Chapter 1

Chapter 1

EPOV

I lifted the flat head screw driver that I was holding in my right hand. I placed the tip of the screw driver into the key hole on the dead bolt lock. I switched hands to hold the rubber grip of the tool with my left hand. I grabbed the hammer from the waistband of my jeans with my free hand. I took one last look around the dark street for anyone that may be able to see me. Who was I kidding? It's one o'clock in the morning on a Wednesday in Forks Washington; no one is awake, much less standing in front of the only pawn shop in town.

I looked back at the locked door and pulled my right hand back. I hit the end of the screw driver with the hammer using all of my force. I repeated this about five times before finally realizing that it was useless. I have no idea of how to break into a store. I don't usually break into places. I usually just take shit that is out in the open. Fuck! I have to get in this damn place.

I lowered the tools in my hands and looked around. The shop looked like it had been a house before it was turned into a business. There were windows on both sides of the door. The owners obviously believed their business was safe in this small ass town. They didn't even put bars over the windows. The glass couldn't be too hard to break.

I walked to the right of the door to the window. I raised the hammer in my right hand and pulled it back with all of my strength. I swung the hammer into the window, and it immediately shattered into a million tiny shards. I covered my face with my left arm as the glass broke. I looked down at my feet and saw all of the broken glass. The glass window was now as broken as I feel. I saw bits and pieces of my reflection in the shards. Was this how I looked to people? Do they see how broken I am? Hell, do people even see me at all?

I shook my head in an attempt to clear my mind. I had something to accomplish here tonight, and I had no time to have a pity party.

I wrapped the sleeve of my jacket around my hand as I knocked loose a few more pieces of the glass. Once the hole was big enough for me to fit in, I climbed through starting with my left leg. As the rest of my body made it through the broken window, I noticed that there was no alarm going off. Honestly, I had expected for the sirens to sound, and for me to have to hurry , grab what I was looking for, and run out before the sheriff showed up to arrest me. I had planned to be in and out in no more than two or three minutes. I would be long gone before anyone showed up.

Since there were no sirens ringing, I decided not to rush so much. I would take a few moments longer and choose the perfect one. I looked around the pawn shop. I knew it was stupid to break into a business that I had never been in before, but I was running out of options. As I scanned the room, I noticed the case holding the items I needed was just to my right. I walked over to the case and scanned the small selection. Apparently, no one in this town uses hand guns; all they have are hunting rifles. I'm not trying to blow my head into a million pieces; I'm just trying to kill myself.

I found a small nine millimeter handgun that I'm sure would do just the trick if I placed it at my temple or in my mouth. This had to work. I had to succeed this time. I couldn't take any more failed attempts.

I again raised the hammer and shattered the glass of the case and pulled out the gun. I held it in my hands and eyed it like it was a small fortune. The metal was cool against my hands and the barrel of the gun was smooth. The grip was full of ridges. I wrapped my fingers around the grip and felt the power that I now held in my hands. All I needed was a bullet, and I would be ready.

I jumped over the glass case and scanned the drawers and shelves for bullets. They had to have them somewhere. Finally, I found a box of nine millimeter bullets on the bottom shelf. I grabbed a couple and shoved them into my pockets. Not sure why I would need more than one. I would either be dead after the first shot or I'd be a vegetable. Either way, there would be no second shot.

I stood behind the glass case and again, marveled at the deathly weapon in my hand. I was like a child

mesmerized by a new toy. I don't know if I was so engulfed in my own world or just chose not to hear it, but suddenly I could hear the police sirens heading towards me.

I panicked. My breathing was irregular, my pulse was out of control, and my mind couldn't focus. Being arrested was not part of my plan for this night. I shoved the gun into my coat pocket and ran towards the back of the store. There had to be a door back there somewhere. I made my way around all of the boxes on the floor and through all of the doors to the back of the store. I finally saw the back door, and I ran like hell towards it. I was almost out of there.

Before I could flip the lock on the door and open it, I heard a loud voice yelling behind me. “Freeze! Put your hands in the air!”

I continued to try and open the door but the damn lock wouldn't turn. I head the voice again. “I said freeze! Put your hands in the air!”

When I continued to fuck with the lock and disobey the orders, I heard the distinct sound of a gun firing. I felt the bullet whiz by my head and hit the wood of the door just to the right of my head. Just a few inches closer, and he would've hit my head. I wouldn't have to kill myself; he would have done it for me. No such luck.

“God damn it, kid! I said freeze! Don't make me shoot you!” The voice was even louder this time.

I stood there frozen from the shock that there had been an actual bullet fired towards my head. I was prepared to shoot myself ,but I wasn't prepared for someone else to shoot at me.

“Down on the ground! Hands behind your head!”

I contemplated trying to unlock the door, just to see if he would shoot at me again. Apparently, I hesitated too long because before I knew it I felt two hands grab my hands and pull them behind my back. Within the blink of an eye, I was on my knees with my hands cuffed behind me and staring at the door.

“Damn it, kid. You almost made me shoot you. What the hell are you doing breaking in here?” The officer questioned.

I didn't want to answer; not out of fear of being arrested, but I was stunned into submission. I couldn't believe that I was being arrested. Now, my last resort was fucked. They would send me to juvenile and I would be forced to tell my story. The only chance I would have to end my life would be hanging myself. I needed something quicker and more fool proof. None of that other shit ever worked.

“Stand up.” He commanded, and he pulled me to my feet. He patted me down and removed the gun and bullets from my pockets along with my wallet. Of course, there was nothing in my wallet other than my ID. I had no money.

“What's your name,son?”

He had my wallet; could he not read what my name was? Why the fuck is he asking dumb ass questions? Just take me to jail and call my most recent foster parents. They can tell you to fuck off and call child services. They definitely wouldn't want me to live with them after this.

“Edward Cullen, is it? Let's go.” He said as he grabbed the cuffs and spun me around. He forcefully pushed me to walk towards the front door. My mind was blank as I walked out of the store. I was a lifeless zombie. Maybe, I would be better off in juvenile. They couldn't reject me there.

He opened the back door of the sheriff's cruiser and pushed me inside. I sat down, and he closed the door behind me. I looked straight ahead at the back of the seat in front of me. I could over hear the officers discussing what had happened.

“He won't say anything. His ID says he's only sixteen. Why did he break in the shop and try to steal a gun and bullets? I can't help him if he doesn't talk to me.”

After a while, the officer got into the cruiser and started the engine. He slowly pulled out of the small parking lot and started the drive to the station.

“So, Edward, I know you don't want to talk to me, but if you would just tell me what's going on, and what made you want to break into that store tonight, I may be able to help you.” He sounded sincere. I just had no idea why he would want to help me. He had no idea who I was or what I had been through. I never trust anyone, and I don't know what made him think that he would be the one I decide to trust. He was a cop, no one trusted cops.

The rest of the ride to the station was silent. I had no desire or will to speak. Telling my sob story wouldn't get me anywhere. I would just be quiet and let them send me away. No one would miss me or even care. It would be the best thing for everyone. None of the fake ass foster parents would have to tolerate me in order to get the monthly check that came along with me. The check was the only reason any one even pretended to want me.

Once we reached the station, the officer exited the car and walked around to let me out of the car. He opened the door, and I turned in the seat to let my legs hang out of the door. I stood up when my feet were firmly on the ground. He grabbed the cuffs and began leading me towards the entrance. He wasn't rough or forceful, he was simply guiding me.

We entered the small sheriff's station, and the entire place was empty except for one other officer sitting the far left corner sitting a desk.

“Hey, Charlie, what ya got tonight?” The officer said without looking up from his desk.

“Not much. Just a break in.” The officer said that was holding the cuffs. We reached a small office, he opened the door, and we walked inside. “Have a seat right there.” He said pointing towards the chair in front of the desk. I sat down and glanced around the office. I noticed a few plaques and framed pictures scattered on the otherwise bare walls. The officer sat down in the leather chair behind the desk and removed his hat. He ran his hand through his hair and leaned back in the chair.

He looked at me with what seemed to be concern. I had expected to see a lot of things in his eyes but concern wasn't one of them.

“Let's start again, shall we? My name is Chief Swan, but you can call me Charlie.” He took a deep breath before continuing. “Edward, we can do this one of two ways.” He began as he leaned forward in the chair and placed his hands on the desk. I took a deep breath and shifted in the chair. These damn cuffs were really starting to fuck with the blood flow to my hands. I couldn't get comfortable in this chair when my hands were cuffed behind me.

“Are you okay? Are the cuffs too tight?” He questioned. I again, didn't answer. I just continued to shift around in the chair. He sighed and stood up from the chair. He walked over to me and pushed me to lean forward. I felt his hands in between my wrists as he unlocked the cuffs. I brought my hands around to my chest and rubbed the pink ribbon, raised scars on my wrists. I leaned back into the chair and looked up at the officer as he sat back down in his chair.

“Thank you.” I mumbled almost too low to be heard. I didn't know why he chose to take off the cuffs when I hadn't given him even one word in response to his questions. His expression seemed to lighten up after I had spoken to him.

“So you can talk! I was beginning to think you were mute.” He joked as he placed the cuffs on the top of his desk. “And you're welcome.”

I continued to rub my wrists as he looked down at my wallet. “So, back to what I was saying. One of two ways. You can either answer my questions, or you can ignore them, and refuse my help.”

He looked to me for an answer. I could have at least nodded in response to him, but I didn't. I didn't know what type of questions he wanted me to answer. I wasn't up for going into my life story tonight.

“Let's try this, what is your address? Is the address on your ID correct?”

I hesitated for a minute. “Ye...Yes.” I replied. “For the time being, it is.” Who knew how long I would be there with that family? If I had to guess, this would be the last night I could consider that my address.

“Okay. What are your parent's names?”

Seriously? I don't fucking have parents. I have greedy liars that only care about a check.

“Come on. I need to know who to call. Who will I call to pick you up?” I could tell he was getting frustrated, but I couldn't help it.

“I....” I began. I looked down at my hands. “I don't have parents.”

The room was silent for a few moments. He hadn't been expecting that answer.

“Well according to your ID you are only sixteen. Who do you live with?” I could hear the concern was back in his voice.

“Foster family.” I replied simply. In all honesty, who cared about their names? Once they got a few checks they would send me back just like the rest of the families. No one wanted such a damaged kid in their house. Once they caught me attempting suicide, they would realize the money wasn't worth the trouble, and I'd be lost again.

“Alright, well what are their names?”

Can't you look it up in the computers or something? I haven't been there long and after being shipped around from family to family, I don't really bother to memorize names. “I don't really remember.”

He turned towards the computer sitting on his desk and began to type. I assumed he was searching the address to find out who my current foster parents were. These questions only made me think of my parents. I hadn't really known them. I was only two years old when they died. I didn't want to think about them. My life has been shit ever since their death, and I no longer cared to try and remember them. It wouldn't help my life now. They were gone. They were dead, and I'm still here. Still here living this pointless life. The only people that cared about me were dead. They should have let me die when they died. I still didn't understand why I was the one that was rescued and not them.

“Okay, Edward. I pulled up your file in the system. You seem to be a good kid. There's not really anything on your record, as I'm sure you are aware. It just shows that for most of your life you have been shipped around to different foster families. Did your current foster family do something to you to make you want to break into the pawn shop?” He said as he stopped typing and looked at me.

Did this family do something? Not necessarily. Had the other families done something? Yes. They used me for a check, and then sent me away when I didn't fit into the mold they had planned for me. I have no true family. I am all alone in this world. My life isn't worth having. That's why I broke into the store. “No.”

“Well, son, something happened to make you do this? I know your life has been rough, and you've probably endured more pain than any sixteen year old should have to. I may be able to help you, if you will just talk to me. Tell me what is going on with you. Please.”

I still couldn't understand why he was so interested in helping me. I wasn't worth anyone's time, care or concern. Why couldn't he just send me away and forget I ever existed? It would be much easier if he would just send me away like everyone else.

“Do you want to go back to this foster family?”

I continued to fidget with my hands. How the fuck do I answer that? I don't want to go to anymore foster families. I just want to die. I have no way to survive on my own, and I don't want to live with anyone else. I just want to die and join my parents in heaven. This world sucks, and I don't want to be here anymore. Why couldn't you have just shot me in the store? “No.”

“Sit tight. I have to make a call, and I will be right back. Do you want a soda or something?” He asked as he stood up from his chair.

I nodded in response to him. He walked out of the door and I slumped down farther into the chair. I didn't understand why he was dragging this out. Either call the foster family, or put me in a cell. Don't keep torturing me with these questions about my past. I rubbed my palms across my face. This night was worse than I had imagined. I should be lying dead in a pool of blood in an alley somewhere. I couldn't do anything right. I couldn't even manage to kill myself. I had tried to kill myself by slicing my wrists open more times than I can count, swallowing sleeping pills, hanging myself. I had even tried to drown myself. I had failed at all of those attempts. Shooting myself was my last resort. Somehow, I managed to even fuck that up.

He came back in the room just a few moments later with a canned soda. He held it in front of me; waiting on me to take it. I reached out and grasped the cold can in my hand. “Thank you.” I said lowly.

“You're welcome. I will be back shortly.” He said as he walked out of the door and shut it behind him.

I sat in the chair and drank the soda. I tried not to think anymore. My mind was already tired from all the questions he had been asking, and I had been avoiding. He had my file in front of him. I was sure he read that my parents had burned to death in a house fire. I still don't really know what happened that night. I was so young, and the only other people in the house had died. According to the stories I had been told, the fire started in the chimney and quickly spread through house. We had all been asleep. My parent's room was so close to the chimney that their room was the first to catch fire. They never stood a chance to get out. By the time the fire fighters had arrived, the house was pretty much consumed. My room was on the opposite end of the house, and they managed to pull me out of my bedroom window. They should have just let me burn up with my parents. What good had come of them saving me? None. I wasn't serving any purpose here. I wasn't contributing anything to the world.

About twenty minutes later, he came back in the office. He sat across the desk from me and clasped his hands together on top of the desk. He took a deep breath before he spoke.

“Edward, you know I read over your file. I know what happened and I know why you are in foster care. You don't deserve to be shipped around like that. No child does. From the looks of things, you were never given a real chance to succeed and have a real life. You deserve that chance. This may be too late but I have a proposition for you.” He paused for a few moments.

What kind of proposition could he have for me? Jail or more shitty foster families? I couldn't even fathom that anything good could come from this situation.

“I spoke with my wife. If you are willing, we would like for you to come and live with us.”

I stopped breathing for a second. Why would he want me to live with him? Does he hate his home life that bad that he wants to bring in a foster kid that just broke into a store? What the fuck was wrong with this guy?

I had to think for a few minutes. I could either go to juvenile, which would be worse than foster families. I could go back to the shitty foster family. Hell, that was even if they would take me anymore. I wasn't sure how much more I could take of that family anyway. I could go home with this guy that seemed sincere enough and attempt to have a somewhat decent existence. I couldn't help but wonder if I chose to live with this guy, how long would it last? How long would it be before he would get rid of me too?

“So, what do you think? Is this something you would even be interested in?”

Fuck if I know. I hadn't been interested in anything for a while now. My whole life recently had been consumed with coming up with ways to kill myself. Now, someone was asking what I thought? What I wanted? No one had ever given a shit about my opinions or wants. I had always been told what to do. I wasn't sure how to make such a big decision. I had been so used to blaming everyone else for my shitty life that I didn't want to take the chance and have to blame myself when it failed.

“I know this may be too big of a decision to ask you to make right now. I see that your file says you have some mental health issues, and that they have prescribed you medications for it. I don't know much about mental health, and I don't know if your foster families even give you the meds to take. I think we need to get you to a new doctor to evaluate your current medications. Like I said, I don't know everything, but we are willing to accept you as you are and not judge you or send you away.”

I hadn't been taking the medications. My life already sucked ,and I didn't want to pop pills just so I wouldn't freak out. I had been through more psychology assessments than I could count. They always diagnosed me with some depressive disorder that I never cared about enough to learn the name of. The name of it didn't matter. My life was shit, and I wanted it to end; that is all that matters.

“What do you say?” He asked again.

I knew I should at least say something, but my brain couldn't process everything. What did I want? I didn't have the first fucking clue other than getting that gun back and shooting myself with it. Which option was the lesser evil? Which option would make my life suck less?

“Umm....” I began as I picked at my hands. “I … guess.... I could.... try.”