Disclaimer: I do not own Twilight or any of the characters.

A/N: Abuse is NEVER okay. If you or someone you know is suffering from abuse, please tell someone. Get help.

February 3, 2010


The sound of my shoes slapping on the pavement was the only audible sound as I loped down Jefferson avenue that afternoon. I walk home everyday, but that day the silence seemed oddly eerie. The hairs on the back of my neck were standing on end, as if my body knew something wasn't right.

I slowed my walk in front of the old, decrepit house next to mine, digging through my bag for my house key. It was then that I heard it.

A loud crash boomed from the house next door, and I froze in front of it. I looked up at the house, seeing two figures fighting in an upstairs room. My first instinct was to run. Run into my house, call my father, and then wait for the cops to arrive next door.

I realized though that it was not my place to call the cops on my reclusive neighbors. So, I stood, frozen in place, staring up at the window.

I watched as one of the figures landed a punch right in the other person's stomach. They doubled over, clutching their abdomen as the other – who clearly had the upper hand since the other didn't seem to be fighting back– charged at them. I squeaked, concerned for the injured person, and the window must have been open because the two figures both froze and looked down at me.

I recognized one – the one who threw the punch – as Edward Masen Sr. He was always very polite, saying "hello" to me every morning. He was a well respected lawyer here in Forks. His eyes were wild and I felt a shiver travel down my spine. The other man I didn't know, but I assumed it was Edward Jr., Edward Sr.'s shut-in son.

I'd barely moved to Forks a few months prior, but I had heard from some students at Forks High that Edward never left the house. He used to, they said, until third grade when Mrs. Masen passed away and Edward Sr. decided to home school Edward. The girls had told me stories of how attractive he was as a child, saying he must be a knock-out now if he had been that appealing at nine years old.

And boy, were they right. He was tall with messy bronze hair and bright green eyes that I could see, even from where I was standing. His eyes met mine and the look in them was a warning.


Three loud bangs echoed as my father's hand connected with my locked bedroom door. "Open the fucking door, Edward! NOW! Before I rip the damned thing off the hinges!" His angry voice rumbled through the aforementioned door.

"Go the fuck away." I hissed.

"Don't you fucking talk to me like that! Open the damn door, Edward!"

I rolled my eyes, "Why should I? So you can use me as your punching bag? I think not."


And though I knew he wouldn't be able to beat me with the door, I opened it anyway. Stupid move, I know.

I was, of course, greeted with a smack to the face. This was normal in the Masen household. Ever since my mom passed, my dad has been volatile and abusive. He had been a good man at one point, when he still had my mom, but without her he was a wreck, and had been for the past eight years.

I let him continue. There was really no use in fighting him. He shouted and punched and broke the shit in my room. I opened my mouth to warn him about the girl next door...the girl who walks home at this time everyday. She would see him hitting me and that wouldn't be at all good for his reputation.

Before I could get any words out, he slammed his fist right into my stomach. The wind was knocked out of me and as I looked up, he was charging at me again.

He was literally about two inches away from me when we heard a gasp. We both turned to look out the window. Staring straight up at us was the girl I've watched walk to and from school everyday since she moved here. Her terrified eyes met mine, Run, leave now, before he has a reason to hurt you, too, pretty girl, I thought to her, wishing she was a mind reader. As if she knew exactly what I was thinking, she took off running toward her house.

"Now, look what you've done!" He shouted, "Now that stupid little girl is going to tell someone!"

I gaped, "How is it my fault that my father abuses me?" I hissed.

"You could've closed your curtains!"

"Oh, my bad. I didn't really have time to do so while you were BEATING THE EVER-LOVING SHIT OUT OF ME!" I snarled.

"Don't back talk me," he growled as he started at me again.

"Go the fuck away or I'll make damn sure that girl calls the cops on you." I warned, my voice low and full of venom.

He chuckled, "And how, exactly, are you planning to do so?"

"Why the hell would I tell you?"

He laughed, "Alright, Edward, I'll humor you today." and with that he turned and walked out of the room.

I shut the door and locked it before turning and flopping onto my bed.

How the fuck did I get in this situation?

My mom passed away when I was nine from Spanish Influenza. My mother, Elizabeth, was a photographer. She traveled all around the world, taking photos of anything and everything. In December eight years ago, she traveled to Madrid and she my father and I were contacted saying that, while there, she had contracted a rare, but very dangerous virus called the Spanish Influenza. My mother was in critical condition when my father and I finally arrived. They wouldn't allow us in to see her, "Meeses Masen ees cor-an-teen'd!" a nurse who spoke very little English told us. So, long story short, my mom died and we never even got a chance to say goodbye to her, other than from outside a locked door.

My father and I were devastated, naturally. But as I slowly started coping, he seemed to be getting worse. He was loud and would break things and I remember the exact day that I became scared of what my father had became.

I had just turned ten and it had been six months since my mom passed. I asked my father if I could have a birthday party. He gripped his hair and I feared he'd pull it out, he shouted, "Nothing will be celebrated in this house without your mother!"

I didn't understand and told him it didn't have to be at our house. He grabbed the lamp off of our end table and threw it against the wall. He was snarling obscenities and tossing things at walls. "Daddy, stop! Please!" my ten year old self cried.

He slowly turned to look at me and his eyes were murderous. I felt my stomach drop as he stalked toward me. "YOU!" he screamed, tears brimming in his eyes, "Elizabeth is gone and it's all your fault! You just had to have a picture of the 'pretty Spanish flowers.' That's where she contracted it! She's dead and you're the only one to blame!" and with that he pushed me down before storming away, dry sobs heaving from him.

Not only did that make me terrified of my father...it also made me feel responsible for my mother's death. I did ask her to take pictures of the flowers.

December 2002

"Is there anything special you want me to take a picture of for you, baby?" she asked me, smiling. I always had a request. Kangaroos and camels in Australia, Times Square in New York.

"The pretty Spanish flowers, mommy! I wanna see the flowers!" I smiled my semi-toothless grin.

"Flowers it is, Eddie." she beamed.

My father shook his head fondly, "Just the flowers, Ed? Not even bull-fighting or pretty senoritas?"

I shook my head, "Nope! Just flowers!"

I miss those days. The ones where my father wasn't a fucking psycho.

I wish I could have him back.

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