-Here's Edward's POV. WARNING: There will be mentioning of abuse, suicide, and death. It it's a trigger or not your cup of tea, please don't read.

-This is my FIRST & ONLY writing of an abusive Edward. And the ONLY NON-HEA I EVER write.

-My blog where you'll find this story and my other one "In The Name Of Love":

2014/05/too-little-too-late-1-not-worth-it_ ~~~~Remove Brackets.

-My FB:

.com(/)SarahORose1988 ~~~Remove Brackets

-BTW, ITNOL will be updated Monday June 10th. I'm busy right now with RL and barely had time to write this Two-Shot. I wrote it in fear of forgetting it and never getting my ideas back.

Too Little, Too Late

All Is Lost

EPOV

Five years later…

Snow and leaves were crunching under my boots as I walked through the gravestones. My right hand carrying a bouquet of flowers, while my left hand was holding a bottle of scotch.

It's been five years.

Five years since she killed herself.

Five years since I opened my.

And five years since I've been living in hell.

Willingly.

It still feels surreal—that I've lost her. I'm not stupid; I knew deep down that she'd someday leave me. Escape my clutches. My torment. My abuse.

I just never thought she'd end her life all together.

It still feels as if it were yesterday or even just now when I've found her—bloody, passed out and deathly in our bathroom. I can't explain the feeling I had when I saw her. It was like someone was ripping my chest open with a chainsaw, reaching in, squeezing my heart and then ripping it out, while I was still alive.

The way her skin felt cold to the touch—ice cold, her weak pulse, and her blue lips paralyzed me. I could only think of one thing and one thing only.

It was all my fault.

What I've put her through was exactly the same thing I've been through.

Only worse. I loved her. I love her still after all these years and I'm the reason she'd dead.

Marcus was the means indirectly, but I was the reason.

What he's done to me, what he's spent days and years yelling at me was ingrained, carved into my very soul it turned me into a monster. I was the lion who attacked its trainer, the dog who bit his owner's hand—the husband who killed his wife.

Tears streamed down my cheeks and as always I let them. They were of no use but I couldn't seem to be able to stop them. They were a way to mourn her loss, her death.

I know I have no right to mourn her as I'm the reason she's lying six-feet-under, but I just couldn't help it.

As I walked toward her grave, at the memory of her death I always reverted back in time.

To her funeral.

~Five years ago~

I was on autopilot. Numb. Not feeling a damn thing. Not the icy weather, not the rain falling on me, not even my tears mixing with the rain. I could hear my mother Esme weeping and sobbing beside me, her hand clutching mine as she said with her sobs what she couldn't say from the force of her grieve.

It was her fault.

I told her that it wasn't. That I was the one to blame. She disagreed.

"If only I've snatched you sooner."She'd wail. "If only I've never sent you to him."She'd scream. "None of this would've happened. You wouldn't have turned into an abuser just like him, and Bella would still be alive."

Her words were always like a punch to the gut, but she was right about one thing.

He was also to blame.

Marcus. My grandfather—whom was the epitome of abuse.

Not only that, he was also a killer. He actually killed his wife. Esme's mother. My mother.

Just because she tried to get away.

Well, guess I turned into him after all. I may not have slit Bella's wrists, but I sure as hell drove her to do it.

It all started when I was ten years old. It was the first time for me to see my grandfather. I knew my grandmother was dead, and that my mother's relationship with my grandfather was rocky at best. But one day, my parents sat me down and informed me that my long absentee grandfather was coming to see us, to see my mother—to see me.

It turns out that he used to abuse my grandmother physically and mentally while only abusing my mother mentally. When Esme was fifteen, her mother died. She was coming back home from the supermarket when a masked man jumped her and literally beat her to death.

No culprit was caught and the case was closed. Esme by then was hateful of Marcus, but after grandma Jane's death he seemed to draw in on himself and stopped all together the abuse he subjected Esme to. Despite his gentleness towards her, she didn't believe him.

And she was right. As he found another source to abuse. His whores.

At eighteen she met Carlisle while in school. They married within a year's time and she became Mrs. Cullen. Besides her love for my father, the marriage was a means of escaping Marcus for good.

Little did she know he'd come back. For her son.

So, when I got to know him he suggested I travel to him once a month. My mother of course didn't agree. I was almost eleven by then and she wouldn't let me fly on my own since she's sworn off New York. So, Marcus being the manipulative fuck he is he rented a house two hours away from us and would always bring me to his place.

The first beating was the day after my eleventh birthday. He told Esme and Carlisle that he wanted to see me because he had another birthday present for me.

…and what a present it was.

It was the first time he hit me. The first time he lectured me on how to be respectful.

The first and last time he threatened me that if I spoke of what he did, he'd do it to my mother.

Me being the stupid, naïve, and scared little boy obeyed him without question. I took whatever he gave me, fearful he'd do it to my mother—especially when I once heard her and my father talking about the abuse she and grandma went through with him. At first, I felt a shrug of anger toward her for letting Marcus getting to me, but the way she said he'd changed since she was fifteen she thought he had really changed.

Only she didn't know…it was all an act.

So from eleven to fifteen I was only abused mentally and physically by beatings.

On my sixteenth birthday, it became sexual.

Not by him, but by his whores.

He showed me how to fuck, how to control women in the bedroom, and how to dominate them.

Me being a sixteen year old virgin, with my hormones running haywire, no matter what I thought my dick had other ideas.

His bitches were always ones who BDSM pain sluts, who could take pain and get off on it.

I can't forget my first sexual experience with Carmen.

She was a pain slut.

A submissive to older men and dominant to younger ones—like me.

As much as I hated it, I couldn't control my body. So as she sucked me off while Marcus fucked her from behind I couldn't help but come. She was a pro with her mouth and being a teenaged virgin didn't exactly help matters.

It became worse when she fucked me. She never bottomed to me, always being on top. Riding my cock, using and abusing it to the point of agony till I screamed for her to stop.

Marcus would slap me across the face when I would scream or beg for them to stop. He'd tie me up to the headboard and set back and watch as she fucked me—sometimes even getting himself off on it.

That was the time I really broke. That I became Marcus's slave. That years later, despite my hatred for him I couldn't stay away. I couldn't wipe him out from my life, from my memories, from my mind.

I was trapped by his abuse. By his monstrosity, not knowing that slowly but surely I was turning into him.

So, as he kept abusing me, only now with words and a slap here and there instead of pelting—I'd let out my anger, hatred, and frustration of his whores—and mine.

I'd fuck his bitches whenever he brought them over; with Carmen being the only dominant I was able to dominate the other women. I'd fuck them doggy style, by the wall from behind, and any other position except for missionary and cowgirl. As fucked up as I was, missionary for me was reserved for love and cowgirl was female domination.

And knowing that I'd never fall in love and never let another woman dominate me I became the man with the upper hand.

So, I'd fuck his bitched only to return home and fuck mine.

Fucking. Fucking. And more fucking.

Until I've met her. Pure and innocent, loving and tender, kind and selfless.

My sun and moon. My heart and my soul.

My Bella.

The moment I laid my eyes on her I knew, I just knew she was the one. That I'd love this girl for the rest of my life. That I'd do whatever it took to make her happy.

So many promises I've given her and I've broken them all.

I tried hiding her from Marcus—even when she'd call me as I was visiting him I'd always put my cell phone on silent until he'd move away to another room and I'd text her that I was busy with him.

For a year I did a pretty good job hiding her from him, and Esme still not on talking bases with him unless it was a phone call once a month when I'd go see him, he was left in the dark.

Or so I thought.

My breaking point was my senior year, when I went to visit him and found two of his whores at his house. He told me to fuck them, stating that it's been a while since I fucked one of his girls and now as an apology he brought me two—can you believe it?

That was the first time I said no. And the last time.

He became pissed off, kicking the girls out and giving it to me. He told me that he knew about Bella, that he slipped a sleeping pill in my drink the last time I was over and he went through my cell phone. About how beautiful Bella was, how innocent looking.

How submissive she looked.

I warned him to keep her out of our shit and he answered with the worst kind of answer.

That if I hadn't treated her like he's treated me, he'd pay her a special visit himself and show her what a real man was like. That he'd enjoy fucking her while I watched, and that she'd become a greedy horney slut so much he'd take her to New York and have her work the streets, pimp her out for other men to roughly fuck her. He even threatened me to sell her off to a dominant who only works on pain sluts. That he'd train and break her until she begged for mercy. Until she became a pain slut herself.

It was the first time I hit him. A punch to the face that sent him to the ground. I told him I'd tell on him and what he'd done, that I'd tell the cops on him.

He laughed in my face, promising that no one would believe me and go against a prestigious man like him, a business man who donates to charities and pays many bills, writes hundreds of checks and everyone aspires to become.

I threatened I'd tell Esme. He said he's do the same to her, kidnap her and sell her off. He even went so far as calling her a MILF—that many men would like to tap that ass of hers. So sexy despite being in her forties.

I felt like throwing up because I knew he'd do it.

He'd find a way to know and he'd fucking do it.

I was trapped. I was disgusted. With him and myself for what I was about to do.

His hold on me was like an iron clad; unbreakable. Inescapable.

When I returned to Fork, it was the first time I ever hit Bella.

And it wasn't the last.

His abuse turned me into a monster. I know I could've taken her and ran away, or even not pay heed to Marcus' threat—but I didn't.

I used and abused her. Forced her to do as I say, whenever I say, however I say.

She became my broken submissive, and I've became her destructing dominant.

And it cost me her.

So the first time I attacked Marcus and nearly beat him to death was at Bella's funeral. He showed up, uninvited, and the gleaming look on his face said it all.

He knew this would happen. He knew I'd suffer for the rest of my life.

He knew Bella would kill herself to escape me.

So I attacked him, like a wounded animal. Delivering a punch after punch until Carlisle and others pulled me away from him. I was screaming profanities at him, howling that it was his fault for turning me into a monster. For making me abuse my wife.

For killing her.

~Present Time~

So now, after five years of her death I still suffer. And I welcome it. I embrace my suffering for what I'd done.

I believe it's Karma or poetic justice since it had already reared it's ugly head at Marcus.

A mere month after Bella's funeral, there was a home invasion at Marcus house. Three burglars broken into his house, beat him to a bloody pulp, and stole all his expensive possessions and the thousands of dollars in his safe.

The justice thought came in the form of physical deformity. His face was beat up so bad it became deformed and the way his head was bashed in made him in need of care 24/7.

He's now rotting in a house for the elderly, with nurses wiping his shit and feeding him with a spoon.

I don't feel sorry for the fucker. He got what he deserved.

Just as I'm getting mine.

I reached her grave, more tears falling as I stared at the big picture of her beautiful smiling face. It was a rare picture when she looked happy after our marriage. I picked it specially to be her tombstones picture.

I wanted to torment myself with her smiling face, knowing that I was the cause of diminishing it.

I sat on the snow, not caring that my ass was freezing under my jeans and coat. I put the flowers on her grave while I started drinking.

That's how my life has been since her death. I'd visit her every Sunday with a white, pink, or red rose in my hand to put on her grave; and I'd visit her grave on the anniversary with a bouquet and a bottle of scotch.

My social life became non-existent. My mother would visit me everyday, and my father would accompany her once a week. I cut all ties with my friends or more like they cut me off.

I only had my parents, my house and memories of Bella, and my grieving.

Suddenly, there was a slight storm. The wind picked up and the snow flew around me.

That's when I heard it.

"Edward."

It was a soft, melodic voice whispering my name. I looked around me but found no one.

I must be losing my mind. Serves me right.

"Edward."

The voice spoke again, loudly this time.

I looked around me and nearly got a heart attack when I saw her.

My angel. My beauty. My wife.

My Bella.

She stood in front of me, a few yards away from her grave. She looked deathly pale, wearing a flowing white dress—her hair flying with the wind. I could see a white halo over her head, like a crown. We stared at each other for what felt like an eternity.

And then she smiled.

I blinked, and then she vanished—only to reappear again, sitting by my side.

"Bella?" I croaked, my throat tight with emotions. She smiled sadly and nodded.

I slowly raised my hand and touched her cheek. I felt even more coldness on my skin but I didn't care because she closed her eyes, sighed, and leaned into my touch.

"I'm so sorry Bella. So sorry baby." I sobbed, watching as her eyes reopened and looked on sadly.

"I know you are Edward, but it's too late. I'm already dead."

"Yes. You are. And it's all my fault."

She said nothing. Only staring at me with sad eyes.

"W—will you stay with me? Just for a little while?" I asked, more like begged. She nodded sadly, her hand touching mine and moving it to her lips. A tear fell as she tenderly kissed the palm of my hand.

"I've never left you Edward. I may not have forgiven you but I've never left you. Maybe I'll forgive you, maybe I won't. Only time will tell."

Yes. Only time will tell.

The End

Whew. That was some hardcore angst, yeah? What do you think of it? Love it? Hate it? Let me know.

For those who might think it's a HEA for Edward since Bella's spirit showed up, it's NOT a HEA. Bella didn't forgive Edward and she might never do. Edward will keep on living in loneliness, solitude, and grieve over Bella's death. Her confirming her being undecided on forgiving him gives him even more pain to suffer.

~Sarah~