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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?


47. Chapter 47

Rating 5/5   Word Count 527   Review this Chapter

Fall until you die no matter what you do, even when there’s no lower to go,

“Damn!”

It is the first word I hear when he walks through the door- and I realize abruptly it is the first time I have ever heard Charles swear.

“What is it, dear?” I ask, a mockery of the loving wife.

“A thousand curses on whoever schemed up this damned war!”

Blank incomprehension dawns. All I can understand is his fury, and my own fear. It’s never good when he’s mad at me, I know that much. There is danger inherent in his rage. I am an easy target. What protection do I have? “Why, Charles?”

As I expected, he smacks me across the face. I drop my gaze. “Didn’t I tell you not to ask me questions? I didn’t come to my own house to be interrogated, Esme!”

“I’m sorry.”

He doesn’t answer. After a pause, he says, “I’ve been drafted.”

I feel a buzzing giddiness in my head, a raging flame in my stomach and my heart. It has been gone so long I barely remember it. It is an unstoppable sensation, strange, foreign… relief. That’s the word. Or maybe something stronger. Joy. Euphoria. I am as happy, as without care, as though I am heavily intoxicated. I have no problems. I have no worries.

Drafted suddenly seems a beautiful word. Drafted, sent away, going, going, gone, dragged away to fight far away from me.

He’ll be a good soldier. He can beat someone who beats back. It will be a healthy experience for him. I think he needs it.

But not as much as I do. I take a deep breath and rejoice in the way it makes me feel, the air gently weaving through my freshly opened lungs, my heartbeat slowing from fear to stillness.

I am at peace. I am no longer hunted. “I’m so sorry, Charles,” I lie. He grimaces.

“Two weeks and I must leave. I want dinner.”

Abruptly the subject is closed. I grin at him. “Here, dear.”

He scowls at the meal and takes a large bite, plopping down on the chair I spent an hour dusting and polishing. “Salty. Good,” he grunts.

I laugh- internally, of course. I can’t risk having to explain the events of this afternoon.

I don’t attempt to reopen the subject of his impending departure. Two weeks. I’m not sure how I’ll survive it, but I’m sure I can do so.

Two weeks. Fourteen days. That can hardly make a difference in my life…

And then I realize it’s twice as long as I knew Carlisle. But that’s different. Happiness need not last as long as misery. Pain is tedious. Love is not.

I smile at Charles. “Enjoy your dinner.”

He nods at me and continues wolfing down my painstakingly prepared repast.

I escape upstairs to laugh and laugh at the irony and joy and relief. I am free.

Brief respite, yes, but the higher you rise the lower you fall…