Edward Cullen: A Work in Progress

Six Months Ago

Okay, new story. This one is based off Edward. You may not like this Edward. He's a jerk. Asshole. Complete dick. But he'll change. Hopefully ;-)

Things I own: a shitload of music (hell, I'm a music teacher), a lot of candles and still a yippie dog

Things I don't own: Twilight and all characters associated with it. They belong to the esteemed Stephenie Meyers.

Chapter One: Six Months Ago

"Edward, man, you have to get up," Emmett whined. "You stank."

"Fuck you, McCarty," I snapped, rolling over on my bed. Okay, couch.

"Listen, douche. You have two options. Option one is to get your ass up off my couch, shower and come with me Dreamstyle Ink. You can stay with me if you come to Dreamstyle. Option two is to get your ass up off my couch and leave. Live in your damn car again," Emmett said. "You've been out of rehab for two weeks now. You can't stay here forever. Because I won't' let you."

"Emmett, I appreciate you bailing me out. Again," I grumbled. "But, I'm not ready."

"Bullshit. You're ready. You've been clean for six months. Staying at the rehab center did a world of good," Emmett said as he lit a cigarette. He handed it to me. I eagerly accepted it. "But you can't hole up in my apartment. And dude, really? You fucking smell. Shower. PLEASE! I'm begging you!"

I picked up my shirt and took a whiff. Okay, that's just gross. Get off this couch and out of your own filth, Cullen. "Okay, I'll get up and I'll shower," I said as I put the cigarette in my mouth. "But the why the hell am I going to Dreamstyle with you? I'm not a tattoo artist. I'm a fucking musician."

"Who has a killer eye for ink, man," Emmett said. "I've seen your doodles on your music man. It's good. I mean really good. You have the potential to be a great black and gray tattoo artist. I've arranged for you apprentice with the best tattoo artist I have at Dreamstyle."

"Let me shower and then we'll discuss," I said, shooting him an angry glare. I burrowed through my duffle bag and picked up a pair of jeans, boxer briefs and black t-shirt. I skulked to the bathroom and stepped into the hot spray. I hastily washed my body with the soap in the shower. I ran my fingers through my shaggy locks of fucked up bronze hair and scrubbed my scalp. I finished my shower and stepped out of the tub.

I looked at my reflection in the foggy mirror. My green eyes were tired, dark bags under them. My face was gaunt and drawn. I had lost a lot of weight when I was in rehab. I didn't want to eat. The thought of food made me nauseous. My once fit and muscular build is now lanky and untoned. I dragged my hands across my chest, running my fingers through my sparse chest hair. It was a shade lighter than the hair on my head. The fucked-up bronze shit. I had the weirdest fucking hair. And it stuck up every which way. I hated it. I shaved my head when I entered rehab. Emmett smacked me for that one. While I was in there, it slowly grew back.

My eyes raked over my ink. The one thing on my body that I did like. Well, that and my piercings. Both of my arms were covered with ink. Not full sleeves, but close enough. I had a large lion on my chest the snaked around my left pec, the tail wrapped around my back and ended above my right kidney. All black and grey. On my neck was the Masen crest. Along my hips was the Irish blessing, written in Old Gaelic. Both of my nipples were pierced, as was my tongue, eyebrow and my ears. I looked like a carney reject, but this was me. All of me.

Too bad my parents couldn't understand me. They fucking kicked me out at the age of 18 when I said I didn't want to be fucking doctor. Sure, I got a full ride scholarship to Dartmouth. Sure, I was the legacy of Dr. Carlisle Cullen, but I couldn't care less. I really couldn't. Medicine was not my passion. My drive. Music was. Art was. When I told them that I wanted to perform and focus on my music, they kicked me out and cut me off. My credit cards were stopped and I was sent on my way with my Volvo, the clothes on my back and the money in my wallet. A whopping $150. That lasted me for a day. After a week, I was living in my car, begging for work. No one was hiring. I took out my guitar and played on a street corner, garnering a few bucks. I played until my fingers bled. When my fingers were tired, I made money by sketching caricatures.