Text Size Large SizeMedium SizeSmall Size    Color Scheme Black SchemeWhite SchemeGrey SchemePaper Scheme        

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?

45. Chapter 45

Rating 5/5   Word Count 627   Review this Chapter

But you cannot, cannot rise, my fallen,

His hands are attacks. His words are wounds. His touch is searing pain.

I am used to it. I tolerate it. Only a week in and I pretend it isn’t real already.

Another ghost. Another dream- another monster. My life is nothing. No, less than nothing. My life doesn’t even exist. It is a memory, from the time Carlisle left me on, a memory, a dream, nothing more.

I shudder as I hear the door open and drop to all fours, scrubbing brutally at the floor. Charles greets me with an open-handed slap.

“Get up and say hello to your husband, Esme.”

That’s all he ever calls me, my name. I would prefer an epithet, I think. It might make me a little less certain that I am what he treats me as. Maybe it would permit some disconnect.

I’ve tried to find a numbness, an emptiness to hide what I am suffering from myself, but I have failed. Now I cannot escape the way he makes me feel… worthless.

“Hello, Husband,” I say, careful not to let sarcasm leak into my tone. That can stay safely in my head.

“Now finish washing my floor, Esme.”

No, the name is an epithet. I hear the scorn in it, the disdain, like my own name is a curse, a vile insult. I hear the whole range of possibilities in those two syllables.

“Yes, Husb…” I begin, than remember I am not allowed to speak. I am only a little too late.

As I kneel back down, trying to ignore the shame in it, on hands and knees, I feel the first blow. I know it will not be the only one.

I’m never sure how I should act while he’s administering the beatings. Should I look repentant? Apologize? Or do what I do… lie on the floor and accept the pain and blows for as long as he strikes me, put up with it until he gives up and walks away and leaves me alone.

His feet go through my ribs. I groan.

He laughs maniacally. “Ah, Esme, you’re so funny when you weep. That noise… it sounds… ah, so lovely. I’d like to hear it again.”

And he does, as the second blow falls, and the third, and the fourth. I clutch my sides and try to blot out my terrible awareness.

This is reality. It is the only truth in my existence. It is what my life will be like. I am never going to be free of him, not until I die, and until I do so my sorry life will be pain and misery and all these blows raining on my head like water… only much less benevolent.

Even though water can be a hurricane, this is worse. There is no good that can come of this.

“Esme.” He grins and kneels beside me. I moan and try to turn away- not this, not now. “Esme, I love you.”

I cannot speak. He does not know what it means to love, if this is how he treats the one he supposedly does. That much is obvious.

“Don’t you love me, Esme?”

I can’t bring myself to create the lie.

Unexpectedly, though, I am not punished for my failure. No kick or punch or slap… he just sighs. “Well, you’ll learn to, Esme. You’ll learn.”

I am too sore to even try to push away his hand or turn away from the leering lips that bend towards mine, a perversion of the kiss.

No, stay on the ground where it’s safe,