A/n: Wow, so, yeah, this just appeared in my head one day, and now, wa'la! Or whatever. A Carlisle and Esme story (because I just LOVE them!).
Chapter Song: Days Before You Came - Placebo
Disclaimer: Twilight and all recognisable settings/characters are not mine. No copyright infringement is intended, and I am making no money from this.
Chapter 1
Once upon a time in Forks, an Anti-fairytale began. Our story begins in a small, two up, two down house, with small, grimy windows, and a rickety old staircase - which made sneaking downstairs in the night for a secret midnight snack impossible. Much to the displeasure of the children that lived there. The house had an thick old front door, with an ugly bronze knocker that scared away anyone under the age of about twelve; and the stench of misery, despair, and unprecedented disappointment hung thick in the air.
The house was surrounded by a jungle of grasses, and was owned by a Priest with mad-blue eyes and prematurely grey hair. He spent more time in his church, than with his 'sobbing' wife; who spent her days rocking back and forth on the old yellowing rocking chair in the corner of the lounge. Her hair a haystack and her clothes a patchwork of moulding textiles. She rarely washed.
A young boy lived in the characteristic house, and spent many hours with his forehead pressed against the dirty glass of his bedroom window, admiring the neighbours home. Number twenty was in the sightline of his room; and it's whitewash walls, sparkling transparent windows, and flat lawn were a direct contrast to his own dwellings. Whilst other children from the neighbourhood pictured the inside of his house with dungeons and hidden crypts and bats and more cats than one could count; he himself spent his time fantasising about the scrubbed modern interior of the house next door. The boy thought of new electronic toys, and bunk beds. Of showers rather than vintage bath tubs which took hours to fill; and of mirrors that one could see more than an outline in. To him, the house seemed to be a paradise of modernism.
Though at such an early point in this story, it is of little importance; the young boy's name was Carlisle. Carlisle Cullen, to be precise. He had a head of dirty blonde hair, hidden beneath layers of dust and dirt; and big blue eyes, framed with the longest of lashes. His frame was small, as he was undernourished; but his cheeks were plump with baby-fat that he had yet to shake. The children at school called him 'Carley-Warley-Carlisle'. I'll leave the pronunciation to your imagination.
As you can imagine; Carlisle's childhood was three steps below 'pretty'…pretty damn dreadful, that is.
While on the subject, I should explain the nature of Carlisle's part in our story. He has no hidden powers; and neither is he a 'Prince Charming'. He is not popular, or unpopular - in fact, barely anybody notices him at all; he may as well be an entirely separate species. Finally, Carlisle is not a hero, at least not in the traditional sense. However, Carlisle is many things: he is smart, he is determined, and he is, quite frankly, a wonderful person.
Unfortunately, nobody seems to have noticed the boy that hides behind a rock-cut exterior; fashioned from birth, when his abysmal existence was begotten. Regrettably, for a boy of merely ten years old, Carlisle's life has been, on average, appalling.
When one initiates an archaeological investigation, they would do something called a 'desktop survey', beforehand. This means, quite simply, that before any gems of knowledge can be pulled up from the spoil; one must research the background information - leading them to assumptions and hypothesis' about what they will find below the topsoil.
Similarly to such an investigation, before we dig into Carlisle's story, we must understand a few important things about him and his background, for the things he has lived through have always influenced him. He is the sort of person who will take things on board and learn from them.
Carlisle's life began in Europe; Britain, in fact. In a small village in the North of Scotland. He spent a total of two years, three months in the country, before his family was uprooted by his father, and taken across the world to America. When in Britain, they had been a respectable family. His father had always worked as a priest; and his mother had owned a small flower shop together with a friend. The family moved when Mr Cullen's brother was charged with the rape and murder of several young girls in the area.
Rather than face the shame of the community, Mr Cullen stole away with his very pregnant wife and child during the night. They arrived in Chicago soon after.
Another year was spent in Chicago; from where they moved to the small town of Forks, Washington - following the offer of a job that Mr Cullen quickly took. By now, a second child had joined the family, and a third was well on the way. Mrs Cullen had always wanted a big family.
Alas, despite the fact that life was looking up, the move to Forks took the family literally and metaphorically into the storm. Rosie, Carlisle's baby sister, died from fever within a week of the move; and his mother had a miscarriage from her immense grief. And it rained. It rained every day.
Sometimes misery turns into depression, and depression spirals into madness. As a youngster, just old enough to understand, Carlisle witnessed the quick downward spiral of his mother's sanity. Until finally, she could barely walk, and thus spent her days in her chair. Rocking, and rocking, and rocking.
Whilst sobbing, and sobbing, and sobbing.
It broke Carlisle's childish heart to see his mother in such a state.
It also broke Mr Cullen's heart, which, over the course of a few years, turned to granite. Mr Cullen built walls around himself; they were erected tall, strong, impenetrable. His wife was blocked out of his heart - her madness hurt too much. And his son was too small to even see over the tops of them. Physical contact became limited. A pat on the head with a distant look in his eyes; or a brush of his arm as he pushed past the child on the way out of the house.
Though the man receded into himself to save himself from the pain of the outside world; inside, he found more demons. He gave them a name.
'Vampires' were what he saw. Creatures that ran through the shadows, and sucked the life from humans. He believed that God sent him the task of banishing them from the world he knew. In his spare time, he hunted them obsessively. Alienating him from society. 'Crazy Cullen', they called him. 'Crazy Cullens', they called the family.
Perhaps he believed that vampires had sucked the soul from his wife; sucked the sanity away.
But nobody would ever know; because nobody would ever ask.
At the point in Carlisle's story at which we join him, this is the past. Now the madness and the vampires and the nicknames are normal. Do you see the cruelties of a misunderstood childhood here? Forks didn't. Folks watched, folks jeered, folks turned a blind eye, and Forks tittered.
Carlisle endured.
And then Esme Platt moved in next door, told everyone to stop being cruel, fell in love with Carlisle, and they lived happily ever after, for ever and ever. The End.
Is what I'd like to say.
But, alas, no tale is so simple; though Esme Platt did move in to the house next door, on Carlisle's eleventh Birthday.
And things changed.
A/n: Well, this has been in my head for a while. I'm really, really enjoying the writing of this so far, and I hope other people are too. Please review and let me know whether to carry on; I'm not quite sure whether I should or not yet…