Twispite: Justice is Blind
Title: Justice is Blind
Author: sos_sporkers
Fandom(s): The Twilight series
Rating: PG-13 for content (R for thematic elements)
Word Count: 2209
Inspiration: A Twilight fanfiction (The Dark Side of the Moon) in which Edward claims that the absolute worst thing he can do is turn Bella.
Warnings: Lots and lots of murder or implied murder, but nothing is graphic.
Summary: Edward's vigilante days and the lives and families of some of his victims.
Daniel was never a fantastic runner. Despite being a somewhat formidable tennis player, the simple exercise of running eluded him. Short bursts, oh that he could manage quite well, but any distance above three hundred metres was just plain torture.
Today was probably the first time he ever found running effortless.
He flew down the street, his feet barely seeming to touch the ground, his heart soaring, singing, bursting with joy. Whenever his step faltered or the cloud of excitement receded in his mind enough for him to notice the ache in his legs, just the knowledge of the simple piece of paper lying innocuously in his backpack pushed him on again.
He had to get home, had to show them, had to prove to them that he really had changed.
It had all started two years ago, when his friend had dragged him behind the school with a conspiratorial glint in his eyes. They shared a bottle of vodka that day, choking down the burning liquid, both determined to prove that they were men. They spent their afternoon collapsed against the dirty, graffitied wall, dizzy, disorientated, and yet happier than they had ever been.
It became almost a routine. They’d sneak out the back once a month and share a bottle of alcohol that he never knew the origins of. Then, they started doing it once a fortnight, once a week, once a couple of days, maybe they should do two bottles today, sneaking into the backs of clubs and restaurants, drowning themselves in the twice-illegal spirits.
He stumbled again, his foot catching on the uneven pavement, his heart lurching as the burning in his lungs pierced the euphoria clouding his mind. But he shook his head and ran on, gasping down huge gulps of air.
That was in the past. He had been completely sober for two months now, and though he still felt the temptation (he honestly doubted it would ever go away), he was equally sure that he would be able to combat it.
And now, finally, he had something to show for his efforts. The first time in over two years that he had ever gotten a full-mark.
His parents. They had been so worried, so confused. They couldn’t understand how their sweet little boy had transformed into the disheveled drunk that stumbed into their house at two o’clock in the morning and smeared vomit and blood on their couches. And oh christ, he had pushed them away. He wouldn’t listen to them. He didn’t understand. And he had spit in the face of their concern and advice and sneered at the sight of their tears.
But it was okay now. He was back on the path he needed to be. And he could finally make them proud again, finally be the strapping young man they wanted him to be.
Daniel Williams, sixteen years old aspiring businessman, ran on, his feet light and his heart even lighter.
He didn’t notice the shadow dropping behind him.
He was only momentarily startled when he was flung into a wall.
He didn’t feel his skull caving in and his neck snapping.
He was already dead when the monster descended on his neck.
She was a quiet woman, soft-spoken and thoughtful. Her movements were always controlled and smooth and she never said anything that she hadn’t run through in her mind several times. As a girl, her parents had often joked that she was more mature than them, and her friends had always turned to her for help whenever anything came up. She was always happy to help though, and there were few problems that she could not overcome.
She was quite startled when she found herself fidgeting at the dinner table, drumming her fingers and glancing at the clock every five seconds and even humming tuneless songs under her breath.
Her husband was late. Of course, it was entirely unreasonable to expect that he came home on the dot every day. Traffic was getting worse and worse these days, and work was piling up higher and higher too. But knowing didn’t help. She still found herself fretting and wringing her hands.
Supper was laid out before her, still steaming hot (she reheated it every half an hour). It was quite a bit more elaborate than usual, but she felt that the occasion demanded some celebration.
She was always a level-headed girl. She knew since she was thirteen what she wanted to do and never deviated from the path. Everything in her life was planned out meticulously beforehand and every emergency was accounted for.
Her husband was the one thing she did not plan for.
She thought she knew exactly the type of man she wanted to be married to - sensible, successful, intelligent, and every bit as logical as her. But then he appeared in her life like a ray of sunlight banishing storm clouds, and everything was flipped upside down. No matter how rash and spontaneous he was, though, there was one thing that remained constant.
She loved him.
Even after four years being married together, and seven years of dating each other, sometimes, when she accidentally glanced at him, he’d still steal her breath away. She would often tell him that she liked his dimples the best, loving the way they made him seem forever optimistic and joyful and full of hope. But secretly (she would never admit this to him), she loved the way he’d grin bashfully everytime and her world would suddenly be ablaze with colours and sounds and her heart would tremble and melt.
She smiled, slowly caressing her stomach, imagining the grin that would light up the world when he finally got to hear the news.
Somewhere, in the maze of alleyways that spread through the city, Jonathan Morrison, soon to be father and designer of furniture, fell to the ground, his mouth forever twisted in a silent scream.
He was a solitary man. He subscribed to no newspapers, rarely opened the television, read no books. He never relaxed in his garden, or greeted the neighbours that came and went, or attended church. His life consisted of two locations and a straight line.
His home, old and decrepit, threatening to fall down at any second, and yet crammed so full of memories that just the thought of moving scandalised him. A small kitchen, a perpetually messy bedroom, a living room that never saw any guests. No one could say that it was a spectacular home, or even just a decent one, but it was his and he loved it.
A short walk down the street, across the park, a few more paces to the signal, and a left turn. It was his most frequently travelled route and, sometimes he suspected, the only route that he travlled at all these days. He did so as quickly as possible, with his head ducked down to avoid the curious eyes of strangers, shuffling along and suppressing a shudder whenever someone ventured too close to him. But, sometimes, on slow mornings when the roads were all but empty, he’d allow himself a few moments to gaze upon the smooth grass and twisted trees in the park and the little birds that danced in between gnarly branches.
Then, there was his flower shop. Along the walls, upon the shelves, not a single inch of flat surface was not covered with a multitude of flowers of every kind imaginable. He loved seeing the momentary shock on the faces of his customers as they first walked in, bombarded by an explosion of colours and smells. They’d stare around, gaping, eyes wide with wonder and surprise. And, disturbed though he may be by their presence, he couldn’t help but swell in pride.
He knew every flower in there, knew just how much to water them and how to keep them fresh and perfect, where they came from and where they would look the best. He cared for them, loved them like children, and called them his only friends. Customers were rarer these days, his shop too out of the way and inconspicuous, tucked in an unknown alley. But he was happy. He could never be unhappy when surrounded by the blooms that he cultivated with his own hands.
He ran his fingers loving along the rims of one of the hundreds of pots that filled his shop and turned to have a last look at his children. Then, he quietly locked the door behind him, tucked the keys in one of the many pockets on his old, wrinkled coat, and geared himself to travel back home, to sleep and dream and retreat to that land with no stranger and only flowers, miles upon miles of flowers...
His death was significantly more painful, as he had turned the second the shadow pounced on him, presumably to look upon his shop one more time. What should have broken his neck only snapped his arm, and the cold fangs of his attacker sank into his shoulders instead of his arteries.
But, in the end, James Warren, seventy-eight years old, did sleep, though no dreams awaited him.
Everything was going according to plan.
She was walking down the street, still crowded since it was the weekend, but Edward knew that in just a few minute, she’ll have to turn into a much quieter alley that was the only way to her home.
He crept along the roofs of buildings, pressing himself against the cold concrete, nimbly crawling along as he tracked the girl. As always, her clothes were brightly coloured - her shirt was a blinding red and her dress obscenely pink. It swished about her calves as she walked - no, danced - through town, the bright neon lights making her golden hair seem to glow. She was smiling, her eyes were bright and her feet were light, the heel of her shoes clacking against the pavement.
There she went, turning into the narrow alley, her dress flaring around her. Edward waited a bit, then, with a quick glance around him, dropped behind her silently.
She rarely ever noticed her surroundings. She didn’t have a habit of looking from side to side as she walked. Sneaking up on her would be a piece of cake.
He quickly gained on her, still keeping his footfalls so light that even his vampiric senses couldn’t hear them.
It was quick.
She barely had the time to yelp in surprise before Edward snapped her neck with a flick of his wrist.
He brought her limp body against his lips, a little surprised at how little she weighed. But then again, not many people felt heavy to him nowadays.
Her blood was sweet, ecstasy in liquid form, filling first his mouth, then his body, then his heart.
Then, he discarded her.
With the recent rise in crime, no one would notice one more body. Getting rid of it properly simply took much too long.
Edward turned on his heels and licked at his lips. Was there really so little blood in the human body? Each feeding seemed shorter than the last. Sometimes, he felt he had hardly begun to drink before the flow of the sweet liquid stopped.
And was blood really always this unsatisfying? He could remember the first time he tasted it. He doubted he’ll ever forget. It was, simply, orgasmic. It had overwhelmed him, obliterated all thought. For a moment in time, nothing existed except for the growling hunger in his stomach and the thick, oozing blood, so much blood, running over his hands, his face, his tongue...
It was the second time he had fed that day, and when he finished, he still felt as empty as he did before. There was still that itch in his throat that was just barely there, popping up at the most inopportune moment, always threatening to drive him to insanity.
Should he increase how often he fed again?
After all, there were plenty of disgusting, filthy, sinful people around. These days, he couldn’t look anywhere and not see one of them. They were dressed just like everyone else, and often looked ordinary enough, too. But Edward knew. He knew every thought that went through their head. And he knew that he was the only one who knew.
The police were corrupt and ineffectual, and the morally bankrupt were filling the streets, crowding out the virtuous. And, well, who better to clean up this mess than him? He, who could read thoughts. He, who could subdue any criminal. He, who can never be bribed or corrupted.
A brief image of him as an avenging angel, raining down the fury of heaven upon the heathens that only ever seemed to increase in number no matter how hard he worked, flashed before his eyes, and Edward drew himself up and inhaled, almost tasting the blood of every one of those sinners on his tongue.
He walked out of the alley and down the street, letting the thoughts of the people around him filter in and out of his head.
Yes, it was time that he picked up his pace. This world was corrupted, dirty, and he, Edward Cullen, was the only one who could clean it.
He was Justice and Justice was blind.
Author: sos_sporkers
Fandom(s): The Twilight series
Rating: PG-13 for content (R for thematic elements)
Word Count: 2209
Inspiration: A Twilight fanfiction (The Dark Side of the Moon) in which Edward claims that the absolute worst thing he can do is turn Bella.
Warnings: Lots and lots of murder or implied murder, but nothing is graphic.
Summary: Edward's vigilante days and the lives and families of some of his victims.
Daniel was never a fantastic runner. Despite being a somewhat formidable tennis player, the simple exercise of running eluded him. Short bursts, oh that he could manage quite well, but any distance above three hundred metres was just plain torture.
Today was probably the first time he ever found running effortless.
He flew down the street, his feet barely seeming to touch the ground, his heart soaring, singing, bursting with joy. Whenever his step faltered or the cloud of excitement receded in his mind enough for him to notice the ache in his legs, just the knowledge of the simple piece of paper lying innocuously in his backpack pushed him on again.
He had to get home, had to show them, had to prove to them that he really had changed.
It had all started two years ago, when his friend had dragged him behind the school with a conspiratorial glint in his eyes. They shared a bottle of vodka that day, choking down the burning liquid, both determined to prove that they were men. They spent their afternoon collapsed against the dirty, graffitied wall, dizzy, disorientated, and yet happier than they had ever been.
It became almost a routine. They’d sneak out the back once a month and share a bottle of alcohol that he never knew the origins of. Then, they started doing it once a fortnight, once a week, once a couple of days, maybe they should do two bottles today, sneaking into the backs of clubs and restaurants, drowning themselves in the twice-illegal spirits.
He stumbled again, his foot catching on the uneven pavement, his heart lurching as the burning in his lungs pierced the euphoria clouding his mind. But he shook his head and ran on, gasping down huge gulps of air.
That was in the past. He had been completely sober for two months now, and though he still felt the temptation (he honestly doubted it would ever go away), he was equally sure that he would be able to combat it.
And now, finally, he had something to show for his efforts. The first time in over two years that he had ever gotten a full-mark.
His parents. They had been so worried, so confused. They couldn’t understand how their sweet little boy had transformed into the disheveled drunk that stumbed into their house at two o’clock in the morning and smeared vomit and blood on their couches. And oh christ, he had pushed them away. He wouldn’t listen to them. He didn’t understand. And he had spit in the face of their concern and advice and sneered at the sight of their tears.
But it was okay now. He was back on the path he needed to be. And he could finally make them proud again, finally be the strapping young man they wanted him to be.
Daniel Williams, sixteen years old aspiring businessman, ran on, his feet light and his heart even lighter.
He didn’t notice the shadow dropping behind him.
He was only momentarily startled when he was flung into a wall.
He didn’t feel his skull caving in and his neck snapping.
He was already dead when the monster descended on his neck.
She was a quiet woman, soft-spoken and thoughtful. Her movements were always controlled and smooth and she never said anything that she hadn’t run through in her mind several times. As a girl, her parents had often joked that she was more mature than them, and her friends had always turned to her for help whenever anything came up. She was always happy to help though, and there were few problems that she could not overcome.
She was quite startled when she found herself fidgeting at the dinner table, drumming her fingers and glancing at the clock every five seconds and even humming tuneless songs under her breath.
Her husband was late. Of course, it was entirely unreasonable to expect that he came home on the dot every day. Traffic was getting worse and worse these days, and work was piling up higher and higher too. But knowing didn’t help. She still found herself fretting and wringing her hands.
Supper was laid out before her, still steaming hot (she reheated it every half an hour). It was quite a bit more elaborate than usual, but she felt that the occasion demanded some celebration.
She was always a level-headed girl. She knew since she was thirteen what she wanted to do and never deviated from the path. Everything in her life was planned out meticulously beforehand and every emergency was accounted for.
Her husband was the one thing she did not plan for.
She thought she knew exactly the type of man she wanted to be married to - sensible, successful, intelligent, and every bit as logical as her. But then he appeared in her life like a ray of sunlight banishing storm clouds, and everything was flipped upside down. No matter how rash and spontaneous he was, though, there was one thing that remained constant.
She loved him.
Even after four years being married together, and seven years of dating each other, sometimes, when she accidentally glanced at him, he’d still steal her breath away. She would often tell him that she liked his dimples the best, loving the way they made him seem forever optimistic and joyful and full of hope. But secretly (she would never admit this to him), she loved the way he’d grin bashfully everytime and her world would suddenly be ablaze with colours and sounds and her heart would tremble and melt.
She smiled, slowly caressing her stomach, imagining the grin that would light up the world when he finally got to hear the news.
Somewhere, in the maze of alleyways that spread through the city, Jonathan Morrison, soon to be father and designer of furniture, fell to the ground, his mouth forever twisted in a silent scream.
He was a solitary man. He subscribed to no newspapers, rarely opened the television, read no books. He never relaxed in his garden, or greeted the neighbours that came and went, or attended church. His life consisted of two locations and a straight line.
His home, old and decrepit, threatening to fall down at any second, and yet crammed so full of memories that just the thought of moving scandalised him. A small kitchen, a perpetually messy bedroom, a living room that never saw any guests. No one could say that it was a spectacular home, or even just a decent one, but it was his and he loved it.
A short walk down the street, across the park, a few more paces to the signal, and a left turn. It was his most frequently travelled route and, sometimes he suspected, the only route that he travlled at all these days. He did so as quickly as possible, with his head ducked down to avoid the curious eyes of strangers, shuffling along and suppressing a shudder whenever someone ventured too close to him. But, sometimes, on slow mornings when the roads were all but empty, he’d allow himself a few moments to gaze upon the smooth grass and twisted trees in the park and the little birds that danced in between gnarly branches.
Then, there was his flower shop. Along the walls, upon the shelves, not a single inch of flat surface was not covered with a multitude of flowers of every kind imaginable. He loved seeing the momentary shock on the faces of his customers as they first walked in, bombarded by an explosion of colours and smells. They’d stare around, gaping, eyes wide with wonder and surprise. And, disturbed though he may be by their presence, he couldn’t help but swell in pride.
He knew every flower in there, knew just how much to water them and how to keep them fresh and perfect, where they came from and where they would look the best. He cared for them, loved them like children, and called them his only friends. Customers were rarer these days, his shop too out of the way and inconspicuous, tucked in an unknown alley. But he was happy. He could never be unhappy when surrounded by the blooms that he cultivated with his own hands.
He ran his fingers loving along the rims of one of the hundreds of pots that filled his shop and turned to have a last look at his children. Then, he quietly locked the door behind him, tucked the keys in one of the many pockets on his old, wrinkled coat, and geared himself to travel back home, to sleep and dream and retreat to that land with no stranger and only flowers, miles upon miles of flowers...
His death was significantly more painful, as he had turned the second the shadow pounced on him, presumably to look upon his shop one more time. What should have broken his neck only snapped his arm, and the cold fangs of his attacker sank into his shoulders instead of his arteries.
But, in the end, James Warren, seventy-eight years old, did sleep, though no dreams awaited him.
Everything was going according to plan.
She was walking down the street, still crowded since it was the weekend, but Edward knew that in just a few minute, she’ll have to turn into a much quieter alley that was the only way to her home.
He crept along the roofs of buildings, pressing himself against the cold concrete, nimbly crawling along as he tracked the girl. As always, her clothes were brightly coloured - her shirt was a blinding red and her dress obscenely pink. It swished about her calves as she walked - no, danced - through town, the bright neon lights making her golden hair seem to glow. She was smiling, her eyes were bright and her feet were light, the heel of her shoes clacking against the pavement.
There she went, turning into the narrow alley, her dress flaring around her. Edward waited a bit, then, with a quick glance around him, dropped behind her silently.
She rarely ever noticed her surroundings. She didn’t have a habit of looking from side to side as she walked. Sneaking up on her would be a piece of cake.
He quickly gained on her, still keeping his footfalls so light that even his vampiric senses couldn’t hear them.
It was quick.
She barely had the time to yelp in surprise before Edward snapped her neck with a flick of his wrist.
He brought her limp body against his lips, a little surprised at how little she weighed. But then again, not many people felt heavy to him nowadays.
Her blood was sweet, ecstasy in liquid form, filling first his mouth, then his body, then his heart.
Then, he discarded her.
With the recent rise in crime, no one would notice one more body. Getting rid of it properly simply took much too long.
Edward turned on his heels and licked at his lips. Was there really so little blood in the human body? Each feeding seemed shorter than the last. Sometimes, he felt he had hardly begun to drink before the flow of the sweet liquid stopped.
And was blood really always this unsatisfying? He could remember the first time he tasted it. He doubted he’ll ever forget. It was, simply, orgasmic. It had overwhelmed him, obliterated all thought. For a moment in time, nothing existed except for the growling hunger in his stomach and the thick, oozing blood, so much blood, running over his hands, his face, his tongue...
It was the second time he had fed that day, and when he finished, he still felt as empty as he did before. There was still that itch in his throat that was just barely there, popping up at the most inopportune moment, always threatening to drive him to insanity.
Should he increase how often he fed again?
After all, there were plenty of disgusting, filthy, sinful people around. These days, he couldn’t look anywhere and not see one of them. They were dressed just like everyone else, and often looked ordinary enough, too. But Edward knew. He knew every thought that went through their head. And he knew that he was the only one who knew.
The police were corrupt and ineffectual, and the morally bankrupt were filling the streets, crowding out the virtuous. And, well, who better to clean up this mess than him? He, who could read thoughts. He, who could subdue any criminal. He, who can never be bribed or corrupted.
A brief image of him as an avenging angel, raining down the fury of heaven upon the heathens that only ever seemed to increase in number no matter how hard he worked, flashed before his eyes, and Edward drew himself up and inhaled, almost tasting the blood of every one of those sinners on his tongue.
He walked out of the alley and down the street, letting the thoughts of the people around him filter in and out of his head.
Yes, it was time that he picked up his pace. This world was corrupted, dirty, and he, Edward Cullen, was the only one who could clean it.
He was Justice and Justice was blind.