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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?

78. Chapter 78

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The one who watched you fall,

I lie there by her side for a while. I do not think or feel. The only sensation I am aware of is the gentle motion of wind, soft in my hair. The only thought I have is of living. Not breathing, for I forego that, fearing a further temptation. Instead, I simply lie there in the grass, silent and still and miserable. I do not allow the guilt to sink in. I will not survive that. It is too vast and overpowering and myself not strong enough to bear it.

The girl is as silent as I am. We are companions in this, motionless as we sit side by side, waiting for something or someone. Waiting for the strength, the breath, the life. It shows no signs of favoring us with its presence ever again.

And then I hear the music of his voice. “Esme?”

I lie silent and still and wait for the rage, or the disappointment. Worse than my own guilt is knowing what I’ve done to him. He trusted me, loved me, thought I deserved it, deserved him. I repaid that trust by this casual murder of a complete innocent. I am truly a monster. Now I understand what Edward said. We are not human. We do not have souls. We are beasts in crystalline shells, walking this earth to prey in our weaker moments and lie when we are strong enough with regret to resist.

“Esme?” he says again. I do not answer. I cannot bear to respond as he leaves me. I’m simply going to take it, lie here on the forest floor for all of eternity, never moving again. I don’t need to hunt. I can feel the bloodlust still, even having just fed on the sweetest thing in existence, on my first taste of human blood, but it is meaningless. What is temptation when I so refuse to be tempted? Because I do. I will never, never kill again.


Finally, I turn my face to the side. It takes all my will to do so. I stay still and silent other than that, and still don’t permit myself so much as a single breath. I must not breathe or think or speak. I must not live. I may only lie here and be, exist, interacting with no one, not even myself.

“Please, Esme.”

I do not move.

“Say something. I’m begging you.”

Nothing. Nothing. What words are there? I can’t answer. I am so unworthy of it. The guilt tears at me, but there’s more than that. Shame at my weakness, and a despair that saps my will for life. I do not wish to go on. I only want to lie here. It’s like when my son died. I am so empty. I have Carlisle no longer, that much is certain. I’ve still suffered every loss I had then, and now I’ve killed my self, the thing that makes me beautiful and good and Esme. I am a monster now, and I would rather die than see it.

“I am so sorry, Esme,” he whispers, and I snap upright.

And didn’t stop you,