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The Falling

Summary:
In the action itself, she is weightless and free. The flight is not to be feared, only the impact. A story on the life of Esme Cullen. Image Hosted by ImageShack.us Banner By incredible Iris!

Notes:
I may submit this to the official site. What do you think?

17. Chapter 17

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Fallen love…

I do not sleep that night. He works the entire time, and though we do not speak or interact, it is a comfort. The night is long, and dark, and empty, and strangely sweet in shared presence.

It is all I need. I do not even think. I merely lie immobile like a sponge and soak up his being there. I absorb it, take it in, make it a part of myself stored away for the long hard days to come. It is all that will get me through, I know. If all the memories I have are from this long, calm night, I cannot complain. If I have moments of contentment in his presence, it is all I can ask.

For the rest of my life, this will be in my dreams, this night. I should perhaps lust for something more impossible… for something like having him lie beside me, in our shared bed, man and wife…

Forever.

But forever seems little more than a hopeless dream. The only thing I will ever know is memories.

Somehow it is enough.

“Esme?” he whispers, as the first pink touches the sky. I see outside my window the clouds of night recede, leaving a blanket fluorescent with all the warmest shades.

“Yes?”

“Did you sleep at all?”

“No.”

“You’ll have to eventually,” he answers, calm and cool. His voice is filled with compassion, and though I love it, I am hurt… it is a distant voice, the love he shares with all the world, not the fire within that was once, albeit so briefly, mine.

“I know. I’d rather not it be when I can be with you, though.”

“I’m so sorry,” he says, and it hangs in the air. It is the last thing there is to say. Maybe there would be some comfort in repeating the range of emotion from adoration to regret, but repetition inspired tedium in me always. It’s over. There truly is nothing we can do.

I could say I forgive him, but I would prefer not to have the last thing I say to the man I love be a lie.

He looks at me then, long and slow and still, and walks to the bed where I lie. His cold hand traces my face, pausing over my lips.

He doesn’t kiss me. He doesn’t move at all, just stands there for a second, touching my face, and then sighs deeply.

“My shift’s over. Good-bye…”

He walks away. I know I will never see him again.

It strikes me as callous that the last words we’ll ever exchange are so empty, so common-place. I know a vow of undying devotion isn’t strictly possible, not when he’s a reputation to maintain, and my parents don’t care for the concept of love… but I know I would at least have liked one more kiss.

I would cry or punch the pillow, but pain and sleep deprivation have taken their toll. I am too exhausted to do anything, even to sleep. I lie in gray existence.

And somehow I am relieved.

It is over. The daydream has ended. Lurching back to real life will hurt, but it can start happening. At least there is nothing more to dread.

Fell, fell, fall…