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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?

72. Chapter 72

Rating 5/5   Word Count 526   Review this Chapter

Into the waiting abyss,

“I was forced to marry him… I had not, you understand, gotten over you, as brief as that, that… courtship… was. I was not quite the despondent, heartbroken heroine of a fairytale, but I was quite fixated on making a brave show of not being the despondent, heartbroken heroine of a fairytale.”

He laughs, softly. “I can’t imagine you despondent, Esme. But you really are quite an actress.”

I wonder if he’s remembering our outing, but then I shake my head and return to the tale. “I hatched a plan to escape to the West, to teach, the day Charles Evenson proposed. I told my parents. My mother informed me no such thing would happen. I married him against my will.”

His response this time is silent. His whole body tenses like a taut bowstring, with indelible fury.

“What’s wrong?”

“You were forced into the marriage? You did not want to marry… someone…” he stops. “I’m sorry, Esme. Please, continue.”

I close my eyes. “No. I don’t know how to go on.”

“Are you afraid it will offend me? I apologize for that. I assure you, if you do not wish to tell me of the happiness you found, there is nothing to fear. I truly want to know.”

I laugh bitterly. “Happiness? I was miserable. From that first night…”

He winces.

“I’m sorry. It’s not the sort of thing one should speak of. But…” I pause, and gather in my breath. I know I don’t need it, but there’s a certain comfort in the air, in the smell of dust and sunlight and of Carlisle.

“No, no, I understand.” He does not look at me. I ache at the absence of his eyes. “Some things are simply a part of one’s life… if one is not me.”

I pause, a sadness overtaking me at his confession. In all his years… two hundred of them and more… he has been alone, in all ways. I am the first he has loved, or was anyway, and I am not so untouched. “No. Carlisle, I don’t know how to say this, how to explain.”

“Tell me.”

I shake my head. My arms drift, first at my side, then one resting at my throat, then hugged around my torso, then twisting in the fabric of my skirt. I scan through faded memories and want to weep at their content. I beg memory for words that do not appear. “I don’t know how to.”

“What aren’t you telling me?”

“I was not a… a happy wife.” It’s as much as I can admit.

His eyes flash open and onto mine. They smolder with rage. “What are you saying?” he hisses, furious.

“I… he… Charles…” I break down again, sucking in that sweet-tinged air, panting, like sobs are about to form. I know I cannot cry, however, one more weight on my back. My eyes close under the weight of Carlisle’s stare, and I squeeze out the words. “He beat me.”

Such a small fall,