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

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?

46. Chapter 46

Rating 5/5   Word Count 560   Review this Chapter

Don’t try to rise up, you know what will happen

I finally despair, two months into my farcical terrible marriage. I am about to kill myself, literally about to, knife in hand.

I know I will not do it. This is not the first time I’ve been chopping something and considered lifting the weapon to my own wrists. It should make the pain end. It’s supposed to. That’s what they say about suicides. Weak, weak people, succumbing to the pressures of their existence. Giving up… you should never give up.

But I want to.

I run my finger along the blade, the sharp silver edge leaving a trail of blood in its wake. There is a pale red line. Maliciously, I turn the knife back to the spinach I’m cutting for dinner.

Ha! You can whip me and beat me and torment me, Charles Evenson. But fear my revenge! Now you have blood in your spinach. Take that, you abuser you!

I grimace at my own pitiful revenge. No, I will not take this knife to my skin. Not for any reason that has anything to do with Charles. Not because I have any reason to live.

But because I am not weak. I refuse to be buried, to be forgotten, to be put in other’s little mental pictures of weak women who gave up, who gave in. Because I won’t. I’ll go on living, no matter how much it hurts. I’ll continue breathing, keep existing, stay alive no matter how little I like it.

Not because I have any reason to live. But because I have reasons not to stop living. And that is enough, just barely enough, to make this painful existence drag on.

I take the knife, draw it again across my skin, this time not across the thumb, but the wrist. It is not suicide. I am not going to die. I am not allowed to.

No, I am just going to prove that I have the strength after all- the strength to live through pain, inflicted by self or circumstance, of any kind, really. I have all the strength to exist without reason.

That, in my humble opinion, is something of a talent.

I don’t even notice the pain as I slice my own skin. It is negligible, a nothing in comparison to all the other times I’ve suffered. Instead of crying out or any other reaction, I clearly and practically wipe off my wrist with the edge of a spoon and stir it into the pie filling. It is the same color as the strawberries.

I don’t think I’ll have much of an appetite tonight…

And if Charles asks why, well, I’m simply too in love with my big strong husband. A true man is one who can beat his helpless wife senseless, of course. Who wouldn’t be enamored of the power it takes to strike a woman already on the floor?

Any girl would love him.

I’m trying to stay slender for my beloved husband. That’s all. No, you go on and eat, Charles.

Eat it all. There’s no poison in it, unless I am poison… which is a possibility.

You’ll just have to fall all over again,