A/N: I do not own the characters in Twilight. All credits are due Stephanie Meyers. My stories are only my thoughts or twists on missing pieces of the saga or alternate directions to the original works.

Reader reviews are welcomed and encouraged, good or bad—as long as not flame. I respect all cultures, rights, and positions regarding sex, religion, politics, and other. My stories will, as I see fit in the plotline, reflect different viewpoints and references. No intent is ever made to discriminate, but only show my opinion based on a particular story line.

Happy reading!

CHAPTER I: Of Demons and Acceptance

(Esme's POV)

Hope is held by a fleeting breath. Hope draws you near with its sweet voice then abandons you to hollow solitude and pain.

It was past dusk, long past dinner—sitting cold and uneaten on the table—when it began. Like a chapter repeated, over and again, I knew what was coming, as the demonic figure flared through the front door, sputtering in rage of punishments for indiscretions and offenses never committed. I remained steadfast to the demon's rant, its reddened eyes blazing into mine, and began to pray for God's shelter to the coming storm.

"I'll teach you not to disgrace and humiliate me woman! I know what you do while I'm away from the house. Whore!" it seethed—blowing a foul stench into my face. It was quick and there was no lull between words and action, as my punishment was brutal—strike after strike, kick after kick. I stopped counting, stopped hoping it would cease, and felt my body turn to stone with icy numbness, as I was dragged by my hair up the splintered staircase towards the bedroom. The cool floor offered little comfort to my pain as each step bounced a new bruise, but I dared not make a sound. Even though my accuser's words were unfounded, I dared not speak in defense.

The demon was unyielding in delivering its twisted sentence—evil and uncaring. I could no longer anticipate the force of each strike nor recoil from its blows. Instead, I stilled and curled into my body, tightly drawing my knees to my chest and attempted to protect the beautiful life which was growing within me—my little light, my hope in this world. The bruises of the demon's assault didn't matter, as long as I could shelter my little light.

It wasn't a faceless, nameless shadow to me; the demon had a name. A name I'd once trusted and taken for my own. As a blurred memory took shape, I began reliving a day when I was filled with so much joy. I could remember myself standing in hope of a life filled with trust and love, happiness and peace—fulfilled by the blessing of children and grandchildren.

I, Charles Evenson, take you, Esme Anne Platt, to be my wedded wife. It is with sincerity and happiness I enter my new life with you. I pledge before God, with all of which I am, to love, keep, and honor you, in all circumstance, for as long as we both shall live.

I, Esme Anne Platt, take you, Charles Evenson, to be my wedded husband. It is with sincerity and happiness I enter my new life with you. As you have pledged your love and honor unto me, so do I pledge before God to give of my life and all I am to you, submitting to you in confidence and promising my love, support, and obedience. I will seek to care and support you for all circumstance and shall honor my place as your wife for as long as we both shall live.

Yes, my demon had a name. It possessed—possessed was appropriate—the same surname as I now did. Evenson. Charles Evenson, my husband, my demon.

This was our house, our home—our future together. Encouraged by my parents, we anchored ourselves to this house and to the area—a quiet, small town on the outskirts of Columbus, Ohio. Despite my initial protests to go west, we decided to live here in happiness and raise our family.

This house is where, after my parents died, shortly following Charles' return from the war, I found solace and peace. It was a refuge for me, and my husband was the only figure in whom I'd sought comfort after my loss. He'd been so caring and tender—my rock and my anchor during that time. I felt hope that his demon had slipped away, never to return. My hope was, however, short lived.

His true nature was always lurking under the surface—a dark, soulless heart waiting to come forward and pounce. I'd silently endured his cruelties so much and so often, I'd come to expect them and no longer hoped for a happy life. Charles Evenson no longer cared about me; he didn't love me unless he was torturing me. I realized, finally, he truly cared for one thing and one thing only, set aside from himself and his anger—his swill, his bottle from which he got his manhood, bottled and peddled by the devil himself.

I'd lived the same nightmare with him many times, but always made excuses for my husband's behavior or, perhaps rather, my inadequacies. After his outbursts, he'd always be apologetic and promise a new tomorrow—filled with endearing commitment and peace. I'd sought and trusted hope many times in the past years, but hope always failed me, goaded me into staying.

I was carrying a child now, our child within me—a child conceived from another rage driven frenzy and night of torment. Yet, in his consistent intoxicated bliss, I'd not told Charles about our beautiful creation—doubtful he would have cared. I vowed, then and there, if I survived the night, to bring my little light safely into the world—to protect my child from the demon. As God was my witness, I was determined to find way.

"What are you thinking woman?" he said between kicks. "Imaging I will stop. Believe me in this, you do not deserve my consideration, my grace in stopping." He continued to taunt and ridicule me, watching me curled on the bedroom carpet; but too soon he noticed the inviting bed.

Although I could sense he was near an end to his tirade—his words more slurred, his thoughts starting to muddle, his physical rage less frequent—he was still strong and began dragging me with him, stumbling towards the bed. I had no strength left with which to fight him. My inner voice screamed—please no, please don't do this. I knew the look on his face, but I couldn't, dare not, utter a sound. I could only turn further into myself, and pray for God to protect my baby. Knowing what was to still come that night, all I could do was close my eyes and hold to the thought of my little light—repeating over and over to myself, I'll protect us little one, I'm here for you, we'll survive this. I let acceptance close my eyes and surrendered to what was to come.

A/N: Hope you enjoyed! Please continue on to see how Esme sees hope as her adversary, but knows she must still bargain with it to find a better life.