Wide awake

Chapter Forty Six. Desecrated Marzipan Delicacies

B.P.O.V

I stood, looking over the bedroom that had once been such a perfect sanctuary. It was warm and inviting and offered every bit of comfort I could have ever wished for. Now it was just destruction. The holes in the walls and the ripped sheets and the sofa lying face down on the floor no longer made it inviting. 

Desecration.

My stomach was churning and every inch of my body below my waist ached and throbbed as I began searching the floor for my clothes. I pulled them on both hastily and slowly, wincing in pain when I buttoned my jeans and forcing down the bile rising in my throat over what had just occurred.

Edward had it wrong all along. He wasn't the monster. I was.

There was something about standing up to Edward when he’d intended to hurt me—even just verbally—that gave me some kind of sick power trip. At the time, it never really occurred to me how wrong it was, because it felt so right to finally be... in control. It was utterly repulsive how it made me feel strangely vindicated, as if I was fighting some awful excuse for a human being rather than Edward. 

I got carried away from the second slap as I heard him ask for more—all the while accusing me of being the crazy one. 

Oh, I was definitely crazy.

And then I was determined to prove that I could follow through and be the normal girl I always knew he deserved, because even though he was wrong in saying that I couldn't, he was right at the same time. It was the worst time to prove myself, but it felt like the best opportunity at the moment. Adrenaline and confidence coursed through my body while I stripped and told myself, "I'll show him." It had been arrogant.

He had resisted, and the glorious confidence that had been intoxicating had faltered, causing my anger to escalate. And the anger had sparked the power-trip that told me... I could fight back, and he wouldn't harm me. I knew I could hit him, and he'd never retaliate because he loved me. I used his own love for me against him... for the purpose of hurting him. It was so despicable that I felt vomit rising in my throat as I recalled how I even managed to break his resolve.

It was the lowest of the low. I knew it was the only thing that would ignite that passion in his eyes for me again. The realization made me impossibly more decisive as I met his gaze and involuntarily smirked, unable to hide my own smugness over the genius of the idea. I had known he wouldn't be able to resist if I threatened to leave: once again, using his love for me against him. 

I was truly evil.

And it had worked. Everything went as planned, and I’d allowed him to dominate me while secretly... I had been dominating him. 

I wondered if this was how Edward had felt when he treated me similarly behind the school; the day I begged him not to move out of Carlisle’s house, and I allowed him to dominate me against the brick wall. I wondered if he felt sick and disgusted with himself. I wondered if he questioned any presence of a soul. Did he hate himself like this? He probably did, and it was my fault for ever encouraging it. 

He had told me over and over again that I was his girl. "Mine." He growled into my face, palming my breasts as his hands shook and his fingers dug deep into my flesh. His fingertips had hurt as they dug deeper and his eyes grew frantic and cold, but the pain I could handle. The desperation in his voice when he told me I was his... that was the most unbearable thing of all. His tone had abruptly made my chest ache, momentarily breaking the adrenaline power trip just long enough for me to realize that I could never allow him to believe any differently. So, I told him I was his, because I always would be. No matter what.

I carefully approached his bathroom, stepping over the clothing and papers scattering the carpet and blinking back tears as my trembling hands searched for a hand towel under the sink. They began spilling over as I turned on the faucet and dampened the towel with steaming hot water. As I watched the steam rise, leading my gaze to the mirror in front of me, it forced a dry heave from my abdomen, nearly doubling my body over the sink as I fought to swallow it down. Aside from the tears and puffy lips, I was visibly unscathed. How was that even fair? It would have made me feel better, had I possessed something tangible and obvious to wear like a red flashing sign that clearly said, "I did something horrible to deserve this, right here."