A/N: This is a very dark theme that popped into my head. Don't ask me where it came from, it just did. The chapters will be about this length. Once again, it's just another side story. Please don't ask me for longer chapters. ENJOY!!!

***WARNING: Mature content: Rape, Cutting, Suicide, Dark Language – DON'T READ if you don't like!***

Disclaimer: I do not own anything related to Twilight. Stephenie Meyer is the clever mastermind who does.

Chapter One – Laying Cold

"Edward, please talk to me. Nine weeks have passed and you haven't spoken a word to me and your condition is not stabilizing its deteriorating. I can't help you if you don't talk to me. Please, Edward, talk to me."

Ha! As if I would talk to my doctor… Zack Jones is a good man, don't get me wrong, but there was no way in hell I was going to talk about what happened that night. Not only did I lose my parents that night but I lost myself as well.

I wasn't sure who I was anymore. Sure my name is still Edward Anthony Masen, Jr. and I am seventeen years old, but now if I ever get out of here I'm just another child in the foster care system until I turn eighteen in six months.

If only I could sneak out of this mental institution I've been placed in, but I can't. The night the world I had known slipped away, I cut my wrists. Some foolish doctor who was my attending physician that night, on September 18, 2005, noticed my sliced up wrists and placed me in the suicide watch ward, with my wrists and ankles bound to the bed for three days. Then when they were going to release me to my social worker, Amy Kendrel, I snuck into a hospital room and searched frantically for a sharp medical tool. Having found one I cut my wrists deeply open, hoping to finish myself off, but when I woke hours later I found myself in the back of an ambulance. My wrists were bandaged with white gauze, and once again, my wrists and ankles were bound to the gurney. I asked the paramedic where they were taking me. He told me Chicago's Institution for Unstable Teens. I've been here, bound to the bed on suicide watch, for nine weeks and have refused to speak to my psychiatrist Zackary Jones.

Why do I refuse to speak? He doesn't know me; he doesn't know who I am. Why would I spill my life story out to some stranger who is getting paid thousands of dollars a year to act like he knows how to help his insane patients? As absurd as this might sound, I'd rather stay here, at the institution, where I'm fed – well eat when I want to – and taken care of, rather than be tossed around in the foster care system where I never feel safe. As soon as my eighteenth birthday comes around I am checking myself out of this institution and ending my life once and for all.

"Edward, you are going to continue having vivid nightmares that cause you to wake up screaming, panting, and sweating every night unless you learn to trust me and let me help you. Don't you want your nightmares to stop? Don't you want some control over your life again? I can help those things happen, but you need to lend your hand in that help also by talking to me. I am your friend, Edward, not your enemy."

I snorted at his words. He's not my friend, he is my enemy. Dr. Jones was keeping me here against my will. Who in their right mind, though I am not, would ever want to be stuck in this dismal place? I certainly don't. I'd rather be outside going on adventures like any normal seventeen-year-old boy. But no, I've become an orphan. My parents were killed and my most treasured virtue was stolen from me. Now I am bound to a bed by metal clips in the suicidal ward in a mental institution. Yeah, I would have to say my life is pretty fucked up.

It seems like it was years ago when I was living in my beautiful, country-themed home in the city of Chicago; while going to school, mowing lawns in my neighborhood for extra cash, playing my piano, hanging with my friends, and coming home at dinner time to see my lovely mother standing over the stove finishing up our dinner and then see my father sitting in the family room reading the day's newspaper. It's hard to believe that was only eleven weeks ago… two months and three weeks exactly.

What really damns me to hell is knowing I left that day for school in a horrible mood, fought with my parents, and never said I love you one last time to them. By the time I got home that evening, I walked right into a scene from a horror film. My parents were lying in the middle of the hallway with blood pooling around their limp bodies. My father was dead, his eyes staring blankly ahead. I will never have that image erased from my mind. Then in my mother's weakness, her eyes became alarmed as she whispered a strained warning for me to drop to the ground. I was too late. The man had struck me in the head and I blacked out. I awoke to the most burning sensation and the oddest sensual feeling I had ever experienced as a tightness that felt so good pulled me out of unconsciousness. I heard whimpers and I saw my mother crying but her mouth wasn't moving. I realized I was the one allowing those sounds to escape my throat. As I exploded, not really sure what was happening, the man before me groaned in pleasure as my mother shed her last tear before she went limp; then I noticed the pleasurable spurts I was experiencing. That was when realization dawned on me, this man had raped me and my mother had been forced to witness it.

Yes, I've come to accept that I was raped but I deserved it. My parents died believing I hated them and never appreciated them. My true justice would have been being killed along side them. Though some could view that as the coward's way out. Surviving a vicious account of rape makes me have to deal with pain… and the guilt of knowing my mother witnessed it is an addition to that pain. So I deserved to be raped because I deserve this pain that comes with its aftermath.

I heard my doctor sigh, "Edward, Amy, your social worker, she's found your Godparents. Now normally, I would never release you because your treatment has made no progress. But I don't know what else there is to do for you. You don't trust me, you don't talk to me – So, tomorrow your Godparents, Carlisle and Esme Cullen, are picking you up and taking you home with them. I can only hope that this move will be what you need for your jumpstart on recovery. I'll have your records transferred to a psychiatrist in Forks, Washington, and your Godparents can schedule weekly visits for you." He left my room after he finished.

Like hell I'd talk to another fucking psychiatrist in another new town. Maybe Zack's the one not in his right mind. HAHA! Insane person's joke. Godparents huh? Some Godparents they've been… the last time I saw Carlisle and Esme I was fucking four years old. I think they have a son older than me and a girl about my age. After one week of me living under their roof I will be shipped off to a foster home. They certainly wouldn't want Edward Fucking Masen screwing up their children's lives. And like I mean anything to them… they never visited me. It took them thirteen years, my parents' deaths, and their Godson going loony to bring them back into my life. They better not expect me to be mister politeness because that is not going to happen.

If they actually decide to keep me in their home, it will only be for a short amount of time. Thank God… Because you see, once I turn eighteen, that day will be my release – the day I enter the gates of hell. Not from the sin of killing myself but because of the betraying son that I had become the day of my parents' deaths. Only six months, six months until my soul goes where it belongs.

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***SOMEBODY'S MIRACLE has been updated! Please check it out and REVIEW!***


***ALSO, now that I've posted this first chapter, I am now finishing the next chapter to Breath of Heaven. Then, Trust Beyond The Sky, will be updated next!!! Don't forget to check out Concrete Angel as well***

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