Forgive Me. Forget Me. by Junaberry

Forgive Me. Forget Me.

By Junaberry

When I was in my late adolescence, maybe 16 or 17, my mother took me to confession. She said to me in her breathy, angelic voice, “Edward, confess your sins in the house of God for when in his home, all will be forgiven.”

I listened to her, wide eyed and hopeful. I was prepared to deliver the ultimate speech, running through all my wrongdoings. When I entered the small chamber where a thin panel of wood separated the Father and I, a sense of fear struck me. This man would hate me and curse me for all I had done wrong, of this I was sure.

“Father, forgive me for I have sinned. It has been 6 months since my last confession,” whispered a younger me through the opening, hoarsely.

“My child, continue,” said the priest calmly as if this happened daily which it probably did. I had done nothing out of the ordinary just yet.

I could smell him through the window; he smelled of incense and cedar wood. Like my father. Like my distraught younger years.

I couldn’t continue; I clasped and unclasped my hands and I opened my mouth only to have air come out of me and finally, when the priest made a comment of the silence, the tears I had been holding in for too long trickled down my cheek and splattered onto the wooden floor. The priest said nothing more; he waited. Although he meant well, it was almost like he was condemning me for soiling the house of God.

“I am sorry, father.” After some time, I spoke in throaty words.

“My son, there is no need to apologize.”

I took one more peer through the window and dashed out to take my mother’s hand. She looked at me and stroked my cheek fondly, “My dearest child.”

I brought her hand into mine and we walked back to the house. All the while, my father was dead across town from the Spanish Influenza.

The next day, a telegram came from the hospital informing us of his death. I held my mother to my chest while she wept and wept with heaving sobs. The hate for my father was always strong through my childhood; he had ignored me and belted my mother on several occasions so it was delicately astonishing to see my dear mother mourning the death of her husband so intensely. And then, as my mother reached up to my cheek and kissed my forehead, it occurred to me that even through all the obstacles of life, love, no matter how small or battered, perseveres.

Death is the cease of existence. You simply dissipate forever; never to love or be loved again, never to remember, never to feel. The day my father died, my mother died with him.

*

Late last year, Isabella Marie Swan was diagnosed with severe breast cancer. She was 77 and frail to begin with. At the hospital, each and every day, I was forced to tell the nurses I was her grandson. In her room, I couldn’t hold her and kiss her as we both wished; I had to stroke her hand and kiss her forehead as was expected of a son. The months that led to her death were torture. Like the months so many years ago when I strayed far from my beloved to long for her lingering touch each day.

In the winter of 2070, on a bleak and rainy day, she touched my hand and coughed violently. I fought my deepest urges to change her, then and there but when she spoke, I knew that I couldn’t.

“Edward.” Her voice was just as beautiful as the day we met. “I’m old now. I’m going to die soon.”

“I know, Bella. But don’t speak so morbidly. You still have time left.”

She said to me, “There is no time left. You have made me so happy but now you need to forget me. You need to forget my name; you need to forget the last 64 years.”

“I can’t do that, sweetheart.” Every word she spoke was like a needle to my heart.

She wanted me to forget her; she said this on her 82nd birthday, solemnly and honest.

“You can and you will, Edward. I don’t want to be the cause for your eternal misery.”

Her eye lids were half closed and drooping lower and lower but her grip on my hand remained as strong as ever; like my love for her. Undying, unfaltering.

“You won’t be, Bella. You have made my life worth it. You have made me happy.”

Her cheeks glistened with salty tears and I used my free hand to scoop one onto a fingertip.

“Do you remember all those years ago, when I was with Carlisle? We were in the old house and I was playing the piano for you, you started to cry. I took one of your tears and swallowed it, darling, because I wanted to stop your pain.”

I bent my head to my finger and licked up the tear quickly. She was smiling but her eyes were now closed. Her face, peaceful and serene, the only way I wanted to see her.

“You have stopped my pain and now I have to stop yours. Just forget me. You never met me, we never spoke, we never loved.”

I wouldn’t have cried even if I could; I refused to miss any last second of Isabella’s life. The tears I would have shed would be of waste. They would hinder my watching.

“We loved, Bella. Don’t make me forget that love.”

“You won’t forget it. You’ll forget me.”

*

Two days later, Jacob Black was reading Isabella’s eulogy in her father’s back yard. I forbade myself to go to the funeral; the questions that would be raised would be hard to step around. Isabella never had children, she never married and as far as anyone knew, her high school sweetheart, Edward Cullen, died 15 years ago from a boating accident in Bermuda. So while Bella’s closest friends and relatives crowded in the small, grassed area, I wallowed in the woods, mourning the lost of my one love. I clutched my heart desperately, trying to pull my heart out, to stop the stabbing pains but I couldn’t. When I should have been reading Isabella’s last prayers, I was cursing Jacob for loving her. When I should have been grasping my last opportunity to look at her face, I was tearing out a tree from the ground in a fit of despair. I was angry; angrier than I had been in decades. And the anger was directed at Bella. That fact was the worst thing.

With the passing of Isabella, I had officially lost everything I held dear. The old ways I treasured were gone, never to be found again, certainly. The people I couldn’t bear to live without had moved on, some to a higher place. Fear encircled my heart and this fear could not be left behind. I had no one to run to and no one to talk to, dissolve into a puddle of misery in front of. It terrified me that no matter how hard I looked, I would never be able to find my past again.

50 years ago, I lost my family, piece by piece. It began mysteriously and like all things in my life, it began with Bella. My sister, Rosalie, was murdered by Jacob’s pack of wolves. She died with kindness in her heart; she died with the spirit that we treasured from her. That seemed to cause more pain than anything, knowing that she lost her life for something she loved. We were all incredibly distraught, more so than I would have predicted of a family of vampires. It was like time stopped for her and time stopped for us. So when it began again, drastic measures were taken to make up for the stand still. Emmett would function no longer. Each day was a thousand times worse than the period in which I left Bella. Soon, the tight coil we had strung through the years unraveled more and more with each day.

Jasper soon left Alice. It was a day unlike any other; unexpected. We do not know and never will know for sure what Jasper’s reasons were but Alice knows. But what Alice knows, often, she will not give. One could predict that she would sag into complete desolation but she did not. Carlisle liked to call it a stage of denial. But all through this time, our parents stayed as stable as ever. They gave us all a loving home and hand, and refused to give in to depression. It was not worth it to them, making more sadness out of sadness. It was ridiculous to conceive such a thought, in fact. It was this stability that held Carlisle together when I told him that I wished to make a life away from them with Bella.

“Of course,” he said.

This nature is what brought the Cullens and Hales through. It was what made us a family.

So many years later, I have been left desolate with no one to love or be loved by. I would gladly sacrifice myself for those I love but without the inner call to bring Bella to the surface, I could not do as she had begged me to do for so long.

If only I had the heart to appease her judgments, but I do not. Like all those years ago when I urged Rosalie into the danger that I knew awaited her, I hadn’t the heart to call her back. The downfall of my life, it began with Bella and now it ends with her as well.

*

The morning of Rosalie’s death was a morose one. Carlisle had brought Esme to Chicago for a doctors’ conference for the weekend. Our friends in Alaska had called us down to visit them but only Alice and Jasper had decided to go. The rest of us were rather resolute in spending Spring Vacation in the more usual way. Sticking to schedule wasn’t something most vampires liked to follow but for our clan, this was necessary to appear as human as possible.

My flaxen haired sister sat opposite me with her fists clenched under the table. She had given in to my pleas for her to accept Isabella for once. With her last foul glance, she enveloped Bella into an embrace and although the air was stilted that night, it seemed as if it was the beginning of something incredible, something perfect.

“Where is Bella?” She seemed genuinely curious and her eyes were downcast as if she was missing her.
“With Jacob,” admitted me, grudgingly.

Bella - with Jacob? No, bring her back, Edward. It’s not safe for her to be with him.

“I haven’t a choice, Rosalie. Bella has demanded I allow her to spend time with that mongrel. I do not approve of it either.”

“Then I will do it, silly Edward. Jacob hasn’t even seen me before. Maybe he’ll be so blown away by my beauty that he won’t be able to comprehend what I am about to do.” An arrogant smile tugged at her voluptuous lips and I could not resist grinning in return.

“Be careful, sister.”

“Of course, dear brother.” With these final words, she flounced out.

These would be the last words I would hear from her. That would be the last time I would see her; speak to her. When I lost Rosalie, it hurt almost as much as when Bella passed on. My heart ached as I remember her tenacity or the petty arguments we used to hold. I loved Rosalie more than I could ever convey. She probably died thinking I only barely tolerated her.

From what I heard from Bella later that night, Rosalie arrived in full spirit, growling and challenging Jacob in true Rosalie style.

“She wouldn’t stop pushing him. She just kept telling him to fight her and she said that without a doubt, she would win. And then,” Bella had balked and lost all color in her cheeks. Her eyes filled with water. It struck me as strange to see her so torn up over the death of the woman that had once hated her with a passion. “And then the others came; the other werewolves. Rosalie didn’t see them until too late; they killed her before she heard me warn her.”

And so this was how the first member of the Cullen clan passed on; with a fiery spirit in their heart and a loved one by their side. But her passing on didn’t come and go as we had all hoped it would, it lingered in the doorway and brought strange misgivings to our household.

It started a revolution.

A/n: I have no idea, whatsoever, of where I am going with this story. I guess I’m just dragging it on a little to see where it takes itself. So, I do plan on writing a few more chapters, maybe recount a little of the troubles that led from Rosalie’s death and perhaps a sequel about how Edward deals with the situation without Bella. I hope you enjoyed this chapter.

Much love and thanks. Junaberry.