toothpaste and shaving cream. But the feel of her hair over his elbow in waves as he carried her, that he won't forget.
He can barely believe his eyes. This feeling comes to him; envy. She belongs here. She knows her place here. She has meals here, the delicious food he's partial to when he goes hunting. She's fortunate. This life, outlined and all hers. So simple.
Then he has a better idea. She barged into his personal space, maybe he should do the same to hers.
He walks around determined and knows where that purple room is. He just never knew it was hers. He'd keep away, any female-looking room he'd mainly keep away. He never crawled back into that other room with girl things on a vanity, not ever again. It just feels wrong.
He pushes through the door, and it squeaks. Like an avalanche, her scent rolls over him. He remembers, it consumes him.
He stays at the threshold, never stepping in. Her small little bed is unmade. Her clothes are scattered here and there. Female things sit at her bedside, spilling out of a drawer; Nail polishes, bracelets, and earrings—all her jovial delicate things. Her life. So simple.
He huffs. He's so upset. This girl in his life now. He'd take all the things she loves just to make her feel the same as he does. Maybe he should break her innocent, little heart.
He remembers her cursing at the top of her lungs. No. Not innocent. She's not delicate at all. All this purple isn't her. She's a gray. She's a forest-green with moss growing around the edges. She's like the children of the forest in that book he took once; A Song of Ice and Fire. Then he went back to get the rest off the shelf from another cabin. That was the best winter he ever had.
He steps in and quickly takes her book this time, the one on her bedside—red and yellow on the cover. He doesn't know much about tastes or what individuals like, but it seems odd that a girl like her would be partial to themes like these. He doesn't bother deciphering the reasons. He takes.
She, too, has framed photos on her walls. There's one of her and a boy her age. They hug closely. His hand peeks from around her hip. He looks into the camera, and she looks at him. A warm smile on her face. So oblivious. So unaware. Especially of the intruder in the far back of the photograph where Edward stands in the shadows, tucked in the woods over the girl's shoulder.
There he is. Like a ghost. Everyone looks for him, yet he's in plain sight.
He gets closer to see. He drops his eyeglasses back into place from over his head. His stomach is in knots at the realization. In the image, his eyes are vacant. He stands behind a tree, but barely hiding. He hasn't seen a reflection of himself in years.
Is it him? It has to be.
He remembers waiting for the family to clear out so he can use the spare key he found and find supplies. He waited a long time. Now, he'll forever be exposed on a photograph in a girl's room, part of her life. The fallen one at that.
He can't. He won't touch it. Rules are never to take things he doesn't need.
So he leaves.
…..