Disclamier: I do not own Twilight.

No copying or reproduction of this work is permitted without express written authorization.©2009 Marie0912. All rights reserved worldwide.

"December first"

The streetlight reflected each and every snowflake, making them gleam in beautiful colors that danced across his face.

It was raw, the ripping ache in his chest as he watched the falling snow.

He didn't allow his eyes to leave the window as each vibration tickled the soles of his feet, traveled up his skin, through his bones and followed the bleeding veins that lead to his heart.

Each beat, each different toned chord stung like a needle at the core of his being, making him flinch and shudder.

Wet salt trickled down the cheeks of his handsome face.

His mother's fingers pressed down on each ivory key with more force and determination the longer she played, getting lost in the music, in the melody, in the beat and the twang that the baby grand piano was able to produce.

But the ripping pain was soon too much for her son, the hollow in his chest widened.

The loss was almost a physical mark on his flawless skin and he could not fight the crippling agony any longer.

The longing in his heart was too strong.

He fell to the floor with a whimper that echoed in the empty corners of his heart, rattled his bones and all but broke his body.

The harsh thud of his flesh meeting the hardwood was brutal.

His knees bruised at the impact, his chin and elbows got scraped against the wood, but he only felt the pain in his heart, the vibrations in the floor and the beat of the piano, manipulated by the firm touch of his mother's secure fingers.

She was playing Christmas carols.

And that was where his father found him an hour later: crumpled and broken on the floor of his bedroom.

The hardwood had scrapes from the boy's fingernails in it. They were deep.

"Edward..." he whispered the pain in his voice evident, though impossible for his boy to hear.

He felt his father approach though, and in half daze got to his feet, stumbled and waved away Carlisle`s helping hand with an annoyed expression.

"I am not a cripple," he thought bitterly.

Edward went back to staring out the window, at the nothingness that surrounded their house in Forks, Washington with a glum expression and Carlisle joined him with a sigh.

He put his hand carefully on his son`s shoulder and just stood there with him, silent and unmoving.

He was despairing. Knowing of the boy`s pain and unable to do anything to take it away, because as a parent, there was nothing he wanted more than to take away his child`s suffering.

Esme, the boy`s mother and Carlisle`s spouse, adored Christmas and everything that it entailed.

Or she used to, anyway.

But ever since...

No, neither of them could even think about that day.

Ever since that day, celebrating anything had been hard and felt meaningless.

Carlisle and Esme found joy in each other, and the love they felt.

They rejoiced in life.

But they hurt when Edward hurt, and ever since that day, he had been hurting.

So, with tears in their eyes and down their cheeks, Edward and Carlisle watched the beauty of the falling snow while the father listened to his wife play "I`ll Be Home for Christmas", and the son felt the vibrations in his feet, each note a physical pain, a physical ache that ripped at the center of his being.

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