Back by popular demand, the second chapter of 'Purple Rose'. I wasn't planning on writing a second chapter for this story, but overall the reception was good, so I decided to thank the people who Reviewed, Favourited and Story-Alerted etc.

I probably won't be writing another chapter for this story, but for more EPOV, check out my story 'After the Burning'.

Disclaimer; Twilight belongs to Stephenie Meyer.

The night dragged by slowly, each passing moment measured by Bella's steady breathing. Although she remained splayed across my chest, I strained as far away from her as possible. Her scent, once a beautiful accompaniment to her breathtaking beauty, had now returned to being one of the most detested things in the universe. Her aroma flourished in the heat, its delicious flavor almost visible as it filled the room, creating a strange haze which I struggled to see through.

I lied. As much as I tried to blame everything on the scent, the detestable, delicious, welcoming scent, I couldn't. I knew each and every ounce of hate I felt towards her blood, the life-sustaining fluid that ran through her veins, the one thing in the world that I wanted more than the beautiful, mistaken girl that lay in my arms; was misdirected.

I hated myself.

For loving her, for wanting her. For taking her, for needing her. And most of all, for making her love me.

The blossoming scent of her blood had masked every coherent thought I tried to conceive. As the morning light cast a faint glow over the pristine white sheets, the depth of what I had done began to sink in. The bruises had deepened, etched onto her skin like a tattoo. I tried to shut my eyes, but the image was burned into my mind, and it seemed to grow with each second.

On the back of her neck, tiny beads of sweat had begun to form with the heat of the rising sun, and with the light cast over her skin, they created tiny rainbows on her back.

I looked at my own pallid skin, and the bright rainbows it cast when held to the sun, comparing it to the insignificant shafts of light on her back. How could she want this for herself? How could I let myself be the sole reason for ending her life? And not only the reason, but the creature, the despicable being to do it?

In response to the increasing heat of the room, I let my hands, once straining as far away from her being as possible, resume their places around her body, and I began to lightly trace images on her back, pictures of suns, trees, birds, anything to try and distract myself from the feeling of self disgust that left an sordid taste in the back of my throat.

As I drew pictures on her pale skin, I automatically avoided the jaded patches of skin, tracing patterns around them, linking them like a match the dots puzzle.

Bella twitched under my cold touch, and turned her head away from the light as she muttered my name.

"Edward . . ." she mumbled. My jaw tightened. "Edward . . . don't . . . stop it Edward"

Another hiss slid from my clenched jaw. Of course. She had probably been thinking it the entire time, willing me to release my grip with her mind. Each gasp, every cry; it had all been in pain. She had lied when she said it didn't hurt, that it felt good.

I was grasped by the pain of what I had done, its grip tightening on me with each passing second. Worse than the pain of thinking I'd lost her in the ballet studio. Worse than leaving her alone in the woods. Worse than knowing that Victoria was trying to hurt her, and I could do nothing to stop her.

"Edward . . . please." Bella whispered softly in her sleep, biting her lip with a worried expression.

She should have known I could not respond.

I was too far gone. Imagining that night, each kiss, each touch, was contaminated, tainted with a stain the same color as the bruises painting her skin. And as much as I tried, the stain would not come out. It was immovable . . . like ink . . . like blood.

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