Isabella
New York, New York. 1912.
Noise. Dreadful noise. The comings and goings, daily routines, banging, clanging, crashing sounds. They overpowered my sensitive hearing like the sounds of nails on a chalkboard. How humans could be as sloppy, noisy and altogether obnoxious was beyond me.
If you were to ask, I would likely say it was the noise and commotion that drove me from my home, London. Never mind that this was the first exploration of my immortality without the prying eyes and subjective glares of my eternal father, Carlisle. Never mind that my first steps on American soil were proving to be as ill-suffered as that of my homeland.
Esme
London, England. 1762.
"Damn it, Carlisle! For the last time, I am simply observing that it might be of benefit to separate those with protestant interests from that of the church." She punctuated her statement with a loud sigh as he helped her navigate the carriage steps.
Esme was a beautiful, smart, warm, caramel-haired woman that Carlisle had met in the dark, dank grey rooms of a tiny flat in the innards of London while she was slowly wasting away from consumption. She was content to her fate, already having lost the will to live with the death of her young son, Henry. Esme could only hope that her bastard of a husband was destined for a suffering end. She had resigned herself to her fate and assumed that the ethereal flaxen-haired angel was of God's own creation, there to escort her to whatever her fate may have been. Instead, Carlisle was transfixed. He would later say that Esme was akin to the last spark of a candle's flame, she could have been blown out into a wisp of smoke, forever lost. He was unable to help himself, unable to stop himself from gently coaxing the embers back into a flame. An immortal flame, to burn forever.
I met Esme on the first day of my immortal life. She was there to calm me when I opened my new eyes with fear and surprise. She was there for every one of my emotional outbursts, for the overflow of anger and blame I spun in Carlisle's direction, and to teach me to be a lady. Poor Esme. Not only was she tasked with the care of consequences of Carlisle's compassion, but she also finished polishing a ruffian into an English lady, capable of moving about the human aristocratic world with ease.
I no longer remember my human mother. As far as I am concerned, Esme will always be my mother. Carlisle, my eternal benefactor, as grown from a savior to both a patriarch and friend, my intellectual confidant. However, neither of them were ever able to save me from myself.