Sanctuary by JFly COMPLETE, O - S
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Sanctuary
By JennyFly
Summary: Edward faces a monumental crisis and finds Sanctuary in the one place he refuses to look
for it. All Human.
Chapter One
Reflections
I woke as always to the ringing of the bells. I rubbed my face and threw myself to the floor for one
hundred pushups. When my shoulders were stabbing and burning me, I flipped over for crunches.
My skin was slick with sweat and my ass hurt from contact with the hardwood floor. Good. Physical
pain was good. It was something I could think about.
Piss. Cold shower. Toothpaste, shaving cream, deodorant. Time to look myself in the eye.
My mother told me that I looked like the very Devil himself when I smiled like that. She said that
only half my face was smiling because the good part of me knew that whatever was amusing me was
bad.
Bad was all I ever wanted to be back then.
I worked at it. I was always the bad guy when I was five and we played cops and robbers in the
vacant lot by the old box factory. When I moved on to comic books, I always imagined myself the
villain who terrorized the buxom dame. My father took the flimsy paperbacks for kindling, and my
mother prayed for my dirty soul. I scoffed at her and learned to smoke behind the gym at the age of
eleven. The very next year, I found a way to shove bottles of beer down the front of my jeans and
sneakouttheslidingdoorsoftheconveniencestorewhentheoldmanattheregisterwasn’t
looking. My father answered the door the first time the cops dropped me off at home in the middle
of the night, and my mother called the priest and asked him to pray with me.
By the time I was fifteen, I was beyond salvation anyway. I had already fucked every girl within a
three mile radius and beat the shit out of every one of their brothers who felt the need to confront
me afterward.
My parents died when I was seventeen, but that's another story.
On my eighteenth birthday I went to enlist. I had dreams of guns and glory, camaraderie and scars,
exciting travel and exotic women in foreign lands. I wanted to drive a tank, have the power of that
massive and deadly machinery in my hands. I wanted to learn to handle every weapon in the
arsenal, to take them all apart and put them back together blindfolded like in the movies. I wanted
Heart of Darkness, Steve McQueen, amputation, and the chance to deliver death to anyone that my
country thought deserved it.
To say I was devastated when they rejected me because of my poor eyesight is an understatement.
My whole body was numb when they turned me away. I had no backup plan in place. There was no
alternative. I had never had any other dream, never had any other calling, never had any other
purpose. I took myself outside and squinted around in the June sun until a sweet voice beckoned me
to my senses.
"Hi, handsome. Can I buy you a drink?"
I didn't answer her. I just looked. Her face was plain, her lips painted too red, and her eyes lined too
black. But she was slight and curvy. She smelled a little stale as she leaned in toward me and
brushed her fingers against my arm, butIdidntflinchatthatI’dsmelledworseIjustlooked
Her mouth was alright. The top lip a little too thin, but the bottom one was round enough. She
tugged at my arm and I followed her.
We got drunk in a bar by the courthouse. Well, I got drunk. Very drunk. I can't say whether she
drank at all, but I obliterated myself on her dime, or so I thought at the time. Then she took me
upstairs to a room with a bed and a sink and she slipped her cheap green dress over her head.
When she tried to kiss my mouth, I shifted my face away. I let her have my neck. I let her have my
body, but I couldn't kiss her. Not that mouth.
I let her think I thought she was sexy when she spread her legs, even though her pussy looked like
seafood. No matter, just as long as it was pink and tight. I fucked her until I could no longer feel
anything at all. Not the booze, nor the headache it had delivered. Not the rejection, nor the
aimlessness that resulted from it. Not the loneliness. Never that. What man can admit that he is
lonely when a pair of legs is wrapped around him?
I can't say how long I was in that room, but I remember rust and dust and vomit and voices. I had
awakened to emptiness and nothingness, no plan, no dream, no bitch, no shoes. My father's watch
was gone. The ten dollars I had was gone. I had my jeans and tee-shirt and headache. And possibly a
few new diseases. And after the door burst open and I was cuffed, I had four days in lock-up.
I had two days of antagonism and poker. Then I had two days of blood, after having been kicked and
beaten raw for insulting a man who was much too large to be human. On the fourth morning, I woke
again with fresh blood coating my cracked lips in the cell that reeked of piss and sweat and feet and
mold and blood, and I saw a murky light in the sharp blue eyes that faced me from the other side of
the bars.
Father Cullen stood there next to the deputy who hadn't bothered to break up the fight that left me
broken. Father Carlisle Cullen, whose eyes shone with grace and mercy and love and forgiveness
offered me the only path that was left available. I stared into his eyes without moving from my
mildewed mattress. I stared until the image of his face was burned indelibly into my mind. And then
I let my eyes fall in resignation. I understood as my gaze drifted down to his neck and the collar of
servitude that rested there. I understood the irony of my future.
My purgatory would begin before my body would be allowed to rot.
"Father Edward?" The voice was accompanied by a rap at my door, pulling me from my reverie. I
dragged my eyes away from the mirror and tugged on my trousers as I crossed the room.
"It's open," I mumbled. It was always open. What could I do in here that would require a lock on the
door?
The creaky wooden door was pushed ajar as I pulled an undershirt over my head. Mike Newton, the
obsequious little shit, shuffled in to make my bed and collect my used towels. I buttoned my black
shirt and clamped the collar around my neck while ignoring his usual morning prattle. He was
telling me about the weather, about the berries that he had picked before dawn for our oatmeal,
about all the great bounties of life. Most days I could barely stop myself from kicking him down the
stairs. Instead I ignored him with a studied tolerance and walked out of the room into the cold
corridor that would lead me toward another day's farce.
Chapter Two
Agenda
Mike had already unlocked the church, and the usual two old biddies were already bowed on their
knees in prayer waiting for the 8:30 Mass. I was running a little late. I sighed silently, crossed myself
and knelt to pray in front of the beautiful altar.
Sometimes I actually did pray, you know. On days when contrition was bubbling up through my
blood, I would pray for the sake of my poor mother.
Other times, I would gaze in silent, contemplative admiration upon the abundant and lifelike
breasts on the statue of the Holy Mother.
After crossing myself again and rising to my feet, I passed through the chapel to the vestry and
closed the door to get myself gussied up.
Once I was alone, I switched on my computer to give the old beast a chance to warm up, poured a
tumbler of pre-transubstantiated wine, and picked up my glasses from the desk. I began the
antiphons in my head just for that fleeting sense of sanctuary I get through chanting. At times in the
past I had even admired the idea of monasticism for the readily excused xenophobia, agoraphobia,
misogyny, and all that chanting whenever the hell they pleased. I tossed the glass of wine back and
felt it warm my throat and esophagus on its way down as I laughed. Picturing myself a monk was
ridiculousintheextremeI’dbeFraLippoLippisneakingouttogoa-whoring every week and
havingtotalkmyselfoutofarrestBesidesI’manythingbutmisogynistic
After the Mass, I turned my back on Mike as he was snuffing the candles and returned to the vestry
to defrock myself. The small room was stuffy, so I lost the collar and unfastened the top few buttons
of my shirt and sat at my little makeshift desk. I ran a hand through my hair and poured another
glass of wine while waiting for my e-mail to populate. Time for a cut soon. I opened my calendar to
see what tortures I would be in store for on this fine day.
3:30 - 4:30 Baseball Practice
I stared at the blank hours on the blue screen. That was it. I functioned as free after-school care for
families whose kids couldn't come up with something more depraved to do before dark. Every
afternoon from 3:30 to 4:30 I coached a motley collection of boys and girls between the ages of nine
and twelve in the mysteries of baseball. The only thing that any of the kids had in common was that
they were all equally shit at the sport. It was still amusing for me, though. It was good to have a daily
escape from the homes of the bedridden and sick, from the hospitals where poor souls suffered
through the last days of their diseased lives, from the fucking musty old church. It was amusing
because I could feel the sun on my face for an hour. I could hit a ball if anyone managed to throw it
properly. I could play a running commentary in my mind of all the pathetic throws, fumbling
catches, and asinine misses that the children managed to perform.
Oh, I encouraged them. I was friendly, warm, supportive and Good. Very, very Good. I played my
part perfectly at all times. I've never shirked it. I might believe that the kids are hopeless; soon
enough they'd all discover their cocks and their cunts and forget about the Father, Son and Holy
Spirit, but in the mean time, I understood that I had to keep up the pretense- just like their parents
held out on telling them the truth about Santa Claus. I held out on them, too. I never told them that
they were only a few years and a few hormones away from throwing their own souls out the
window, no matter how wide-eyed and innocent they appeared now.
I sighed at my open schedule. This would make me crazy. I swallowed the wine in one choking gulp.
I sighed in satisfaction and scrolled back through my calendar. I hadn't been to the hospital in a few
days. I'd need to fit that in.
I scrolled forward then. A Christening on the coming weekend. Anna Whitlock. Hmmm. Carlisle
must have met with the parents and set this up. I vaguely remembered Mrs. Whitlock. What was her
name? No matter. She was fucking hot. Small frame, gorgeous lips, tight looking ass despite the kid.
Kids. I remembered Christening the boy a few years ago when I was still Deacon. Matthew or
something? I couldn't remember the husband at all, but I was glad to have Mrs. Whitlock to look
forward to. It was good to have a hot woman on the calendar, even if I couldn't touch.
I shifted my attention to e-mail now. There was a bid for repairing the roof of the bell tower. That
could wait. I had a few e-mails from Mrs. McCarty. What a fucking worrier. I skimmed through them.
She wanted me to check on her son. She wanted to use the reception hall for a bake sale to raise
funds for orphans. Jesus fucking Christ. I couldn't very well say no to that one.
In her third e-mail of the day, she AGAIN asked me to check on her son.
Fine.
My day was now planned out for me. No time to let the Devil put my idle hands to work.
I logged out of that account and logged in to my other one. The inbox was overflowing with video
links and writhing gifs. I watched a couple of the Hot Girl In Shower videos and then just rolled my
eyes. Why couldn't anyone come up with something better in free internet porn? How fucking hard
could it be to supply me with some quality filth that I didn't have to pay for?
I sighed again and cleared the history from the machine. I would get no satisfaction there today.
Maybe I could fit in a little of the real thing.
I dispensed with my morning duties inside the church and escaped as quickly as I could. I prayed
over Mike's fucking oatmeal that was warm and waiting for me, and the fresh blueberries were
actually very good.
I turned down his absurd excuse for coffee, opting to get an eyeful of the waitress at the diner
instead. That was my first stop, and there was Rosalie.
Rosalie Hale had a red fuckable mouth and the finest rack in town. She always smelled like coffee
and springtime and angel cum. And she knew it. When I walked into the diner, she looked up and
smiled at me. Warm as summertime. I watched her hips sway as she walked over to grab the fresh
pot of coffee that had just brewed. I took my usual seat at the counter, and she brought me the usual
cup of coffee.
Ah Rosalie.
"Morning, Father."
I smirked when she said it. I could always think of a million things I'd rather have her call me than
that. "Good morning, Rosalie. Sill on track with your college fund?" Rosalie had graduated from high
school the previous summer but had just missed out on the scholarship she had been banking on. So
until September rolled around once again, Rosalie Hale was serving coffee and shaking her tits at
truckers for tips.
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