Apologies for the delay!
Please do share your responses and ever, feel free to contact me directly!
Friday 1st March- Saturday 2nd March 2016
Though I doubt he was the figure at my arms just a moment earlier, I find Charlie Swan yelling in my ear, focusing my attention back to the sights around me.
The building dances in a shock of light, the smoke billowing up and more sirens shrieking in the distance while faces convey the event. Officer Swan busies himself with moving me accordingly, speaking roughly, coughing on account of the black clouds. He's reading out the Miranda rights and it need not fail my notice that he accuses one incident to be arson.
My attention is otherwise taken by the fire's glow on my sore and swelling face, watching it blanche against the dark night, illuminating the limited stars. I was entirely struggling to open one eye as I cemented the picture to mind in a heavy, thoughtful silence.
I feel Edward approach.
Without looking his way, I see the horrified judgement on his twisted frown. Panicked though observant that Swan is deliberately distancing me, he chooses not to move toward the offending weapon hidden within my clothes and without his concealment, I convict myself further.
My history tied to it would more than likely affirm for evidence of my intent to murder; still a highly punishable offence. Regardless if the waste of space was dead or not. Regardless of the fact that I had stood with the hilt in my grip, twice and still failed to utilise it.
The Fire Service come tearing down the avenue then, noisily whining in flashes of light and shielding me from more faces, Swan leads me to his vehicle, throwing me in the back and slamming the door before Edward thinks to jump in.
My left eye had begun to weep as it struggles to separate shapes into familiar distinctions. Likewise, I could feel the mask of smoke and dried blood on my features, the stress of my lungs and the insufferable agony of my chest forcing me to breathe in painful, sharp stints.
'What do I do?' Edward demands against the closed window, his words muffled from the glass. Betrayal never looked so regretful. Nor so familiar.
'Go home,' I mouth, stressing the final word. I was without anger, without energy, without ability to scream at him. How could I possible criticise?
King had wept at my hands… and still… lived.
Or at least he did when I last laid eyes on him. The best I could hope for now was complications in surgery but that would not be my doing. Again, despite the fact that I would still be emancipated for it.
In spite of it all, I just couldn't commit myself to kill him.
Though I wanted him gone.
'Call his lawyer,' Charlie grumbles, slamming his own door so hard that the force makes my eyes pop. He isn't expecting, nor appreciates my response to this comment and debates whether or not to believe me.
'He's out of town,' I murmur between my scabbed lip.
The hit of his brown glare in the rear view mirror punches more than the thrown fists. I have to blink the fluid free a few more times to see who he is choosing to talk to.
'Do you really think I'm joking?! Call the damn lawyer! Now.'
He turns the engine on with a sharp jitter of his wrist and in frustration, I presume, he flicks on the siren above.
It does its job. The flashing bulbs of colour part the limited traffic from the road whilst simultaneously leaving a good portion of my face both deaf and numb.
He radiates heat from the front seat. His shoulders hunch forward with his raincoat billowed. He does not make conversation and even when we arrive at the police station, he drags me out with little more emotion in his tensed fingers than I would've perhaps preferred had I been a serial law breaker. He doesn't hurt me, as such. He doesn't intend to hurt me either which probably makes the bitterness of his comments a little easier to take.
Though he grips my upper arm using such ferocity that I am sure the bruises will be evident.
Gritting his teeth, he continues to pull me through the distracted office of bored night staff, resigning themselves to paperwork then drags me through to a cell at the furthest distance from the main scene. It doesn't escape my attention that I have yet to be punished with the harrowing photographs, the lining against the wall, twisting one way, then the other against a height reference…
As my careful steps plunge into the room, I note the cell itself is larger than expected; fading blue paint falls from the brickwork in comparison to the tarred black railings. It goes to show how rare it was for the station to be used to house such criminals.
It looked more like a cell from a hidden back Texas road. It was a cowboy jail from the 1800s for a state far more Mideast than here. Criminals didn't stay here, not for long. It was a temporary establishment.
By the time he indicates for me to take a seat on the cardboard bed, my own silence has wound him up into such momentum, I am relieved that my hearing has resolved enough to translate a kaleidoscope of mutters.
'You better get your story straight. Fast.'
Even when I sigh, it hurts all over.
'I'm not expecting your help, Sir.' I say quietly, allowing a constructed look of confusion to peak through my marble expression. Even from the stiff movements, I was very aware that this was unlikely to be conveyed well.
'Damn straight, you're not.' He moves to perch both hands by his waist, showing off the belt of instruments. The warning was clear; don't piss him off. 'Do you realise how many people you could have hurt? And so soon after you left the hospital!'
'I didn't-'
'The danger you put people in!' His voice drops to a hiss. 'What you did to a Council member!'
'He didn't receive a fraction of what he deserved -' but before I can raise my defensive volume, he shoves me back down and induces my silence with just a glare.
'Will you hush?!' He growls, leering over me and indicating his fellow staff, many of who were presumably preparing paperwork to interview me with. It is no secret to him that such a tone engulfs my chest into flames of agony, my lips part again. 'That man is being blue lighted to the hospital as we speak. By you. A doctor nonetheless. The City's bloody marvel!'
'I get it,' I say, opening my palms, as if to accept the scolding. The jingle of the handcuffs playing together are another unfortunate hint to just how uncomfortable I was sure to become in just a few short hours.
If the metal was biting into my skin now, I knew it would soon wear the flesh until it resembled the marks on my face.
A fellow officer enters the room now, carrying what looks like a storage box filled with bags and stationary. She's fairly small in height, tiny compared to Charlie and tells me with a sharpness in her voice that I am to start taking off my things. By which I presume my accessories rather than my actual attire.
The weight of the shielded dagger, held in place by a mixture of shirt buttons and the waistband of my pants, does not fall from my notice. When she steps towards me, I wonder if my, albeit pained, expression is readable and try my best to seem accepting of the instruction.
To start, I put my wallet flat on the table, noisily almost. She stares at me the whole time, watching with curious, beady eyes at my discomfort when I carefully shed my belt and follow this by slipping off my shoes using only my heel. God forbid I tried to bend at the waist. I would puncture a lung and simply collapse. The evidence would also be damnable, too.
She undoes the watch from my wrist, not trusting my own ability to do so, and takes hold of Esme's car keys from my scratched palms.
They were a large bunch, more keyrings than actual keys with many of the novelty pieces either half broken or withered in age. They also bared the question of how endangered her car would be, if it would smell like smoke, if I would have time to clean it, return it….
Handing them over was like selling half my soul. I felt the loss immediately. Yet once paired with the submission of my lanyard: my work badge… I knew I would never amount to such a high disregard so quickly.
How soon a reputation could be built and destroyed.
With a flicker of her eyelashes, she doesn't shy away from looking at the card in detail and turning it over in her hand a few times, committing the detail to memory with an untimely smile on her lip.
'Do you have any weapons on your person? She asks me, reading the line almost perfectly from the policy guide. She seems impatient when I shake my head. I was bored to voicing so many lies today. My expression would have to say enough.
'Is there anything you would wish to disclose before we commence a full body search?'
Screwed.
I have to contain the shudder. 'No.'
At the very least, if I didn't get imprisoned for King, this would surely haunt my criminal record…
'If you would place your hands against the back of your head and stand against the wall-'
Before she has finished doling out the instructions, I slowly cross the room, stand in front of the greying, graffiti. Facing it, I let the tight chain rattle behind me when I place both palms into my growing hair and keep my feet planted at just the right amount of distance so as not to dislodge anything. From the corner of my good eye, Charlie doesn't loosen his crossed arms.
'Would you like-?' She begins quietly, clearly offering him the kindness.
It is with utter punishment that he instructs her to go ahead.
Perhaps in the future Esme would come to find this hilarious. Perhaps she would kill over at the joy of witnessing the extent of my discomfort… Perhaps she would think on it with horror…
The start of the end, as it were. That time when Cullen showed mild discomfort, clearly unaware of just how uncomfortable he would become in Court. Perhaps we would no longer know each other when that time came…
I try to remain focused on the task at hand.
The Officer's petite hands on my shirt make me jump and though I try to remain neutral, her blatant frisking, particularly on ribs that I'd rather not have jostled, excuses a frown here and there. She claps her hands over both my arms, back along to my shoulders, down my bruised spine and up my legs in a manner I consider wholly impertinent what with my attractions torn elsewhere, her thumbs pressuring into the tight pull of my skin.
And regardless of whether my affections could have been returned, regardless if that now meant favouring unrequited, loyal chastity over partnership, it was still my preferred choice.
I had not lied when I told Esme that I was in love with her. I had not lied when I confessed that she was the only woman I had ever been attracted to, the only woman I wanted to be with…
It was understandable for her sentiments on the matter to differ significantly but I couldn't alter mine.
As naïve, silly, and unnecessary it might seem, even now with anger and pain in my heart, I still considered myself hers. I had all but legally bound myself to her.
Besides, such a matter need not be debated. As much as I was in love with her, as much as I craved her, her happiness, her joy, her unrelenting mischief…. I needed her safety more.
Though I had supped from the Holy Grail, had grasped at the temporality of the ambrosia within our physical, metaphysical, sentimental, ethereal and spiritual partnership, I would still disregard it without a second's grievance if it ensured her welfare.
Well, perhaps I could forgive a little mourning.
Now, I was more aware that my guilt was mostly concealed by an image of bruised, red, swollen skin as the Officer now claps around my legs.
The stress eats its way into my gut.
Instructing me to face her, not aware of the trembling within my palms, she repeats the procedure across the front, entirely unperturbed from my ankle to my thigh until fast patting hands occur upon the offending item balancing, handle pointed towards my sternum in-between the fabric of pants to…err… boxers.
It wasn't the first time in my life that the weapon had lain against my skin, and though the icy steel was tormenting, it would soon do the worst it had done in a decade.
It would, as ever, lead to my untimely fall.
I resign myself to being caught quite openly. Ignoring those grievances of pain, I part my lips to atone- instead, the Officer's hands retract at speed. See, the handle of the item is embossed and almost cylindrical. Beneath the sheath of cloth and fabric, the feel would almost seem ribbed as such, though engorged even for a fortunately well-equipped man. Adrenaline could be a great aphrodisiac in some scenes but even despite my evening, such a girth would be inhuman. There was also a vast difference between a simple chemical induced erection compared to that induced by adrenaline, hormones, chemicals and, most importantly, an insatiable desire for… someone.
One was mildly uncomfortable. The other made you ache so deep within your being, consumed your every thought, had such tools so tightly sprung that it drove you savagely rabid for even the hint of movement.
With hindsight, it will be healthier for me to go without it indefinitely.
The officer looks at me unsure for a second, her expression unreadable until the very light tinge of a blush warm her cheeks.
Oh dear God.
Great. A new article. Doctor Cullen: the pervert.
She nods without elaboration, eyeing Officer Swan who also nods then and ascertaining, or trusting that I am not as dangerous, as animalistic as I was two moments ago, leads me down the hall into an open white room with a table and four chairs.
His colleague enters the room first and stares at me for a long minute. Not with hatred or even excitement, she simply seemed utterly surprised. As if the whole incident was a practical joke. I wondered if our humiliating encounter would offend her on the grounds of women within the male dominated workplace and felt horrified with myself, but incapable of correcting the situation.
'We will shortly ask you to make a statement,' she says, watching Charlie in case he might correct her.
'Can I refuse?' I ask, taking a seat in the chair, forgetful of the discomfort of a bruised torso. I probably looked like a psychopath, particularly to her. I certainly felt like one when I open my mouth.
'You'd be an idiot to do so.' She says, stiffly.
And then moving forward, almost impertinently, she offers advice I would expect more from her superior. 'Your lawyer is on his way. Once he arrives, you will have the opportunity to make a written statement, or you can choose to answer our questions. In accordance with state law, this interview will be recorded, however should you wish to request it, your lawyer may be present.'
'Well in that case,' I begin, clearing my throat but Charlie Swan is shutting me up quicker than reason itself can.
'Officer Gayel, would you mind fetching Doctor Cullen some water and perhaps a first aid kit?'
When she nods enthusiastically, he quickly adds under his breath, 'before he says anything else condemnable.'
'Sir, I appreciate your help -'
'I told you not to speak till your lawyer gets here.' He snaps, rolling his hatred from my face to the box around him.
'Sir,' I insist as I struggle to arrange my hands comfortably. Perhaps in anger, he had made the straps of the handcuffs far too tight. If I was really unfortunate, by the time I saw Edward again, he'd have the evidence of my death wish.
'Do you realise what is about to happen? Have you taken into account the severity?!'
I had, I did, I was and as he starts to pace behind me, I realise this probably wasn't the usual way that suspects of major crimes were treated. I was risking his career…. Again…
And King was still alive.
'Yes, Sir-'
'No!' he hisses. He moves towards me now, close to the table, still pacing dramatically with his hands resting tightly on that belt. 'I know you're angry about –'
He sees the dramatic change in my expression and amends himself accordingly; 'What happened yesterday. What is continuing to happen, even. But for someone like you to really act so foolishly without the possible evidence to your suspicions. To take this into your own hands-'
'Officer Swan, Cullen's lawyer is here.'
Charlie pulls himself back to a straight posture and nods, moving his jaw as if he is trying to dislodge something out the back of his teeth. He waits until a frantic Edward Senior has entered the room, nods once more and as he turns to leave, drops his growl to the man's shoulder.
'Speak some sense to him. Before he obliterates his career.'
The slam of the door as he leaves, though loud enough to make my shoulders tense, is still quieter than Senior's horrific glare. The breath of disappointment would almost knock the air out of me but for Es on my mind.
She was always on my mind. Every moment designated to her concern and right now, buried under all those bandages, she slept with pain oozing out of her. A belt sized hold takes my throat.
'Mr Masen,' I greet difficultly, offering a jingling hand to him.
His expression is crestfallen when he returns the shake. His usually firm hold grips my knuckles too fiercely and when he drops the hand, my bracelets rattle again. I imagine he was thinking a world of things as he assessed my injuries. Least of all I could be assured that he was trying to reap me into answers.
'I apologise for stealing your attention this evening…' I begin, fully aware that this would potentially irritate him further. It was also a bad attempt at common ground.
'Shh.' He mutters, shortly.
He looks through his briefcase at first, at documents irrelevant to me. He puts bifocals on his nose, leans in his chair and takes his time to look at various columns of today.
It takes me a while to realise he didn't have the intention of speaking to me.
'Sir?'
'I said Ssh.'
How quickly one could lose favour. For a moment I wonder if I am a ghost. Or if he mistakes me for Edward and is dismissing interests away in favour for his night-time reading. I wonder if he and Elizabeth had seen the onslaught I unleashed onto their son and now, were punishing me for it.
If so, it was about time. In all our years together, to do to him what I had done… The shame was never ending.
'Sir, what are we-?'
'Here we are,' says officer Gayel entering speedily and passing me the First Aid Kit. She hurriedly leaves the room, eyes following me as she pulls the door closed.
Mr Masen doesn't look up and while he busies himself, I do the same. I take an antiseptic wipe and carefully rub it over the back of both my hands. I use it on my forearms too, let the alcohol sting my wrists and finish off cleaning some of the dried blood from my eyebrow.
Turning from the table, I use some glass to try and squint at my reflection. There wasn't really much in the kit that could help with my eye, particularly when keeping it open was the equivalent of having plastic shards pressed to the cornea. I do my best to tidy the nightmare and can't hold the tiny groan as my finger presses against my inflamed nose.
'Sore?' Mr Masen asks pleasantly, still looking thoughtfully at his paper.
'Mm.'
'Good.' He says. We go back to waiting in silence.
This could be a clever interrogation tactic because it's not long before I'm feeling swarmed upon. Until fear and disgust and anger and shame are coursing through my veins and making me appear no taller than an infant.
Ugh. Infant. Infant Institution. Disgusting.
'Sir, what are we waiting for?' I whisper, once the clock on the wall has indicated thirty minutes. He is no further than the middle of the newspaper now and judging by the little dance of his hand, he has clearly enjoyed the announcements.
When he speaks, he does so as if embodying an encyclopaedia.
'In precisely four minutes, those who work in shift patterns will not be expected to work passed the hour specified in their contract. Many cities and their civil entities since worked out a rotation system that while cheaper for the authority, resulted in the need for fewer staff. Crimes in this state tend to be reported by early evening, or rather oddly, late morning. This lead to King's proposition in 2014 to reduce the funding to civil persons by seventy-seven percent and means that-'
'In means that in three minutes, more than half the staff will go home.' As a public entity, I was familiar with the controversy.
'You might be an idiot, at least you're a timely one.' Masen congratulates with a sarcastic smile and looking at his watch, he kicks up his feet and goes back to his stupid paper.
He's right of course.
Within three minutes, several of the staff start to jostle. Within ten minutes, some of them leave. By exactly twenty-seven minutes and thirty-eight seconds later, the only people left in the building are obviously myself, Mr Masen, presumably Charlie, up to two other Wardens and perhaps, another offender.
The antagonist had less of an audience now.
I suspect this might be the end of it, by the time he reads the black and white script, I presume he would've finished waiting and will find a way to entice me into confessing all manner of sins. I'm proved wrong again.
He waits a customary few more minutes, twiddling thumbs and such and once he can be sure that I am waiting for him… He stands up and brushes his legs.
'Just so I am sure- you still have no intention of explaining, do you?'
I hesitate. 'It's not as simple as-'
'Fantastic.' He announces. 'I'm going to go play cards with the chief and whichever of us wins, will get to decide your freedom. Suits you, right?'
It was worth stating now that Edward did not get his theatrics from his mother. Watching the actor's face, I nod patiently. 'As you see fit, Sir.'
'You know… Officer Swan has this love affair for detention centres. But not me. You know me better than that.'
I nod my head silently in false agreement.
'You see, Carlisle, I prefer the risk of a trial. Save it all for that last chip and bet every hope and dream on it. Isn't that right?' his chin moves towards me in an unescapable reference.
'Yes, Sir.' I say once more, hands pressed together, thumbs bent. He stands up to his full height now, checking his watch and noticing the late hour with a nod.
'You're charismatic, too. So that would work well to a jury. Then of course they'd start pulling in character files- I trust I haven't put you off yet, have I, Son?'
'No, Sir.'
Rather, it was an unfortunate part of justice.
'See they'll get character profiles from right around the globe! And me? Well I may be considered too involved of course. I trust that your attitudes to finances haven't changed since the last trial we attended? Meaning you'd possibly get a state provided lawyer… Pro Bono, if lucky…'
I nod this time rather than opening my mouth. He doesn't cease from painting the illustration.
'And let's also factor in the time delays of the American justice system… perhaps two years to get to trial? Perhaps three more years once at trial and -of course- let's not forget capital punishment? Admittedly it will have to be unanimous but if there's evidence to suggest the attack was premeditated…'
He ends his monologue with a hand extended behind him, pointing towards the open door.
'That's fine with you, isn't it Carlisle? If I go spend an hour playing cards over your freedom?'
'Of course,' I say tightly.
'Because after all, that's what you deserve, right? You don't deserve to have all these countless amounts of people working desperately hard with you?' His focalisation, while mocking, struck an important chord. It was easy to neglect just how well Mr Masen had grown to know me. I was predictable anyway to a Masen. I was as easy to read as a kid with sweets for jewellery. After yearly visits, living with him for two years and then the court case… well, it was silly of me to act distant. 'As for your friends, your family, your loved ones- no, no. You're right. You've done us all a favour with this... what? Self-sacrifice is it?'
'Yes, Sir.' I murmur, fighting the bait as though it might poison me.
'Timely,' he says to himself. 'Perfect timing really. I'd only lost days of sleep trying to decipher the Italian emigration policy or asylum seeking in Europe.' He frowns a little, playing further into his characterisations. Enjoying the build-up as though it were a pressure valve on his neck.
'You see, Carlisle, there is one thing I have really failed to teach you. In America, it is customary, if not public safety to consult with your lawyer before making any rash choices.' He uses his hands again to stress his point.
'You go to work; you get a lawyer. You get married; you get a lawyer. You want to buy stocks, you start a new job, you buy a dog, you take a dump, you consult your lawyer. You want to go beat the shit out a potential state candidate, endanger a few thousand people, burn down a protected landmark and try your hand at cheating death: you consult with me. Do you understand?!'
He's grasping a hold of his glasses now, gripping the arms with such a powerful hand that I'm surprised such a design ever could fit his face. He doesn't look much like my friend, he doesn't look like anyone I recognised but in his voice, in his yells and in his screams… I could feel a confused sense of familiarity.
'Are you about to waste my time?' He sneers, shaking with the threat.
I don't answer just yet. I couldn't. As he towered in anger and frustration in his dark blue eyes, I found myself unable to utter a word. I could feel my muscles, ache and stretch apart. I could smell the sweat as it worked its way into his clothes, I could empathise with his sarcastic demands and his panic and his fury…
But I couldn't give him what he wanted.
'I believe so, Sir.'
'Masen- I mean Cullen.' He catches himself with horror and slamming his eyes shut, he takes a breath and storms out of the room. He was not used to being angry with me. Or perhaps, he was not used to having to voice it to me. It was always Edward who tested his patience. It was always Edward who wanted more. It was always Edward who pushed and pushed and pushed…
It was quite easy I supposed to mistake one's suspects, with their usual partner in mischief.
After another hour or so, enough time for the two gentleman to play, possibly argue, possibly debate, they come up with a solution that riles even my bones. In an effort for some answers, they employ the Good Cop, Bad Cop routine. Badly.
When Masen renters the interview room, his face is a carved slate. His thin nose eats into the scowling eyes and with only the rigid angle of his eyebrow threatening me, he drags out the chair he'd been previously sat upon.
'Feeling clever, Carlisle?'
The words come like tiny explosives. I imagined that to some extent, perhaps an extent he was ashamed of, he was quite relieved to be able to unveil the shadows of his fury. Excited even. He was possibly forcing 22-odd years of anger into this singular exchange.
'Not particularly.' I murmur, aware that this comment did not need my response.
'You have always been the defensive type,' he reminds me, unaware of the hypocrisy. If I was defensive then I was pretty sure it was a learnt behaviour… 'Always been secretive, haven't you?'
I try not to turn my posture as he circles around me for fear of pain. It was another manipulation technique…
'Cards to your chest…?'
Had I not been in the current situation, maybe I would have rolled my eyes. Even the suggestion was causing the socket to throb…
'Did you want to take a trip down memory lane?' He invites, inclining his ear towards me.
'Not particularly, Sir.' I repeat. 'If you'll forgive the rudeness.'
'I shan't.' He promises. 'Nevertheless, Carlisle, despite your empathy, your compassion, being the single most intuitive thing above you even from a bairn,'
He was letting his heritage show….
'At four years old, four, you told me you wanted to be a doctor. Do you remember that?'
'No, Sir.' Though I had obviously heard the stories.
'Do you remember who bought you your first book on anatomy?'
I nod my head.
'And you remember the meticulous hours you poured into it?'
Again, I nod.
'And you remember how you carried it with you? Tucked under your arm without the strength to carry it.' This is clearly a sign of pride that he shared amongst Elizabeth and though I wished I could give him the depth of the appreciation he deserved, I likewise knew it was a debt that saved my life, and thus could never be repaid.
'Yes, Sir.'
'You had not turned six.' He growls, leaning into the table with flat palms, tone echoing into the four walls. 'You had barely the ability to read the damn thing before you memorised it word for word.'
He circles me again, stopping not far from my shoulders and burning his glare into my skin. At least my Edward would be amused. He often complained how he was pitted against the Golden child, regardless of whether I was their child or not.
I didn't feel like their child.
I tried.
But I knew better.
'How about school, Carlisle, you remember that don't you? How many years it took to persuade your father? Your whole reason for going?!'
'Yes, Sir.'
'And you remember the after-school tutors?'
The after school tutors had simultaneously been both the cause of half my punishments… And the protection. I had to meet with them in secret, at unusual times throughout the day, often skipping an odd lesson here and there in order to further my anatomical knowledge.
'Mr Masen, it is without prejudice that I have tried to compensate the both of you for-'
'How dare you!' He seethes, slashing my voice dead at the cut of his own. 'How dare you dishonour us like that!' He has spun on his heel now, upper body shifted towards me like an arrow, his dark hair paling his expression.
'We did that out of love, Carlisle! Every second, any cent was put towards your interest, your sole interest- to encourage you. To support you!'
'And it has,' I swear, still avoiding twisting my torso in case it renders me immobile. 'Sir, without the three of you, I couldn't have possibly -'
'Exactly!' Masen yells suddenly gesturing with a pointed hand. 'And for you… to throw it away…'
'I am not throwing-' I try to argue but his expression changes briefly. He Looks as if he doubts himself, testing the waters almost as he interrupts me. Sacrificing was a more honest term… justifiable almost.
'All for a girl.' He spits, the sound of his hand echoing on the table.
The skin of my already swollen face tightens against the structure of the bones. The bitterness on my tongue swells to an uncomfortable size and with Masen's fury so deep within my ear, I dream about battling it against my own, impatient, unrestrained desire for pain.
'Don't call her that.' I threaten, gaze tightening on him.
'Offended are we?' He scoffs, backing away slightly at least in movement. 'What? Are you going to sit and cry about it now? Poor, poor girlfriend?'
'Stop.' I warn him, my hands curling at my thighs.
It was a torrential four-day nightmare… everyone I had once known… now disfigured by change.
'You are too invested… too committed for the sake of your silly hormones!'
As I kick the chair out from under me, leveraging myself with my fingertips on the table, bent towards him in a preparation for attack, I realise the confusion on his expression. He'd been goading me to a response…. But he had foolishly believed it would be a vocal one.
He is alarmed at just how quickly I had resolved to violence.
'I suggest you watch your tongue before you get yourself fired.'
His mouth falls open a little and looking up at me, concern etched on his face, he backs off. He's focused on the fallen chair at my heels, the tight chain of the handcuffs stretched from the force between both my splayed hands.
If my chest was splintering, I couldn't feel it.
'You don't fire family.' He reminds me but I bat it away like Babe Ruth.
'Just watch me,' I entice, keeping my features motionless and my stomach tight against the handle of the blade. I might have tried to beat the living shit out of his child, but we both had to hope I wasn't stupid enough to attack Masen too. No matter how desperately I wanted the silence.
His bad cop routine slips pathetically from sight. He rubs his character from his face, scratching around the jaw and feeling the line of stubble. I wonder if he's feeling as stupid as I am except I won't let my anger dissipate as quickly.
'Son…'
I don't let my stance falter even if he attempts to stare me down with rivers of tired eyes.
'This is not what we are.' He murmurs guiltily and I believe him to be thinking of his wife. Perhaps of his Wife's loyalty to Esme. Perhaps of Edward's…. maybe even mine.
He waits a cautionary few moments to see if I am willing to forgive and judging himself safe, lowers his tone.
'I'm sorry, I took it too far.'
'Yes.' I agree, tightly. 'I believe you did.'
He clasps his hands together now, thumb on a wrist, finger idly playing with his wedding ring.
'I can't begin to know the weight upon your shoulders.' He begins again, stepping away from the table and pausing once more. I think his embarrassment is making him cautious particularly because I haven't yet relaxed my own posture. If only he knew. If any of them knew, they'd play a blind eye.
Instead they saw me rabid over respect. They presumed I acted outed gentlemanly honour. They had me peaked at the paranoid, jealous boyfriend.
They had no idea.
'I read the emails, I get your anger. But this isn't how you solve it….'
'I never said-' I try to refute.
'Son, if you really are foolish enough to resign yourself to this- don't expect those around you to recognise you for it.'
He looks over across his shoulder and then back to the damp walls around him. Loudly, he breathes a few more times and resigns himself to leaving me be for a few hours, likely for his own sanity than mine.
I reckoned it wouldn't be long until he changed his mind on that approach once more. While he was out of sight however, I was grateful for the time to think.
The clock on the wall reads a little closer to one by the time Officer Swan comes into the room, now without the jacket, his eyes tired, moustache smooth and patience thoroughly stretched. He was hardly going to force an explanation out of me if Edward Sr had failed.
Still, he tried.
'Tired?' he asks, raising an eyebrow.
I nod and rearrange my weight. I had been sitting in the same spot for a while now, thinking about how long Alice might give until she had to leave. The Kid would stay, obviously. Whether he would stay out of her way or out of any bad judgement calls was an entirely separate question…
The important thing was that he was there. At the very least he would lock the doors behind him. Maybe he would run a glass of water up to her… to keep all radio and TV comments silent from any and all rooms in the house.
I had been near on sleep when Charlie re-entered.
'Hungry, too, right?' he asks.
I shake my head.
'That's what I never got about cop dramas. They make it out to be all high-speed guns and car chases and blissfully ignore the ethics of the job.' He nods my way. 'Like this for example… can you handle another twenty hours?'
I nod my head perhaps a little sleepily.
'You know Masen can quite easily spring you though, right?'
I nod again.
'He could literally get you walking out of here in say… forty minutes?'
My fringe grazes my crumpled forehead as I feel myself nod again.
'I've heard he could do it in twenty.' He amends, thoughtfully. 'You could be home then; you know…'
'I have no immediate desire to walk out of here, Sir…'
Officer Swan snorts. 'Not welcome back?' He asks, clearly feigning interest.
'Not by my own standards, I am afraid.' I confess. I see his jaw go tight again, hands drumming into the table top.
'Well, it doesn't always bode well when your lawyer is quite happy to leave you to wait…' he murmurs. 'In fact, this might be a first for us…'
If I thought it might go well, I might have teased Mr Masen's skills. I might have joked that he didn't deserve the six-digit figures he was getting on a bad day. There was no way such a comment would have ever sailed well given my stubborn stance at the moment.
'How's your bladder?' he mutters, once more getting irate again. I offer an almost apologetic look.
'Empty, I'm afraid.'
'Great,' he announces fiercely and then he too exits the arena.
I don't have a watch to check now. Nor a phone and rubbing my face with both, jingling hands, I think on the repercussions of honesty.
One, it was not my crime to report… and to take such agency was far more controlling, more manipulative than I could ever forgive.
Two, while I had a foolish obsessive ability to lay my trust in the wrong people, even if I did report the matter, I couldn't be sure that the report itself wouldn't be found years later, buried in a cavern at the bottom of the ocean until it became irrelevant.
Third… if Mr Masen was being cryptic on Sunday, if he was adding ownership to his other employments and if I still chose to be honest despite that… King and my father alike were quite capable in twisting my words just as horrifically as they could without the report.
And for the bonus fourth reason, whoever I spoke out about could just as easily cause more damage on the fall than they did on the rise. For example, if the Neo-natal unit went down, it wasn't just the major twelve families that the project was based on to would suffer. It was the predicted 30,000 who would suffer over the course of eleven years...
'Would you like to take a walk with me?' Mr Masen asks, now entering through the open doorway. Like me, he has taken his jacket and tie off, rolling his sleeves to his elbows and stretching his hands out in welcome.
I visibly hesitate.
'Don't get over excited, Officer Swan will be joining us.'
'Might it not be easier to stay inside?' I question, allowing my eyebrows to furrow.
'Step outside, Carlisle.'
I almost gather the intention behind it.
Even as they stand behind me like executioners, the good angel and the bad angel, neither distinguishable from each other, I am almost overwhelmed by the sweet, cool air of Midnight in April. It soothes the inner flames of pain like a waterfall in my lungs, forces the hair on my arms to stand up as the chill presses itself to my eye like compressed ice.
When they say walk, they quite literally walk me, as you would a dog, around an empty basketball court. They have me lead the march with my arms still twisted at my back and allow their steps to dwindle from behind me until I'm at a visible distance. I stop beneath the shine of a lamplight, blinking from the light as I wait for them to catch up.
'Might as well continue, Son,' complains Mr Masen. 'It's not like we're going anywhere.'
But planting my feet, I wait for them to come towards me. I wait for them to act as the prison guards and I wait for them to stop disbelieving.
'I don't plan on running,' I explain and judging from both their faces, it seems like this might have been one of their last tactics.
Masen didn't want me to leave because he would never have the truth. Charlie didn't want me to leave because he feared the further danger I might ensue. Yet neither wanted me there because they had placed their ridiculous faith into… a delusional, narcissist, uncontrollable, monster. They put that faith in me.
It would sicken me tenfold.
'Hold on a minute,' and from behind me, Mr Masen stops and moves a little away to answer his ringing phone. Now with only Charlie there to watch me, I lower my weight to the crossed fence, placing myself firmly into the dust of the floor. Even this irritates him.
Masen, usually indecipherable when on a telephone call, doesn't hesitate to let his answers be louder. In fact, noticing that he's caught my interest, he wanders a little closer towards me, until I can catch just the edges of conversation.
His son was on the line. His son wanted to talk to me, urgently. Masen pulls the receiver away from his cheek so that I can hear him start to panic.
'Unfortunately, Kid, Carlisle has other priorities at the moment. Specifically, a desire to be incarcerated meaning I am not legally allowed to pass the phone to him.'
I can hear the younger Edward start to debate. He tries to manipulate his dad into handing over the line. Masen almost teases when he holds it out towards me, the sound of Edward's pitch just grating through the line.
'I can of course pass a message along.' He offers, mocking slightly as he watches my reaction. I don't so much as exhale incase he mistakes this for victory.
'Oh fuck off, Dad, just put him on the phone.'
He picks the line up again, wanders further away and gives a brief, efficient and bleak rundown on my refusal to assist the investigation. Edward complains even more but I stay sitting, eyes on my wrists when shuffling them about.
The Kid was getting frustrated now. He was working his way up to the line where his voice would start to croak and he'd be left half screaming, half crying.
'He needs to speak to you, Carlisle.' Masen murmurs, frantic hair waving in familiar directions across his face.
I nod slightly, but again refuse to make a move. The problem with Edward is that no matter how fiercely you built him up, all it took was a second of doubt to lead him crashing. He often thought he needed me. He often depended on my easy decisions, the natural run of my organisation, my thoughts, feelings to help shape his own opinions into what he felt they should be.
But if they really were in for a long seven-year odd trial, which I would do my best to refute, then they would need to develop a thick skin now.
'He says you need to come home,' Masen summarises, watching my response carefully.
I was starting to get uncomfortable now. It was the right button to press. The right card to play and I could feel my sore chest compact a little tighter. It was a horrific little reminder to the 'Cry it Out' method both parents employed when he was a kid.
Still, no matter how hard he had cried then, Liz had cried harder.
'He's not home alone?' Charlie asks, I presume for more my benefit though it was hard to tell with the expression on his face.
Masen says something tight into the line and with a roll of his eyes, slams the phone closed.
Line dead.
'No,' he agrees, pressing the palm of his hand. 'He's not alone…'
'What does that mean?' I ask, aloud, unable to beat the hard look of distaste.
'It means that he has company. Why, Carlisle? Should that bother you?'
'It shouldn't bother anyone.' I say, wringing my hands together. After all, I might own the land for now but it was their home, too.
Charlie's hard stare becomes one of vacancy. He shoves his hands in his pockets as he looks at the father of his daughter's date. I didn't get chance to see if he was aware of that.
'The more company, the better.' I murmur. I can hardly stop the sigh from escaping.
Did that mean she was awake? Did she know? Had she been disturbed? Did she feel safe? Were they being supportive? Was Alice's presence helping?
'You look as if you have questions?' he muses indicating for me to stand up and continue walking. I press my lips together.
'Not questions you can provide answers to.'
'Wouldn't be so sure.' He retorts, quickly and watching the heat reign over, feeling the headache return to my temples and dropping the fall of my composure, he moves to offer me up with a hand.
'He's panicking.' Mr Masen says, dismissively, in the tart way he would refer to all of the Kid's tantrums. I can feel Charlie's interest on the interchange.
'He often is.' I agree, betraying the loyalty but I'm surprised when Masen drops the game he was clearly intending to play.
Maybe I offended him.
'I'm going to be straight with you.' He says, watching officer Swan's timely decision to step a little further field. 'Yes, he's panicking. He's often panicking. The word he used was that he is 'worried'. It may be that he is unnecessarily worried, like his mother and his grandmother often were before him.' He pauses to judge how I'm taking the threat. 'I cannot guarantee that his worries are as frivolous as I would like to believe. Further, I cannot just 'spring you' from this situation without causing you even further repercussions down the line…'
'It doesn't matter what comes next for me-' I say, trying to get the gist. He retreats a little.
'Carlisle.' He complains toughly, exaggerating his pronunciations. 'Listen to me. How we handle this will entirely control any and every new threat that could come next. You could be days from getting deported and with a record as serious as the one you are trying to evoke; I can't even say for sure where you might end up.' He puts his hand on my shoulder and pulls me closer to him so that the breath is on my face. 'You are not saving them from some special attention, you are not being a hero, what you are doing is leaving them undefended…'
I gulp a little, shifting when he clasps a hand on my shoulder, pulling me almost to my feet.
'Swan would not let his daughter even inches near the lot of you if he doubted you. He would not be trying his upmost to get you out of here and he would not be risking everything just to try and get you to see reason.'
'Are you saying that there are others?' I whisper hurriedly. 'Are there reports against King?'
'All it takes is one right testimony,' my guardian encourages, bent low to match my stance 'and the floodgates could break.'
I don't notice that the Chief is close by me now. He doesn't quite look at me in the eye but he seems almost triumphant. So does Masen and despite the shake of my locked hands, both gentlemen seem so relieved by the compromise, that it is with speed that they begin the interview.
'Doctor Cullen,' he begins, bringing his hands together.
'Your machine isn't on…' I warn him, indicating it with a stretch of my locked fingers, sore and dark under the bright light. I was vaguely aware that I was probably still bearing several streaks of black on my person, my bruises and my wounds deepening over time, the skin more inflamed, the areas now more sore and the smoke hazy from one area to the next.
Neither appreciate me bringing this up. I get two angry glares from both parties and decide not to push the matter further. Admittedly, Masen is a little calmer by my side now. Though his mouth is still bent in that Edward Masen way, he sits with a notebook poised between the two of us.
'Will you start by stating your name and date of birth?'
I didn't quite recognise the show on display, particularly if the machine was not recording.
I was about to piss off my ex-guardian once more with my foolish memory.
'Carlisle Cullen, late February 1992…'
Beside me, Masen pinches his nose and writes something on his notebook for me to see.
'The exact date if you will, Doctor Cullen?' Swan asks impatiently.
Err. I look to the date my lawyer had scribbled in obvious handwriting and say, aloud, the date he'd provided. I was forever getting those numbers confused.
Awful . I should be paying more attention to what was on the blasted documents whether falsified or not. I was almost immediately jealous of Edward's ability in being able to provide his real birthday on his ID.
Not that I could compete, not having the exact day reinforced to my head like some children though my pseudo-family had obviously tried.
Not that Masen was aware Edward had a fake ID, either… Thus, another example of my questionable judgement. Particularly when the Kid regularly suffered on account of his intoxications…
Luckily, Officer Swan takes my hesitations as a sign of petty, passive aggression and moves on fairly quickly.
'Do you want to start by explaining why you were at the Coffee House this evening?' Swan now pulls his own notebook towards him, clearly ready to summarise at need. Masen's handwriting is unforgivably noticeable, or rather, is when he slides it against my arm so that I am forced to read it with my right side.
I sigh. Both on account of my limited sight and my lawyer's advice.
Lie.
'I went to visit King…' I say neutrally, meeting both sets of eyes with my one, working pupil.
'On account of the recent news, I take it?' Charlie fills for me.
'Sure.'
Another glare. One I had not sought.
'Doctor Cullen-' Swan begins, patience thinning like the crown of Masen's hair.
'Officer Swan, perhaps I should inform you that my title is currently a temporary one until my exams this Summer. For now, you may find it more accurate to refer to me as Mr. Cullen…?'
It was silly victories like these that kept people sane. It was a lot easier to feel able to fit the part if I resembled someone even I despised. Masen looks tense, hands clasped together, jaw clenched.
I wondered to what extent he would lose his sanctity if he discovered what was currently pressed against my stomach…
'What time did you arrive there?' The Officer pushes, thumb rubbing ovals into his temple. It makes me feel guiltier and sucking in a breath, one that positively leaves me gasping, I try to control my tone. 'Were you alone?'
'I arrived possibly a little past ten. And I was alone, yes.'
He scribbles a few more things that I doubt I had actually said and let's his hand slip below to recount the information. I take the time to shift a little. My back was starting to throb now, particularly as it pressed against the hardback of the chair, resonating with the beat of my swollen eye socket.
'So you broke in?'
'To some extent,' I agree. 'More that I was not permitted to enter the premises when I did…'
He's getting impatient now so I decide that perhaps, as Masen suggests, it might be better to resign myself to whatever punishment they had designed and prepare to say my final apologies back home.
'The back door was open, a light or two left on.'
From memory, I imagine this is how the scene took place. It's not so easy to call the image to mind now I had a new goal in mind. The goal was silence.
A brow furrows.
'You're sure?'
'Indeed.' I murmur. 'I didn't think it was King, I thought it had been left open by accident.'
'Did you see anyone else there?' He asks, moving closer. I shake my head, again not really committing to the movement too much.
'No but if they were still there once King arrived, I would presume they might have had a hand in the heating…'
Mr Masen is looking at me once more, possibly attempting to decipher my lies from my truths. I couldn't say much, myself. Or at least, not much that would allow them to appreciate my sarcasm. Regardless, if they were determined to play out this little scene, despite the lack of blinking red light on the dictaphone… despite the lack of commitment to selling the act, I had little reason to play the part of amiable criminal.
They hadn't even taken my address or my photo and they hadn't warned me of the dangers of corruptibility of the legal system.
I have just as little reason to trust they were arresting me as they had that I was telling them the truth.
'So the door was open?' Charlie clarifies, underlining this detail on his page.
'By all means, I wasn't invited in…' I was keen not to make myself look as innocent as they were trying to claim. 'Yes, left ajar…'
'Cause any damage?' He asks, tightly.
'Not as much as yesterday.' I admit. Both of them sigh as they would at a losing hockey match. 'I smashed a photo… and pulled down several filing cabinets…'
'Anything else?'
'Violated several privacy and data protection laws..' I confess.
'And?' Charlie goads.
My guardian starts to shuffle beside me. 'And that's when you sent me these?'
He speaks softly to me now, almost preparing for the sudden change in my mood when I would recall the exact reason that led me here. He moves his chair to an angle, taking in my bent position as he drops the papers in front of me. The clasp of his briefcase snaps in my ear.
'Yes.' I say quietly, trying desperately not to think on what was beneath the numbers. Trying not to think of that number. 64 dollars.
My teeth start to brace together.
Masen flicks through the top pages with his fingertips, a few in the middle and rubbing his eyes beneath the glasses, he checks a few at the back of the pile and breathes.
'Carlisle, I've read through everything…'
And? I ask wordlessly. But I see the fallen shape of his lip, the shame in his eyes. The gentle attempt to regain my trust.
'It's not good.' He flicks through the top layer once more and shakes his head. 'We were right to expect embezzlement… Wrong to suspect you…'
I am still waiting for his horrifying conclusion.
'To know further, I need to see her transaction history…'
Charlie is watching me now, curious as to the horrified pull on my face. Wondering why my hands could shake in such a way, why my voice bleeds tunelessly all for some minor information.
'No.'
'Carlisle…' Senior whispers. My glare has turned hard; I'm taking in the cracks of the stone behind the Officer's head in hopes it will make me far politer than I am prepared to be. It would be a good time to work on my breathing but with the inside of my chest feeling like twisted rope, I would be reckless to even chance it.
'I said no. No. You had enough on her from your years of spying-' I ignore his attempted sound at defence. 'No more.'
'Please don't make me say it….'
'I am not asking you to.' I warn, jaw now firmly wrenched forward. He ignores my request and looks briefly to the officer.
'If unaware of the transactions, there's a risk she may have used the money-'
What he refuses to say is that, being almost certainly unaware at just how far back these payments seem to go, it was undoubtable that a portion of that money would have been spent.
'No.' I spit through the walls of my teeth, wrenching my head downwards as he convicts my hatred to him.
'That makes her liable…?' Charlie muses, ignorant of my growls. It forces the blood from my system.
My head is starting to spin again, the migraine returning upon every inch of my skull. Why was it that no fellow man respected the words 'No' before? Why was it such a foreign concept my elder generation?
'It's not happening. She is not a pawn in your games!' My locked hands rattle on the table again as I glare, emotively and without control at Masen.
'Carlisle if the money-'
'Is isn't about the money!' I yell. 'It has nothing to do with the money.'
His face furrows a little, he pulls the papers back towards him with a questionable look on his face. The cavern has broken open now and out pours the acid, spewing onto the table, incinerating all within its reach.
He was about to burn if he wasn't careful.
'You can see what he has bought, you can see his intentions-.' I insist, guesting once more to the papers at his eyes. In his defence, he hadn't had much time to read them. Perhaps if he'd used his time wisely, however, and chose not to sit and review the New York Times, I might be more understanding.
No, not even then. He was there on Sunday- he knew the history from our very lips.
His colourless face opens a little more, his mouth falling agape.
'What?'
'It is printed in your hands and you are so ignorantly concerned by money-'
'Doctor Cullen-' Charlie warns, pointing at me to retake my seat.
My throat is hoarser now. My head spins, my gut lurches… and Masen is silent. He reads through the papers once more, his pale face shows the haggard lines of age and anger. He is silent, remains silent. He says nothing.
Then he has the audacity to look at me with horror in his eyes.
'Not again…' he pleads.
At the sound of that, I might just let the blade impale me.
'Ted?' Swan asks but Senior has got a fist against his lips, the guilt breaking on his features. He was wrong but at least headed in the right direction now.
It wasn't comparable. What we, (meaning Masen and I) had sat through years of statements for, in opposition to her situation now. It was not a competition either but the two incidents were not remotely surmountable to one another. It was not happening again. It was worse.
It was murder.
'And King did this?!' He demands, sickened to the colour. Officer Swan now looks visibly discomforted. He tries to read the conversation between the two of us, tries to understand from a distance… he was in a better position not knowing.
'He's responsible.' I say, finally.
'And…?' He doesn't say it but his hand opens up to the suggestion.
'So is Eustace.'
After years of referring to him, quite literally, as my father, I didn't see the need anymore.
'And you know this?' He pleads, shoulders wavering perhaps from the chill in the air.
'You have the evidence to show this?' Charlie corrects, aware that he was as far removed from the information as he could allow himself to remain. I got the impression he didn't want to know for sure, despite his career choice. Between that and Masen's mistaken understanding, I knew Charlie was better off in his state of nativity.
There was no way he would remain in Oregon now. He would undoubtedly move; Bella would go with him… would Edward follow? Could I finally encourage Esme to go? What about the others?
I can't bear to consider the conversation. The failed explanation of it all.
'No.' I say tightly. 'But King all but confessed…'
'Confessed to grooming her?!' Masen surmises, still visibly shaking.
Perhaps he was seeing for the first time just how endangered we all were. Just how condemnable our attempts at normality were. Perhaps, for once, he was fearing for his family's life…
'It's my word against his…' I complain, surprised by the shrug of my battered shoulders. This wasn't defeatist, far from it. I was just more than aware that tales could easily be spun and for as many people as would test against him, there were triple that would stand by his side.
'Did he actually say the words?' Charlie pushes, a lot closer to me than he was before. I shake my head, wincing when my own hair jumps into the bad eye.
'No, Sir…' I am not entirely sure if the grunt is for or against me. 'He…' I pause, surprised at the sound.
Both men leer close like I might be revealing an exciting secret. Was I about to tell them? To confide in them? Was I about to trust them all over again? Even when Masen had confessed to signing our death warrant? Even when he provided the full inventory to her whereabouts in the last four years?
Even when his very choices had arguably led to the danger wherein?
'He suggested it could've been outsourced…' I say, hushed in fear that the recording may just pick up my disloyalty. I knew it was off and still, I was afraid.
'What, Carlisle? Outsourced what?!'
It was right here. The word was ready. Those horrible four letters combined to sign away our serenity. The last of our blissful naivety ready to be broken by an already torn lip.
Words, that once again, were not mine to give….
'What?!' Masen repeats, impatiently.
Instead, my bedazzled wrists go to fiddle with my lower shirt. Both men are less than okay with this, they vocally announce their confusion, only drawing a breath when I lay a brass handle to the table.
At the space beneath my clothes, my stomach relaxes.
No one says a word.
I watch silently as the tool takes the room's attention. I keep quiet as I watch the curiosity eat into the shock of the feast. I hope I wouldn't have put Officer Gayle in a compromising position but in all honesty, she hadn't refrained from putting me in one.
The elder man, once a grand figure of justice, integrity and honour allows a breathless gasp to slip into the room's void. I had, deliberately, lead him to the wrong conclusion but there was nothing commendable about it.
I still felt like I had stolen from her.
'Where did you get that?!' Masen hisses, his expression resembling his face from a few years prior. He was more at peace then. More forgiving. He is probably wondering how I could bear to have such a tool so close to me after all these years and to tell the truth, I couldn't say for sure.
Fear was the only answer. Fear of what, could not be determined.
'King had it imported…'
Charlie hesitates when he reaches across, delicately pulls the metal up so that it breathes the sound of cutting air. He holds the mirrored blade far from him, loose in his grip as he twists it over before hurriedly dropping it down. Masen can barely stomach a look.
'He can't have had it imported-'
'They're sharing contact details,' I explain, tiresomely. 'They've all been acquainted now.'
It was actually a relief not to have to wear the knife so close to the very mark it had stretched. Though with it now sat in direct view, like a victim to curious eyes, I couldn't be sure I was more comfortable.
I could barley force a look at Swan himself.
'I-I didn't…'
'I know you didn't,' I murmur to Masen, now assimilating the calm one. He looked as if he would crumble on the spot. 'You thought you knew better but you didn't. And now, because of you, because of me, because of everything we dragged across continents… people are harmed.'
'Carlisle, I—'
I knew he was about to apologise not from the curve of his downturned mouth, but rather the shape of his sapphire eyes. His words were so hoarse, I wondered If he was mocking me.
'So the fire-?' Officer Swan interrupts, holding his head once more. 'The fire wasn't you?!'
I shake my head. I wasn't sure how it could've been either. Fire was one of my biggest dreads. I didn't even like fireplaces. Or bonfires. Or fireworks.
Esme did.
Pressed against the kitchen windows on a November night, she would jump at the sound but the light of her eyes would join in the dance while the colours twist in her vision. She was fierce like fire. Perhaps just as violent, particularly in her feelings. And she'd certainly been known to burn a few people who threatened to get close.
Just being with her made you sweat, too. It breads the fear, let the excitement bound up your spine like you were engulfed…
I wonder if that feeling would be long gone, too and then reconsider just how frightened I was some 24 hours ago…
'And King's injuries…' Charlie murmurs, returning me to the cold, bleak room. He looks to the knife and realises my own torn clothing, the bruised eye and the clotting break of skin… 'Self-defence?'
'No,' I say. 'Not quite…'
'Yes.' Edward Senior corrects, trying to dry the snivel at his throat. He clears the obstruction and repeats himself. 'Yes. '
As I turn, I suddenly realise he's been calculating silently for the last few minutes, slotting the pieces into his 3D Rubik's cube until the pattern resembled something he could work with.
More than ever, I wished to distance myself from him.
'Perhaps he would've thought that you were an intruder…'
'Sir,' I know he wasn't defending him… and yet the twist of his words… Why he would even create such a narrative… He was writing as he talked, forming the story as it came from pen to paper.
'He obviously didn't recognise you since the fundraiser…' He decides, murmuring to himself about the semantics and reimagining a better fit.
'Sir.' I say again, attempting to reason with his guilt.
The excitement of the story is making sense to him and he speaks hurriedly now, pointing while Charlie makes furious notes. It was a reminder as to the early days of college, when we were more passion then sense.
Back when I thought everything could make sense.
When it could be fixed…
'And you were only there to thank him…' he says, as though this is the obvious state of things.
'You know he'll never go for that.' Charlie complains, still writing. I try to get a word in edgeways but it's clear the conversation does not involve me. Regardless, I didn't know who he was meant to be. Unless they were actually expecting King to be complicit?
It was madness.
'Of course they will. Think about it, the royalties from the interviews…. They'll be pushing his campaign to it's peak-'
They? Interviews?! Was he employing the Media?!
'I am not endorsing him,' I half-moan, literally bemused by the suggestion.
It had it be a wind-up.
'Oh yes you will.' Masen corrects. 'In fact, you'll do better. You won't say anything. You will remain humble Carlisle Cullen and while he is getting complacent- we'll have the testimonies lined up.'
'No!' I shout, making the two jump. 'Absolutely not, are you insane?!'
I'd never seen the man look so rabid. Honestly, it was sickening, the decision to which he founded himself on. There was no compromise. Just decision.
It is only out of politeness that he allows me to interrupt his thought process.
'How can you even suggest such a thing?!' I demand, horrified. 'Do you not realise just how painful even the suggestion-'
The disgust starts to whirl in my stomach and in an ache I don't recognise, I long for Elizabeth's loyal support. I wanted her to correct him. To correct all of him. I wanted her to breathe sense into his madness. I wanted her to fix this.
'No, you listen.' He snaps. 'We are not hiding anymore, Carlisle. We are not avoiding this for another ten years…'
He was mad. He'd lost it.
I was about to lose it; 'You are sacrificing people all for-'
'Yes!' he confesses in a jump. 'Yes, I am sacrificing their pain. Yes, I am using them. I am depending on his victims to bury him and you know what, Carlisle?! I am not sorry.'
All these white walls, all these lights and here Officer Swan sits, complicit, idle and positively deranged. Could they even hear what he was saying?! Edward Masen?! Lawyer, activist, humanitarian….
'How can you even amount to this?!' I shriek, more animated now than I had been for a few days. 'How can you possibly-?!
'I've said it before. I have said that I will never know the extent of pain you are suffering…nor Esme-'
My teeth bare in defence. Or rather, attack. If he dared to drag her back into this-.
'But in spite of that, despite what a horrible human it makes me, you are my priority.' He sees me shake these words from my presence, the violent disregard of the suggestion and his face reveals all the hurt. 'You and my family and if acting now means that we save a few thousand possible victims then you can either work with me or against me, Carlisle. What will it be?!'
'No! I won't do either! I refuse to even-' I can barely grasp my own meaning let alone what he wanted me to say.
'Silence is deafening.'
'Edward, come on…' Charlie whispers, still disgusted, still lost, still unsure.
'I-'
My words falter…. And then I think of Esme… writing the words, committing them to paper, to memory. I think about it over and over and over… and then I think about how easy it could've been to avoid. How I had only had to stay away, to remain in control…
It was too late for that.
She was either the last...or a number in a long string of victims…
Murder would make him a martyr.
'No,' I plead again but their sympathies are not tied to my consent.
'Floodgates, Son.' Masen reminds me, his stoic mouth moving downward. 'Administer the recovery…'
No. But I don't say it aloud this time. I think it silently among a cage of walls, down in a dungeon surrounded by stained glass.
'I don't want anyone to get hurt.'
Edward has already considered these to be my words of assent. He says a few more things but my blocked hearing can't take them in. I can barely even feel myself breathing. I dare not consider what he might want to add to this. I quite visibly retreat from whatever more they say now. They had my conversation, they had all they would get from me.
I would leave them to do as they wished and I would wait for fate to fuck me over.
Walking on the slickest sheet of black ice and letting all consciousness break against the concrete under it would be a far easier, far more satisfying, less painful way of spending my evening than having Swan say the words he does.
He has his arms folded across broad shoulders, features pulled down as he dares me to intervene with his judgment. The words can't be trusted.
'So… I'm just going home?' I surmise, gritting my teeth together as Masen packs his files away. It doesn't escape my attention he puts the damn knife in there, too, fingers barely touching it. 'It was all a performance?'
'On the contrary Cullen, you were arrested for your own safety.' Swan now signs a few documents for my lawyer and then they switch, somewhat silent on the ordeal. Or their disregard of policies.
'What does that mean?' I ask cautious and yet still irritated as I thread the belt to my loops holes without much consideration.
He turns the sheet towards me and waits for me to sign. I almost refuse but at 4 in the Morning, with every bone aching, with my head screaming and the agony crying… I had to get home. I wanted to be as far from the two of them as possible.
I wanted to be out of their world and into my purgatory.
'It means you're under house arrest.' Masen explains, impatiently. 'You can return to work once you've completed a psych assessment-'
'A what?!' I repeat, incredulous. 'Please tell me you're joking?!-'
I couldn't work out the conflict between what they wanted from me and what they were asking. I was a doctor, they said. They wanted me to complete my training. They wanted me to have to not complete my training. They wanted me to stay at home, to not go out, to go to work, public ceremonies…
The understanding was leaving quicker than ice could meet on a summer's day.
'I can't, please, I can't. My job-' I beg again, already fearing my expulsion from the programme.
Masen raises an eyebrow, knowingly when his inner monologue hits me. The relief was defiling and savouring.
'You mean you won't let me return to work until I play your games.' I ascertain, keeping my voice low, already embarrassed at how desperately I had thrown myself to his aid. His stern features are satisfied with warmth. He seemed pleased by my utter panic, looking not unlike the cat with all the cream.
'If there's anything I've learnt from your father, Carlisle, it's that you are a force of nature. And unfortunately for me, you lie.'
'My father didn't teach me that.' I grumble, brutally. He surprises me in smirking.
'No, no. I believe that was my doing. Nevertheless, complete your assessment, prove incidents like this won't happen again and I'll be out of your hair.'
Edward's obsession with babysitting was making my own teeth grind. Masen had never treated me as such all those years ago. Rather arrogantly, I had presumed this was because of their distance. Now I wondered if they were now acquainting themselves with my torrid flaws and taking it upon themselves to iron them out accordingly. It was about a quarter of a century too late.
'Until then?' I ask, unable to conceal my exhaustion.
I was, after all, not suffering from the financial and long-term career implications of my judgments thus far.
'Until then we have a string of excuses…' Swan murmurs.
The conclusiveness of it all makes my head want to implode.
On one side was King and his confederates, the Italian allies and a few other journalists plotting my fall. On the other hand, was Masen, Swan and Maddison… the Three Stooges foolishly thinking they could take the fight.
Stupidity; vile, reckless, foolish stupidity.
'House arrest: meaning?' I ask, trying not to seem ungrateful.
'Meaning your house, Carlisle. For the thousandth time, we do not know who is following you; as evidenced this weekend. You go home, you stay home and you consult with us before making any impulsive decisions.'
'Sir, I am not a child.' I had rightly abandoned that title the moment I hit puberty at a run and shortly followed with a short-lived engagement.
'No,' Masen agrees almost apologetic. 'No but you are still both in danger and to be frank, are a danger. So are the lot of you…'
He watches my body unintentionally flinch.
'Earn my trust back and you'll get your… freedom…'
It was a sick joke when he'd already spent the last few days reinforcing my never ending escape from the apron strings.
Swan looks a little guiltier as he agrees but tries to keep the suggestion from his face.
This time, I don't even try to keep my name legible on the paperwork. The Officer says very little to me as I leave. Just the awkward, embarrassing things most adults say to insolent children. He hands my phone back after tampering with it and though he doesn't put a bracelet on my ankle, he admits that he's doing so out of convenience.
'Don't think you'll get away with it come tomorrow.' He warns, as I rub the bitten skin at my wrists. He is meant to suggest this as an option; the dangers if I were to break their rules. Not when.
As we leave the station, Masen invites me into his car and when I ask to be returned to Esme's vehicle, he informs me that his youngest had that covered.
'That's the other reason he phoned,' he confesses, angling his chin towards me as puts the seatbelt into place. 'He wanted to ask you where the spare key was.'
Lying was certainly his fault.
We drive mostly in silence back home. It was getting later, my anger was evolving into desolate, desperation for sleep and the day was breaking upon the window of his very expensive Royce. I had quarantined myself to the back, mostly on account of the briefcase taking up the front but also because I needed the space no matter how trivial it was.
When he pulls up, I barely notice we've stopped. I notice enough to know that my body stops crying for peace, that slight nausea has evaded slightly as the shrubbery stops blurring past my one eye. I notice the lights on in the living room, the flicker of curtains…
'Son?'
Despite theoretically despising the man, I was also unfortunately, dismally aware of my unconscious dependence on him.
It would be easier to hate him, to blame him, to never trust him. But as my best friend's Future looked into my pained, swollen features I was in such a state that the only thing I felt was irritation, confusion and frustrated gratitude.
I had Esme's words ringing in my ears, telling me that I loved them both. I hated the fact that I still … love … the both of them, even when Masen was doing everything to distort that. But, as she so rightly yelled at me, they had damn-well rescued me… and continued to do so even when I was determined to do otherwise.
Life was far easier when they were in Chicago.
'Carlisle?' he tries again, possibly fearing that I no longer appreciated the term. It was more that I was too tired to recognise he was calling me. At this sound however, I do look up.
He has a cigarette resting between his lips and generously offers me one.
Masen was from the era where cigarettes were a sign of great event. Every birth, wedding, funeral… the little stick of smoke would be present. In another act of regression, I take one from the box and lean back into the seat behind him. He lights mine first, then his and rolls the windows down.
I might have had a sneaky drag last Saturday, which was the closest I think I had ever come to looking like a casual smoker, but it had been such a long time since I had actually claimed a cigarette….
It was wrong but glorious, abysmal, offensive aroma was enough to drown out my thoughts. I was still sore and struggling to breathe anyway but somehow, damaging my lungs further was the easy way of forcing my body to shut down. To focus on one thing and nothing else.
'Just don't tell your Mother,' he jokes, flicking the ash outside.
When we catch each other's eyes in the rearview mirror, his smirk changes to a guilty, crooked smile.
'Force of habit.' He murmurs.
'I know,' I reply, softly.
It didn't feel right to correct him but likewise I knew there was no way in hell he'd let Edward smoke. The Kid had pretended to once and had faced the wrath of his father. In his case, that meant a severe grounding. And Television bans.
'Do you talk about it?' he asks and the impertinence of asking forces my attention from the pain of smoke on my tongue.
'Pardon?' I ask.
'Your life back then…' he muses, watching the lit end and letting the cloud whistle from his mouth. 'Italy.'
I feel myself cringe again.
'Does she know Carlisle?'
I nod, trying to appreciate the expensive taste of Masen's money. He was making it very difficult.
'All of it?'
'More or less…' I say again, aware that on a few matters I had alluded to conclusions rather than out rightly state them. I hoped I had said all that was important.
He sighs and pinches his eyes, painfully.
'Embezzlement, grooming, assault, stalking…' he starts to list. 'Blackmail...'
'What are you doing?' I ask, somewhat short in my tone.
'Hm?'
When he realises I was listening, he gives me another apologetic look and tries to focus on his stick of cancer. I had tried to savour mine a little more than he had. I knew the loss.
'It's just quite a lot to face… and…' He sees me bristle again and tries to soften the sound. '… She's still here Carlisle…'
It felt like another break into the opposing socket.
'Where is she meant to go?' I answer. 'You warned her that she couldn't trust anyone.'
He nods, threading a hand to the hair at the bottom of his neck. He arranges his sentences with a lot more caution now than he did before.
'And still…' he whispers. 'She has family, right? Quite a number of siblings, I remember…'
'Are you expecting me to ask her to leave?' I ask in shock. The very suggestion was abhorrent. It was taking the rug from under her dainty and restless feet and watching as she resigned herself to someone else's charity.
I could feel the strings in my chest start to tighten again, the ache of stress evident on my struggling face.
'No, Son. I mean,' his chest expands dramatically. 'I mean she has still chosen to be here.'
'Meaning?' I request, still fiddling with the lighted drug in my left hand, watching as the smoke floats upwards like a duo line drawing.
'Maybe all is not lost?' he comforts, quietly.
'Oh, it's lost.' I promise, miserably. 'It's beyond lost…'
And if it wasn't lost yet, with the way Senior was heading… it was soon about to be put to death at sea.
After four years of longing… we had experienced the exponential growth of an unexpected pairing to lost intimacy, or perhaps too fragile an intimacy, in mere days. What took people years to work on, what took me half a decade to appreciate had me torn and broken at my own, red stained hands.
I don't let him debate this comment. I thank him, rather dismissively for the ride and the cigarette and while I won't tell Liz, I know she'll blow up at him when he wanders through the hotel room at 5 in the morning begging for a brandy and smelling of the smoke.
Maybe I should've joined them.
Not literally, just in the brandy.
I was struggling enough attacking my lungs, I wouldn't do much better trying to attack my liver, too.
Pinching it tightly against my lips and dragging the last of what I can manage into my mouth, I stump the cigarette end out on my shoe again and hesitating, break it into my pocket. I give the porch one last look over, breathe out the last of the vapour and unlock the front door.