One: The First Time

I'll tell you a few things first because you may find yourself wanting a frame of reference. My name is Edward Cullen; I work, it's the bottom of the ladder type job that most twenty something people have and I live in a medium sized city in Washington, alone. But I should state now that none of that matters; only she matters. And that kind of love purges all significance from things deemed separate or distinct.

The first time I ever saw her, it was a Thursday - one of those beautiful but ordinary fall days. I was running; I enjoyed it though I always ended up in the same place. We were in the park and I was on a trail and she was trying to cut a path straight through, but was getting tripped up by her high heeled boots – brown, leather, and to the knees. They were getting stuck in amongst the soil and damp leaves; it had rained the night before. There was the slightest bit of bare skin between the top of her shoes and the bottom of her dress, pale white. Her clothes were some dark color that my eyes skimmed over quickly in my rush to see her face. She had very long hair, mahogany and soft looking.

And her face, it reminded me of the first time I ever saw it snow. That was the only way I could think to describe it at the time – she was my perfect winter morning. Pink cheeked, full lipped, and cream skin stark against the frame of her dark hair. The space between her eyebrows was marred by faint frustration which I smiled at impulsively. She checked the time on her phone – late. It struck me as strange that she would have something like a cell phone, as if by watching her, I was seeing someone not from this place or time. I couldn't help but follow in her gravitational pull.

Her path went north, into downtown; she walked quickly, moving around the edges of the tourist groups. The city was like that in the fall, people visited for long weekends to take pictures of the trees. She stopped outside a law firm, Jenks, Johnston, and Moore and seemed to give herself an internal pep talk. When she was ready, she flicked her hair behind her squared shoulders and walked in. Job interview, most likely.

I fiddled with my hands on the sidewalk, realized I was waiting for her. I wanted to see if she got the job, I wanted to get her coffee and pastry, take her on a walk with me and ask her questions; I wondered what she sounded like.

Instead, I went across the street and got myself coffee and a pastry, picking something I thought she'd like, a small chocolate croissant. Stop, I told myself. This wasn't right; she had no idea the kinds of things I was thinking about her. She would be repulsed. So I sat with my back to the window, thought of other things like going into work later that morning. There was some evaluation deadline approaching and I tried to keep awake while thinking of the tedium of paper work and fluorescent lighting.

When I finished and left I had this daydream of walking outside and running into her, it would be alright to see her then, I thought. Finding her once was good, but a second time – that meant something.

But she wasn't anywhere and after I went up and down both sides of the street I decided to give up on what must have been a mirage.

Work dragged, as it tends to do. I was late, but I was also very good at my job and so nobody minded my few stolen minutes.

All day long, I saw her face, but from a distance I couldn't make it all out and I refused to let my imagination fill in the gaps. I wondered about her hair and her eyes, the same color, but what shade? And her skin, was it as smooth and perfect as I'd thought? She was small, I could tell that much, but how small, and if she were pressed tight against me where would she lean her head? I had to see her again, but knew that I would never.

I stayed at work late, the deadline I'd hardly remembered turned out to be the very next morning. I left at nearly eight o'clock, but had no fear of walking home in the dark. If there was a woman somewhere doing the same thing, and we crossed paths tonight, would she be afraid of me? I shook my head at the non-sequitor. Nothing about my day had been usual; I felt punch drunk and sluggish as I headed for the stairs.

Outside, I slipped on my coat and tucked my hands in the pockets. It was getting threadbare and I felt the night breezes slipping through the worn spots. I hunched down into it, making a note to myself to find a new one before winter hit.

Again, I thought of my winter morning.

About halfway home, I noticed something. Or someone, rather – a woman. The streets for the most part were clear because of the chill in the air, on evenings like these people congregated inside their homes, or the movies, restaurants, bars. Until this woman, I was the only other person outside. She wasn't wearing a jacket or anything of the sort; I wanted to cover her, even if only in my shabby coat. It was a strange kind of desire.

She was far from me, too far to make out exactly what she was doing.

Her movements were jerky and rushed and when she moved through a yellow pool of light from the street lamp, things started clicking into place. It was the girl, the one I'd been thinking of all day, and I was seeing her a second time, and this time it meant something. I remembered she'd had a jacket on before.

She stopped just outside the light's radiance, her head whipping right, and then left. She held a hand at her chest tightly. I stood dumbly, my mind not prepared for what might be happening, or what might have just happened.

And then she saw me, I thought she'd run and she did, but toward me instead of away. I felt something, adrenaline, pump through my veins. She called out for help, her voice terrified. She screamed out again and I saw that she was not alone, a man followed, his gait cocky and un-worried. He hadn't seen me yet. I could help her, I knew, I could rip that man apart for even thinking about her.

I was thinking about it, and in those seconds I had started moving closer. I wanted it – the violence – I craved it. Not because I was violent, but because I knew he'd hurt her. But he wouldn't touch her again; that woman was not prey. He was.

She collided with me; her hands pulling at my coat, hard. "Help me," her voice was choked and begging, her lip split; I could see the thin trail of red that ended at her chin. The hand that had been so tightly against her chest had been holding the top of her dress together; I could see now where it had been ripped open. I put her behind me. Her hands tugged on the back of my jacket; she just wanted to get away from here.

When I stepped forward, the creature that was after her stepped backward. He raised his hands up as if to say hey, it's cool. He told me not to believe her, that she was a tease, a slut, a liar and then after I hit him the first time, he stopped saying anything.

She must have called the police, or someone did because they showed up not long after, lights flashing. They pointed their guns at me and I realized they thought I was the dangerous one. There was shouting, her voice telling them it wasn't me; I backed off.

She talked them down rapidly, putting herself between their guns and me and I loved her then for trying to protect me.

They gave her a blanket, paramedics put the creature on a gurney, one hand cuffed to the rail; he was going to be fine they said - eventually. The EMT's looked at my hands; I stared down at them. Blood, but not mine, smeared across my knuckles; I felt like I was someone else, someone capable of beating a man into unconsciousness. I remembered the satisfying feeling of breaking his nose, the low crunch and his contorted face. And then I heard the only voice that could have reached me. She said, "I want to see him."

I looked up and she was there, walking toward me, my angel.

She stepped very close and picked up my hand, the one an EMT had already cleaned. My breath was sharp at the shock I felt at her touch. "Sorry," she let go suddenly, "did that hurt?"

I didn't understand and when she glanced down, I did as well. My hand was bruised and faintly swollen, the knuckles purple in some places, green in others; it was sore, but nothing was broken. "No," I said, raising my hand back up, "it doesn't hurt." She looked at it again, but didn't touch. I wanted to reach out and tuck a loose strand of hair behind her ear, trace my fingers over her cheekbones, make sure that she was real and intact. But I couldn't, not unless she let me.

The police interrupted; they asked questions and took her away. I watched them lead her to a cruiser; she sat in the backseat, her legs resting out the open door. Her feet barely touched the ground.

We both ended up at the station, but separately. They talked to her longer than they talked to me and this time I stuck around, purposely waiting for her. I had to make sure she got home, that they took care of her. So I sat at the front across from a drunk; he called me Gabriel and I thought of the archangel.

When she came out her eyes found me immediately; she smiled. The officer with her said something I couldn't hear and she nodded; he left her with me. I thought of walking her home, or taking her to mine; I didn't think I could leave her alone.

"Hi," she looked shy.

"Are you alright?" We stood together in the stale space and I wanted to take her – away, or something.

She nodded, "Officer Marks is coming back; he's going to drive me home."

I felt the disappointment lace through my relief that she was here.

She shifted from one foot to the other, "I wanted to say…thank you," the way she said the words made me think that she believed them to be ineffectual; I wanted to laugh at the thought. She didn't have to thank me. Her fingers wound around my palm, careful not to touch the back of my hand. I let the very tips of my fingers brush hers.

"So," she said, letting go. "I was wondering if you wanted to get a cup of coffee or something sometime? I'd like to get to know the man that saved my life," her eyes were down and her color was high when she spoke, but her words were firm.

I had no choice in the matter nor did I wish to have one. "I'd like that."

We made plans for Saturday morning before Officer Marks came back to take her home.

I followed the direction of the cruiser for as far as I could before it left me behind completely and then I kept going anyway; I felt as though there was a trail I could follow – the feel of her, her scent, light and sweet. But I only found myself turned around; I rarely ventured to more places other than the park, work, and home, so I found my sense of place skewed in the city's narrow streets. I retraced my steps and by the time I got home, it was nearly time to get up again.

I stretched tiredly across my bed and stared at the white ceiling.

I saw her up there above me, what she looked like when she was afraid. Heart pounding, face flushed, her small fingers clutching me, voice breathless. My hands gripped the bedspread tight. Her words, the way she begged me, her hair wild and in her face. My hands gripped tighter.

The way she touched me so softly afterward, after she watched the way I wanted to kill that other man, like she could hurt me.

Before I fell asleep I said it once, the name I'd learned tonight – Bella. "Beautiful."

Author's Note: Still here? Thanks for trying this out with me; it's an idea I've had for a really long time.