ACOA Ch 39: Cast Off Thy Sins

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39. Cast Off Thy Sins

December, 1930 ~ Ashland, Wisconsin

Edward

oOo

“What is past is past, there is a future left to all men who have the virtue to repent and the energy to
atone.”

-Edward Bulwer-Lytton (1803-1873)

oOo

In the faint light afforded by a scattering of stars in the winter sky, northern Wisconsin looked much as
it always had, acres of snow-covered farmland dotted by houses and barns shut tight against the
miserable chill of a bitter December night.  Even after weeks of considering the matter, I was unable
to entirely explain what had led me to return, some subtle weakness from my long-gone humanity or
the need to say goodbye to the town that had been my home for nearly a decade. 

I had lingered outside of Minneapolis for almost a month until the first snow of the winter had begun to
fall, unable to decide whether to travel the final miles to Ashland or to bypass Wisconsin altogether. 
The danger of returning was not one that was lost upon me, the risk that my reappearance might
contradict whatever explanation Carlisle had made for leaving considerable.  But as I stared out my
hotel room at the cloudy skies fading away over Minnesota, it had slowly become clear that I could not
properly move forward without making my peace with the place where our family had first formed and
then broken apart.  I had finally pushed past the uncertainty late one morning in the second week of
December, resolving to face my past mistakes as a man, rather than the rebellious son who had
wished only to defy his father years before.

Meticulous in my efforts to avoid being recognized by anyone who had known us before, I had taken
to the forests well before approaching Duluth, following the familiar trails that we had once haunted
week after week on our longer hunts until I could slip undetected onto our property shortly after dusk. 
From my vantage point in the hills west of Ashland, I was close enough to the weathered farmhouse
that had once been our home only to see thin wisps of smoke curling up towards the night sky, acres
of rolling hills and towering snow-tipped pines obscuring the building itself from my view entirely. 

There was little doubt in my mind that Carlisle would have retained the property for future use, the
practicality of having assets in various areas of the country as much of a factor as the sentimentalism
of a tangible connection to the place he had finally found his wife and mate.  Despite the miserable
final months that would forever taint my memory of our time there, I still felt something vaguely akin to
homesickness when I recalled the evenings we had spent together as a family, Carlisle and I reading
by the light of a dying fire as Esme flitted about from room to room, never convinced that her beloved
home was clean enough. 

It had been my intention from the outset merely to look upon the house from afar, the risk of actually
setting foot inside the structure hardly worth any nostalgic value I might glean from it, but the
presence of humans had stopped me cold in my tracks when I was just over a mile away.  The
realization that squatters and vagrants had taken advantage of our absence to occupy the land that
was rightfully ours had filled me with a sense of rage that I had not known in months, anger rising hot
and virulent in my chest as I watched them balance their filthy feet on one of Esme’s antique tables.  It
was the closest I had come in almost a year to losing control, the monster that I had fought to subdue
feeding off my indignation as I watched our family home reduced to a filthy hovel by trespassers. 

Seeing how the house had fallen into disrepair had been a bitter draught to swallow, the brightly
flowered wallpaper that Esme had meticulously wiped clean at the end of every week now stained and
shabby, marred by dirt and greasy fingerprints.  The chipped paint and rotting boards covering the
windows suggested that they had departed years earlier, carefully packing their favorite possessions
for the journey to Rochester and bidding goodbye to the house that would surely collapse to the
ground long before they could safely return, leaving no trace of the history we had once shared there. 

Carlisle’s collection of paintings and the few pieces of furniture that she most loved were missing, but
otherwise the rooms were hauntingly similar to the way they had been when I left years before, down
to the ugly hole that I had punched through the parlor wall upon my departure.  Some consolation had
filled me upon noting that my piano and other personal items from my parents’ home had been
removed from the bedroom upstairs, the trunk containing my mother’s engagement ring and the few
mementos I had chosen to keep conspicuously absent.  But as I watched one of the vagrants lazily
wipe a dirty knife on our kitchen table, my limits had been sorely tested, hating the sight of whiskey
bottles and other debris marring the surface where Esme and I had once played gin rummy as we
waited for Carlisle to return from his hospital shifts. 

The monster had lurked just underneath the surface of my skin as I hurled a boulder through the trunk
of an ancient pine, cursing all I had lost.  Angered to be forced to settle with stealing glimpses of the
familiar hallways and bedrooms of our home through their weak human vision, I had been within
seconds of descending the hillside, my thoughts all but consumed by righteous indignation as I
envisioned driving them unceremoniously from the house. 

But as I stood frozen in the snowy bank overlooking the empty white valleys, it was Carlisle who
stayed my hand.

After passing through one half-empty town after the next, the sad truth of the economic times had
become almost an afterthought, the listless stares and crushed dreams pervasive in each new
population I encountered.  My anger at the loss of our home aside, it was impossible not to pity them,
to see the hopelessness of their plight through my creator’s forgiving eyes.  Despite their wretched
appearance, families with little but rags huddled together by the fire, their solidarity in the most
miserable circumstances shaming in the face of all I had foolishly squandered.  I had taken slow,
deliberate breaths of the clean forest air until my temper finally cooled, haunted by the knowledge that
an act such as I had proposed would be virtually unforgiveable, their crimes hardly deserving of the
retribution I would enact upon them.

I glanced up sorrowfully as two of the children began to squabble over the spot on the floor closest to
the hearth, feeling little but apathy at the sight of Carlisle’s fine oak bookshelves slowly turning to
embers in the flickering flames.  Resigning myself to the knowledge that any trip inside would have
likely been a meaningless gesture, I hazarded one final glance at the farmland I likely wouldn’t see
again for decades and turned west towards the highway leading out of town, cutting a narrow path
through the bare young maples and white birches as flurries of snow began to drift down from the
night sky.

The eight years I had spent living in northern Wisconsin had done very little for my appreciation of
winter weather, the bitterly cold days I had once endured as a boy later paling in comparison to
endless weeks spent surrounded by nothing but the empty prairie.  It had quickly become apparent
that rural Ashland had few of the luxuries my family had once enjoyed in Chicago and although the icy
temperatures were no longer capable of numbing my fingers and toes, the dreary days and dark
nights inevitably took their toll on all of us, needling tempers as we were forced to listen to the howling
wind for months on end.

Carlisle had once remarked sadly about the predictable rise in suicides during the darkest winter
months, the daily trials and tribulations humans typically endured becoming that much more
unbearable when isolated from the rest of town, each family huddled miserably around their stoves
and heaters to keep from freezing.  It was not lost upon me that both he and Esme had attempted to
take their own lives in the darkest days of winter, all hope seeming lost as they were left unable to
fathom the brighter years that might lie just beyond the horizon.

But despite my genuine dislike of the cold weather, there had been happy memories as well. 
Although I had made no secret of how tedious the icy weather could be, Esme had ordered a sled
from the Sears Roebuck catalog for one of our final Christmases together, convinced after our
occasional games of baseball on stormy afternoons that it would make the perfect gift.  I had frowned
dubiously upon opening it the following week, suspecting she had chosen it in a moment of weakness
as she quietly mourned the fact that we would never have children around for the holidays.  But after
weeks of ignoring her furtive looks and hopeful smiles, I had finally consented to trying it out one night
late in January, shrugging my shoulders in defeat as Carlisle carefully concealed his amusement and
followed us out the door.  Esme had chattered on almost incessantly as we climbed into the hills east
of the house, more excited about the idea than either of us as we hurried forward into the night.

It had taken half a dozen attempts and several pulverized saplings before I had finally mastered the
delicate art of leaping onto the polished birch platform without danger of dislodging the steel runners. 
Carlisle had been almost beside himself with laughter as I hurtled into one snow bank after the next,
my fondness for speed drowning out any thought of caution or propriety as I shot down the hillside in
the dark. 

A fierce blizzard had blocked out almost every hint of daylight by the time we finally returned home,
forcing Carlisle to forego his hospital shift in the interests of appearing unremarkable.  We had played
chess for most of the morning as Esme flitted about the parlor dusting, the howling north wind that
had once grated on my last nerve finally fading into the background as she set a cheerful record of
dance numbers on the gramophone to play.

As I emerged from the trees into a painfully familiar clearing, it was hard not to feel remorseful for
everything that had passed since those happier days, the small family that had once formed from
three broken strangers crumbling as a result of my grave errors in judgment.  What they had both
cherished above all else, I had taken for granted, neglecting the fault lines between us until they finally
shattered, leaving nothing but misery in their wake.  I dropped my satchel at base of a sizeable
boulder as I set about gathering wood and tinder for a fire, steeling myself for the final task ahead.

It was the place I had judged most fitting to make an act of penance, the small grove of trees just off
the highway where I had finally caught up to the man who had assaulted Clara Mitchell, killing the first
human I had ever harmed in almost a decade in a crazed fit of thirst only hours after leaving Carlisle
and Esme weeping in the doorway of our house in Ashland.  The act of drinking from him had been
seemingly without effort at the time, an indescribable rush of ecstasy flooding me as I finally let down
my reservations for the first time in a decade, hunting and feeding just as my baser instincts had
always craved. 

The relief and satisfaction from the act had been heavenly, my body finally made whole as the ache in
my throat had disappeared entirely.  I had turned south almost without pausing to think twice,
continuing on towards Chicago and the miserable creature who awaited me at Esme’s former home in
Columbus.  The first kills had been made with little but an afterthought, the heady rush that made my
body sing with pleasure enough to drown out any lingering traces of guilt.  Unable to think for very
long about the companions I had left behind without succumbing to anger and resentment, I had
pushed those thoughts from my mind, concentrating solely on the lives I would save as I killed one
wretched man after another.  It had taken years and nearly one hundred deaths before I had finally
yielded to the voice of my conscience, a vast listing of sin sufficient to render any soul Carlisle insisted
might exist virtually irredeemable. 

In the aftermath of our brief telephone conversation I had been wracked with indecision, paralyzed by
the thought of making yet another rash mistake.  The shock of hearing their voices again after so long
had been considerable, my relief at not being rejected outright crushing any attempt at composure
that I had once clung to.  Despite everything that had passed between us, Carlisle’s voice had held
nothing but compassion, the forgiveness I hardly deserved finally allowing me to feel hope for the first
time in years.  Each of the ugly debates we had engaged in had swirled through my mind as he
quietly begged me to return home, our arguments unanswerable as we each fought to convince the
other that our judgment on the matter was sound.  In the end it seemed they no longer mattered. 
Through the fog of all I had gained and lost, Esme’s pleading voice had broken down my last layers of
resistance, her love for me steadfast and unwavering despite how profoundly I had hurt her.

“There is nothing that you could do that would ever change the way Carlisle and I feel about you.  We
love you and always will.  Never forget that, Edward.”

It had taken all my willpower not to set out for home as soon as I stepped into the dirty streets of San
Francisco, to start running and not stop until I reached their home in Rochester.  But despite the vast
accounting of my mistakes, the temperance that Carlisle had once gently insisted I still lacked had
somehow found the inspiration to grow.  I had silenced the impulsive urges and slipped quietly from
the city, boarding the next ferry back across the strait to Sausalito before heading out into the
mountains east of town. 

I had traveled north and west for months, biding my time in one nameless city after another as I
sought to determine whether I was strong enough to return without threatening the new life they had
established.  Forcing myself to mingle amongst humans in the interest of regaining the tolerance I had
lost, I had wandered aimlessly through the streets, drifting in and out of theaters and shops as the
world went on unaware around me.  Through the minds of all who encountered me, I judged my
progress with a critical eye, forcing pleasantries from my lips as if they were sincere and masking my
pain with a subtle smile until I no longer resembled the monster who had left home years before.

It had not been entirely without effort.  Weeks had passed before I had finally come to recognize the
lingering guilt I could not appease, the lives I had taken in a misguided attempt at justice haunting me
in every nameless shadow and haunted moan of the wind.  I had discarded four sets of clothes before
admitting the act was a mark of my discontent, soaking in hotel bathtubs as if by washing the dirt from
my body I might somehow be able to absolve myself of sin.  Despite my acceptance that I could no
longer act as judge and avenger, the vile thoughts and intentions that had troubled me from the
beginning were no easier to bear. 

It was the question I had to ask as I sat suffering quietly in dark rooms and watched motion pictures
flash across the screen.  My desire to return aside, would I be able to put aside my wish for justice or
vengeance in order to gain back the family I had lost?  In the end was I strong enough to accept a
lifetime of pain in order to gain back the last two people on the earth who still loved me, who, for
reasons I couldn’t fathom, would have given anything to have me home?

In the soft light of each autumn morning, the answer had seemed obvious, in the fading loneliness of
twilight, less so.

My letter to Esme had been born in a moment of weakness and sorrow as I stood at the bow of the
ferry back to Sausalito, the conversation I had quietly feared for months ended abruptly with no
chance to say goodbye.  It was she who had burst into tears at the mere sound of my voice across a
scratchy telephone line, the one person who had arguably never committed a single wrong against
me and yet also the one who I had undoubtedly hurt the most.  The bracelet had been the smallest
token of my affection, inconsequential in the face of everything that happened, but still the greatest
gesture I had the power to give.  Seeking to convey that which a simple apology seemed impotent to
express, I had offered the simple memory of one of our last peaceful days together and dropped it in a
letter box before I could change my mind, praying that somehow she would see through the
clumsiness of the words and believe my sincerity.

From the beginning, our relationship had been vastly unbalanced, her freely offered love a stark
contrast to the reservations that Carlisle and I both held with allowing others in.  But my hesitation had
proven wholly ineffective to her willingness to give, the unrequested hugs and doting gestures
continuing despite my reticence in returning them.  Only in her absence had I truly come to
understand how important her presence had been in my life, admitting that I was long remiss in giving
back to the woman who had become my mother in every sense of the word. 
The humble beginnings of my fire had grown to a healthy blaze by the time I took my seat on the
boulder at one edge of the clearing, Carlisle’s influence evident in the methodical stacks of timber and
sheltering bank of snow yards to the north and east.  It was a skill I had never found occasion to learn
in Chicago, but one that my creator had insisted on teaching me soon after we began going out on
longer hunting trips.  Under his watchful eye I had learned to choose appropriate tinder and fuel,
starting fires even under the least ideal conditions until I could do so with a confident hand.  It was
only years later when we had been forced to kill a half-crazed nomad together deep in the forests of
Minnesota that I had fully understood his fears, his desperate concern for my well-being often
manifesting itself as paranoia in the early days.

Swallowing back my discomfort, I reached into the back compartment of my satchel, carefully
removing one of the thick paper folders that rested inside.  The pages inside the medical chart had
been yellowed by time even before three years of travel across rough terrain had frayed the edges,
the paper seeming more fragile each time I held it in my fingers.  There was something both strangely
comforting and oddly voyeuristic about reading my father’s private notes about the young girl who
would later become his wife and mate, the connection he had felt to her obvious even if he had never
dared allow himself to think of her in that way.  In the face of all I had lost, it had provided some
glimmer of hope, the world somehow set right for two people who had once believed it could never be
so. 

Lowering my head sadly at the memory of Esme’s warm smile, I tucked the first chart back into my
satchel, reaching reluctantly for the second.  My eyes flicked automatically across the pages despite
having memorized the words years before, the detailed accounting of every abuse Esme had once
suffered at Charles Evenson’s hands still enough to fill me with unmitigated rage.  Taking a careful
breath, I slowly crumpled the pages one by one and hurled them into the fire, watching as the flames
slowly turned them to ash.

“I’m sorry,” I whispered hoarsely after a moment, the roar of the fire rendering the words nearly
inaudible.  “Your punishment wasn’t mine to exact.”

Sincere as the sentiment felt, it was difficult to say who the apology was meant for, certainly not the
monster that had beaten my mother time after time.  My recognition aside that my act of retribution
had been in error, his face occupied the darkest corner of my mind, the cold and heartless creature
that thirsted for nothing but hatred and revenge.

But nor could I deny regretting my actions for the pain they had ultimately come to cause those I
loved.  Lacking the confidence that any heavenly maker might deign to listen to the pleas of such a
forsaken creature, it seemed most fitting to think of Esme, who loved me as her own son, and Carlisle,
who for reasons I had never understood, had seen goodness in me at a time when I had been
convinced beyond a shadow of a doubt that none could exist. 

“Forgive me.”

oOo

A/N: Thank you very much for reading!  As always, my heartfelt gratitude goes to the
wonderful Burtonbabe, who has been gracious enough to lend her wisdom to each chapter as
a beta.  She’s always kind enough to put up with my many questions and multiple drafts to
read through. 

This marks the final Edward chapter before the reunion.  It’s a bit shorter than some of the
others because I didn’t want to belabor the point when we’re all eager to see him home, but I
felt it was important he have some sense of closure with this part of his life before we move
forward to putting the family back together.

Thank you for the gestures of friendship and support that many of you have made in recent
weeks.  It made a difficult time easier to bear and I am very grateful for your kindness.  If you
have any questions or comments about the chapter, “A Coming of Age” has its own thread
over on the Twilighted forums and I would be happy to discuss it with you there.   I am
committed to finishing the story so that we can finally see Carlisle, Esme and Edward to the
happy conclusion that everyone has so patiently waited for and deserves to see.