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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?

55. Chapter 55

Rating 5/5   Word Count 562   Review this Chapter

Wherein you plummet still further,

It’s worse. Just as I was warned.

War changes a fellow, makes him hard-hearted and strange, vicious, sadistic. Cruel.

Of course, that’s bad enough when a man’s gentle or at least average. When you start out with a Charles Evenson and then add all the horrors of the violence to him, you get…


“Bring me the goddamn coffee, Esme!”

I sprint toward him, managing to spill the hot liquid down the front of my dress in the process. Well, that simply puts the cherry atop the proverbial ice cream sundae, does it not?

He was creepy before, the stark contrast between his gentlemanly, bland exterior and his inner self, the way he was always dressed to the nines and never swore, yet came home and hit me until I couldn’t walk.

Now he’s simply vicious. He swears constantly and viciously, with gusto. He scarcely bothers to wash or change his clothes, but heaven itself couldn’t save me if one garment he wanted wasn’t clean, ironed, folded, and within arms reach. He leaves the house only rarely, and then to drink with old war buddies and come home roaring stoned, unable to think or walk or move beyond striking me.

I scarcely notice the pain of the hot liquid burning me, or the discomfort as it cools and dries, sticky on my skin.

“Here you are, dear,” I say, keeping my voice calm and praying he won’t notice my stained dress.

No luck- I really shouldn’t be surprised, should I? When was the last time I was lucky?

Probably when I met Carlisle.

I wince. I have strictly forbidden myself from thinking about him, especially when Charles is actually in the same room as me. My heart leaps, hope floods into my eyes, and a smile flits across my face whenever I even think his name.

And Charles can tell. “What are we so happy about, Esme?”

“I am happy to see you.”

He, for once, doesn’t notice the lie. That’s good. A minor relief, because he’s distracted with something else. “That dress is filthy.”

“I’m sorry. I was rushing, to bring you your drink-“

“Did I ask for excuses?” I bow my head. He continues, standing, walking towards me. “Now, as I recall, I specifically asked you to keep yourself presentable. Isn’t that right, Esme?”

I nod.

“Do you think this qualifies as presentable?”

I am silent. What is the right answer here? Is there even a way out of this situation?

Do you?”

I shake my head.

“That’s right. It isn’t. Now, take the damn thing off.”

For a second, I hesitate. It’s just long enough. He slaps me, not hard, but enough that it makes a clamorous and terrifying noise. I grab the laces of the dress and pull.

It falls to the floor.

Charles smiles.

I ball my hands into fists and watch, passive, waiting for it to end.

He takes off his own clothes.

I watch.

He steps towards me.

I watch.

He grabs my shoulders.

I watch.

He topples us over onto the floor.

I look away.

I do not see. I do not feel. I am… nothing.

Falling into nothing…