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The Falling

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!

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

43. Chapter 43

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To your wondering and fierce oppressed eyes,

I am bundled into the carriage. I remember another, so much more romantic ride, with a much better man at my side.

Charles holds himself erect, tall and totally separate from me. Does he think there’s weakness in touch, in freeing that rigid posture to melt into my arms? Not that I would accept it if he did… no, I would. I would have to.

I am his wife.

It is only now that I realize the magnitude of what I’ve done. Though I know and knew it was unreasonable to wait for him, should Carlisle come back today, I could not run into his waiting beloved arms. I can never be with the one I love, because of my mistake today. And I will have to love Charles, if not in my heart, at least with my body. It is an oath I have sworn. A promise- and I keep my promises. I am stuck to this deed, bound to it into eternity. Even after we both die it is not unreasonable to suspect we will still be somehow intertwined, that I will not escape this bondage. All the fables and pretty stories say that we meet the beloved dead when we join them in heaven. If he is not beloved, but I am his, can I escape by ending my life?

What am I thinking about? This is ridiculous. I don’t want to die. Why should I?

I have nothing to live for- at the moment. But I will have children and friends and a purpose. I have hope. My existence is without joy, but it is also without pain. Why should I, the new Mrs. Charles Evenson, be so desperate as to consider suicide? It makes no sense. I should, in the eyes of the world, be rejoicing. Even knowing I don’t love him, this abject misery makes no sense.

I have escaped my parents’ house. I am as free as I ever shall be. Can I not find it in my heart to be briefly happy for this triumph? Why am I not relieved?

Because I hate this man. And it makes no sense.

I am cursing my own stupidity as he takes my arm and leads me from the cart to our new house. It is nothing special, just a one-story creation of plain gray wood. I immediately itch to repaint it, perhaps a pale yellow, and do something about that too-low ceiling.

But there is no time for those thoughts.

I must determine how to delay this night- and deal with the suddenly grinning monster the plain man I thought I knew has become.

“Esme, pretty Esme. Are you ready?” he asks, with a strange leer. It is not the plain stiff odd Charles I knew.

“No… no… I’m sorry,” I stutter like a frightened girl, which is what I am. I hide my true disgust for him, pretending it is mere nervousness.

He grimaces at me, and then suddenly laughs. “Too bad.”

I gasp as he lunges toward me.

What is going on? I do not know this man. He is a total stranger. This is not the timid Charles I married, the one who would estrange me, but never attack.

He is on me then, and there is no time for thought. He doesn’t bother with a bed, just pushes me to the floor.

When I realize what he’s doing, I gasp and try to push him off. All my strength is a failure. I can’t do it- I’m not enough to prevent his attacks.

His rough hands rip away the dress and I scream.

Before I even know what’s happening, that same marauding hand smacks across my face. It makes a loud noise and a sharp burst of pain. I don’t remark it particularly at the time amidst the panic.

I should have.

The hand snakes down and pushes me against the floor. I close my eyes and whisper a silent prayer to my poor forgetful abandoning angel.

Carlisle, let it be over soon.

He does not heed.

Suddenly, the fall’s revealed.