Edward's Diary

Plans

Dear Diary,

        The Italians have an expression they use to describe love: “Culpo de Fulmine.” Literally translated, it means 'thunderbolt.' It is most commonly used in context to the feeling of being in love. It talks of love so intense that when it hits you, you feel like you have been struck by lightning. I can never forgive myself for being the monster I was: all the lives I claimed regardless of their stature in the Book of Judgement, the times I've hurt people, hurt Bella.  

        But since Bella came into my life, since I realized that we could be entirely compatible with each other, that we could create life—a beautiful life—that we could be with each other for the rest of eternity and not need anything else, I have drilled it into my brain to not thinkof myself as an abomination. It was hard, and it required many nights of talking and repentance, but I did it. I bared my soul to Isabella Swan, hoping she would love me just as much as I loved her, hoping we could somehow accomplish the impossible. 

        I have forgotten most of my human life. In fact, at one point I wasn't even sure I remembered my mother's face. But there is one very distinct memory that has stuck with me since the past hundred years. No matter what I've learned, what has changed, what has been lost and found and lost again, that one memory, that one conversation with my mother has always resided in some corner of my brain. It has appeared to me in forms of reenactments, in forms of thoughts, in forms of conversation. You'd think I would have learned it by heart by now. But somehow, I can never seem to get my mind to forget my mother's crystal clear voice.

“You can only be alone for so long, Edward, before you realize one of two things: either you are not meant to love, which is impossible, or the one meant for you is just as alone as you are.” 

        I remember, even now, the numerous years I spent in hiding following the day I left Carlisle. I despised myself; abhorred the devil that I had become. All I wanted at that point was to esacpe reality, to withdraw into this deep shell where even my own thoughts and sins would not be able to catch up with me. The sins had just piled up and until the weight of them started crushing me, creeping up the corners of my dead heart like a climber rises up and grips a wall to never let go. The more I tried the more I failed, and the more they rooted themselves inside, feeding on the despair and anger and hatred. 

        It wasn't until I had showed up at Carlisle's door begging him to take me in that I found solace. I can never understand why I had left him in the first place. I guess the rebel in me had wanted his share. But even after that—even after my deviant self had found a beacon of light in Carlisle's pristine soul—the pain had been there: in the form of regret, hurt, anger, self-loathing. Even after having perhaps the most supporting and loving family that one could be blessed with, I had been the epitome of walking dead. Hatred had embittered my soul; punctured it so whatever life I had would squeeze out slowly, painfully, conspicuously, keeping me aware of every moment of self-torture that I inflicted on myself: self-chastisement, to be clear, to wash my soul of its sins with nothing other than my frozen and stale blood. 

The day I had realized that I loved Bella had been the day when my insecurities had jumped out at me with neon signs:

        Do I even deserve to love? How can she love me back? Will I destroy her life as I destroyed mine? Will she be damned for eternity like I am? And however selfish and self-destructive it may have been, I had honestly thought that I had done us both a favor by leaving her. My heart had fought hard, but my mind had oppressed the rebellion by appealing that her happiness was priceless compared to mine. 

        She had drilled that out of me, eventually. Even after being married to Bella for this long, each sight of her left me craving for more. Every place devoid of her was a heath. Every moment not shared by her was one that was wasted. Every event, however significant it might be, in her absence seemed no more exciting than a funeral. When I had first realized this—the intensity with which it had hit me—I had asked myself: