Hello readers, and welcome for another adventure !

So, this time we are going to have an insight into Esme's last human days, when she is finally a mother. I must warn : I have cried while writing it. But that might be because I'm sensitive.

Anyways, I hope you all like it ! xxx

DISCLAIMER : I own nothing, S.M. does. I'm just having fun.

Esme felt a crushing pain in her abdomen.

As she let the vase fall to the floor, taken aback, a bright smile appeared on her pink lips. The deep dark circles under her brown eyes seemed to disappear, as if to balance that sun-like smile. The young woman clenched her stomach, sanking her teeth in her bottom lip when an other blow came.

She did not feel panicked. She certainly should have … after all, she was all alone, and about to give birth. But the panick never came. Instead, as the blows were becoming more and more intense, Esme felt herself relax. Used to the pain, she was welcoming her like and old friend. In fact, she worshipped that very pain, because it was bringing her a new light, a new hope.

That pain was pulling her baby into the world.

As Esme stood, alone, on the threshold, the sobs were urging her to run. The urge was almost to intense to bear. But she bore it. She had to bear it. It was her burden it did not belong to anyone else but her.

Seventy-five years old … he would have been seventy-five years old. And she would have been a hundred and eleven years old. In other words : dead.

If she had not thrown herself from that cliff – if he had not died – she would have most likely died around 1965. She would have been in her seventies.

He would have been around forty.

But « ifs » held no good. She shook her head, furious with herself. She already had so much, and yet, was forced to mourn her past. She knew it was making Carlisle feel bad, and that was the last thing she wanted. Especially now, when he needed guidance and support more than ever. And she, his wife, was unable to support him.

They didn't fight. Never. They certainly had arguments, but it had never lead to a fight never in seventy-five years.

Seventy-five. That number sent shivers down her spine, as memory took over the present, leaving Forks and Bella behind …

She rocked him lovingly, stroking the rare hair he had on his tiny head. As he plunged deep in his mother's eyes, he sure was able to see that blazing love – in those eyes that he, Jack, had inherited from her. And Esme could certainly see that same little sparkle in her baby's eyes. The exchange, however, remained the most quiet. No one was supposed to disturb these two souls, except one unwanted – and unevitable – guest.

But for now, Esme was quietly singing an old tune, lulling her little one into sleep, as he finished eating, resting his hand upon her breast. Smiling, she stroke that tiny hand as well, drawing circles over the warm skin. She bent over to kiss the top of his head, her blouse brushing his cheek.

She giggled as he yawned adorably, snuggling against her bare chest.
Relaxing in her bed, Esme closed her eyes, feeling the sleep coming after her. As she kept escaping the world of dreams to stay aware of the real world, Jack soon gave up and fell asleep. Esme gently pulled him away from her breast, yet refusing to close her blouse.

The house was silent, warm, and almost felt like home.

Esme closed her eyes again, shaking the sorrow away. It was a moment of love and blessing between her and her little one, not a moment of sadness over a lost family. Over her lost parents who would never get to meet their grandson. Over her lost sister who did not really care if she was an aunt or not, for that Esme knew she was much more worried about her vanished sister.

Esme sighed heavily, the memory of Jeanne swimming in her sleepy brain. Oh, sweet Jeanne. Her lovely sister. She was the older one, and must be really worried about her little sister who had left without even a goodbye. But Esme knew that she did not have a choice. Jeanne did love her, yes , but she did not believe Esme. She refused to understand her struggles. She refused to hear about her abusive husband, or about the way he was taking her – when, how and where he wanted to – and did not believe her, even when she had begged her their parents, she denied the obvious rape, changing it into an « love that needs a bit of time to blossom ».

So, as much as Esme loved Jeanne, she would not come back to her, because she was certain that she would be the one blamed. She would be accused of cowardise – if they were to believe her – or worst : of lying.

So, no, she would never come back. She would start over, start a new life with her son … She would forget them. It would be painful, yes, but she had got through childbirth without giving up. No, she never gave up. Because she knew she was right.

Now, she was even more sure of that.

Esme felt her eyes open when a loving embrace pulled her into a welcomed warmth. A weak smile crossed her red lips, as his arms encircled her body. Once more, she noticed just how much smaller she was. That was a good thing even more so in moments like this one.

When her demons pulled her into the past, he was always there to pull back. Yet, he did it gently … a simple kiss, or a well-placed caress were sufficient. But he also understood that she needed, at times, a little escape from the sometimes painful reality. However, today was not one of those today was a painful day that her demons so shamelessly used …

November 1921

Jack coughed again. His mother kissed his little forehead, and felt how warm he was. Worried, she got up and opened the front door, stepping on the threshold.

Jack opened his glistening eyes.

Esme tried to stifle a sob when she saw how much her baby was exhausted. His fevered eyes were burning, showing nothing but illness and tiredness. He had grown weary over the last days, refusing to feed and having troubles to sleep. Esme did not sleep well either, not leaving his side. After two days of waking up every hour, she finally took him with her. In her bed, nestled against her breast, he did not calm down …

He was in constant pain so was his mother. She could not stand to see him so badly attacked by an unknown disease, and not being able to help him. She had birthed him, and yet, was helpless against this powerful cough. It was much stronger than she was.

Much stronger than Jack was …

Her baby was suffocating, she knew it. This cough was getting the best of him, and he – who was born three weeks premature – had the strongest will of both of them. She knew her baby boy well enough to see his resistance. She knew he was fighting she knew that his immune system was working all it could to save him.

However, deep in her heart, she knew what was going to happen.

She knew that, soon, Jack would be gone.

Early December, 1921

A week and a half had passed since Jack's birth, and his condition had continued to deteriorate. Esme was no longer able to swallow her tears. So she let them flow, stroking her son's burning cheek lovingly.

She tried all she could to feed him, but he refused. He had kept refusing until today, when he finally latched on, establishing a connection that she had terribly missed. A deep sigh of relief had escaped Esme's lips.

But not for long …

The following day, at six o'clock in the evening, she called the doctor. She had already called him two days before, and he had been very clear : the boy was not likely to live.

Esme had sobbed helplessly that evening. In front of the good doctor, she had shown a strength she no longer possessed. She had nodded, fighting the tears as she felt her eyes burn. This holy water that would ease this burning, she was keeping it in her heart. She had to, both for her and Jack.

Of course he was crying. Of course she had wiped away his own tears, and kissed his cheeks as his tiny lips trembled. Of course he had the right to cry, for that his suffering was so much more painful than hers.

But she was a selfish creature. She needed to cry, to sob and to scream. She needed to escape this cruel reality. She needed to get her past back … This past in which she was happy. This past in which Jack was smiling up at her, that very first day he opened his eyes – her eyes.

But that past was now dead. And their future would never be born. Their present was fading away, leaving its deadly mark in her crushed heart, as she finally saw her baby's eyes close to never open again.

The pain broke her newly restored heart in a thousand little pieces as Jack's last smile faded. She sobbed loudly when his tiny head fell upon her breast, no longer nursing. In despair, she called him when his hands ceased to clench her finger. When his heart stopped beating, so did hers.

And the pain actually never stopped, and she carried it through this dark night.

As she held him against her, her body shaking every time the sobs came back, her dead heart was screaming at God. Her mind was cursing this Father who had taken her treasure from her. She was furious in her sorrow, the shreds of her broken heart holding on to that anger.

Yes, that anger was the strongest she had ever experienced. She was delighted to be angry. It was her only escape from this terrible pain. And she was drowning into that fury.

As she walked away from the house, leaving her destroyed life behind this door, she wasn't carrying anything. She did not need anything. She needed nothing. All she wanted was the void. The deepest of all the voids.

That was what she needed. And that was what life could never give her.

She felt heavy. Her legs were heavy, her hips were heavy, her breasts were heavy … Her past was heavy to carry. That was why she refused to take anything with her.

Herself was heavy enough.

She was desperate to ease her heavy heart and to free her broken mind. For that one aim, she was seeking Life's greatest foe : Death. She had been begging Her to come for the poor shell of a woman that she was. Yet, She did not. She watched her with a light smile – a good smile – on her nonexistent lips. Esme had begged … Oh yes, she had. But Death would not come easily.

So Esme got up from her cold bed, and walked past the door, never looking back. She slowly made her way to the cemetery, the weight of silence pushing hard against her neck.

It was the doctor who had insisted on burrying her little one. She, foolishly, had resisted until shreds of reason made their way into her brain. Then, she had said « yes ». Just a tiny, weak « yes ». The doctor had nodded, helping her out.

The funerals had been an atrocity to behold.

So, now, she was walking barefoot on the freezed grass, passing the graves one by one, not even giving a look at them. She walked until she was finally standing in front of his tiny grave.

The tumb looked clean the flowers had not yet wilted.

She crouched to pick a dandelion and laid it below the gravestone, stroking the short inscriptions that it bore.

Jack Platt,

born 29th of November 1921

died 9th of December 1921

She did not want to give her son a fake name. So she pretended « Platt » was her dead husband's name.

She had gave rise to more pity than suspicions.

Also, Esme refused to write anything but her son's name and his date of birth and death on the tumb, because she did not feel the need for it. She loved him so much more than any inscription could ever tell. And, somehow, she did not want the world to know how much she had suffered from his passing.

And yet, she had gone through Hell …

So, Esme landed a soft kiss on Jack's tumb, and headed away as quickly as she could. The atmosphere here was almost as heavy as her heart, and the lost souls were weighing upon her shoulders as her burden followed her every steps, from the cemetery to the top of that cliff.

And there she stood, her feet destroyed by the rocks.

However, her heart was smiling. She was smiling, wiping away her last tears of sorrow. She knew that, soon, her face would be covered with tears of joy. With tears of relief.

So she jumped.

I really hope you have enjoyed reading it as much as I have loved writing it !

Remember, reviews are like candies to me.

xxx, Alice.

P.-S. : Would you like a Carlisle's vision into his wife's feelings over Bella's pregnancy ? Tell me !