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Note: The summary has been changed. I thought it was A) too short, B) too revealing, and C) not descriptive enough. So here I have a better summary that reveals less, yet describes more. The last one sort of gave it away, and people didn't want to read it because they knew exactly what the story was about. So now I changed it, and here it is. She leaves him for another. He's forced to start over in a new town, at a new school. He's positive he can never love again. She loses her mother in a terrible homicide. She's forced to pick up the peices and try to live again. She's positive that the hole in her heart will never be filled. When the two heartbroken pessimists meet, they notice that the other is strangely detatched, and horribly sad. Neither can figure our what made the other so bitter, until they open up. After all they have been through, can they learn to trust again? Can they learn to start over? Can they learn to forget those that hurt them? Most importantly, can they learn to love again? Chapter One has been rewritten. The story line is completely different, yet somewhat the same.


5. Chapter 4: Bitter

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He knows. The moment I looked up at him, he knew, and I knew that he knew. The question was, would he tell? He didn’t understand. It wasn’t Daddy’s fault.

No, I didn’t think he would tell. He struck me as the type with more problems to deal with on his own. I didn’t think he would tell. Yet. What if he did? What would happen to Kellan and me?

But I was positive that he didn’t know who did it. For all he knows, I could be a female wrestler – what a thought – and I could have gotten the bruise in a fight. For all he knew, I could have an abusive boyfriend – though I’d be luck to have any at all. I could have fallen and hit my eye on a rock or something.

The very thought calmed me. I leaned back in my chair and stared straight forward at the blackboard. The teacher was finishing writing the due dates of the stages for our first project. We’d been assigned Romeo and Juliet to read on our own time by September fifteenth.

Speaking of Romeo and Juliet, Edward had the most bizarre reaction when the teacher handed him his book.

At first, it was like he was afraid of it – he just stared at it with wide eyes. And then he seemed to space out, like he was caught in a flashback. When he blinked his eyes again, his expression was full of hatred. He picked up the book and dropped it into his bag like a hot potato. His features flashed with revulsion every time the teacher said the title.

Personally, I thought it was a wonderful play. With the foreshadowing, and the romance, and then the tragedy. I’d already read it on my own, and had decided to read it again for the project, just to get a fresher view of the storyline.

I recalled my favorite line, and flipped to the page to get a better grasp on the context.

These violent delights have violent ends

And in their triumph die, like fire and powder

Which, as they kiss, consume.”

Act II, Scene VI

The teacher called the class to order once again, and silence fell over the classroom as she said the two most terrifying words in history. Perhaps not terrifying to others – who squealed with delight – but certainly terrifying for Edward and I.

Seat partners.

Slowly, his head turned to look at me, and I looked up at him. Then, as suddenly as it had begun, the glance was broken when he looked back out the window. I looked down at the book in my hands.

The ancient teacher passed out worksheets – one per group. And then she left us to our work. Immediately, the class erupted in excited chatter as they started talking about anything but their project. Beside me, Edward made no move to begin the work.

Maybe he hadn’t heard the teacher. First, I tried clearing my throat, but that did nothing to get his attention. Louder this time, I tried again. Still no response. Maybe subtlety didn’t work on him.

“Edward?” He turned his head slowly once more to meet my gaze. “Do you want to begin?”

He said nothing, but took the paper from me and started on his own. In record time he had filled the paper out, and had slid it over to me. Quickly as possible, I checked over his answers. Every one was correct, and his handwriting was flawless to boot. Damn him.

“Impressive,” I complimented, forcing myself to make small talk.

“I’ve read it before,” he explained coldly, in a low voice.

“Oh,” was all I could manage to reply.

If he’d read it before, why did he hate it so much? Everyone I’ve met whose read it fell in love with the book, including myself. It was one of those books that were hard to hate. So how could he hate it?

I glanced back up at him, and his eyes were distant as he stared out the window.


Maybe he didn’t hate Romeo and Juliet. Maybe it reminded him of something – or someone.

Maybe I was assuming again. Maybe I was sticking my nose where it didn’t belong. Maybe I knew better than to assume. Or maybe I didn’t. When you assume, you make an ass out of u and me. Where the hell did that come from?

I opened my book and started reading. It was easy to fall into the familiar plot structure and poetic form of Shakespeare’s work. I’d gotten all the way to the second scene of the first act when the bell rang, and I stuffed the book into my bag. I blinked, and Edward was gone.

I threw my bag over my shoulder and went out the back door.


By seventh period, I was ready to leave. At the same time, I didn’t want to go home.

Geometry was the second to last place I wanted to be.

The teacher was already loading our swollen brains with formulas and more useless nonsense. I took notes as best I could, but I was only copying down what Mr. Stevenson wrote. All he said went in one ear and straight out the other – barely even translating into any significance.

I looked up from my notes and around the room. It was the only other class I had with Edward, who sat on the opposite side of the room in the back row. He was mechanically writing down the notes, but his mind seemed to be else where.

He looked angry – or maybe bitter was the right word. Not quite mad to the point where his eyebrows drew together in frustration – but bitter, like he was miserable, hurt, betrayed, and angry all at the same time. Did that even make sense?

Bitter, like he blamed someone for all his unhappiness. Like he blamed someone else for being so anti-social. Or rather, he blamed himself for letting someone else get the best of him.

Why did it matter to me? Perhaps I’d always been a good judge of character, but who was I to judge his pain? Who was I to assume that he was bitter?

I looked back up at the board, and then copied down my notes.

Bitter was a good way to describe myself. I didn’t blame anyone, but I didn’t forgive anyone either. Since my mother’s death, I hadn’t been able to forgive anyone. But who was there to forgive? No one was at fault for her death, aside from whoever killed her. I didn’t blame my father, nor did I blame her. I didn’t blame anyone for her death.


With a flash of fury, I realized that it wasn’t death.

My mother hadn’t just died out of nowhere.

She was killed.

Death and murder aren’t the same thing.

So I did blame someone. I blamed myself.