AN: Just a one-shot for you all while I try and get my writing drive back. This isn't for the faint of heart, yeah? Character death and gruesomeness ahead.

Disclaimer: I do not own Twilight.

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OUTLET

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A sickening twist,

Snaps the wrist.

A soft pained whimper,

Is all that he can muster.

His body is sprawled across the ground, bruised, bleeding, broken. A soft wheezing cough comes forth, bringing with it blood. It spills over his torn lips, a red so dark it is nearly black. It stains his marble skin like red wine does to a white table cloth. The blood pools on the dirt he lies motionless upon, the Earth drinking it up greedily, turning darker and darker with every passing second.

Pain. It's all he can feel. Burning white-hot needles digging into his skin, picking him apart, peeling his skin back, leaving him raw, unprotected, feeble. All he can do is lie and wait for the darkness to swallow him, pull him down into a deep, never-ending numbness. He wants the darkness to claim him even though it's cowardly, wishing for death, but he's in so much pain. He wants to cry, but the tears won't form, they can't. He thinks that maybe if he could cry then his attacker might have some pity upon his poor battered frame, but deep down he knows that he deserves this pain. This punishment is his and only his. He deserves every little bit of this pain and in the end it might not even amount to half of the pain she felt as her body smashed and splintered onto the jagged rocks she threw herself upon.

A malicious grin,

Nails raking over the bloody skin,

Cutting and slicing,

Hacking and dicing.

"You deserve this," he breathes into the bleeding boy's ear as he digs his claws down into the pale stomach, which has thus so far remained unmarked. He hears the other gasp in pain and then whimper in defeat. His lips curl back in a cruel almost feral grin as he twists the other's insides, curling them round his fingers, pulling them round. He loves hearing the nauseating squishing noises his fingers create as they scoop inside the other's belly, moving the pulsing innards around. Venom and blood coats his hands, making them glisten in the moon's pale light. Oh how beautiful the other looks, almost cadaverous in the moonlight.

He relishes in the other's agony. He loves making him hurt. It causes him such pleasure that it nauseates him. How twisted he is for loving the expression the other makes as he cuts through the cold flesh, watching red blood mix with clear venom. The wounds spit, a thousand gaping mouths, expelling floods of bubbling fluids, vomiting. The mere sight of it all makes his gut twist unpleasantly. He's certain that later he'll find himself bent over a toilet, retching and spewing, body cold and shivering, drenched in a thick layer of cold sweat.

He is silent,

As the other's rage runs rampant.

He no longer seems to care,

As his body is far beyond repair.

Blood stains his lip,

Skin bruises beneath the other's grip.

Gaping wounds adorn his body,

Decorations that make him bloody.

He lets out another feeble cough, groaning as his damaged body shudders with anguish. The ground beneath him is hard and cold and the hands that break him hot and soft, slick with blood and sweat. He shudders yet again as the hands pull out from his gut, trembling and shaking. The other's thoughts swim into his head, but they are garbled, full of static. Is he dying? Is this why he can't decipher the words pouring out from the other's troubled mind? Part of him is hoping that his end has come, that he's already slipping into that deep never-ending sleep. It excites him. It gives him hope, hope that this is almost over. That he is almost done repenting, but he knows, he knows deep down that he can never repent enough for his sins. He is a sinner and the other is a tormentor.

"I know I deserve this," he whispers, bringing forth more blood. It bubbles over his now ruby-red lips; they shimmer beautifully in the light of the night. He lets out another sigh of defeat, resigns himself to the pain he knows is to come. The hands drift over to his own. He wonders briefly whether those claws are going to dig down and pull out his tendons or break every single one of his fingers. They do nothing but rest upon his, smearing red upon the untouched white skin.

He stops, confused.

Eyes stare at the skin he has bruised,

Ripped and cut,

Claws still bloody from digging into the other's gut.

All he can do is stare.

Is he starting to care?

His heart aches,

And his body shakes.

A cold sweat breaks out over him. He trembles as he stares down at the body he has mutilated, ripped, and torn. In his blind rage he has bloodied his hands and the body that lies beneath him. Panting and ashamed, he stares down at the other. It was his jealousy and resentment that had gripped him so tightly, causing his nails to sink in and tear, slash, and break.

Lower lip trembling, he finds his body slumping, adrenaline slipping away, leaving him bloody yet unharmed, shaking and contrite. His heart twists along with his stomach. He wants to run away, far away, as fast as he can, but he can't move. He is frozen, forced to watch the poor creature's torn chest rise and fall. It mocks him, the way the other tries to be human, but isn't. He hates how he can't seem to see the other as a 'leech', as a 'bloodsucker', as an enemy. He sees only a pitiable boy, bleeding, bruised, and dying on the ground.

Surprise takes him.

The world begins to swim.

Vision unfocused,

His gaze is the blankest.

Darkness creeps over,

Shrouding the delver,

The cause of all his pain,

The one who regards him with such disdain.

Consciousness is fading fast,

He doesn't know how long he'll last.

He struggles to hold on,

He's not ready to be gone.

He carefully reaches out with his hand, ignoring the ache and the pain that follows. He desires to touch the other's face, to console him, to comfort. The other suffers more than he. It is plain to see that. His tormentor is tormented, tortured and in more agony than he could ever be. The pain he feels? It is nothing compared to what the other holds. His pain is nothing. Nothing.

His bloodied palm cups the other's bronzed cheek. He runs his thumb gently over the warm unmarked flesh. His hand must feel cold to the other for he sees a shiver run up the boy's spine. Pity chokes him and sympathy wells up. Misery gurgles within him. He shivers, his own chill seeping into his body.

"It's not your fault, Jacob," he whispers before coughing. It is a horrible, watery, hacking cough. It is the kind of cough he heard all too often in the hospital, the sick cough that made him shudder and wriggle in his own bed, twisting in the sheets. He hates that cough.

A sudden chill descends upon his cheek,

He watches the other's lips move as if to speak,

But the words are silent,

A lost fragment.

The blood trickles down,

On his cheek a smear of red and brown.

Blood and dirt,

Mixing in the palm of the one he hurt.

A tear falls in with the mess,

And the hand continues to caress.

A motion that soothes and calms,

Although it comes from chilly palms.

"Your words are lost on me, Edward," he whispers back, "I can't hear you anymore." He places his hand over the one on his cheek. "We can't change what's been done." He pulls the hand away from his cheek, but does not let go. "Your time's up, Edward."

He waits for a response. He searches the other's face for words, thoughts. How he desires to know what the other is thinking, what is locked away in the catacombs of the vampire's mind, but he cannot know. He will never know. He will never know Edward's thoughts and he will never know what causes his chest to ache so painfully at this moment. It is not her. No. Her memory no longer plagues his heart. It no longer twists it as if it was a dishrag, but something else does. Something he cannot explain, define, see.

"Say something," he says, almost pleading. Almost.

Silence is all he hears.

Words fall on deaf ears.

Pulsing, living silence,

Sound's absence.

It terrifies.

He emits low cries,

Urges the other to speak,

But the other is far too weak.

He desires to know.

He needs to know.

But he cannot.

The answers drift away although they are sought.

Edward remains silent, gaze distant. He is looking at Jacob and at the same time he is not. He is lost to the world now, lost to Jacob, but he is still breathing. His chest continues to rise and fall. He is alive. He is alive. For some reason, this matters to Jacob. He needs the other alive. His heart is fragile, trembling, like glass. He doesn't understand why Edward makes him this fragile, this breakable. He feels like a porcelain doll during these moments of sudden clarity. He can feel the cold air nipping away at his skin, the breeze running through his dark hair. He can see the stars twinkling in the sky, a million glistening drops of starlight scattered across a dark tapestry. He can see the moon, its pale face staring down at the two of them, lying in the dirt, covered in blood and hurting. And finally, he sees Edward, just lying there, immobile, and his heart skips a beat.

Fire floods him and he doesn't understand why. He wants to hold onto the vampire, cling to him, kiss him, be with him. He suddenly needs Edward. He needs to touch and explore, love and be loved. He needs it. He wonders if this is what it feels like to imprint. If this is what's happening to him, driving him mad with lust and love.

His dark brown eyes seem to melt as he stares down at the vampire. He wants to kiss the other all over, hold him close, make him happy, protect him, be his everything. But he knows this cannot be. He is a werewolf and Edward is a vampire. They cannot be together. It was not meant to be. Fate is smiling at him now, a cruel, twisted smile, laughing at his misfortune.

Tears fill his eyes.

Oh how his love defies,

Nature's law,

Bringing together fang and claw.

The tears are rolling down,

And his lips are pulled into a heartbroken frown.

Love has finally been found,

Only to be drowned.

"I'm so sorry," he whispers, doubling over to bring his face closer to Edward's pale one. Tears roll freely down his cheeks and down onto the other's face, wetting it. The sight of Jacob crying is pitiful. It makes Edward's dead heart ache. Bella would never want to see her Jacob like this. He holds on tightly to the other's hand, clasping it firmly within his own.

"It's not your fault, Jacob," he repeats and this time, Jacob hears him, hears those words, the ones he wants to hear the most. "I forgive you."

Jacob can't take it anymore; he collapses in a sobbing heap atop Edward.

Emotions in turmoil,

Confusion begins to uncoil,

A shroud of mysteries and uncertainty.

They're both at Fate's mercy.

His heart twists and clenches.

He wants to shower the other with kisses,

But he's afraid.

This union is something Nature forbade.

Edward lets his arms wrap around the other. He holds the sobbing werewolf tight. He can feel the tears drip onto his neck, sliding down in tiny rivulets. This is where the boy's face in buried. His blood soaks through the other's clothes, drenching them red. The deep crimson that is nearly black swirls wild patterns in the boy's white cotton shirt, which really won't be white for long. Edward's thoughts are fleeting and his is fading fast. He knows that this will not kill him. He is immortal after all, but he knows that these are his last minutes.

His body shudders. He is resigned to his fate. He has been for quite some time. He did not struggle when Jacob appeared before him, angry and hurt, craving revenge. He stayed where he was, unmoving just like he is now. There was nothing left for him to live for and there still isn't. Why should he have struggled? Tried to escape? His family would mourn his death. They would be saddened by his passing. He knew this, but he also knew that they'd move on. Eventually the memories of him would fade. Days would turn into weeks. Weeks into months. Months into years. Years into decades. Decades into centuries. They had eternity, eternity to forget him.

Edward didn't have eternity.

He sobs apologies into his love's ear,

Chest filling with heart-clenching fear.

His tears run swiftly and fast.

Time is fleeting and has already passed.

"I hate you," he hisses, pulling back, but his eyes betray him. Edward can clearly see that. He knows what the other really feels, but what about him? What does he feel? Pity? Guilt? He knows that he cannot return Jacob's love and it pains him. He knows that he has already hurt the werewolf and now he was ripping out the poor things heart and stomping on it.

'I love you. I love you. I love you.'

Jacob's pleading thoughts fill his head. He cannot bear this noise. Guilt's hand tightens around his throat, squeezing the breath out of him. A final sigh escapes him. His chest no longer rises and falls, but he is not dead. No. He is still alive, staring at Jacob, watching the tears flow and feeling his heart crack with each passing second.

'Love me back. Please. Love me back.'

Edward shakes his head. He cannot grant Jacob this wish and the werewolf knows this. He knows. Edward's heart already belongs to someone else, even in death. Jacob seems to accept this. His shoulders slump and his gaze turns to the side. He doesn't want to see the pale face that he has stained with red. He doesn't want to look at the one he now adores, the one his instincts tell him is his.

His instincts are wrong. Edward is not his and never will be. The realization hurts, but he is used to the pain. He is used to rejection. He is the stray dog, the flea-bitten mutt that no one wants. Edward wants to tell him that he isn't, but the words can't leave his mouth. Maybe it's because the thought is true. Perhaps Jacob is destined to be a third wheel, forever rolling along outside of the group, lonesome. He is the ugly duckling, who has yet to emerge as a beautiful swan. Or maybe, he never will. Maybe he really is just an ugly, unwanted duckling. That story was always such bull shit.

"Hold me," he whispers,

"No," the other answers.

The answer bites and stings,

Yet he still clings.

He decides he is destined to be a reject. Bella rejected him and now Edward. Even the pack rejects him. They know of his feelings for Edward and are sickened. Their disgust is plain. He can hear their scoffs and see the faces they pull. He is no longer one of them. He is a traitor, a filthy little traitor. He can't go back home. This is plain and clear to him. So where, who does he turn to? He is homeless, heartbroken, miserable. He is a downtrodden mutt left out on the street, shivering from the cold and sick from loneliness. Why should he continue to live?

Jacob knows that there is no answer to his question. He doesn't even bother to dig deep down within himself. He's already trying so hard to block out the accusations running through his brain. The insults are ripping through him, shredding his self-esteem. The last drop of happiness has been sucked right out of his veins and he doesn't know if it's the bloodsucker who did it or his own pack.

He reaches into his back pocket, pulls out a small lighter. A sad smile plays upon his lips, which are now chapped and bleeding from the cold winter wind whipping across his face. A small flame flickers and comes to life. He never really wanted to be buried anyways. Hopefully the wind will blow his ashes out into the ocean. That would be a nice place to rest.

The werewolf looks down at the bloody vampire beneath him. They both know what he's about to do and neither seems to really care that these moments are their last. With that same sad smile upon his face, Jacob brings the small flame down to the vampire's cheek.

"I love you," he says, his voice softer than a whisper. The flame touches Edward's cool skin and flares up as if the vampire were doused in gasoline. They really were vulnerable to fire. Jacob marvels at how quickly the flames spread, licking at the other's flesh, burning it right off.

Edward doesn't say a thing. He lies there completely still. He does not flinch. He is lost to reality. The pain the flames bring can no longer reach him. He is too far away. A tear falls into the flames. Edward is even more beautiful when doused in fire and Jacob can hardly stand it.

The flames are now licking at his own hands. They've spread fast, an unstoppable blaze. Jacob sighs. His nerves scream at him to pull away, to run, but he doesn't have the will to do so. He wants to die with Edward here and now.

It isn't long before he too is consumed by the fire. In his last painful moments, Jacob leans over and places a soft gentle kiss upon Edward's lips. It is both their first and their last kiss. This disappoints Jacob, but he really doesn't have much time to think at this point. The flames are boring into him, burrowing deep into his charred flesh.

He lets himself fall onto the vampire, catching Edward in a one-sided embrace. He can hardly recognize the vampire at this point, but he still can't help but think that the two of them burn beautifully together.

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AN: Now if you all are going to go "OH MY GAWD YOU KILLED MY EDWARD/JACOB! YOU'RE SUCH A BITCH!" then don't even bother reviewing. You know why? Edward and Jacob aren't yours. They're fictional characters, so get over it. Plus this is FANFICTION. I'm not Stephenie Meyer, so whatever happens in my stories isn't really happening. Also, I warned you all about the gruesomeness didn't I? I did. Sorry for being such a bitch, but I'm really sick of people harassing me because I don't write the same things everyone else wants.

SORRY FOR BEING NON-CANON! NOW LEAVE ME ALONE!

In case some of you were wondering about why I haven't updated Relapse, here's my answer:

I lost my drive for a very long time because some jerk wouldn't leave me alone. They pretty much flamed me to the extent that I didn't want to write anything anymore. I'm just now starting to get my writing drive back.

Also, I know I can't write poetry, but at least give me points for trying. If you don't like slash kindly fuck off. No one's asking you to read my stuff, 'kay? So run back to your little BellaxEdward land and leave me be. Hey. If you want to read canon stuff then just read the books over! What a brilliantly EASY solution!

Phew. That feels REALLY good to let out. You guys have no idea how much stuff I have pent up in me right now. Yeah, this was kind of OOC, but whatever. Ignore it, pretty please? Nothing exciting happens if you don't use a bit of OOC.

The end is kind of rushed I guess, but that usually happens when I get to about seven pages of writing. Confusing? It may be. I don't really know as the author, which is why I have you guys around to read this. So review please?