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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?

50. Chapter 50

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Freedom in falling,

I’ve gone quite mad.

Everyone is aware of this. However, I’m not just insane in the disapproving but compassionate eyes of polite society. I myself agree with their assessment.

I’ve lost my marbles.

And I rather like it.

Madwomen aren’t expected to go to Aunt Gertrude’s house for tea, or host weekly dinner parties, or lunch upon the town, all with a smile on their face and a tear on their eye for their poor dear husband off at war. I, being crazy, am free from all these obligations.

It is fantastic! Of course, being a wealthy wife, I don’t get locked up to tear my hair out and dwell miserably in confinement, dreaming away my life between shock treatments. Instead, I live in a world of my own making and in my own home. It’s terribly convenient.

“It’s all the stress, the poor dear.”

I’m frequently called the poor dear.

“Oh, that’s Esme Evenson, the poor dear.”

“She’s ill, the poor dear.”

“The poor dear, I think she’s a bit… unstable.”

“It’s all losing her husband, the poor dear.”

“And they were such a lovely, darling, loving couple.”

“The poor dear.”

“She misses him so, the poor dear.”

“Don’t worry, the poor dear will be as right as rain when he gets home.”

I’m not entirely certain whether I find it irritating or amusing.

Possibly both. After all, it is ironic in the delightful way that is all that’s gotten me through these years. Poor dear, she’s been through so much…

She pretends she doesn’t care. But she does. And she’s so sick of having to lie to everyone. Everyone. Everyone. There’s no one she can trust. No one.

No one loves her. No one knows her beyond a friendly consoling pat on the arm and a word of pity for Esme Evenson the poor dear.

She is a stranger in her own life. She goes through the motions, and even that rarely, stiffly, mysteriously. But fortunately, being alone in this life, she doesn’t have to pretend often, no, most of the time she is alone and can cease her façade.

And that is a relief, because it’s hard to hide from everyone, and harder still not to even know who she is.

I shake my head vigorously. I truly am insane. I’m talking to myself. In third person. It is not the marker of a healthful psyche, that’s for sure. Well, I don’t care. I’ve already accepted that I’m crazy. Thus, I shall simply accept the symptoms right alongside it. That’s the smart thing to do.

I groan and return to my delusion.

I have a new coping mechanism. When I am in the company of others, it’s the polite perfection and interior biting sarcasm. When I am alone, however, my insanity shows.

It has a most unusual manifestation. I’ll give you that. I’m not crazy like other people. Still, I’m not normal.

I don’t care. I don’t care, I don’t, I don’t…

I put my head in my hands and dream.

But don’t forget the fact,