Twilight Fan-fiction

Esme

Chapter 1 – Sickness

I cradled the baby gently to my chest and waited for the pain to hit home. He was so beautiful, so soft and delicate. His pale pink skin was going cold as I held him there, his veins turning blue, and I felt the first of countless sobs rise and create a hard lump in my throat.

Alex.

Not even a week old. I'd only just named him. He was my first child, and, most probably, my last. How could I go on when already the crushing weight of guilt was beginning to consume me? My insides shuddered as I broke into loud, hysterical sobs, tightening my hold, pressing my eyes shut so tightly that they shut out all the light from the already dim bedroom, and I could pretend…hope…that it was all a dream.

A warm hand rested on my shoulder and gave a comforting squeeze. I opened my bleary red eyes, my throat still issuing a sad whimpering noise between choked breaths. The nursemaid was looking at me solemnly, "Esme," she said firmly, but with pity. "It's too late. He's dead." I heard her words, but somehow my brain couldn't program what they meant. They repeated in my head eerily. It's too late. He's dead.

I began to sway back and forth in the old rocking chair, it squeaking slightly in protest, and held Alex to my chest earnestly. I bent down and kissed his forehead tenderly, my lips shaking, and then began stroking his face with the curled outside of my hand, my fingers quivering as they brushed his tiny face. So beautiful, my Alex. I still remembered the bright, sparkly green of his eyes, like shining emeralds.

"It's okay, darling," I whispered, still rocking. "Mommy's coming home soon."

Jaime was nowhere to be seen. Coward. I'd never loved him, not like I'd loved Alex, but it had never been my choice. When you belonged to a wealthy family like mine, marrying was never a matter of love. It was of socially appropriate matches, and of connections to other wealthy families and of business proposals. "I'll get my daughter to marry your son, and you can be my business partner! We'll take the world by storm, you and I." This was how it had been for me. Jaime's father was another powerful man, and turning down that offer was not an option. Not when he regarded me as a "healthy specimen", sure to provide some fine offspring to carry on his name.

Jaime had been trying to get me pregnant for years, but had failed, to the displeasure of his father, and of mine. But when the moment finally came, I'd been filled with such excitement. A little baby, a life, growing inside of me. The birth had been hard; so much blood and tears, and screaming. But when little Alex had finally arrived into the world, Jaime's only reaction was a disappointed sneer. "He's sick," he had said with a mocking grimace. Jaime had failed, again, and he knew it. Because the fact is, Alex was sick. It was obvious in the yellowish tone of his skin, the way his body rejected food, he was never hungry, and how he coughed so hard at night that in the morning there would be blood around his mouth.

I had wept for his sickness, prayed for him, stayed with him, despite the inevitable truth spoken by the doctor. Alex had only a day, perhaps hours, to live. He had held on though, my little boy, and on the morning of his third day, after his worst fit of coughing yet, his body gave in. And he died. There, in my arms. Peaceful at last.

"Esme," the nursemaid said again. "I'm sorry, but you have to give him to me. We must cleanse his body for burial."

"NO!" I wailed, clutching him to me, a fresh load of tears pouring from my stinging eyes. "He's mine!"

She moved towards me and attempted to take Alex out of my arms.

"You have to let him go," she informed me with a brisk efficiency that made me sure she'd dealt with a situation like this before. "His soul must find a clear path to the afterlife."

I loosened my grip on Alex slowly, with much effort, and when the nursemaid finally had him in her arms instead of mine, it was as if a something inside of me died. A devastating pain filled my heart.

"I'll be with you soon, Alex."

Chapter 2 – Bare Feet

The Funeral had been terrible. No parent should ever have to bury their child. I had to leave halfway through because I could not take it anymore; seeing the downsized wooden coffin with my baby in it, being lowered into the dark, moist earth. It was what pushed me over the edge. That, and Jaime's face. He didn't even look sad, his white shirt collar sitting perfectly stiff over his smooth black suit, the ensemble screaming wealth at everyone with half a brain. My own attire consisted of a black silk dress with a petticoat and corset, buttoned up the back and long-sleeved for the cool weather. The extra arm length, however, did not warm the icy-coldness of my heart, and so, as I escaped the morbid graveyard, full of memories longing to be forgotten, I knew exactly where I was going.

The waves disintegrated against the rocks, beating themselves senseless, a hundred metres below me. Cool air rushed at me from all directions and in the sky the dark grey thunderclouds boomed ominously, predicting the coming rain.

I shivered as goose-bumps rose on my skin, and wriggled my bare feet closer to the edge. I had abandoned my shoes shortly after leaving the funeral, realising that, while the heels I had been wearing were gorgeous indeed, they were impossible to run in. It was true that all etiquette books of the time stated that women of taste never ran, never rushed even, that women of taste were always to be cool, calm and collected, and if the need to do so arises, a slight quickening to the pace is the best form, and always quicken with poise. But the thing was, quickening my pace was not going to allow me to escape from the high society men and women at the funeral, so I was going to run, no matter what some book said.

The wind teased my hair out of its carefully set bun, causing wisps of caramel tresses to tickle my cheeks and tangle in the strong breeze. Another thing I had discarded was my veil; it had been effective in hiding my tears from the guests, but not at all helpful in my bid for freedom.

The guests. I realised they would now be looking for me. Or, at least, Jaime and a group of his fellow associates from the men's club. None of the women of course, lest they ruin their hairdos.

The thought made me angry. Jaime. Who hadn't even cried at his baby boy's funeral, who would probably take advantage of me even tonight to try and produce another heir, despite my distraught state of mind.

I took another step towards the edge, my toes just peeping over the rim of the cliff, so close now I could feel the tingle of salt spray. So close now…so close to being with my Alex. His angelic smile, his emerald eyes…my little boy… But would I reach him? Wherever it was that he was? I had read in the bible that suicide was a sin against God, and that if one committed it their soul could not be saved and they could never enter Heaven's gates. I didn't truly believe it; suicide was a desperate measure, true, but banishes you from the afterlife? Surely not. At least…even if I didn't reach heaven…I wouldn't have to think anymore…or be in pain.

I was startled out of my reverie by the sounds of people, men to be specific. All shouting something; my name: "Esme!" "Jaime, look it's Esme!" "There she is!"

And then, more panicked: "Quick, I think she's going to jump!"

The men began running towards me, Jaime at the lead, a look in his face like determination, but with a wrongly possessive undertone. He knew I was trying to get away, and he was going to drag me back. He didn't believe I would jump.

Well. He was wrong.

I mouthed the word goodbye to him, feeling more at peace than I had felt in a long time, so much so it was nearly euphoria. I had just enough time to see him scream out "NO!" in protest, his legs struggling to reach me, like he was running through quicksand, before diving off the edge and plummeting into the chill air.

I was flying through space, exhilarated and alive with adrenalin pumping through my body. I realised, with some vague surprise, that I was about to die. Strange, I'd never given much thought to it… Would it hurt? The question didn't bother me as much as it should have. A moment's pain and I would be forever at peace…that was enough for me.

The last thing I remember was the crashing waves rushing up to meet me, and then I was plunged into darkness.

Chapter 3 – Death

Death is an inconstant catalyst. Sometimes you want it, more often you don't. Sometimes it enters your home and brushes you with its icy fingers, other times it decides to pass you by, and visits your neighbours instead. But, above all, death is inevitable, and it affects everyone and everything around it, for better or for worse.

In my life I had experienced much death, but none as painful as Alex's. None painful enough to take my own life, until his. If only I had died…

The one thing my groggy mind became aware of as I woke was the blinding pain. I couldn't make a sound because of it. It stabbed through my chest like a knife, and penetrated the hard bone of my skull to the same effect as a drill. It put my limbs in vices, and slowly, excruciatingly, crushed them. I'd thought I'd been leaving the world of pain forever, and now this? Maybe I was in hell… It was difficult to even form a coherent thought.

Something was draped over me, I realised, as I forced my sticky eyelids open. Something smooth…and white; a sheet. I could see the faint circular glow of a gas lamp shining through the thin cotton, so it was either night time, or nearing it. I was lying on something hard, very hard, obviously not a bed. I gently tapped one fingernail on it and heard the recognisable ping of metal.

Oh my Lord, I thought, with a horrid realisation. I'm on a gurney.

I heard the light scrape of footsteps, and stiffened. The movement sent shockwaves of pain up and down my spine, and this time I cried out. In a split second the sheet covering my body was whipped off, and the face of an angel was staring down at me.

The gas lamp was behind him, making it appear that he was glowing with a kind of heavenly light, his golden hair forming a halo around his perfect face. He had topaz coloured eyes, the same liquid gold as his hair, burning with molten desire. I felt it almost tangibly. And his skin was white! Like the colour of freshly fallen snow before it has been tainted with dirt, all white, save for the slight purplish shadows under his eyes from not enough sleep. You too? I thought questioningly, and in that moment I could have laughed for the sheer randomness of that thought, for I had suffered many sleepless nights in my lifetime. That thought, which was so unimportant next to the nightmare of waking up on a gurney after trying to kill myself, and being riddled with pain in and out (which surely meant multiple broken bones).

Funny that; in his presence I had forgotten my pain completely.

He was not human though. I knew it at once. Whether he was an angel or even a god, there was no mistaking those simple words. He. Was. Not. Human.

And as a slight smile grew on his face, a familiar smile, it felt like I had known him my whole entire life. And even though we had never met, never seen each other before, or at least I had certainly never seen him, a name rose into my mind and hung, suspended.

Carlisle.