Disclaimer: I don't own Twilight or any of its sequels.

Author's note: This story is inspired by Breaking Point by Sugarbucket. It's one of the best stories I have ever come across, and whilst my plot, characterisation and writing style may all be different, with different intentions, it was whilst reading that story that I was inspired to write this. After all, how often do we read things from Esme's point of view? I really hope you like it. Please review to tell me what you think, be it positive or negative. The title of the story comes from Marroon 5's song, She Will Be Loved. "look for the girl with the broken smile...please don't try so hard to say goodbye". That song will also set the tone for my favourite Twilight pairing. I won't tell you which one it is, but I'm sure you'll be able to guess after the relative characters are introduced.

Broken Smiles and Goodbyes

Chapter 1

The fortunate few died one death, one mere mortal death, moving onto whatever happened after that, be it heaven, hell or nothing at all. I, on the other hand, could count on my fingers the deaths I had suffered through. The first was the death of my innocence, the first time that my husband had lifted his hand and left his mark on my face. It was the first time that I realised that the husband who could love me so tenderly could also hit me so ruthlessly. It killed the innocent view of the world I had held, as one where a husband cherished his wife and loved her regardless of her foibles and foolishness. No husband did that. At the least, mine didn't.

The second was the death of my self-respect, the first time my husband forced himself onto me when I didn't want it. This time, the mark left was much deeper and darker, though it left no visible sign. From thereafter, I never resisted when my husband wanted his way; who was I to say no? If I had no rights lawfully, I could hardly have them according to morality. Such logic didn't stop the guilt or disgust I felt afterwards. Used, abused and unable to stop any of it from happening, because I believed it was completely my fault.

The next death I suffered was the death of my life. I left my husband, the love I felt for my son and the fear I felt on his behalf outweighing any desire to stay with my violent husband. When I left him, I left my social standing, my status, and any friends and family I had ever known. I left any friends I could have ever made; women who left their husbands were not respected, were not accepted and were seen as almost equivalent to the women of the nights. It was the most merciful of all the deaths I had suffered. Perhaps in virtue of this, it led to the worst death of all, when my son died. I suffered the death of all my hopes. With the death of my son went any salvation I could have imagined or wished for. With his death went all the reasons for leaving my husband and the life I was accustomed to. With my son went all the love I could have ever expected after my shameless conduct, so, naturally, I thought mortal death should follow.

It was with this thought in mind that I had flung myself from the cliffs, terrified yet relieved that my mortal coil was coming to an end. It did end but not in the way I had expected. The pain I felt at the time was agonising, I remember thinking that. But try as I might, I could not recall the pain I felt then, for the pain I was feeling now was beyond comparison. It made the previous fall feel like being hit with feathers. This pain I was feeling now was true agony, burns spreading through my blood, my heart hurting a little more with each futile beat, my muscles tensing as if attempting to escape the pain and this was but a fraction of what I actually felt.

I knew I was in hell. What else could hurt so much? Why else could I still recall my son dying? Why else could I recall memories of my husband kissing me tenderly side by side with memories of him killing my innocence and slaughtering my self-respect? This had to be hell. There was nothing else it could be. I wondered whether I was being punished for the death of my child or for leaving my husband. Maybe I was being punished for being merely a woman. That would not have surprised me in the least; it had often seemed to me that were men able to conceive children by themselves, there would be no need for us women. It didn't seem improbable that God felt the same way. Life had not dealt me a kind hand and life was governed by God, after all.

Words seemed to be penetrating my pain now. Was this a new form of torture? Feigning sanity in my mind only for the torture to continue endlessly? But I could almost believe that the pain was lessening slightly. Such futile thoughts, my mind straining to hold onto the very last shreds hope that I had thought I had given up; I hoped I had given up. But it was there, struggling to make sense of words that were floating through the pain, labouring to push the pain away, just a tiny, minuscule bit at a time.

One word seemed to penetrate through the chasm of pain I had fallen into, just one word – you. I wondered who could be talking to me, a demon or an angel. An angel seemed unlikely but the voice felt like velvet, soothing and comforting nonetheless, demanding trust and exuding dreams of deliverance. How much more damned could I be?

Yet the pain was lessening and words were beginning to converge into something somewhat resembling a sentence. If I strained hard enough, it could almost make sense. Almost, but not quite. I was only able to catch seemingly random words; over, pain. I could rationalise reasons for such words to be uttered to me, be it demon or angel, yet one word, repeatedly more often than others could not so be rationalised; the word that my mind seemed to cling onto more strongly than any other word. Sorry. I could think of nothing that could sufficiently explain such words being uttered to me; by me was more than possible, it was understandable, but why would a demon apologise for my just deserts? The possibility that an angel could say so to me was even more ridiculous.

Yet there it was, spoken again and again, and yet again, in that same smooth voice that seemed to cleanse and balm my pain.

For a moment, the thought flashed into my mind that I wasn't in hell, that I wasn't damned. Just as swiftly, I dismissed the idea. Women like me were not worthy of heaven, and that was the only other option.

I could feel tingling now, tingling in my fingers. The pain truly was lessening; of this I was now certain. I shut my eyes tightly, terrified of what I might see or might not... My mind was in chaos. I wasn't in hell but what else could cause such pain? I could come up with nothing reasonable in response. Words drifted into my mind that had been uttered by the velvet voice. Vampire; demon; monster but these were stories told to children. The more my pain lessened, the tighter I closed my eyes until eventually there was nothing but a feeling of pleasant calm resting over my whole body. Reluctantly, I decided to open my eyes. After all, I could not spend the rest of eternity lying here with my eyes closed. I opened my eyes only to have them assailed by the most puissant sight that had ever been their fortune or misfortune to behold – a pair of guilty golden eyes staring down at me with guilty hope.