An Array of Reasons Chapter 56: Reasons for Resolution- Part II, a twilight fanfic

Thank you evermore for your passionate trust and faith.

This is a very long chapter, in fact longer than the initial preamble I had written four years ago when I dreamed up this story.

This is another reminder/trigger warning, perhaps a more severe one, that this chapter includes many harrowing themes, particularly in the first half. However, in all moments of bleakness, never lose faith of the light at the end of the tunnel.

Please do reach out to me if you would like to discuss anything you have read and as ever, please do review, follow, favourite etc etc...

((& Lastly, multiple apologies for the British colloquialisms etc. In time I will endeavour to amend them so if ever you go back to read an early chapter, please do not be too surprised by any changes!))

Thursday 31st March- Friday 1st April 2016

The two uniformed gentlemen with her that evening do their best to return her from a distance. They handle Edward's, forgivably, brash attitude with control in their responses and wait until the two are out of sight before moving towards me.

Despite the gift they offer in her safe return, I have to fight every instinct to remain hospitable.

They had returned a horrific doppleganger.

Esme is ghostlike before me. She had not walked past with the usual swing of her hips, her pointed chin had not lifted in mischievious greeting. Her colourless lips had not parted. She had not addressed me or asked for me. Instead, without depending the intricacies of language, she forbade me from looking toward her with only her stance.

I was impotent to obey.

After six long hours of imagining her without the beat of a pulse, of wondering if my boyish, unschooled gaze would yet witness the cheeked grin upon warm, flushed, dimpled cheeks, or the casual clasp of her artist hands …

She had not returned as that. From the moment her fingertips pried her from the car, it was stunning how unrecognisable she seemed to be. Her shapely expression was haunted, her jaw dirtied with shades of colour. By the crown of her head, the same place she had recently bore stitches, she wore another square bandage. The palms of her hands wore similar fabrics and the clothes, clothes that were not her own, clothes that lacked movement, familiarity, charisma... shrouded her like the dark.

She looked as if she would never fit comfortably in my gangly arms again, least never want to.

She looked confused, sickened and without the ability put a sound to her throat. I even had to discourage Edward away, catching her desperation to fight his concern as she stumbled upon her perfectły qualified feet, towards her final destination. He couldn't tell. He was too caught in trying to wrench her from the outsiders at the door, unaware of her grasp on her lower stomach as if rinsing pain from the area.

With careful calculations, I descend the steps to meet them. The taller man, thick hair and a thicker arm density invites my attention away from her, guiding me further from the house. Edward would be in charge for now and I hoped that meant he would allow the space needed.

A strict cable tie is pulled laterally across my chest with each move. At my inhale, the cable gets tighter, squeezing against my cracked ribs and by the time I stand opposite them, I am being starved of oxygen. At first, both men seem unsure. (Such careers are dependent on insecurity.) Unsure of whether they were standing opposite the abuser or the support network and with suspicion heavy upon my shoulders, they request to ask several 'difficult' questions.

What this translates to is an informal three-minute interrogation as they avoid unveiling the truth. They hide from the horrific, four letter damnation, and opt instead for allusions to the assumption. First, they ask if I had reason to recognise a backroad not far from the freeway. I do and hesitantly inform them accordingly. They ask if I had reason to be there between the hours of mid-afternoon to early evening. I pause. It was no doubt that Officer Swan had been kind to me today, though somewhat dishonourable to his work force, in letting my broken offences slide without consequence from his hands.

I wanted to avoid suggesting his decisions were an act of bias.

Likewise, I didn't want to halt or hinder any investigation designed to help.

Citing the hospital and Edward's arrival a little before four that afternoon, I claim that I was located towards the centre of town. I vocalise one or two street names in an effort to assert my honesty. The senior gentleman, here meaning more experienced judging by his forwardness, seemed evidently relieved by my move to assist and when he asks my intentions in those areas, I find it quite easy to be candid. I admit, rather foolishly, that I was concerned for her whereabouts.

This leads to further enquiries.

They ask the reason for my concern, and the party she attended, wishing to ascertain just 'how' drunk she was. They state the opinion with conviction, there no shade of doubt to be shred upon her 'intoxicaion'. As if this was a necessary requirement for participants uncovered at such scenes.

I was stumped with distrust. Party?

My immediate inclination to assist without restraint gradually evolves into reservation.

Then come those 'difficult' questions. Or rather, questions that I was simply without an answer to.

They ask about us.

They asked if we were together, how familiar we were with one another, what that meant and how this was quantified, qualified and defined amongst ourselves.

They might not have asked so immediately of course. Perhaps they had dropped this in a moment or so later. Perhaps they had waited till they felt I would not lie. The impression was clear. They were bargaining information for my answers, and the way they did that was with a drop into the deepest depths from the highest heights.

I didn't always have the answers to give.

So they clarify the question and ask the nature of our relationship. They ask for specifics. They were being callous, impertinent and possessed no integrity when they asked if it was a physical or co-dependant pairing.

When they push this by asking if we had a sexual relationship, the pallet of my throat clams and afraid for the volume of my voice, I say not a word.

To follow, they asked how long we had known each other. They ask if I had any reason to know why she might have been alone in such a risky part of town. They don't ask if I had theories, they don't ask for possible alibis or suspects. They do ask if it was plausible that she would spend time with any shady or questionable characters.

It is not an unexpected leap for my paranoia to seep in and with eyes on my every act and more eyes on her... I could easily stretch distaste around my one-word replies.

They almost try to leap over it; 'the nature of her injuries', and though I dread the finality of knowledge, although I knew I couldn't possibly handle the suggestion of the event running in my head for the rest of my life. I knew that I had to know the… harm… to judge whether the medicine was a forgivable choice. More importantly, I was acutely aware that if I were to make any sign of repentance, it could only come in the form of medicine. Whether it was to forget, distract, heal or harm… I would have to be present.

It's them that give the monosyllabic answers now. The smaller guy, hesitant, suggests that while she had been checked over at the hospital outside of town, she should visit one of many specialist centres designed for these women. She needed to make a report and it was best to be done to them.

Avoiding this line of expectation, I refute making any promises that I couldn't be sure to keep. Instead, I listen. Neither like this. They think it makes me complicit. They start to bristle a little… and then that younger, sillier boy says something very stupid.

'Sir, you are not taking in the seriousness of what has happened.' He complains, hissing at me upon the steps of my own home as if I had been an idle figure in this. As if I didn't have eyes. 'If she has any hopes of resolving this, she needs to report it. You need to make her-'

'I won't make her do anything.' I growl and flitting on my heels, I return to the house and let the door slam behind me.

Resolve. They actually felt it capable of being resolved.

I felt drunk with fury.

It quickly becomes obvious just how tortuous silence is that evening.

As I bury my head in the disguise of textbooks, unable to take in a word, Edward tries to sit with me. I suspect it brings him a lot of pain. I had yet to apologise and though he clearly wanted resolution too, he is aware that it cannot always be forced.

So with regret on his copper, paled features, teeth in his lip, he nods and slumps upstairs to his room.

The phone rings, too. Alice is on the line again and while she isn't crying for once, I can hear the stress in her words as she demands to know what's going on. She wants to come round, threatens even.

'Why won't you let me in, Carlisle?' she complains despondently. 'I get that you guys are a thing; I'm not trying to threaten that but … but… you can't just take her away from me…'

Like a thing. Even she struggled to name it. Regardless, I was unable to provide the relief she needed. Particularly when it was neither mine to give nor in my possession.

'Goodnight, Alice.'

'At least tell me she's okay?' she cries, just as I'm dropping the phone from my ear. I sigh.

'She's not okay. Of course she's not okay…' I clench my teeth together. 'At the very least, she will be fine.'

For someone who lied so often, I was more than aware just how disgusting it was upon my conscious. Dirty. Sickening. Another habit I had failed to kick.

My girlcode was not exactly sufficient either, yet it seems that this passes the message across and miserably, we end the call.

I do not speak to anyone for a while. I sit solitary, staring at my hands with wonder as to know what to do next.

Esme was home… that was something.

The problem of course would come much later on. Mr Masen would be far from pleased watching me resign myself to prison. I couldn't morally refuse it. At the end of the day, the American justice system would hardly have any mitigating circumstances for me. Even if they did, ethically it would be wrong to accept them when I had a crystal understanding of what offences were deemed forgivable, and others execrable.

The bigger concern was more my ability. The last person I killed was my mother and only one person held me accountable for that. Moreover, it was far from my intention at the time even if the result came about easily. If I couldn't even employ defenses against my father, a seventy-year-old decrepit, decaying man… could I faithfully trust in my ability to kill King?

I wouldn't use a gun.

Partly because of my politics, more because I was determined to make him suffer. If I felt compassionate, I could resign myself to paralysing him. But that would lay expectations on others to keep him alive… I did not want him to have the aid of an institution that not only did I once design my entire life's worth on, but that would do all in its power to assist him.

I didn't really want to depend on a blade either. If I was reliant on the tools, I could quickly lose the upper hand. This is what I ponder when I hear movement above me.

Upstairs, Edward's footsteps clamber on the carpet as he crosses noisily from his door to the one opposite. He hadn't raised a hand to knock yet, and I was hoping he wouldn't be thoughtless to do so. Still, given our lack of trust in each other now, I couldn't avoid checking.

He is just lifelessly standing there, mouth open as if ready to start conversation, hands twisted together, hair disarrayed like he'd awoken from hours of tossing sleeplessly

'Come on, Kid.' I murmur gently, trying to pass him on.

'But-' he all but cries.

I don't say much; I just keep my eyes on the tea he left outside the door. It's cold now and at risk of being kicked over. His lower lip is protruding, without words.

After a few more moments of waiting, he screws his face up and without saying anything else to me, retreats furiously to his room. I let him and taking the cup from the door, I do not refrain myself from listening… it was silent. She was silent.

No, not she. Esme. Esme was silent.

And I suppose that was meant to be a good thing.

I find myself in the same predicament once the clean cup has been left on the side downstairs to dry. I'm at the door again, bearing a new hot drink and wondering if my hypocrisy will be taken harshly.

It wasn't that I hesitated from choice. It was not because I wanted her where I craved her most, in my arms, somewhere far, far from here under the span of my robust defenses. I did want it but couldn't forgive the feeling of wanting it.

It was more that… after thinking that I might never see her again… that she could have been killed or taken… the thought that my last moment with her had been me making a hasty escape, or catching her ghostly walk… the desperation in my gut just to confirm that she was alive was a necessary toll to muster the strength of leaving once again.

After four years of seeing her almost daily, I couldn't cope with not committing every tiny cell to memory.

My heart hammers away when I delicately tap my knuckles on the door.

Wrongly, knowing she wouldn't answer, I ignore my intrusions and grant myself access. It had been a day of damaging polite customs.

And yet on entering, I am soon reminded that there were some incidents that even I wasn't strong enough for.

Her bedroom is dark and silent when I stand in it, suffocating under the sparse scene of stillness.

It could almost be empty from all senses except the heavy drag of breath from her lips.

From a safe distance I notice that she- no, not she. Esme- has buried herself within the new bedding, wound it about her and crawled in like a cave.

The drizzling weather settles against her window, tapping, racing down the glass with speed. Taking a few more seconds to gather my shaking hands to a stop, I come up to peer around.

She was breathing, I should have acknowledged that already. That was the important thing. In fact, Esme was breathing so hard it sounded like she was on a ventilator, like she was struggling to clear her airways…

That's what I convince myself to allow myself to be closer.

The distance and the closeness, stings like alcohol on open wounds. My arms hang like dead weights against the heavy, oppressive air and with them tucked to my sides, I crane my neck to see her face.

She'd vomited. Perhaps in her sleep. Which explained the coughing, wheezing sounds.

Rather than smelling putrid, or making eyes water like it might possibly be at risk of doing to another, more sensitive person… the stench was odourless. The whole area was basically water and stomach lining...

As I come round a little further to inspect it, I drop my fingertips to the bedding to sustain my weight. She was still coughing her airways clear, barely conscious of the movement. The fingertips of my left hand are a little damp. Suspecting she may have been sick more than once, I pull back to see it in the light from the streetlight outside. I notice the colour on my pale hand and twist it up, a dark black against the near grey shading of my skin.

Seeing the bedding at a closer angle I realise there's actually more than just the patch here and there, so carefully lifting the blanket with caution, I uncover the source of the blood.

It's a not a surprise that I disturb Edward when fury evicts the food from my stomach.

He half runs into the bathroom, keeping his distance as he watches me purge nutrition till my tongue is sore. I try waving him off but he's scared himself still meaning that I am forced to hide my bloodied hand away from view. Leaning, I flush and immediately start the shower running.

'A-are you okay?' He asks, shakily.

'Go back to bed.'

'Carlisle?'

I barely have my breath back when I start barking orders though he takes them rather well.

'Go back to your room and don't come out until I say so. Understood?'

He surprises me in nodding, wide eyes on me as I wash my hands and brush my teeth.

'D-do you need my help?'

I shake my head, grateful that he doesn't push the matter. When he walks back to his room, I wait until I hear the click of the latch before I move.

First, I change out of my suit which although sounds silly, like removing armour before battle, gave the necessary leverage in movement. I keep my badge in my pocket of my gym shorts though. Just for Memory's sake.

When I enter her room again, the impact of the dead scene knocks the weight from me a second time coming. Still, silent and traumatising. I avoid putting the light on, even if she was awake which I couldn't be sure of, I didn't want to make her more aware than she was….

The bedding is difficult to unravel from her limbs but as I do so, I realise that even though she may not be asleep, she was completely absent from herself. When I try to wake her, murmuring her name in an ear, her eyes open though they fail to register.

They don't see me…

It was likely she had been prescribed something but I couldn't be sure what it was, other than several milligrams of sleeping pills most probably. Propranolol at a push... Zofloft quite possibly. Regardless, her dark green eyes flicker, not dilating when I try to communicate.

'Hon, can-' I can taste the fear on my tongue. It felt like the more putrid remnants of being ill. I was no better than the boy who'd accompanied her. 'Can you move at all?'

She doesn't budge, simply loosens her tight grip by an inch or so. It makes it easier to release the duvet from around her and with a grimace, I notice the extent to which blood had travelled around the sheets. The amount itself was also hard to determine but given its fluidity, it clearly was… fresh.

Untying the covers from the clothes on her person, I manage to free her and though I ask permission to pick her up, she does not completely acknowledge me when she weakly consents. I nearly hesitate, aware that doing so could only make matters worse.

She's weightless when I pull her into my arms. Weightless but rigid as the side of her head slides against my inner shoulder, the bandage going with it. Her lips do not say anything; she barely opens her mouth but her watch half follows me once in the light of the bathroom.

I check the temperature of the shower with a hand, briefly washing the blood from it in the stream to save the worry. Grabbing her toothbrush and lacing it with the paste, I make my intentions known as I kneel to her and raising the article, nod towards her.

'Can you open your mouth for me?'

She does it thoughtlessly, not even seeing me when her lips part automatically. This was a good chance to judge the extent of her abilities. When I put the thing in her mouth, she, not entirely lucid, makes no movement. Still bent forward at the shoulders, like she might be preparing to tuck and roll. I move to position myself directly at her fall.

After another few seconds of patience, I become aware that she wouldn't be able to take it from me. Instead, I arrange my stance and gently lifting her chin, try to brush her teeth for her. I cannot say I'd ever be much of a dentist but I get the job done.

'Spit.' I murmur, again wondering if she might just- yep. I hold my hand out to catch the paste that she pushes from her mouth and wash that off under the water too.

'My love,' I wrinkle my face and think to the badge in my pocket. I couldn't allow the slippage. It was too dangerous. If I started trying to see my Esme, and not the patient, there wasn't a guarantee I could cope. And she needed someone.

'We're going to clean you up now but to do that, I-?'

She's still not looking at me, and so with as much strength as I can bear, I stare directly at her, forcing her hold me on. 'Esme, I need your permission to undress you?'

In a move that might haunt me till my deathbed, she turns her chin a fraction and looks through me. I wait for the words. I wait for them and fear them… but she simply nods, unaware. The emotion almost breaks through me when I try again.

'Esme- I…' I choke a little, breaking that ounce of control and letting the slip of doing so tear claws across my chest. 'My darling, I need you to be brave. Yes? Or No?'

The falter of the recognition on my tongue burns. It burns harder at the mute, disillusioned 'yes' from her.

When I breathe again, it's my lungs first exposure of air in 3 minutes.

Starting with her scuffed shoes which she had bound to her feet, I undo the laces, grasp the heel and with a hand on her Talus bone, gently free her from them. Quickly, I follow this with the two un-matching socks and warn her with caution in my tone that we needed to take off her upper layers next.

Her long hair is still tangled behind her so I carefully move it from her shoulder to see if she recognised the need to move by herself. Instead, she sits glaring at her stomach as though she were hiding something.

The palm of her hands are too damp for the bandages to hurt coming off, and the other, barely on the crown on her head covers less than centimetre of a wound. the bruising surrounding it, however...

'Arms up?' I request softly and then difficultly free her from the fabric of a jumper, careful of the back of her head. Her long lashes do not stutter.

With a gentle hold of the fingers on both her hands, I ask her to stand and when she tries, I lift her towards me, bearing her weight on my shoulders.

'Just eleven buttons to go,' I say unsure for whose benefit this is.

I keep an eye on the bathtub when my hands make a start on her shirt, watching the gentle rise of the water, the swirls of the bath soap from where the plug had fallen in. In a deliberate move away from normal, I start with the bottom clasp, my ear at her lips on lookout for any signs of discomfort. She stays silent and with her arms through the holes, and the fabric resting on her raised shoulders, I had the following stress of her last item of clothing and undergarments.

'Pants?' I ask, praying the she might undo these herself. She didn't. So I announce my intention and see if she voices anything.

I was a doctor. That's what I had to remember. I was a doctor and a medical professional and that meant sometimes providing a treatment that was in the best interest of the patient. Even if it did cause the patient pain.

If I left her to bleed in her own bed, there wasn't just risk of harm from friction … the risk of psychiatric harm was… severe.

In spite of this, I still feel monstrous when a whimper slips from her lips. I snap my hands back from her waist, immediately, moving away a fraction to judge her response.

'It's okay,' I soothe. 'You're safe. It's okay, it's okay…'

Raising hands before her does little as she is without the strength to recognise them.

She is still leaning heavily on my shoulder when I unwrap a towel to cover her and though I wait a long time in case a sudden movement might frighten her, she doesn't move. Almost as if the sound did not take place.

In fear, I stay bearing her weight, my calves shaking with concentration as I fought between my better judgement. It's a long time before I trust myself to speak again.

'Did you want to try again?' I whisper, gently. She doesn't move yet.

Considering how absent, how silent and how utterly without comprehension she was as I tried to search for familiarity in her face, the unconscious moves of her unbuttoning the top of her jeans and trying without success to pull them from her legs, cracks just an inch off my soul.

Perhaps the fact they were not her own was actually a good thing. I ignore whatever thought tries to bubble up and helping her take a seat again, carefully roll the legs down from her own.

She keeps her stance pliable, like playdough and ignoring the memories of the weekend, of today, of the very same body, of the invisible marks left by my lips, I focus instead on being careful when the damp of the stain sticks to her skin.

Her inside legs are streaked with various signs of blood; blood I couldn't be sure that belonged to her alone... I banish that thought too and move the towel to shield from torso to her thighs.

The next move plays on my mind for a long minute. I truly didn't want to expose her, I didn't want to force the act upon her, and leave her vulnerable and frightened. But I couldn't let her sit in it…

'Are you ready?' I ask, again. 'Would you like to leave some stuff on?'

As expected, she doesn't say anything and so lifting her up, I carefully remove her bra one handed and try to figure out the intricacies of pulling it from her skin and the towel without actually pulling or risking exposure. She still doesn't move. Swallowing my throat and any of the pain within it momentarily, I get it done and indicate the main offence.

I don't breathe when I remove them for her. Even when I look to the floor, I make an effort not to see. I avoid thinking. I don't think about the lack of bandages provided to her. I don't think of the discomfort of clothes that not only didn't belong to her... belonged to a man.

...

I do not dare to think.

She makes no change. No whimper, no glare, no hesitation, no demand… She just stays leaning on me, unaware of the rouge streaks slipping down the inner foot. I tear my eyes away from her ankle and again announcing that I would need to touch her to help her over the side of the bath, I guide her towards the shower.

I am fully clothed when I step in myself, obviously, and balancing her hand on my shoulder I gently put my hands at her covered arms and lift her into the water. She stares blankly at me, not noticing when I gently try to lower her to a standing position. not noticing the burn at my hands of touching her and not recognising, not having that loving feeling singe my touch and spread through me like wildfire.

I wasn't too sure if I was grateful or fearful that my own body chose not to remember her as Esme but shaking the thought away, I ignore the water soaking through the back of my t-shirt and my legs and gently lead her under the direction.

The water falls on her skin like a whisper. Droplets slip down her face and shoulders without discretion and carefully loosening my hold on the towel, I find a way to position myself at an angle that makes it easier to not expose her. Either to the room or myself.

I find a sponge and a cloth and wetting both, I gently circle the suds into her body. I start at her neck, holding her hair away, around her face and then her shoulders, under her arms, along her spine, close by where she was burnt a month ago, around her calves and thighs...

My thoughts are deliberately placed at translating the bones beneath from English to Latin to Italian over and over until I can't possibly spare the attention to take in the extent of the trauma.

She says nothing through the ordeal. She breathes, she stares and wholly, remains absent. I do my best to make every action of mine clear and quick but her eyes don't look up. She stays without movement.

'Head up?' I ask, aware that she is unlikely to follow the movement.

Her eyes bore though me when I wet her hair with the shower head which though sounds simple, is more difficult to achieve what with the stitches embedded. She is moving a little towards me but only to custom the lack of balance. She wasn't in control of it.

My shoulders work as a balance while I gently work her hair into a rich shampoo lather, careful to avoid the crown. I wash it, apply conditioner, comb it through, wash that, rinse her skin again and now appropriately drenched with my shorts clinging to me, beads of water and sweat soaking my skin indistingusihable from one another, I shield her in another large towel and help her out the water.

She stays standing so with caution on my breath, I lead her to my room.

With purpose still my top priority, I carefully press the fluffy cotton to her skin. I use one of the tubs of creams from her side of the room and carefully rub the mixture into specific places of her body using memory as guide. Usually, she would start at her shoulders, the back of her fingers, the sides of her feet, elbows, knees, often changing the order but always starting at her shoulders. I feel impertinent doing so, I feel perverted and predatory. Comparatively however, when I think of how she'd wake up to find her skin not as soft as it once was, the thought hangs over me like a noose.

The bandages are easy to reapply in one sense. And then, terrifying too. It means I see every scrape, every bruise on her throat. Every slit of parted skin… and I hide them. I open her clawed palms and cover them in antiseptic cream. I judge every stitch at the tip of her skull and cover it over…

Then I dress her.

This proves easier than undressing and though she still can't utter a word, the craving of her own clothes allows her body to agree unconsciously to movement. I pull on her underwear, opening a sanitary towel for the first time in my life and hoping that it is as unnoticeable as the adverts promise. I don't try to fight with the straps of a bra. Instead, I find patterned sweats, a loose t-shirt and a warm, hooded jumper given the unpredictable weather then roll up fresh socks to her ankles.

Finally, with her sat silently between my legs, I try and work out the multiple buttons on the hairdryer so that she doesn't have to sleep with wet hair.

This proves the hardest part of the task, particularly because I'm not very good at it.

It is at this moment that my hands shake, that I have to ignore all the pleadings of my instincts and resign myself to just trying my hardest to get it done. Her hair is a lot longer than it has been for a year or so and the near black strands glow to a rich autumn with the instrument at hand. She can't see me from this angle so she can't possibly notice the stress on my features. I can't see her either but judging from the slump of her shoulders, she's drowsy and by the time her hair is mostly dry, her eyes have closed and I am emotionally drained.

All other matters were part of the job almost… but not hair drying. That was personal… and I was completely aware of that. It was the one thing that reminded me she was Esme…

Stretching my fingers, I force my joints to tense, refusing them the right to shake uncontrollably. I put her in my bed for the time being, wrap her in blankets and then move to clearing up her bed and then the bathroom.

It takes no longer than an hour or so despite feeling like four and though I am desperate to keep her in my room, to let her grow accustomed to the familiar smells… though I want to be as close to her as she will allow, I can't forgive the thought and so carry her unconscious form to the remade bed in her room.

I don't know if she actually sleeps. Her body looks as if it does but her face doesn't relax, her eyes stay the same, motionless.

The moment the door is closed; I allow myself to breathe again. I knock on Edward's door to acknowledge 'bathroom's free,', I listen to the snore in reply, I clear up any and all crockery in the kitchen.

After that is done, I follow my feet in leading me outside, to sit at the front of the door on the porch.

Then positioned as so, resting with the base of my spine into the old wood, I pull my knees to my chest and cry into my hands.

When daylight happens upon my shoulders several hours later, I find my muscles stagnant from the lack of movement. It had continued to rain off and on throughout the night, still I couldn't persuade my return. Every time I thought of trying to go back in, I could feel the numbness in my chest seize upon my organs…

Instead I surveyed the street from where I sat. I watched it all: every car, every dog walker. I pictured it and ingrained it on my mind. Concentrating helped to relieve the symptoms.

Even once dressed for work, with a coffee in my hand as routine, I move quickly to restore my place by the front yard.

Work. Sick choice. Edward was right, it did make me a coward. But I needed the excuse.

'-ke you've been here all night.' A melody chides, tiny hands pulling me to my feet.

I refocus my gaze and notice Alice is trying to help me up. Her cheeks are pink, flushed and her clothes are unusually… punk?

'Thank you,' I force myself to say, rubbing my lower back, suddenly welcome to the ache there.

'You look awful.' She comments, wide doe eyes on my knuckles. I try hide them but it is too late, her hawk gaze catches everything.

'Sweet, with all due respect, it's not a good time. It's way too early,' It's not even a socially acceptable time to be awake

'I know it is?' She answers, drawn eyebrows furrowed.

I sigh and inhale quickly after, filling my lungs with way too much air. 'She's not up to visitors…'

'I know.' She says impatiently. 'I came to see you initially… and then I thought what with work and all, you'd probably just want someone in the house.'

I feel my face soften. As much as I didn't want Esme haunted by people trying to help, especially now, the thought of leaving her alone was a lot more terrifying.

'She is not to be disturbed.' I say sternly. 'I know you want to see her, but I just can't…'

'I know,' she repeats, irritated now. 'Look, let me drive you to work, we'll talk and then I'll come back and help around the house or something?'

So this is what it felt like to be excessively over-parented. I was starting to empathise with Edward's short patience.

'There isn't anything that needs doing,' I lie. 'I appreciate-'

The thought plays on me.

The thing was that I couldn't predict how long I would have to be away until I was indefinitely locked away. I couldn't be in the house all night and all day without bringing eyes to us either… I needed to keep her safe.

For starters, I couldn't necessarily trust Edward to make dinner, check on her, not disturb her, hang the washed bedding on the line outside plus several other loads of laundry, empty the dishwater, clean up after himself and keep up with studying while I was otherwise absent. Likewise, I couldn't expect to hire Alice as a nanny.

It did not escape my notice that her entire safety seemed to involve both being as far from her as possible while also being obsessively close.

'If you're offering, Alice I would really value your help…'

'Really?' she repeats, looking not unlike she had just passed a job interview. Neither of us were expecting me to concede and I have to ignore her relief in order to remain seemingly calm.

'Grocery shopping would actually be…'

'I-I can do that.' She says and from nowhere, a smile starts to appear. 'I can so do that!'

'Well,' I reach into my pocket, grab all and any notes from my wallet and pass them to her. What would I need them for, anyway? She puts it immediately into her bag and thanks me again, her expression a lot softer now.

That was something at the very least. Movement in the right direction. I was aware hers and Esme's relationship was somewhat rocky recently… worse this last month and worse still come last night's phone call. Easing tensions on the home territories would be both necessary and invaluable.

'Still, let me drive you?' she offers and I get the feeling she wants to talk to me away from the comfort of the house.

Or maybe she thought that either of them could be listening.

Either way, squeezing into her tiny car at the end of the drive would at least alleviate the focus of having to pay attention to the road. Finishing the last of the coffee, I give the house a once over and can't stop myself from checking on the two of them before I go. They are both sleeping, one more deeply than the other and changing the water in Esme's room to a fresh glass, I allow myself the rude advance of looking at her face.

She still smells like yesterday's soap, the fragrance of flowers clinging to the ribbons of her hair like it had been braided with the scent. From what I could tell from just checking, she hadn't bled through the fabric or been ill, depsite her nightly tossing tangling her hair. Though it was a reminder that I would still need to grab some of the delicate bandages from work…

Briefly remembering that Alice is not the most patient of friends, I write a quick note to Edward and stick it on his door. I doubt he'd appreciate the thought of being babysat, but he'd possibly appreciate it more if he felt it wasn't for his benefit.

When I do clamber into the car, Alice is mid-conversation with me. She's talking about dinner ideas, unaware that neither Edward or myself would give a shit as to what went down our throats in the form of food.

Not right now.

'You see I could make casserole for –'

'What did you want to talk to me about?' I interrupt, already feeling my eyes tire wearily.

The surprise of being put on the spot knocks a few seconds out of her as she fights a way to approach the subject. Her hair has been styled straight today and when she shakes it, the strands don't part and wave. She sighs.

'I get the impression the three of you aren't best pleased with me at the moment…' Her voice grows quiet, guilty and I am sure the look on my face surprises her more.

'That's odd,' I confess. 'I was thinking something similar…'

'Okay, okay,' she murmurs, flicking the indicator with a flurry. 'No need to start on defences.'

We could agree on that.

When she parts her lips again to speak, there's a sense of embarrassment in her posture. She looks at me a little, but even if she does catch my eye it's not for long.

'Look, I know more than anyone that you've had more than just the hots for that girl since the moment you met her…' The forwardness now strikes me mute. I feel the lump in my throat bob painfully as I try to find interest in her chosen route instead.

It was hardly an appropriate subject.

'Carlisle, you know how much I support you. I've been wanting you guys to be a thing since she moved in. I've prayed for it, I've supported it, hell I've all but orchestrated it-'

'Alice…' I complain, fervently aware that I didn't feel up to this conversation. She scoffs.

'Oh what? You think all of a sudden you up and decided to serve your virginity on a platter to the one person who… has suddenly become sooooo comfortable around you in the last few months?' She catches my frown and rolls her eyes.

'How many parties did I try and arrange around the two of you, how many times have you conveniently ended up having to be in the same car, the same team, the same room, the same bed! Oh, and my living room? You really think I didn't plan for that? Who do you think suggested to the boys that you should be plied with condoms?!'

Not only did I feel suddenly very nauseous and very, very confused. I was lost, lied to, deceived and more paranoid than ever…Not to mention that Esme had been very vocal about Alice's disapproval…

It was neither the time to mention it nor appropriate for me to think it but I can't help but let the distaste seep from my throat.

'So you're the extra small, gag?' I ask, not even trying to sound humoured.

'Huh?'

'The condom,' I say, correcting her plural. 'Extra small?'

'No,' she says, now equally stiff in her replies. 'The regular Trojans. Was that okay for you, your highness?'

'There were not any 'regular Trojans',' I explain, pulling my eyebrows down and scrubbing my eyes. 'There was an extra small singular condom.'

'Calm it on your ego there, Buddy,' she dismisses, rolling her made up eyes. 'I know guys go around thinking their worth is connected to their dick size but regardless of that-'

'Not regardless, Alice, it's really immature. What if the condom split and we didn't know?'

It did split, we did know and even a week later, I didn't find it funny. Particularly not now. Even despite the fact we actually had our own condoms. And refused using them in the end.

Or at least Esme certainly owned some... And I knew If I had hunted hard enough, I'd find the pack that Masen had awkwardly gifted me on my 18th birthday. Or worse, the secret pack he'd hidden in my car somewhere after delivering the talk…

To a seventeen-year-old. Who owned medical textbooks.

I shudder at the memory.

'Woah, woah, woah. What are you even on about?'

'Whatever stupid practical joke you were playing could've actually been really dangerous.' I add, unable to restrain the movement of my hands as she, quite thankfully, kept her disbelieving expression on the road. 'It's damn lucky I am sterile or who knows-'

The lack of sleep is clearly wreaking havoc on my judgement calls. Her mouth drops.

'Okay, firstly, you not only confessed to doing my best friend…' She starts, raising a slender finger. 'You've now just admitted to unleashing your load into her cavern of secrets?!'

I could feel the sweat on my palms itch as the anger starts to encompass around me.

'And now you go and dump the heavy by saying you can't have kids?'

'It's irrelevant, Alice.'

Sensing it's a sore topic, she veers off it with a shake of her head. 'Okay, fine, whatever. But apart from that, apart from the fact you lost the condoms that I specifically bought for the two of you-'

'We didn't lose anything-'

Except maybe my virginity, that evening…

'I wrote the damn quiz, Carlisle. Do you really think Emmett knows how to spell clitoris?! Then if you completed it, you would have been gifted condoms-'

'I completed the goddamn quiz- I aced that quiz,' I am now yelling. 'I got every damn thing right and we were generously gifted one tiny-ass condom that was not only insanely uncomfortable, and I mean painful, if you weren't bloody lucky, it could have led us to a bloody abortion clinic!'

At the expelled breath, I gasp and have the flood of air reach right into the depth of my gut. I didn't realise how loudly I was yelling until I notice that Alice is staring out the windscreen window with her eyes wide, clearly thinking I am a danger to society.

I couldn't even explain why I was so angry about it all of a sudden. It was a joke. It was meant in jest and didn't have too bad a repercussion…But with Esme at home, beaten, bruised… broken. I wanted someone to scream at. I made myself sick.

'Well, the moral of that story is don't let Emmett carry out your visions… And more importantly, buy your own contraceptives…'

I am still snorting breath through my nostrils like some kind of hooved beast.

'Listen to me?' She asks softly, swallowing the teasing grin. Realising that regardless of the current situation, she does care for Esme, I give way to her torture. 'Carlisle, I know she loves you-'

'Don't say that.' I whimper. It only makes her more confused.

'Fine. I know you both deeply care for each other and I know that should be the most important thing…' her posture pulls upwards as if she's being lifted by a bit of string.

'But?' I push.

'But you're going about it all wrong. You're rushing, and becoming this big ball of confusion and mess and-'

Luckily for her she was hardly going to have to worry about that in the long run.

'I can't see where this is going.' She confesses, regretfully. 'I can't predict how it ends for the two of you, but it's like there's just something not right... And whatever did happen...when she... left... whatever you're refusing to let me in on... if you're not careful it will only reinforce my theories.'

I wanted to argue. I wanted to fight my corner, I wanted to plead her trust and prove the depth of my commitment, I wanted to wear it, sing it, declare it, I wanted it everywhere…

Looking at Alice now, the guilty pull of her mouth as she relayed her truest response, her honesty to me with so much… trust… Her disgustingly accurate insight.

And she didn't know.

She had no idea that we were desperately leading towards our last days together. She could just predict them. Esme didn't know either of course. The realisation had played on me this Morning. I realised that I couldn't do anything until things were settled… until I could be sure she was… okay…

She wasn't okay. I couldn't say Esme was ever going to be okay… I just needed to find that perfect niche time where I could trust that she would get better… while she still wasn't quite conscious enough to have to witness what I would do.

I didn't want her to try visit me on death row. I didn't want her to give testimonies and I didn't want her to sit in that big box next the judge while the prosecutor interrogated her choices, what she wore, what she drank, what she said… that led the saintly Carlisle Cullen to flip.

The jagged ends of my incisors bear down.

'Carlisle?'

I jump so violently that I almost don't realise Alice is putting her hand in mine. Her fingers are slight, small, like a child's… she squeezes. We are parked up in the parking lot now. It's a little before six am and the hospital is unusually quiet. I half wished I would switch to nights just for the peace of evening.

'I'm not saying you're wrong for each other…' she whispers, cautiously. 'Because you're not. Really… It's just. It's like it's the wrong time, you know?'

'It's not the wrong time, Alice…'

'The wrong place?' She offers.

Despite myself, I snort and pinch my nose. Even in this chair, my bones were shrieking for comfort, for sleep, for more caffeine. I rub my face now, trying to force daylight into them.

Here I was. About to go help people. While Esme was at home, crying out for help.

'I am the wrong person,' I say but despite her hesitations, I don't let her interrupt. 'Or maybe, I might not be wrong but I'm certainly not good… everything I do just leads to her getting hurt…'

'Sometimes it's feels safer to hurt people rather than let people get too close.' She squeezes my hands again. 'Jazz often says that.'

The knuckles on my hands are still sore and pink where bruises are threatening to appear but she's careful not to touch them. I think she sees me staring though because she reaches into her bag in the footwell, and pulling out several cosmetic bottles, creates a palette of colours on her hand.

'Here?' she pulls my hands towards her and carefully rubs the colour in the knuckles, blending in the crevices with fast taps of her fingertips. 'It's not exactly the right colour but it'll stop the questions…'

'Is this a bad time to tell you I wash my hands around forty times a day?'

She rolls her eyes, a small smile breaking on her purple lipstick mouth. 'It's waterproof, Silly.'

'Oh.' I also shouldn't forget that not only was she offering her skills as house sitter and chauffeur, she hadn't asked how I got them. 'Thank you, Alice…'

I reach into my pocket now to find her a house key but she simply grins and points to one hanging in the engine.

'When did you…?'

'Sorry… it kinda became necessary.'

All those threats about her breaking in no longer felt so empty but it makes me eager to get out the car. She rolls the window down and offering a solitary nod, waves at me.

'Well, have a good day?'

'You too, Sweet.'

It's with pleasure that I watch her reverse out of view. With gratitude even. Because the moment she's gone, I can stop pretending, I can wipe the false smile off my mouth and I can centre my thoughts on the most brutal, forgivable, way to kill the city council member.

Maddison avoids saying anything to me this Morning. In fact, he tries to gain my forgiveness in the form of surgical lessons but even Garret can't pull me into the light of day.

At a little before brunch, he finally loses his cool.

'Alright,' he groans. He throws his mask to one of the many tables around him, flicks it away in an example of his frustration. He hits the light from me, lets it pull onto the rubber doll in the middle of the theatre and when the big lights turn on, I know he's pissed.

'What is with you today?'

'Bad night's sleep…'

'Don't even try it Cullen. You don't go from being a flawless, thoughtless ten yesterday to what? A three and a half today?' he scoffs and shakes his head.

'I haven't done a single stitch wrong…' I mutter but it only pisses him off more.

He pulls my shoulder around to stare at me hard in the face. His unruly eyebrows are raised to the top right of his forehead and he looks like he is so angered with the world, I might have mistaken him for Alistair.

'Where's your sense of life? You haven't said a single word since you came in this Morning-'

'Sir, with all due respect, my personal life is not a necessary requirement-'

'Jeez Kid.' He recoils from me like I'd just upchucked at him. 'I'm not talking about that. Where's your enthusiasm, where's your drive today?'

And when I don't answer him, he dismisses me away to ponder on my poor judgment.

It was frustrating to feel like I was having to trash the world around me just to achieve the new purpose. It was frustrating doing things right and still not being good enough. It was infuriating wasting time to study for an exam I wouldn't be allowed to take…

And once more, Maddison still isn't yet brave enough to approach me. To apologise for yesterday, to attempt to persuade me or even ask how she is.

'Doctor Cullen,' and all of a sudden Doctor Browning is at my heels. She greets me with a reserved smile at her lips, a frown in her painted features with her hair tied up. She frowns a little more when I fail to acknowledge her, but perhaps offering the benefit of the doubt, tries again to entice me into conversation.

'I trust you are well?'

'Yes,' I say shortly, burying my head into chart on my arm. I can her her heels clacking around as she circles the reception desk. It sets my teeth on edge.

'I am also well.' She says for me, waving a hand away.

'That's good.'

'And your Esme…? I trust that-'

'I wouldn't trust anything if I were you-' And quite unable to stop myself, I excuse myself from her presence, hide away in today's rounds and force my way out of sight.

Horrible, disgusting way to treat another. I knew that. I could not even think about her. About her buzzing around, trying to give dramatic revelations to Esme while she sat catatonic in a leather chaise lounge.

What conveniently goes unmentioned, unrealised at first… is that the mysterious buzz of excitement as the day wears on has more to do with the multitudes of people in the clinic and not… on the multitude procedures I thought I could hide in.

It's easier to hide my guilt in my patient's needs. It's easier to force my mind not to think of home, not to think of how she might be, if she's awake, if she's asleep, if she's… breathing. Still, with my focus on filling out paperwork, checking wounds and disorders, what does not go unnoticed is how many, minor incidents there are. They fill the waiting room. People of all shapes and sizes but similar ages and the more we try to pass them on… the busier I seem to become.

Towards the end of my shift, Maddison does finally find bravery in approaching me. He hangs his head like he can't bear to look at me, his words are closed and his eyes tired. I imagine I must look like a Halloween costume in comparison.

'Doctor Cullen,' he murmurs, gulping a little. He tries to smile but it's hidden by his caution.

He pulls the cubicle curtain behind him to allow us a little more privacy. The people behind him are chittering like animals at feeding time, they exceed in size, just a mass gathering of chirping tweets. It's a Morning alarm, constantly going off, constantly beeping, constantly screaming…

'I-I really hate to-'

'I can't stay.' I say, trying to seem apologetic. I wasn't even sure I was sounding regretful.

'I know,' he murmurs guilty. 'I know things… are….'

Don't say it, I almost plead. If he was to say tough, it would be undermining to every second of my time in this hospital. It would have been writing off any and all achievements I had ever taken part in. It was like seizing the newborns upstairs and drowning them at sea.

'I can't stay.' I repeat again, putting my hands together. I knew I looked guilty. I could feel it change my expression without instruction.

'Son-'

'No.' I say with finality. 'With all due respect, no. I work hard for this hospital, I have always worked hard for this hospital, even when it runs me into the ground. I even have to lie on official documentation about the hours I do here just so that we don't get sued.'

He flushes scarlet but doesn't interrupt me.

'Doctor Maddison, I took an oath to help people. To save lives. And right now, I am needed at home more than I could ever be here…' I wipe my face a little, ripping a glove off once I notice the sweat is lingering on the latex. 'I am going home.'

'Okay,' he says dismissively, placing two fingertips against the space between his brows. 'Okay.'

He stares at his hands for a while, perhaps waiting for me to concede. I almost want to. Almost. It was like being asked to choose between the two. Choosing would you rather die by fire or water? I could have my heart but not my lungs. I could have my lungs but not my heart.

'I'm sorry.' I say quietly. 'If half these people needed me…'

I feel my spine spasm again, the long day wearing down on my back as I stayed sitting on the porch. I couldn't do that again… I would need to consider realistic ideas. Security cameras and such.

'We all need you,' Maddison says with a humourless laugh. 'But I see you point-'

'Sir in the last four hours, the most serious case I had was a four-day flu. I can't-'

'I understand Carlisle; you don't need to explain.'

Yes I do. I do because he's all but pleading with me. He's urging me to reconsider, he's fiddling with stationary, staring me down, rearranging his bearded smile.

'Thank you.'

'If anything serious comes in,' he amends. 'We'll page you.'

My eyes roll before I can stop them. He was putting me in an impossible position and even though I could refuse to do any extra shifts… I couldn't refuse to do my own and I certainly couldn't doubt the impact it would later have on my medical career.

If I was to think on that anymore.

'Fine.' I say sharply.

He looks guilty when he bids me a 'good evening', but it doesn't stop him from sending several extra patients my way minutes after I'm due to finish.

Further, Alice does pick me up. She has been waiting in the car for over forty minutes but sits at the steering wheel with a tiny notepad in her palm. Although she hasn't looked up she unlocks the doors before I reach them and greets me as easily as a soccer mom might.

'Well, someone certainly looks like they need a nap.' She murmurs, chucking the book behind her. 'Tough day?'

I ignore the pleasantries.

'How was it? How is… Edward?'

Her little purple smile becomes a straight-line and she nods to herself, eyes flicking to check her blind spots. Her perfume didn't smell as good as Esme's, her voice wasn't as accidentally sweet, her welcome wasn't as warm and even though she was trying… it wasn't enough to make me a nice person again.

'Well, you have sooo much food so if you're not careful, you'll be hosting the next three weeks?'

She grins to show this is a joke though I fail to pick up the cue. I'm rubbing my eyes and thinking of excuses as she drives.

'Edward is fine… he was studying I think… I'm not sure…' She stretches out the suppositions with a shrug.

I hope I won't have to ask. She watches the road ahead, thoughtfully. Without words for a moment…

'We left some food at her door but…'

I nod. I didn't like the imagery of her being treated like some sort of animal. Though I couldn't deny it was one of very few, similarly dislikeable options.

'Edward is a little worried that she's…'

I stay quiet but watch her with more focus than I gave any of my patients today. She fiddles with her hair and acts nonchalant when I ask her to pull over at one of the hardware stores.

'What?' I ask, unable to cease the machinery in my head.

'Edward thought she might have called out a few times….' She says softly.

'Did -?!'

'No, we didn't disturb her.' By her tone it's clear that she finds me patronising. 'He couldn't be sure anyway and when he knocked a little bit later… she sounded like she was sleeping.'

My heavy head bobs in time to a wondering nod. When I look over I notice that she has another poker face on and I wonder if my paranoia is becoming readable or if there really was some detail she was keeping from me.

'Why are we here anyway?' She asks, pulling her key from the engine which makes it clear that she had no intention of locking herself in the car. I didn't even have the energy to argue, I just let her follow.

The shop hasn't changed compared to the last time I came in, but my own growth made my presence within it very strange. The walls felt smaller, the place looked emptier and if it wasn't for my own lack of sleep, I probably wouldn't have felt irritated by the shop owner's greetings.

Mr McClark spots me from a distance in the shop and seeing me, he quite literally comes galloping up to my feet, wrinkled hand poised ready for me to shake.

'Doctor Cullen,' he smiles in a way that touches his eyes. 'Sir, what a pleasant surprise!'

'How are you all?' I ask, somewhat carelessly. It was easier to lump the group of them together than name all the members of his family and the multiple conversations I had known them from.

'Yes, yes, all very well. And you? And your fiancée, of course?' he looks briefly behind, disappointed that it is not who he had hoped and perhaps notices Alice's fallen jaw. I have to refrain myself from touching the growing headache on my frontal lobe.

'Speaking of,' I mutter and wrenching my wallet out of my pocket I locate the gift voucher easily and pass it to the elder gentleman. His whole face falls.

'Oh my goodness, I'm so sorry…'

'No, no.' I say quickly, ignoring the heat of Alice's curiosity in my back. 'No, err…she's…' I find my throat clog up as his open expression starts to liquefy. His mouth is already poised with further declarations of sympathy, a twisted preparation as he started to align sides…

'She's… fine…'

I would go to the grave with liar etched on the headstone. Mr McClark lowers in inches as he relaxes.

'We saw the papers,' he explains hurriedly. 'Why, I said to my Jane, I said there was no way-'

Embarrassed now, I nod to encourage him to make the point and get it over with. He doesn't make the point. He introduces the point, makes the point, evidences the point, adds to the point, reinforces the point and just when I think he's done on the subject, he takes the opportunity to tell Alice was a great point he was making.

'Just looking at the two of you together, we knew better. No finer pair,' he continues, 'That father of yours has been hosting those villainous parties for years. I knew it was all just gossip.'

'Yes,' I say quickly, letting my head thump in beat to his incessant talking.

'And to think!' he adds, irritated all of a sudden. 'To think he would drag Royce King down with him! Honesty, it's nothing shy of a disgrace. That man has done more for the community-'

'Mr McClark, apologies if I'm being rude but I really must excuse myself-'

The gentleman, surprised, nods politely and invites me to walk past. I try to offer the gift card to him again but he's insistent.

'For a rainy day,' he promises, unaware that for the time being, the weather forecast was to be incessantly gloomy. 'Really, even if you have had to postpone nuptials-'

'Thank you again,' I say and I stalk past to head to the security cameras.

Alice doesn't ask for an explanation. She pretends to not have noticed and even when I look to see the expression on her face, she's looking at the nails on her left hand.

We leave the shop a little before dinner time. I know I've gone overboard and I know both Alice and Edward must be feeling frightened when I resign myself to installing the equipment from the very second I get home. The camera on the porch doesn't take long and I manage to connect it with both my phone and Edward's for emergency reasons.

Alice serves food a little after then and both her and the Kid sit and eat the food silently while my plate goes untouched. I knew I was being rude. I knew if things were normal, Esme would be embarrassed tenfold about my behaviour, I knew I would be and I knew that I would regret my handling on things not much later. Regardless, as they eat and talk about minor interests of their day, I busy myself with the back door, installing the deadbolts and screwing the steel into the wood like I was barricading ourselves in.

'Carlisle?'

As he gently approaches the tools on the kitchen floor, I imagine he's either here to be a nuisance or a hindrance. I try to avoid looking at him in case I see soothing I didn't want to see. I know I hadn't visibly hurt him… but just feeling that broken gaze on me was enough to make the guilt rise up.

'Hm?'

If he makes a single comment about dinner, I will have no ground to stand on.

'Dude, your page is going off.'

'What?'

He did it. Maddison actually did it. It hadn't been two hours and already he was calling in an unqualified foolish, sleepless idiot like me back to the front line. Two hours.

'That better be a joke.' I say, unable to snatch the bite from my tongue. Edward hesitates, shoving a hand towards me and bearing the ringing box. He watches as it moves in his palm, offering it up as sacrifice.

I don't even pretend to be calm about it.

'I haven't been home for,' I read the message on the little screen and check the time again. Already I could feel that elastic band start to wind itself around my neck. 'It's Doctor Newton,' I correct.

'Is everything okay?' Alice asks, wondering into the kitchen now with an empty plate.

'I have to go in,' I explain warily, already pulling myself to my feet. At least I wouldn't have to get changed. That was something. 'It's the Neo-natal unit.'

Just say it, you bastards. Just say you're pulling the funding.

'Oh… well,' Alice grimaces. 'Well, go. We'll be fine here.'

'Babysitting,' Edward mutters but he rolls his eyes when I glare at him.

'Do you need-'

'No, I'll drive.'

I needed to drive anyway. I needed the distraction. Both pairs of eyes agree with me at a distance and without even forgiving my ability to be subtle, I grab a few bites of dinner and head out the door. One thing I hadn't considered was that I was stuck in… and while moving Alice's car would be the polite option, I instead swap my keys for the ones on the kitchen counter and jump in Esme's car.

I wasn't too sure when she last used it. A while ago perhaps because it was cold but still smelled like her perfume... I would owe her the petrol.

From the drive, I try phoning Doctor Newton but she's apparently too busy to pick up. I couldn't entirely be sure why I was being paged anyway. I was far from the expert in such specialisms and to be entirely honest… my experience with the younger generation was limited at best. I was either a part of rounds with most of the other junior doctors, or I was having one-to-one introduction sessions with the Residents and Attendings. Anything other than that, anything I did solo was usually minor and uncomplicated.

So when I set foot across the entrance doors to be shot by the engulfing light of a camera, it catches me by such a surprise that I fall to my heels.

Then the swarm attacks.

It's hard to explain what it's like to be sentenced to death by people. It's an odd feeling and it doesn't pass my notice that this must be the very start of what a witch hunt would feel like. The sweat is crawling down my spine, my head and heart are pounding together like a Celtic drumbeat and even as I try and swim through the masses, the crowd is like an iron gate.

And then the noise hits.

There's yelling, screaming, demanding, people shouting for me, screaming my name and not just the family name. They were calling me by my personal name. They were forcing nicknames in my ears in hopes this would grasp my attention, they were calling me Sir ,Cullen, Carl.

'Doctor Cullen!' Newton seizes my arm and drags me through the rivers of people, shuddering from the flashing as she drags me out the way of people and into an elevator, pushing people out the doors like a zombie film.

I can't control the stress in my tone.

'What's going on?!' I demand, shaking a little. I hadn't expected cameras. No one mentioned cameras. I didn't have time to prepare for this.

She comes close to me now, far too close for comfort and busies herself with tidying my appearance, fixing my hair, my tie, smoothing my jacket. I try to put her off without being rude but she's in such a flurry… of excitement?

'Do you not know?!' She asks, her voice jumping like a pop song. She puts her hands on my cheeks and doesn't notice when I wrench myself out of the impertinence of the gesture.

'Do I not know what?'

'The City Council meeting? These people are here to interview you.'

'Who?' I ask, nervously anticipating the end of the ride.

'Journalists, Carlisle!' She clarifies, busily. 'How have you not heard the announcement?!'

Then there's a new swarm, there's more photographers, more journalists, more screaming and yelling and as medical professionals fight for the chance to do their job, they are quickly overrun by our patients who, too, get swept up in the hysteria.

I feel like a caged pet as Doctor Newton drags me through several more clambering people, all trying to talk to me, all trying to touch my arm and literally handle my notice with fistfuls of my limbs in their hands.

'Did you know, Cullen?' One of them yells.

Another tug my arm; 'Go on Sir, give us a quote?'

'King's newest prodigal!' yells one reporter and fearing my instinct, I tighten my hot hands in my coat pockets to hide their frailty.

'Youngest doctor yet to have-'

'Go on Carl! Give us a picture-'

Feeling the anxiety tear open my chest, the moment the magnetised doors for the unit open, I throw myself in and shut them firmly behind me.

Data protection would forbid any of them taking pictures with patients without permission and I was hopeful that the few people that would dislike photos the most were new parents… Disgusting, I know but I was taking advantage of the one safety net I had left.

With confusion high on her enhanced features, Doctor Newton watches as I hold a hand to my sternum and start to mumble under my breath. She couldn't catch what I said anyway, it was a mix of Latin and the odd word in Italian.

'Carlisle, this is great news.'

I groan a little, already fearing it.

'The committee voted, they're naming it after you.'

The room is starting to spin, it was turning and spinning and my foolish grip on the doorway could barely hold my feet up.

'What?' I repeat again, forcing the medicinal scent into my brain and focusing only on that.

'The Neo-natal Unit. They're naming it-'

'Please God, tell me they're not naming it the Cullen unit-' My pounding head is taking the vision from my eyes and replacing them with bright spots of green.

'Of course they're not,' she laughs, joyously. 'It's the Carlisle Cullen Infant's institution-'

'Institute?!' I repeat. 'I'm going to be sick…'

'Gosh,' says a nurse away from her. 'He really does look a bit-'

'This is great news!' She repeats, excitedly but I've already slipped to the floor and put my head in my hands.

'I-I didn't want this,' I plead emotionally. 'Please, we've got to veto it. Please.'

The level of hysteria, the celebrity… oh God, if they were at the house… all this time they had been waiting and preying on her and this was their distraction. I needed to phone them, I needed to warn them… Oh God the people… so many cameras…

'Can someone get a paper bag; our hero is in a bit of shock.'

I groan once more, closing my eyes against the light and try fiercely to gain some breath back. Before long, there's a hand on my shoulder and a paper bag being thrust under my nose.

'They're here to interview you!'

'I'm not speaking to any of them,' I utter furiously. The bitterness displeases her.

'Why on Earth wouldn't you?' She questions, rather shortly. It was to be expected of course. I was disrespecting the project. 'Do you realise what this is doing for your career? For the families of this city?! You say one word of thanks and instantly, we are endorsed by thousands. Do you realise the help you are giving just by sharing your name?!'

'I don't want this.' I plead once more. 'It's not sharing, it's giving. I don't want to give my name-'

It was the last thing I had. The last good thing of mine.

My name. My mother's gift. And after twenty-five years, ways were still being found to burden her memory. The last of her parting goodness now twisted into greed, horror and corruption…

'Oh stop being so modest! You have almost single handily built this program-'

I groan once more and she pushes the bag at me. I needed to lie down. I needed to lie very still in a dark room, I needed to not see or think or do anything for a while. I needed silence. I needed water.

She tries to pull me to my feet. 'Carlisle, this is good.'

'Of course this isn't good.' I complain, irritated. 'What part of this could be good?!'

'There is no need to be shy.' She says, rubbing my shoulder, replacing her faith once more. 'Come on, you've got this and if you're worried, if you don't know what to say or how to answer, just remember that standing there, simply standing there… is helping out another family.'

'Please don't make me do this?' I beg, the words without control.

The danger. The ridiculous, unnecessary danger it would put us in. It would put every single family in jeopardy, it would take Esme's life and slander it, it would ridicule every single thing…

Or…

Or with the press on me here…with the press on me as I left… maybe… maybe I could make this into a good thing? If there were others… maybe it meant that I could provide agency. I just lead the allegations and the investigation would be held in seconds…

Maybe just slaughtering my image would be enough?

With fame came privilege… that privilege meant protection in areas and knowledge in others… Perhaps. I could manipulate the fame to find exactly who did this to her.

The risk was high…

'Okay,' I whisper. 'Okay, I'll do it.'

The payoff was higher.

'Don't look like that,' she says warmly, trying to rub life into my shaking shoulders. 'Just grab some water, take a breath and try to remember anything important you said on Saturday.'

I said plenty of important things on Saturday. The problem was trying to remember them before they were quickly replaced by other important things. And then replaced with unimportant things on Sunday…

That was the worst of it. Masen was going to string me alive.

There was nothing more terrifying to a lawyer than someone speaking out of turn… I would have to tread awfully carefully if I hoped he wouldn't have me deported before I'd had chance to strike.

I sway a little when I stand, holding my head and trying to banish the migraine. I can hear them cawing outside the door, demanding my presence, screaming for my flesh. I feel even more sick now, plausibly green.

'Be brave, Cullen.' Doctor Newton says pleasantly and I'm suddenly wishing for Maddison to turn up and shoo all these vultures away. I take a very pregnant breath.

'Okay,' I reaffirm, exiting out the room with a turn and clawing attention to myself like a great big sign. A mass of cameras hunt me more violently than the eyes do. 'If you are hoping to speak with me, you will need to make your way to the conference room in the Clay Ward, fourth floor. I will be there shortly.'

As I direct them away, I find time to slip the long way, around the back to swing by Maddison's office. Unsurprisingly, he's in there, hiding his face in his computer. I knock first, feeling bad about this Morning, and enter. He stands to greet me.

'Carlisle,' he says, lips tight. 'I'm sorry, Son, I tried to put it off.'

'Did you know?' I ask miserably. 'Did you know what they were planning?'

'I knew it was in talks but I also knew it was a vote.' He looks at me with a frown, hands wringing each other with caution. 'Headache, Son?'

He pulls open a drawer and flitting through some paper, finds a pack of pills and throws it at me. I catch it one handed.

'I don't know what to say…'

'Think of it this way. Be gracious, be grateful but be insistent on our intentions. If you start talking about the science, the lot of them will switch off…'

'Will you be there?' I ask, guiltily again. I had been so furious with him this morning, so angry and paranoid… and now I had no way of escaping the fray. Of being exactly where I was meant to be.

'Would you like me to be?'

I wanted him to take it for me, to whisper me my lines… I hang my head a little when I nod.

'I don't know what to do…' I whisper.

'Doctor Cullen, you're spiralling. These are the same people you spoke to on Saturday, you are the same person you were on Saturday. You are skilled, you are capable and you can do this.'

I have to do this…

He follows me on the way out like an older bodyguard. He watches me swallow the pills dryly, gives me a moment to whisper the prayers away and opens the door to the hall. Instantly flashes go off again and I have to force my hands into my pockets once more.

The noise starts up before it begins, there's screaming, there's yelling, and my name is bruised between the sounds like curses. How was I ever meant to respond to any version of my name again?

My name.

Appropriation was a hooded bitch.

'Sir? Doctor Cullen-'

'Here Sir!'

'Carl!'

'Cullen, did you predict-'

'It is often customary,' I announce, standing in front of a large mahogany platform that must have been left here from the last event. I can't even remember how I managed to find the ability to step up to the plinth. I can't remember using my feet. My diaphragm is wavering and I speak not knowing where the next word or breath is coming from.

The faces, the screams, the words, the charity… Fear is the only thing holding the anger.

'It is often customary,' I say again, stronger, louder, 'for opening speeches to be prepared for events such as these. I am hoping that the many of you will forgive both my delay, the impromptu speech, and unforgivable amount of time I can offer this evening.'

I force a smile on my mouth and hate the way they capture it eternally.

'Having such supportive and reliable staff as here present often demands the highest of my standards, likewise. I beg that you will forgive the already late hour, and moreover, forgive the early starters tomorrow in not keeping those away from their homes for too long.'

I could already feel Masen pulling his hair out at the ways in which this would be twisted.

'Without further ado, I will endeavour to answer as many questions as put to me…'

Please let the drugs hit me now.

'Blondie,' says one reporter, hand thrusted up like a desperate school kid little after I've finished talking. 'Cullen, did you expect such high esteem as this for someone so junior.'

Another flash, another horrid, pitiful flash, another and another and another. I grip the podium.

'I can't pretend to know the intentions behind such a momentous and honourable bestowing.' The silence of the cameras allows me the opportunity to push my stomach to my chest. 'I also can't honestly say I deserve it. There are so many families, so many officials…'

Science, science, science…

'…Who deserve it more.' Even as the words left my tongue they felt wrong.

'Doc! Over here Doc!' Indicates one excessively enthusiastic woman. 'Many have suggested that Eustace Cullen's indulgences throughout the years affected the way-'

'Carlisle, over here! Is it true that you haven't attended your own father's sermons in the two years-?'

'Where do you find the time, Carl? Where did you find the money?'

Cameras, more cameras, more flashes, more screams, more tears, more locked evenings in the sacristy.

'Please, one at a time…' The stress is evident, the sweat pouring from my spine.

'Doctor Cullen, you have been closely linked with business lawyer and activist, Edward Masen. His son and you have been seen together on many occasions and now reports arise of feuding jealousy over-'

'Thank you, for your observation.' I try to smile. 'But if we could keep the questions-'

'Does your Neo-natal interests centre from your own family life? Father Cullen has shared the loss of his late wife, do you feel responsible-'

Late wife. Wife. Late.

Wife?!

It was a sacrilegious term.

'Are you atoning for your past, Doctor?'

More cameras capturing my horror. More cameras pointing from every angle, more people asking for me to pose, for me to smile, to breathe, to grin, to move my hand…

'Doctor Cullen, it's no secret that you left the fundraiser visibly disarrayed compared to your arrival. There were reports of a tense confrontation with yourself and King-'

'The generosity provided by each council member for the unit name is something I may never repay,' I try to defend but now the sweat is pouring from me, from my neck, from my back… More cameras and with every click, my stomach drops to the floor.

The people, the mass, the noise, the flashing. The continuous, harrowing flashing.

'How long have you had a drinking problem, sir?'

'How many children have you fathered?'

'How many hearts have you broken? Are you currently single?'

'Is it true that-'

'Is it true you-'

'Is it true…'

Is it true, is it true, is it true…..

Cameras, cameras, flashes, screaming, cameras flashing, screaming, crying ….

'Where is your Guinevere, Cullen?' Taunts one voice. 'Is it true that her relations with Mr King were an attempt to cipher money?'

'Where's your girlfriend, Carl?'

'How are you coping with heartbreak, Cullen?'

'Carl! Do you have a problem with violence?'

'Is this all an act?'

Cameras, screams, cameras, screams, cameras, tears…

'If you'll pardon the interruption,' Maddison calls, clapping a hand into my back like a bicycle stand. It's only at the feel of the damp shirt to my spine that I realise how badly I was wavering.

'Doctor Cullen has had a very full week of surgeries and patients and lessons and will soon begin the start of his exams over the next forthcoming weeks. He has answered many of your questions and I am sure he will be happy to answer any of the questions that you may have regarding the Carlisle Cullen Infant Institution at some point soon. Like many of you, he is just digesting the news of such an accolade and will be available once the poor man has slept.'

The room is still spinning, the eyes of the camera lens zooming deep into the recesses of my brain and every time I try and take a breath, another flash goes off.

I can feel my phone blowing up in my back pocket.

Rather than lead people out, with his hand still on my back, he leads me away from the lights, he leads me away, and drags me out of the event until my legs start moving for themselves. I needed to get home. I needed to be at home, I needed a shower, I needed to breathe and I needed to be away, hidden away…

All the cameras, all the eyes, all the flashes…

'Breathe Son, you're out of there…'

'Did I fuck it up?' I ask, my voice now shaking. It shakes without restraint. They shake and wave and move and throughout it all, my hands become the physical embodiment of the words.

'Are you kidding?' Frank says with a deliberate scoff. I flinch when he cups my shoulder. We're still moving at speed and I reckon he's about to put me in the car and tell me to get out of here as quickly as possible. 'They threw you some awful, impertinent questions and you did amazingly.'

'No I didn't.' I dismiss, miserably, struggling to calm the consistent flight of my rapid heart.

'Listen to me. You sailed. Putty in your hands. That's what they were. I only-' he sighs and lowers his voice. 'I didn't want them to spin the report from the main piece. That's the only reason I jumped in.'

'I choked.' I correct, bitterly.

I choked. I fucked up. I ruined the chance. The institution. Institution.

All the questions…

Guinevere.

'No you didn't.' He squeezes my shoulder again. 'Son, you can't let this get into your head because once they're in, you might never get them out. Go home. Get some sleep. Okay?'

'Yes, Sir.'

He's dropped me off at her car now. Another welcome disguise that I hadn't planned. The concrete is near black given the hour, the dark gloom of the April weather surprisingly dry but still chilly. He opens the car door to me and with a nod, warns me to get driving while the majority of them are otherwise unaware.

But I don't get home.

I try to go there. I even take a lot of the right roads.

With my foot on the accelerator, my hands curled on the wheel and my thoughts on Esme, I'm forced to replay the haunting response of my answers, of their questions, of my hesitations… Guinevere. Guinevere, I hated it. It made my gut shrivel, it made venom flow from my teeth and unleashed razor fangs.

The worst part… Even though I knew Edward would never be 'Lancelot' in the common sense… I knew there would be others who could do more for her. What was worse still, Edward and her had a voiceless, fierce loyalty to one another. They shared a love that I couldn't touch. I couldn't even name it. They trusted each other implicitly. They didn't have to worry about hurting the other, they effortlessly found comfort in one another's presence, particularly amongst the disguise of tension and horseplay.

Before it was a relationship that I was enlightened by, enamoured by, and more often than not, heart-warmingly inspired by.

Now, the image of such a familial, Storge love between the two was twisted in front of my eyes.

The only redemption was that even when I was gone from that… I knew they could look out for each other.

As I pass the road for the listed coffee building then, with the frail thoughts of her on my mind, I force the anger through another funnel of hate. With a deep, careful breath, I channel every itch of fury into movement and park up away from sight.

It felt right to be here.

If he was going to build my downfall into his vision, then by God, I was going to be as petty as instinct would allow. He could tear me down, fine. He could threaten her financial security. Foreseeable. He would not, under any circumstance, be a forgivable danger to the women of this stupid city… without allowing for some destruction along the way.

If he was going to burn sanctity, honour and respect in his world, perhaps embezzling wouldn't be so bad. Perhaps I could just siphon funds from one side of the hand, to the other deserving hand.

It wasn't justice I was obtaining. It was a moment's pause. It was an excuse to keep aspects of my brain busy so that I could figure out other necessary tactics.

While the Coffee shop is empty from the front, one of the doors to the back has been left partially open. I didn't really know what I was doing here now that I suspected an employee might have stayed late. Instinct tells me to go in though. Instinct, foolishness and an innate desperation to rid the world of my presence…

At the very least… if my own bravery faltered, I could at least attempt theft of the computer. Jasper was good with computers. We could see if there was anything truly damnable on it, which he undoubtedly would have. And god forbid, when my impending trial came to happen, evidence would be necessary, at least for Masen's peace.

God forbid Esme would be expected to provide a testimonial to my character, to theorise how I could have gone through with the callous murder of such an esteemed, charitable man like King, the computer might save her the need.

Yes. Get the computer first. Find some redeemable evidence for Esme's sake, for Edward's … then kill King.

I'm glad I left my coat and tie in the vehicle now and rolling up the sleeves to my elbows rather hastily, I try to spot anyone in the shop before I actually head in.

There's no immediate sound. Perhaps the hum of refrigerators and other wildlife noises…

My shoes kick up the gravel as I walk through the path and head through the ajar backdoor.

One of the lights have been left on. Just a back hallway light, impossible to see from the front of house. Hesitating, I flick it off and use my cell phone as a dim torch.

Emmett was currently blowing up my phone with comments to my social media appearances but silencing him, and his pathetic attempts at mocking flattery, I decide that perhaps it wouldn't be too stupid to warn Edward that I was going to be longer than expected.

Where r u? he texts back, shortly.

Won't be long.

Yeah. He replies, tartly. I remember the last time someone said that to me…

The sound of an unimpressed grunt leaves my throat. Reluctantly, I forward my location and ignore the several furious comments I get back. I suspected he'd be heading my way soon… or debating as to whether he should which was more a good thing than a bad. I wanted his conscience to urge me home. I wanted to go home.

I didn't want to have to hurt anybody. But I also needed King dead.

This is how professional Hitmen are born. Even I couldn't forgive that cowardice though… Despite my brother's belief's…

Brother. Pfft, perhaps that would be one of the last times I could forgive the affectionate term. He would be wise to dissociate himself with it in the not too distant future.

It's eerily quiet as I wander through the hallway into back into the office, the soundlessness of it all bearing like winter's coat on my hunched shoulders.

It's so dark excusing the tiny cylinder of light from my hand that I almost trip over yesterday's files. Now in less haste, I flick through some of them and see if I can find anything remotely helpful.

The only thing in sight were procedures, training contracts for baristas, HR protocols, stupid irrelevant business related things. I think about just taking the computer now and getting out there but I knew I would hardly have the boys' support to thief something for the sake of it so I turn the thing on and complain when I realise there's no password.

That was either incredibly stupid or deliberate and I didn't want to know which.

The computer itself doesn't necessarily have much on it. It's just one of those old, useless work computers with pointless information, spreadsheets and timesheets and while relieved, I can feel my stomach start to knot. I didn't want to find anything.

But I didn't want to leave her vulnerable… not now. Especially not now.

I try several different avenues. I try to see if he connected his email to the computer. Nope. Nor evidence of his actions on other victims… he'd covered his ass so well…

Frustrated, I hit the keyboard out with the heel of my hand so that it thwacks the monitor and underneath, I am perturbed to find a large notepad with a username and password on it. I think for a moment… and then choosing from the browser favourites, I find the website with a login page.

I don't recognise the page itself, nor when the details are proven correct and the page opens out into a long registry of transfers. Large monetary transfers too…

One of the comments from a reporter starts to churn on my mind… she asks how I could afford to invest in the program. How I could afford to invest…

My youthful dalliance in Accounting back in Italy did not go without use and I find the numbers as easily to read as Edward read music.

With my hand on the mouse, I follow the list down with my eyes. It was mostly like a game of hopscotch with large figures moving from one month only to come back under a different title. And the majority of them had complicated names, names impossible to link to one source.

Embezzlement.

Of course. I was a fucking idiot.

I move to the outgoing payments instead, ready to save anything damning, any large payments to another council member, anything to my father or the church or anything suggesting mere acquaintance-.

The same feeling of the cable tie and the elastic band returns to cover my neck like a large hand. It squeezes my spinal cord, my stomach, my lungs, my windpipe, cracks it within an iron vice and lets the insides pour to the cement floor.

The company credit card.

The transactions were obviously for the company credit card… and the payments listed to Esme were innumerable… sizeable payments… payments totaling an inordinate amount of money to ever be deemed 'reasonable pay…'

I see it not shortly after. The date, the two figures and the items purchased from that fucking card. I see it with my eyes wide, my hand kneading itself into the wood, splintering it.

A payment was made to Miss Esme Platt on the 31st of March, at 19:12 that evening.

A payment of $64 dollars.

It was the smallest amount she had been paid yet. It was nothing compared to the few thousand she was getting for holidays and shifts and bonuses and gifts…

I think I'm going to be sick again. I feel far sicker now that I did yesterday. I sway from my stance and throw myself away from the screen, breathing in and in and in and in and in.

It was that and the payment underneath.

A payment made to a pharmacy an hour or so before… and the payment actually said prophylactics.

I am not unlike a child when I crawl onto the floor on my knees. I tighten my arms at my waist in hopes it'll prevent the ability to breathe.

I wanted to die.

Die upon the knowledge. Die without it and let the flames of hell consume me like the guilt deserved.

I would've given anything to die at that moment. I wanted the blood to stop rushing in my ears, I wanted to hear something other than the silence of my empty sobs and I wanted it to end quickly.

I stay on my knees for a long while. I pray for a long time, for eternity, I wrench my hands over my eyes, ignore the dribble pouring down my chin and I try desperately to block out the flash of the cameras. Not today's cameras. Not the wieldy tools that the media hid behind today. Rather, I thought of the sharp pinch of an older camera's yellow flash. Cameras no bigger than your hand. Disposable cameras mostly. Or Polaroid.

But this time when I see the photographs, I don't see the shapes I am twisted in. I don't see the empty image of ignorance on my youthful blank stares… I see her, bleeding through her clothes, left on the side of a highway, with $64 thrown next to her.

That's what they thought she was worth. $64.

More money had been spent on the collection of prophylactics than on…

Before I finish the thought, before I let myself crumble into a scream, I force my presence within the world by gripping the floor.

'King and his confederates have clearly had the plan in the mills for months,' says one reporter. 'He has even neglected his responsibilities as CEO of multiple eatery chains. How will you begin to repay the hospitality?'

'Royce King clearly has his fingers in many of the community pies. But in your hour of need, he supplied both financial aid and political support. Will you return the gesture by assisting in his re-election campaign?

'With King in high demand and often expected to be in many places at once, who else of his team has been instrumental to your growth here, Doctor Cullen?''

Who else, Doctor Cullen?

Who else, Carlisle?

Who else?!

When I look up, I notice my reflection in the glass of a photo frame. It was a picture of his family, people I'd never noticed or recognised. I don't even think about how my hands move when I bust open the glass, splintering the material into my veins. I take the square and throwing it hard against the wall, I listen to the frame shatter with little to any achievement.

I could swallow the glass because the pain, the agonising pain of knowing… of seeing what I had seen, would make the glass as much of a choking hazard as cotton candy.

I needed to move. I needed to make myself move. I needed to secure the evidence. I needed to move.

Move first. Rectify first. Resolution first, breakdown later.

Even as I print it all from the office printer. Even when I fax, scan and send Masen the website and the direct details without my comment and even when I send it again and make multiple copies of it all… I consider it all but gone.

Edward also takes too long to get here.

By the time I hear the car pull up, I count another five minutes until he actually makes his way in and another ten till he reaches me. It was a good thing. It allows me to manipulate the last of my tears into promises. It allowed my arms to lock, my body to tense and it allowed for the strength to fester.

At the very least, seeing Edward would allow the apology to be made in advance. I would just hope he wouldn't look into the details of my planned vengeance.

In fact, these promises, these preparations allow for my stance to go unchanged when almost as expected, a fat, greasy man leans his weight into the door frame with a grin.

'Oh how I hoped you would come.' He whispers, shaking his thin haired head with disbelief.

The last time I lunged for this fucker, I didn't get far. The last time I lunged for Edward prematurely, I lost the nerve. I would wait until I could be sure, that every frail, tender bone in my body was charged with the fury of my blood when I finally moved to take his life.

I watch as he takes a step or two in the room. His face is still coloured from yesterday, his inflamed neck wound with a bandage that could almost be a scarf… an instrument to hang him with… I notice he is glaring at me with more than delight in his eyes.

I had just played into his hands, of course. I didn't mind in the least. He would underestimate me for the last time.

'Oh Master Cullen…'

I try not to react but such phrases of the word, even if translated, the memory of it being screamed through the marbled arches of home haunted my younger self. Without the tears to accompany it, my nose starts to run.

'You've got a little something,' he mocks, indicating the moisture on my face and mostly, below my eyes. I snivel, sucking in a breath and try to clear my throat. It felt like it was closing in, and the putrid stench of whatever his cologne was sat heavy in the air.

It wasn't stupid to assume I had probably given myself a nosebleed.

Well, I had little need to react to it now.

'You're trying to make it look like she's embezzling the funds, aren't you?' It's all swollen and sore at my throat and I can barely move the sound into a voice.

He raises an eyebrow, ready to perch on the end of the desk, I back away a little in case I have to jump over the files to secure impact.

'Now, now Cullen… is it not rude to accuse someone of something so discriminating… barely a day after we re-named your little unit over there?' he nods away from him, possibly indicting the hospital. 'Nice little earner, isn't it, boy?' He announces, once more looking for my agreement. My foolish hands lay idle at my thighs. 'All the money pouring in from there, the billions- well, you'd know all about that…'

The heat of rage is starting to take over my shoulders, the furious pumping of sweat rinsing from my pores as he sat, mouth parted in a smile.

'You are embezzling the money… into her account…' I sounded a lot better out loud than I did in my head, less unsure, my voice less pathetic.

Should I predict that King had a death wish when he came to find me? Or was luck just on my side for once?

'Sorry,' he says with a laugh, clapping hands on his legs like a walrus. 'Were you talking about someone?'

My rage isn't hot as it has been throughout certain incidents in my life. It wasn't hot, or insipid, it was acidic. It felt like my mouth was disintegrating at the venom of my saliva. Like my stomach was dissolving, like I was spitting poison.

'You're-!' But as I lunge towards him, he stops my movement with a simple raise of his hand.

'You come even a step towards me, and I will kill you.' He turns an odd looking item around in his hand, twists it and plays with the slit on the top so that a neat mirrored metal reflects the hard colour of my eyes.

'An associate of your father gifted this to me… Informed me it been a reliable friend in a past life…'

Were I to collapse… it would be now. At the sight of such a buried, lost memory. If I was to lose my footing, that footing would be lost as the recognition of the blade tore into me like the steel itself.

I-. I hadn't…

Like memory has the violent ability to do, I become a blind victim to the various indeterminable scraps of images racing though my mind. Flashes of our previous encounters, myself and that object and another person wielding it towards me. Or quite literally, into my skin.

The last time I had seen that blade as close as this, my breath had clouded upon the polished metal, I had been but twelve years old. Fourteen even… Fifteen at the eldest…

Anything after fifteen wasn't worth threatening.

Even from here, I could feel the cool embossed Italian insignia on the handle. I could feel it dragged against my lips as I pleaded in Latin prayers… the pointed tip of the blade enticing me into a dance, a demand of movements, the danger of disobeying orders...

And then the climax… the flash of a camera…

The predator opposite me had clearly never anticipated such a reaction. Perhaps he thought it an old folk's tale… but at the horror in my face, his lips curl, a wet tongue salivating as I fight the bodily instinct to tremble.

The office acts like an insulator for this panicked heat. As acid burns within me; sizzling below the desert of my mouth, fear in my heart, the room heats to the inside of a kiln. There's some brief noise in the distance. It could almost be fumbling, like things falling…

Perhaps this was my own morality attempting to hold me back. It pleads for my ignorance. Tried to cover my sight despite Memory's rampant demand for attention and Reason's distractions. The images were there ready for me to put in order, ready for me to puzzle over and decipher.

He can see me trying to calculate and grows impatient.

'Oh don't worry…' He says, with a whisper. 'You see; this is one of the few items I have on loan only… Even I couldn't afford her. Not with its history…'

It's just a knife. regardless of my ties. Regardless of its past. Blood was just blood.

Blood was just blood. Pain was temporary…

Yet Esme… that memory… the way she looked through me… not just from the car… but after…

The indescribable pain of worshipping, of being so overwhelming infatuated with someone who could no longer recognise you as anything other than a threat.

The broken sound of her voice fighting for life, the weak stains of blood rife within her bed.

All the harm I had caused her.

That was far more painful than the hurt that one dagger had inflicted upon me thus far, plus the hurt that it would threaten to do in the impending future. What was the minor threat of a sharpened slate of metal compared to the immortal guilt of destroying someone as humanly, lovingly pure as Esme Platt?

Dio, ti prego, lascia che lei mi perdoni.

'You are using your blood money to buy her silence and affirm her guilt.' I say, ignoring the prickling of my skin.

Wariness was clouding my judgement. Not of him, of the noises coming from the wall. The room was certainly alive with heat, the distant sounds of a clattering and… roaring? Even my eyesight was starting to get hazy, grey clouds almost coming in. My nose was starting to drip more but… not with blood.

I couldn't judge reality anymore.

I couldn't tell if my body was retreating within itself, if I was just so petrified… or if the room was smoking?

'Well,' he sings. 'You say this now…'

Looking straight at me, he points the tip of the blade into his index finger, pushing delicately enough to create a dent from pressure but not break skin. That could only mean that over time, the serrated edge of the blade had dulled.

Interesting that it had taken a decade for the jagged teeth to lose their sensitivity…

'I wonder if my dear little friend will enjoy a fate as similar as your own…' he murmurs, whispering to the dagger one more.

My self-control out does even my impression as I wait a few seconds before responding. He was so desperately foolish if he felt that a few moments of wielding that thing would grant him the knowledge to use it to its true effect.

The indiscriminate array of my body's life source, the red liquid elixir had often been shed upon that knife, only the small nick here and there until… until the one…

That one refusal.

King had no idea of the angle needed for the tool's obedience. I did. I had held its mirrored shine in my flesh. I had felt the cold sting of its bite within my lower stomach. It had led to my first surgeon's experience, my first experience with stitches, the jaggered inches of a scar by my navel where a birthmark had once laid.

The damn blade had literally tried to rewrite my history. Control my future...

King continues to play with it, passing it from hand to hand and watching the stress swallow my features. If I caught it correctly, the tool that had once been the greatest grievance to my youth could be my asset.

'Your money won't protect you...' I warn him in a whisper. 'Nor will your newly acquainted friends.'

There was no denying the billow of smoke into the room now but considering the wallpaper of black flowing in, there was no shrieking fire alarm, just more heat, more coughing and a completely unaware King.

Perhaps he was expecting it… regardless as I fought the urge to gasp, as I tried to squat ready to lunge without calling attention to the movement… he was so consumed by his idle threats, he didn't offer a single care to the sweat pouring from him.

'Fighting spirit, at last! I was fearful we had lost the fun.' He waves a dramatic hand, enabling me to continue though his expression is unsure. He gulps now, feeling the heat but not understanding it, not considering the smoke around him.

Perhaps he had started it.

Perhaps he was so stupid as if to forget the gas components in the multitude of fridges surrounding this place.

Perhaps he did not trust his ability with a knife and decided to threaten his own life with the addition of flames.

Perhaps it was an insurance hack. Or a way to ensure my silence if he failed to kill me.

Either way, regardless of if we both died… Now with Masen informed… I wouldn't just kill the man himself. I would kill his image.

'The evidence-' I splutter between thick gasps.

'Evidence?' he scoffs, throatily. He moves away now, fearing the warmth most likely as he considers his possible exits. 'Evidence? You think you have evidence against me?' He continues to chuckle to himself, in between coughs and throat clearings, but I stay still. I keep very still. I would save my energy.

'Inundated, King. The reports are stacked against you.'

'Reports?' He repeats and suddenly he's laughing again, waving his pointed plaything around without consideration. With any luck the dumb Fuck would slit his own throat.

He was calling my bluff. He was calling my bluff, pushing me further from the exit, deeper towards the corner of the room. Even from here, the heat was burning through my hands, the acid clearing an open path…

'Clearly, you don't know my little Brown-Eyes very well.'

Oh how I had such a violent abhorrence for thoughtless prepositions.

I'll kill him. I just need to wait till he's close enough, till he's confident enough, he'd raise that fucking knife again and I'd have an open run.

'Besides,' he flicks the blade towards me but I hold my stance. 'Whose to say I'm guilty of anything?'

He was pushing me into a deliberate outrage. If I acted impulsively, that blade would end up buried beneath my chest. I knew it. And I listened to reason.

'You might fool the rest of this city, but you can't lie to me.' I sneer, letting the specks of spit rush from my tongue like water on a hot oil pan.

It felt as hot as an oil pan with the distant roaring and the clattering getting louder, the smoke getting thicker. I was acutely aware I didn't have long till it would be thick enough to blind him.

I had seconds left. I needed to be ready.

'Think about it Boy… You can pay pretty much anyone to do anything these days…'

I would kill him slowly. I would kill him and I would scream and I would force myself to endure every second of his pain. I would give myself to the heat of hell and the flames would be my redemption.

For all the times he had dared to lay a hand on her. For the times he had planned to harm her...

'Sometimes,' he adds with a shrug, he's leaning closer now, unable to deny himself the arrogance. 'Sometimes you don't even need to pay…'

Heaven, please let her forgive me.

As the roar of flames comes peeking through the corner of the room, I throw my weight into him, knocking him with both hands through the office doorway. A grunt leaves his torso as I knock him to the ground, his hand wavers on the burdensome weight of the tool but does not drop. The smoke blinds my lungs momentarily, fleeing to the ceiling and as I fight for sight and breath, he brings his foot into my chest and kicks me off him, towards the open room of the shop.

I tumble backwards onto the slam of the floor. My teeth are bared and my arms unable to pull me up quickly enough, there is a brief volt of fear that pulses through me. I couldn't deny the flames now. Not as the heat blared on my open view. Not as it rose to the roof or to the wooden display beams. Not as colours of red and orange and black fought as fiercely as King and I did, he charging into me and knocking me flat from balance.

Unlike yesterday, he doesn't play the victim. He doesn't run off when he can. He hauls his weight towards me and using a knee in my stomach to maintain a hold, a curled fist lands below my eye socket, towards the inside of my nose, the blade held within it barely, and deliberately, missing my eye by a lash's breadth.

I feel its teeth lightly catch the edge of my forehead but they do not sink deep enough to allow for much other than a drop or two of blood to spill.

The pain of his punch lights up my face like decorations and heat ripples forth, not unlike the suffocating heat of the building. I try again to push him off but now above me, he wields the knife in hand and swipes it carefully to lay on the lump of my Adams apple…

If I breathed, or as more likely, coughed, I could bleed to death in moments and he would have barely suffered a scratch.

I am entirely dependent on my silent, foolish patience, waiting again for the exact second he would overestimate himself…

Forcefully, I make the cool metal soothe the toxins of my fury, of my sweating tremor and try to consider my next move. His own fear taking lead, he grasps my wrists and quickly he stomps a capped shoe into the top of my ribs. I don't just feel the shift of weight, the slight crack of the ribs causes my entire torso to shudder in agony and choking from the split of the fractured bone, I cough up more than just smoke and spittle.

He's beside himself with arrogance.

Moving in pain, while I was mostly fuelled by different demands of pain, my left hand quickly pulls his knee towards me. His several tonnes of weight can't accommodate the shift and losing his balance, he relaxes his grip on the blade.

The execution of the necessary dual demands speed from my locked muscles.

Rather than grasp the weapon, his hold drops. Automatically, my forearm sends the dagger flying from either of our hands. The solid copper and gold of the handle whistles painfully past my ear, the clatter against the windows lost to the scream of the flames edging their way towards the centre of the room. With King's weight now about to crush me, his stance coming towards me...

I move towards his ankle. His leg is locked straight to maintain his stand. My sickened eyes locate the evident stress on his knee and tearing my knuckles diagonally into the outside of his tibia, I witness the snap ringing in my ears as his femur veers towards my hands.

He screams uncontrollably for a moment, screaming so loud and so desperately through gritted teeth that it's a wonder the smoke doesn't choke him. He sounds like an animal, pleading and when I try and shuffle away, he lets his weight give way into me, knocking the wind, and any remaining air, from the containment of my lungs.

My eyes are starting to water, from smoke, pain and suffocation most likely and fighting to hold him properly, a desperate claw grips my throat.

He screams with his mouth closed and throws my skull backward into the hardwood flooring with a horrifying crunch rattling against my teeth. Smoke billows from the ceiling, twisting with tight streaks of orange light, the stench of burning rubber clawing at my throat while King forces out the last of my air by hand.

The building was now so contained with heat, it felt as though my skin would flake off…

He'd all but admitted to being responsible for her suffering.

He had all but admitted to wanting her to suffer.

He had made those intentions known…

My own instinct had denied me the right to kill him when I threw that stupid knife away. I needed to do better.

He sweats violently, grunting and cawing so desperately that even as he raises a sloppy hand towards me, it's easier to dodge. Fire is dancing through the beams above now, and with my vision split between blindness, the black, the orange, the dulled light and his raised threats, when a fist comes towards me, I plant my own shaking hand deep into his stomach.

His breathless guffaw breaks across my face and with him otherwise distracted, I grab a fistful of his designer shirt, bloodied, dirty and with a strength unknown to me haul him over me so that his spine slams against the hardwood himself, away from me and closer to the window.

The same hardwood Esme had cleaned barely two weeks ago.

I could hear sirens. I couldn't see them but I could hear them ringing off somewhere in the distance but getting closer.

Now eyeing the top of the black ceiling again, blinking the water from my eyes, I roll quickly, the scream of lights falling not far from my legs, exploding once meeting the floor and raining debris over the two of us.

'You're a fucking coward, Cullen!' King gasps, gagging and screaming from the smoke in his chest. 'You-y-' he splutters, and wrenches himself up on the other leg. 'You think you can hurt me?'

Move. I urge myself. Move. Please Move. Remember what he did.

$64.

How many times he had got away with hurting her...

'Be a man!' he screams at me.

I drag myself up to my knees, remaining wheezing as I come to the glass front. I'd find that knife and perhaps, I would go to prison for assisted suicide instead. Why should I dirty my hands when I'll make him cut his own coronary artery?

When I find it, beneath a few more table legs, the handle barely detectable through the haze off the room, it is to my stupidity that I doubted his desperation to protect his civilian image.

Once my hand is on it the handle of the weapon, an awkward design of clunky, varnished wood smacks clumsily into my nervous system. I groan, but before I can move, he's gripped the hair at the back of my head, wrenching it from the roots so that my neck is bent backwards. (All this stupid hair that I'd been desperate to have cut till someone had flippantly complimented it). With his hands tied into the dreaded locks, he drags me out from the space, away from the reach of that stupid knife, and forces a hold onto my windpipe, choking me using the lining of my own body's tissue.

The discomfort of being strangled was yet another move I was not unfamiliar with and I make show of all the expected responses in hopes that it will fool him.

Either, I was delusional in my last few moments of life. Either I was trying to hold out till I could watch the life leave him. Or, perhaps he really was an arrogant, lifeless Prick.

Flapping wildly for a few seconds, more desperately for the little air we had left, for those sirens to be louder, nearer, for peace, for serenity, for forgiveness… I extradite the last of my own air when he leans over me.

And after a few more long, painful, drowning seconds, I force myself to go a little limp.

He tightens his hands for a second or two but as more things smash and break and shatter behind him, the heat blazing into the thin linen of his shirt, he clearly panics.

It provides the ample time needed.

This time, I kick out his good ankle so that he lands, painfully and noisily on his shin. The fissure of another few bones is louder in my ears than the crumbling shop but with the smoke choking the air from us both, and the brief confused sound of Edward screaming somewhere, I grasp the whimpering heap by locking an elbow around his neck and lugging him towards the front window.

He was a stubborn, ridiculous man. Heavy and unaware how best to hold the extra weight. Particularly so when this is coupled with his, perhaps irrecoverable, damaged ability to stand. Flames now continue to taste the ceiling in a mass of light and cloaked bleakness. They billow out in ferocious roars, the furnace burning my fair features. I drop him, hard on the floor so that he cries out and cradles his knee.

I wouldn't let him have this. Burning to death was too good for him.

Squeezing the moisture out my grip, I seize a better hold of his front once more and haul him so that he is once more balancing against the darkening glint of the windows.

Perhaps my hazy view blurred the blinding lights. Perhaps they take in people. Perhaps they take in the shapes of cars from behind the shop.

Gasping and drooling while his shoulders slumped against the window, King wavers. He chokes, he coughs and coiled, I push the entirety of my strength into his gut.

His back juts out suddenly, catching the weak spot of the glass and smashing us both through it. He bears the brunt of the impact, the material splintering under him and tearing apart his skin more than it could to mine.

On the scream of the glass, the dagger tumbles onto the pavement by my feet. I don't even see it when I pick it up. The muscle memory of my palm accommodates the weight, and flicking the top, I sheath the blade within the handle and pocket it somewhere on my person.

From his back and from one of the legs, blood seeps onto the pavement, it spreads across the floor barely visible in the dark. He wasn't fighting anymore. His twisted grin was agape in agony. As ever, he was thinking of his own pain first.

The very disrespect enrages my soul.

People are screaming now, rushing towards us but while they are far enough not to be able to stop me, I curl my hand at his front and throw a robust fist into the makeup of his face. He gasps, panicked hands from above us try to snatch me but they slip from a hold on either bicep as I pull myself free. They wrap around my elbows instead, trying to drag me from the scene. I move quicker than I did yesterday.

Judging my foot exactly, I lean my weight down and when the figure behind unexpectedly drops a momentary grasp on my arms, I achieve the leverage to plant my entire heel, with as much force as gravity can allow, into King's jewels.

Considering this scream is more haunting and more blood curdling than either leg injuries, I'm surprised I don't recoil. I don't flinch. I let myself be dragged off him. I let them put my hands to my head and I let them cuff me, the clockwork of the bracelets fighting at my wrists, itching behind my ear.

I don't relieve a singular word through the desperation of my harrowed breath.

Edward has his wide gem eyes on me the whole time. The reflection of the flames plays on the side of his colourless face and he breathes so fast, it is almost as if he is the one who has been sitting inside the smouldering building, ribs cracked for the last twenty odd minutes.

I can't read his mind but he can surely read mine.

I had failed us all.

King wasn't dead.

I had failed myself. I had failed the multitudes of people allegedly harmed at his hands.

Once more, like I continued to do with every single day, I had failed Esme...