First of all, so many apologies needed. The mot important one because I NEVER-LEARN-MY-FRICKEN-LESSON & end up losing so many bloody words, it's enough to drive me insane!

Anyway, last chapter I promised to make this one light and fluffy... I'm sorry to say, that didn't happen.

What started as a flashback piece evolved into it's own Prequel Fic, An Array of Initial Reasons, so do feel free to go check that out if you want to know how the friendship between our two paramours took place and evolved into what it is now.

*Severe trigger warning necessary* for this chapter.

It is dark but I can assure that it will answer some long awaited questions and perhaps pose others.

With every new chapter, we're moving towards resolution, I promise.

As ever, please review and tell me what you think and if you're feeling really generous, please go check out *An Array of Initial Reasons*!

Love to you all

The first time I had sat at the helm of a vehicle I had been just shy of fifteen. Mr Masen had sat on my right with a cigarette poised lazily at his mouth, pointing in gesturing circles to the gears.

He had driven me far out of the way of home. Left us stranded in an empty, unused airfield while his ten-year old had been left to his mother's company. My hands had griped into the leather, wrapped myself around the wheel, my calves aching as I poised my foot on the clutch.

'Ease up,' he'd chuckled.

Immediately I'd stalled.

Much like now.

Driving had become easy after that initial choke. The engine had startled. I'd shifted with it and embarrassed, we tried again.

This time my focus is elsewhere.

Taunting the element of control, I'd been trying to feel every ridge between the rotating plates. I let the car growl with differing variations of frustration. Listen to her scream under me. Torturing myself with the restrained pleadings, hate myself with it.

And then Es opens up the door and frightful, my foot comes up and the motor stalls.

'S-Sorry,' I bumble weakly.

She says nothing of it, watches as I try to readjust myself.

I throw my attention to the drive only, eyes on the overcast weather, fighting the urge to simmer to the perfume brimming under my eyesight. It's potent, so heavy with distraction that I can't recognise the scent. It smells floral. Overly floral, painful flowers that would not bloom for another several months.

I don't dare ask how she's feeling. More because I fear her suffering to tell me than because I worry how to handle it.

So I park up. I cut the engine and in painful, frosty silence, we watch the inconsistent rain drops slip down the pane of glass.

My faulting eyes move to her.

She's looking out the window, too. Bundled in so many layers she looks as if she's preparing for the winter season. Except the heat doesn't seem to reach her. She's shivering, hands twisted together, squeezing clasps of pink and white, the breath pressing on a heavy bottom lip.

'If I can't do it- ' she whispers.

The words are so delicate, so brittle in glass that it pains me to hear them.

'If I'm not brave enough- '

If.

Through the years I had known her there had been moments for her to be fearful, frightened, cowardly and yet I had never knowingly been audience to them. As she sits on my right, consumed with trepidation, I am overwhelmed with the depth of her courage.

So overwhelmed in fact that the mere address has my throat closed.

The audacity that she considered herself incapable.

She is momentous to me.

To even acknowledge the extent of her ability, to attempt to contain it with words was only to limit the act taking place. In all my life, I had never seen a person so courageous. In her fear, in her trembling, in her inconsolable grief, she was trying.

Perhaps she was trying too immediately. This Morning we had already ran through several layers of responses. From tears to anger to sleepless screams. Perhaps she was rushing into this, stampeding the trauma over with hope.

But in every ounce of her feeble, full heart, she was trying.

It is like looking at the sun, too blinding to consider. Too overwhelming.

The idea that she would consider herself so feeble, so small when she was everything. She was all of it and I, I could hardly be at her side without wanting to sob and scream and cry.

'You are brave enough,' I swear.

It sounds so light in the ambience of the car that it could almost be lost to the silence.

'But if I'm not-'

'Please don't rush.'

I turn to her, face her. Suffer for it. She is tired, so exhaustedly tired. Purple circles hang under her green eyes, her nose pink from where she keeps rubbing it. Her breaths are still clouded too, desperate with the need to cough.

She's not submitting.

'If you don't feel ready, that's okay too.'

I'm not looking at her when I say this.

So when slight pressure pushes into the back of my hand, I shudder hard enough to surprise her. She looks guiltily my way. My eyes fall to my hand, seeing the line she had touched, the burn, the shadow of her graze as if it's a visual cue.

'I'm ready,' she whispers.

In her presence, out of it too, I am weak and pathetic and have to throw myself out of the car to trust myself to leave.

My feet are even weaker; lost of movement when I huddle out into the wet weather. Tears of water fall onto my cheeks and into my collar. I look up. The clouds are a hazy covering of grey. No set path of clear skies just intermittent drizzle.

She's already out the door, staring at the building. It's pressed in-between several larger shapes, painted an off-cream with a small sign and a blue door. I shrink at the sight of it.

And then I flinch. She's stretched the fingers of her left hand to me. Just along the knuckles. My hand spasms, stretches and with her features still on the walk ahead, she slowly entwines her middle finger around my own.

My breath hitches.

'Are you okay?' She asks weakly.

I hate it. Hate that she asks me. Hate that I take this from her, that my body reacts so viscerally. Rearranging my jaw tightly, I try again to hold myself still.

It requires everything. It requires fighting so hard to feel nothing that I can no longer feel tickled by the drops of rain upon a bruised cheek. I can't engage in her, because I can't feel it.

'Are you?'

'No.' She answers. I haven't been holding my reigns tight enough. I flinch again, bite harder. 'You don't have to stay with me-'

'Esme,' I complain, unable to restrain the sourness.

'But you don't- if you don't want to-'

'I'm not leaving you,' I growl.

She smiles, smirks, detangles her hand.

'You will eventually. But I guess not today.'

I flinch again and with heavy steps lead her into the reception.

This is likely where the highlight of her bravery stands. On crossing the doorway, she wavers, as if pushed by a falling wall of bricks. Dizzy now, she puts a hand to her head, her lips, finds a seat beneath a wide television.

'Water?' I ask.

She manages a weak nod.

'Esme Platt,' I murmur to the receptionist.

She punches a few keys, scans her desktop and hands me papers to sign. She's smiling, likely in an attempt to soften the introductions though it bothers me. That and after a second of peering at me, the colours across the one side of my face, the dark split of my lip, her soft face of pleasantries rearranges into recognition.

'You're-'

'A pen?' I ask, hoping to dismiss her point.

'Cullen.' She finishes determinedly. 'You've just had that hospital named - '

'Is there a place I can get water?'

The woman is still ignoring me in favour for her own conversation. On spotting my expression though, she points to a cooler in the far corner.

'Huge congratulations to you- must be some very exciting times ahead.'

Immediately, I snatch the paperwork off the table and fetch the water.

'Thanks.'

When I come to sit next to Esme, the only taken seat in the open empty room, I find her hands are shaking again. I no longer felt an ache to touch her. Though I do ache to comfort her, it's not really an ache at all. It is pain. Biting, harassing sharp pain to hold her still, bury my face in her neck, feel her lungs expand, the laughter of life again.

'Waters here,' I murmur, placing it carefully in her open hand. She still has her eyes closed, her lashes pressing on the purple skin.

'Thanks, Carlisle.'

Carlisle.

I set to work on filling out the paperwork. Mostly questions regarding insurance, date of birth, blood type, residency, name of her general physician. I toy with putting my name down. Legally and ethically incorrect of course. Then I think to what she'd write. She'd already done it a number of times, filling out hasty forms and forcing me to explain to a receptionist that no, I'm not the general physician, she just had a habit of sticking to the names she knew.

I script my name. She'd have chance to correct it though I doubt she'd wish to.

Next they ask for her contact information. I put an email address first. Again one outside the realms of studies and work. The contact number is where I hesitate.

From what I was last aware, she didn't have her phone.

If she'd managed to relocate it this week, she hadn't used it as far as I knew. And if it was lost… who would receive the call? Hating myself, I fill out the landline and flick to the next page.

The nausea hits me in a spin.

Questions regarding the event.

'You'll need to fill out the last page,' I explain softly. 'Did you want to check the information?'

She shakes her head, the lose strands of her plait aligning to her sticky skin. She shivers again.

'Are you okay?'

'Feel sick,' she explains, breathing now in such a rhythm, it's challenging the blocked nose.

'There'll be a bathroom somewhere- would you like me to see?'

She nods her assent, bites her lip.

The receptionist seems delighted to see me again. Attempting to make few light-hearted questions in regards to my prestige, I rudely ignore her and ask for the bathroom. Her rose lipstick smile falls and she peers around my side to watch Esme, breathing deep in to her lungs, caving on every inhale.

Her voice is a whisper.

'We wouldn't recommend it until she's seen the doctor-'

I have to swallow the hate into a pitless stomach.

'An examination was done four days ago.'

I turn over my shoulder. She's breathing harder now, her coat rustling against the sponge of her chair.

'Yes but sometimes they like to… check up on matters. Really, Honey. She'll be okay.'

My eyes flash in anger.

Behind me, Es coughs up the water she'd just swallowed. It's dribbling down her chin, on her front. She looks haunted when I catch her. Like a hunted deer staring down the barrel of my rifle. A cupped hand is under her chin, her eyes searching confusedly for answers.

'End of the corridor,' the receptionist amends. 'The Doctors will be in room three.'

Having stolen the tissues from the desk, I take the drink from Esme's shaking hand and cautiously wipe them dry. Curled fingers, pliable, cold beneath my hand.

'It's just water-' she mumbles, still breathing hard. She dries her mouth, her dripping chin.

'I know.'

'I swear. Just water. I-I drank too fast. Coughed-'

'I know,' I reassure her softly. I tilt my eyes to her. She's receding a little into her seat. She'd frightened herself, I think. And her voice is still raspy. Once more she is pale rather than blooming in a blush.

'There's a bathroom up ahead,' I murmur, helping her up and lifting her things over my shoulder: her bag and her coat so she is let in her jeans and cardigan.

I take the clipboard too, shake off any spilt droplets and with a hand pressed only into the space surrounding the small of her back, not the actual material, lead her through the double doors.

We have to be buzzed through. It makes her shudder harder.

Her trainers squeak on the tiles now we're out here. She presses her fist to the wall. Stops.

'Don't rush,' I remind her cautiously.

She takes this as a challenge, hurries several extra steps, wavers, tightens her eyes closed. I stay poised behind her.

'Straight up ahead,' I say, pointed to the known sign.

With a groan, she stops again. Her fist becomes a palm and weakly she slides to the floor, placing her head between her knees and breathing shallowly.

'If you need to vomit just go ahead and-'

'Carlisle,' She groans.

I shut my mouth. The smarter option would be to go find her disposable cardboard tray though I can't imagine her being best pleased if I provide that.

Her hair tumbles over, the breaths slowing slightly.

'Water?'

The mop of waves shuffle. Weakly, she pulls her gaze up, gasps, furrows her eyebrows.

'Here?' I encourage and I wrap my arm around her, hauling her up into my side as I lead her to the bathroom.

She is so light, so lost in layers it is hardly like I am touching her at all. Her legs are barely in use, up until we reach the door of course and then she falls from me, slamming the door shut with deliberation.

'Drink is outside,' I explain through the wood.

She does not respond in words, just groans and whines of discomfort. I wince again, pulverised at every draw of her breath, squeezing my fists together, tugging my hair in wrenches of grief.

'Ah, yes, the other-half. You made the call?'

I jump again, throwing myself forward away from the woman in question. I should recognise her voice from the phone but it would seem she recognises me more. Maybe from my recent television appearances, ones Emmett still keeps reminding me of, but hopefully not from a hospital fundraiser of any type.

The lady is tall with straight dark hair to her shoulders and bright colours beneath her lapels. Holding out a slender hand she takes my moist grip and shakes it slightly.

'Is that the paperwork?'

'Haven't finished filling it out,' I explain. 'She's- Es, Esme- she is-'

'Needs a moment,' the doctor presumes, looking pointedly at the closed door. She takes the clipboard from me, smiles briefly as she flicks through it and points to a kitchen round the bend.

'Why don't you go make yourself a coffee?'

'No, I should stay.'

'Just until she's ready?' she reassures.

I shake my head again, grateful that she chooses not to demand my leave. She simply points to a different door and says she will see us in there.

When the door finally unlatches, I resist falling from the wall as if peeling myself from the indent. She's still trembling, exhausted, flushed skin beneath the coat zipper. Presumably she has not yet been sick, she's in far too much discomfort for that. Though clearly dizzy with few drops of water pressed to her hairline and making it dark.

Robotically, I hand her the water.

She looks guiltily beneath her lashes.

'I'm being such a pussy.'

'Don't talk like that,' I complain.

Less on the words, of course. Less because of my confusion. More because I could not stand to have her think of herself so badly.

'Too informal for you, Doctor Cullen?'

Perhaps this is a tease though it sounds bitter. I shake my head. She pauses at the door in question, gathers herself, swallows difficultly and arranges her stance to a new posture.

Except there is no one in the room.

It is also a rather wide room. Far too white with wide frosted windows and an abuse of motivational posters on the wall. I check the door number, hesitantly follow her to two of the chairs closest the view of the town.

Funny how even though she has sunk deep into the edges of the shape, it somehow still felt as though she is perched on the edge ready to bolt.

When the door opens, I stand, hands twisting uncomfortably.

The doctor from outside has returned, bearing a tea tray with mugs and a big binder. From behind my shoulder, I feel Esme shift, curl up her posture a little, move further from the table.

'Coffee?' she asks. 'Water?'

'Water.' We both say and at match of our tone, I move my gaze away again. I hadn't been looking at her. Simply felt guilty to take the word from her lips. To steal the air.

'Doctor Ferrah will be along in just a moment. If you want to take a seat-'

She indicates only to me. I drop awkwardly into the chair on Esme's left. Loudly. The chair squeaks and hateful, I shuffle inward.

'A series of unfortunate injuries you have there-?' She murmurs, looking between my silent partner and I.

It takes me a second to realise that not only is she asking my name but that she's making conversation. I respond only to the latter, conscious of Esme, her thoughts, what she might think of them, what she might know, what she had seen and felt and heard and what she had simply worked out.

'Yes,' I say politely.

'I trust you've had them seen to?'

I feel Es' eyes on me then. The gaze is hard upon my flesh, exploratory at first. I try opening my left eye a little wider, pretending it causes no irritation, folding my lip in to hide the mark.

Still, no worse than my chest.

The pain there is excruciating. Every inhale, every gasp or flicker or turn is having me in minute, palliative groans. It is getting harder to employ the numbing technique, too. Every time I hardened myself, she would look and I would fall and the pain of her injuries, coupled with her pity, her frustration would have me inundated.

I nod in answer.

The door opens again. A second woman, Doctor Ferrah I presume, has entered carrying several thick folders in her arms. She sees Esme, acknowledges her with a nod though when she sees me, the image is far from pleased.

I couldn't know for sure why. She brushes past her Co-Worker, drops her books to the table so that the liquid spills and we flinch. She looks accusingly at me again, eyes feasting upon the injuries so recently discussed.

Then she sits down.

'Esme Platt, yes?'

She says it to the room and not, as she should, to Es. I look to her. She is twisting her hands together again though her feet are still. One of her many signs of discomfort.

'Yes,' we both say.

The doctor does not take too kindly to my input and looks to Es accusingly. She has not moved. Perhaps she was waiting for her to reign me in and on this assumption, I swallow and lean further into my seat.

'You are-?'

'Carlisle Cullen,' I say guiltily.

This is not a pleasantry to her either.

'Mm. Yes. The Doctor?'

I look at the paperwork, look towards Esme hesitantly. She has her eyes on the table, stuck in thought.

'Yes,' I answer.

'Seems you've recently been a favoured choice for the television,' she murmurs. 'You and your antics.'

She writes something on a long sheet of paper, slicing through with a biro and looking pointedly at Esme again. Thankfully she's not looking so I suck in the coloured cheeks.

Now it is my turn to sound distant.

Yet again another reference to my fame. For now, it was far from appropriate and if it were not for the fact that it would be inconsiderably selfish to do so, I would report her to the FSMB for the lack of professional ability.

'Perhaps.'

She clicks her tongue, pushes the paper towards her colleagues, folds her arms on the table and angles herself towards a trembling Esme.

I was unnecessarily defensive. I knew that. I am angry, ridiculous, powerless and lashing out without due reason. Except for every flicker of her watery eyes, every question demanding me to answer to her injuries had the guilt bleeding from me.

Because I am responsible. I just hate to see her so punished for it.

Clearly displeased at having to sit nearer to me, the doctor arranges herself again and refers to the taller colleague.

'I'll start by introducing myself, Dr Ferrah. This is my colleague Doctor Asher who I believe spoke to you on the phone, Mr Cullen?'

Doctor Cullen. Doctor Cullen. Still technically Doctor Cullen.

'Miss Platt as part of introductions, I have to inform you that the notes taken by the Eugene police department on the night of Thursday the 31st of March have all been included in your file.' She pats the pile next to her, ignorant at the thick swallow of my amorta's pale neck.

I never saw her with a necklace.

We had lived together verging on four years, known each other for five. I had seen her dressed in nearly any and every occasion. I'd seen her jewellery box. Had even assisted in locating it one evening. I knew she had necklaces. She never wore them.

Was this why? To protect her neck? Protect her ability to breathe? Because she did not like them?

'Everything,' the doctor continues, quite unable to remember the importance of sensitivity. I reckon this is a blessing to Es though. She hated to be patronised. If they started fussing, she would be up in arms before we could calm her.

'Everything from that night has been recorded in this file. Including medical reports, recordings of your injuries and extensive review of the input from the medical professionals and witnesses from that evening.'

Despite the shiver, her pale skin has lost its peachy hues. She tightens a hand on the cardigan neck, flicks empty eyes to me, turns them back to the women.

I hang my head.

The file is bigger in my eyes. It's full of everything the darkest part of me needed to know. It held the answers. The understandings and furiously, I needed it. I needed to know. I needed to understand.

Yet I feared it. The size alone. The design. The way the pages flipped helplessly together, the thickness, the words, the ink, the photographs held within it.

It was so big. Were these files meant to be so big? Had they always been so-. It's like staring at that knife again. Having the blade pressed on my skin, the handle weighted in my grip.

I wonder if Masen looks to it as cowardly as I look to the paper.

Just seeing it is making me waver.

'It seems you didn't say much that night… I'm legally obliged to warn you that the delay between reporting further injuries of this nature may harm your defence should you wish to use it to prosecute in the future. Though it doesn't rule them out.'

My jaw clenches but I stay quiet. If Esme is listening, she refuses to suggest as so.

'We will keep these records for a minimum of fifteen years. After, they will then be transferred to the state department for reports of this nature. Access to them is without question. Though they are a matter of protected private record, you are entitled to request access to them at any time. Just as you can request them to be exported or destroyed. Of the last two, I would urge you not to consider this an option unless you a have strict reason to do so. Do you understand?'

Delicately she nods her head.

'We will need you to sign-' the doctor says. Flipping a different page over to us both. 'I believe you're here to expand on that report, yes?'

She nods. Doctor Asher leans forward.

'We're going to need you to say so,' she whispers softly, putting a pressuring hand on the table. 'You don't have to say anything you don't want to, Dear, but in order to proceed, we will need your vocal confirmation.'

'Yes,' Esme utters, her voice hoarse and swollen.

It makes me even angrier. The damned cold. A fucking cold doing this to her. Stupid ridiculous assault on her. Unnecessarily cruel.

'Anything that is said here, Miss Platt, is under patient confidentiality. We will not share any of your data unless we believe you are at risk to yourself or another. Do you understand?'

She nods again, follows it with a small 'yes.'

'As a medical professional, Doctor Cullen will also be familiar with seriousness of these requirements.'

The tone in which she says it is too threatening to be mistaken.

'It is worth me mentioning also that by signing, you are allowing us the right to provide treatment-'

Es frowns but doesn't say anything. Doctor Asher moves forward again.

'Miss Platt reports of this nature can understandably be a trying and emotional request. You're under no obligation to tell us anything but this is a safe space. Your safe space. But, if we feel you are endangered without serious intervention, we will step in.'

At this, I have to claw my hands together. The threat alone that they would, what? Would they section her? Did they really consider her to be such a risk?

Because she wasn't- she isn't. Hell would have to incinerate us before that happened. Esme is understandably nauseated. She is traumatised and angry and hurt and the threat of tearing her, ripping her from the home and shoving her in a padded cell just to cover their ass- unjustifiable.

I open my palm. My fingers painted white from the grip I'd twisted them in. Beneath the table I ungrasp them a few times. Get used to the feeling, keep my mouth closed.

She waits for Esme to sign which she does in her flurried, swished hand and then pushes the form to me. I knew different practices had their own versions of documentation but still I didn't much like the informality of it.

'If you want to sign and print your name.'

'Underneath?' I presume, dotting the ink to paper. I return it and the pen then push my sharp posture into the chair.

Signing was an inevitability. Not for me, for Es. Contracts were a necessary part of my world but I did not have to answer to them.

At least not morally. Though Masen would suggest otherwise.

'I have also seen you didn't fill out your questionnaire- '

'I split my water,' Es excuses weakly and again she is forced to clear her throat.

'It's not a problem but it may be something you find useful down during the nature of the conversation. Okay?'

'Okay.'

'Okay,' Doctor Ferrah repeats and then she looks pointedly to her co-worker.

They take a few moments, writing out lasting notes on a piece of paper, sharing glances in a way that makes me fear Esme's wandering forest eyes. How in tune we had once been. To share a look as though it were a monologue on an open stage.

'So,' Doctor Asher begins with another cautious smile.

Her shirt is a painful yellow and I expect she is using it for her sunshine attitude. It's the kind of attitude that would usually have Es in such a flush off frustration, she'd huff out a short breath and roll her eyes dramatically my way.

I stare at my hands.

'Why don't you start by telling us how long you've been together, married or- '

'Wh-at?'

'We're not married?' I answer perhaps a little confused.

I turn to Esme who is likewise sharing my blank expression. I didn't say we were married. Did I say we were married? Had I said we were married? Why would I say we were married?

'You're not?' She asks, flicking through the papers urgently. Doctor Ferrah seems likewise confused. 'But you live together-'

'We're not together,' Es answers and her voice is straight, neutral.

I was selfish.

It had been a question that had plagued me from the moment she'd asked it. I'd felt like we were courting. It felt as if…. But then… the several times I had tried to ask her on a date, she had fought the suggestion with disapproval.

Even with her lips at my neck in the movie theatre…

I shudder again, try to block out the memory.

Both women seem confused by her statement.

'You're -'

'Flatmates.' She answers.

The finality is blinding.

It's good of course. That's all we were meant to be. Flatmates. Housemates. It was too dangerous be entangled. Especially now.

And yet the resignation of the words, the lost title.

To think that after nearly five years of longing, four weeks of obnoxious flirting only for our brief time together to be slaughtered so immediately.

I had not even had the chance to love her as committedly as I ached to do.

In a week, I had been too consumed with checking locked doors to tease her with poetry I knew she would like. I had not had chance to interview hauntingly embarrassing questions of her youth as I was too worried with who could be listening.

I daren't even make love to her with the delicacy that I wanted… because I didn't want to make her vulnerable to me.

Likewise, I could not afford to be off my guard.

'What was that?'

'Flatmates,' we repeat, simultaneously.

For the third time, it's like bearing another straight punch into my fractured chest.

Doctor Ferrah looks cautiously between us two. She moves in her seat, makes a face. I wonder briefly if she might be referring to the innate pressure of the air whenever I was in Esme's presence. It is the only answer I felt applicable. I know it is a placebo. Something I dreamt hazily one winter's afternoon as we walked down the canal of our residence.

I had birthed the idea of pressure changes then. I knew it couldn't exist. Reason told me it did not exist. But with every passing day, her slight movement, the whisk of her hand, pressing on my chest with the tips of her fingertips…. It felt real. It felt like the air was palpitating between us.

Bearing its own fractured heartbeat.

'Have you ever… been romantically involved?' The doctor asks, looking accusingly between us again.

I have an urge to apologise.

Either for not conserving my virginity as I once swore to do so, or for the written delusion of adoration. I had long since been warned that it was a face I had great inability to conceal particularly well. Not only from Edward. Alice regularly commented. Jasper, as well. And then somehow, just on dropping Esme's car off, even Rose had managed to mock the look.

'Is it relevant?' Es asks shortly. Her warm eyes hit me like a slap, like a punishment almost.

This is what loving her did. It punished her.

I am even more desperate to atone now than I was a moment ago. Dizzy with it almost.

'It could be,' Doctor Ferrah mutters. 'Have you ever had a physical relationship?'

My heart is in my throat. It is in my head too. I am trying to use English. To understand, to plead forgiveness but all I can see is Esme. And she is hurt by the suggestion.

She starts to shake her head and broken, the question comes out my mouth like drool.

'Es-?' I whimper.

I could lie. I was a known liar to many of the people I knew. But I would not lie about that. The one good thing I knew. I would not lie about that. Her eyes flicker closed, her lips pressed together.

'A recent physical relationship?' The doctor presses.

This time, I do not move until I know how Es will respond. Slowly, she lets her chin fall in a nod.

'Miss Platt?'

'Yes,' she whispers.

She looks at me via the corner of her eye, eyes wrenching closed again. Unconsciously I go to move towards her, to plead forgiveness. Throw myself on my knees and promise never to harm her or brutalise her but at the squeak of the legs on linoleum, I freeze.

My lungs are steel now and the air coming into them is hollow and without oxygen.

'How recent?'

Neither of us answer.

'Within the last month?'

Like at a confessional, I nod but they wait for Esme.

'Yes.'

'More than once?'

I am starting to understand her impatience now. Query the relevance behind it. It currently felt an excuse to put me in a place. Secure me a neat label that would be used to whip and beat me into further guilt.

As if I would not already spend the rest of my days praying for the hurt anyway.

'Within the last week?' She asks.

Just from the words alone I am being pushed against a wall. It is a lot more frustrating than when I had argued with Masen and Officer Swan.

That pain came easy. The guilt was vocal.

This is silent.

'When was the last time you-'

'Thursday.'

It's like an arrow being poised into my chest. The resentment. The reluctance, the hate. Like a child, I want to cover my ears, I want to pretend it is not associated. I want to fight the partnership.

We had made love the same morning.

All those sacred texts swearing to the sanctified nature between man and woman. The submission. The lies. Years of believing the lies. Was this His doing? Was this the dangers of pre-marital sex?

Had I condoned both body and soul to eternal suffering?

'The night of the accident?' Doctor Ferrah asks in shock.

'The Morning of.'

'And it was,' she writes something on her paper, the pen itching and nibbling. Scratching into the page. 'It was penetrative?'

'Yes.'

The ease in which she responded in confrontation to the biting tone in which she gave the answers is horrifically shattering.

Things that while obvious, I would not have thought to share- I would not have dared to share, now forcing its way onto paper. Now having its lasting beauty committed to egregious flippant language. I knew women were different. I knew there was always a likelihood, regardless of her sentiments that first night, that she would wish to share brisk details with her friends.

In a rather arrogant way, I had been foolish to once look forward to the evenings where she would settle in my arms, warn me of the impertinent questions she'd dodged, place lusting kisses along my throat as she sought to teach me new understandings of the flesh.

That was a day I had once been looking forward to.

Before this. Past the threats of embezzlement. Past my father's wants.

The dreams to have, the secrets we would share in each other's confidence.

Another thing scrawled into newspaper headlines. Torn from my hands, my hold.

Never did I expect such unions to be shared in this way.

'Vaginal?'

I wince.

'Yes.'

The response this time is colder. If I could read the faces of the women opposite, if I was not so consumed with sorrow, with mourning for what I had done, perhaps I would have been unable to understand the concern in their eyes.

'Protected-?'

I take a sip of my water. Guilty sip. Cold, bitterly sour water.

'Yes,' she lies.

With a start, I cough the contents violently in to my hand. I had not planned to-. Just the nature of it. The shame in her heart at the truth of it all.

Because really, though I knew she was safe, in that I did not have anything untoward to pass onto her… I also knew that in the six times we had made love, the nine times we had attempted to, I technically had only used a prophylactic in the first.

Which split.

Anything after that, we had ignored their necessity. She had been protected by my failed biology in that I could not give her children. She had been protected by the fact that I had no diseases to pass to her.

But that did not mean I had protected.

In fact, it was the very justification we had used to not protect. And realistically… I suppose I had not seen her take her contraceptive pill in weeks.

I was only just coming to terms with what it meant. What the implication was- the depth of the injury I was causing.

'No,' she amends, eyes flicked to me.

I do not know what she is feeling. I do not know whether she is hating me as she should so rightly should or simply wishing I did not exist. My stomach is hard now. My gut, my liver, my intestines tied and stretched into a furious, fictitious knot.

'I'm-,' the words come out too hastily, too angrily. Hurting the two women for the pain I was inflicting. 'I am sterile,' I explain.

'Even so Doctor Cullen, the risk is not of pregnancy alone-.'

'There is no risk,' Esme says.

The sound hurts even more. It is not bitter or angry or hated. It is reassuring. It is corrective. I feel her move in her chair and flinch hard, away from her. And then there is a hand on my forearm.

A volunteered touch.

It is different from the times I had touched her these two days. I had swarmed her. Held her, carried her, touched her, stroked her all when she did not wish to be touched.

In the car she had placed a finger to my hand. Outside she had looped her hold on me.

Comradery. Bravery. Movement. It had a purpose. It was so that I would know to move. But not this touch. Not this offering.

Purely emotional.

Covered by the cuffs of her sleeve, she places her left hand below my elbow, fingers splayed out over the surface of my jacket. With the minimalist of pressure, she grasps lightly. Just as Edward would press into the smooth piano keys, she plays the notes.

She voluntarily consoles me.

I realise now that I am trembling under her. And then I look up.

The many faces I had seen on her today had been faces I vaguely knew though tainted and twisted with agony. Not this expression. She purses her bitten lips, warm tired eyes soft, calming, cheeks grazed and her jaw bruised.

The breath starts to beat me.

'Shh, shhh,' she soothes, looking directly at me. 'There was no risk.'

I put a fist to my mouth to stop the sobs escaping. The tears are there. Burning so vividly at my vision I can hardly see her. I do not deserve her forgiveness. She was giving in, touching me, softening me. A choked gasp escapes me.

'Carlisle,' she urges, her voice thick again both by the cold and the straining of emotion. I bow my head again, gasping in fractured stints for every word she tries to grant me. 'Listen to me, there was no risk.'

'I'm sorry, -' I blurt, words thick through saliva.

The more she consoles me, the richer the hate for myself becomes. Desperate to break into a gasp, to bury my hands in my hair and throw myself upon a burning altar. Spiteful of the very sacrilege I did to her soul. Through my selfish want of her.

I burdened her with this pain.

'Shh, now,' she whispers, shakenly. My arms are still shivering. The pain and the bitterness of breath suffocating in my chest

'Do you need a minute, Mr Cullen?'

I shake my head, swallow.

She brushes a tear from my cheek, thumb poised, careful at the splatters of bruises, delicately painting over it. I flinch again.

'There was no risk.' She repeats and though she is harder, each word a pointed finger in my chest, the attempted gift of consolation weakens me.

Her attempts to unburden my pain are wrong though. I am not just haunted by the dangers. I was haunted by what it meant. What I would have to do.

'Do you know what this means, Doctor Cullen?'

Ironic how they know when and when not to use my title.

Esme has moved away again now, expression flickered to the women. I stretch my jaw, clear my throat from the instrument strings of saliva. I take once last look at Esme's expression and move my eyes up to the two women, eager to wipe the outburst from my face.

Once I had been the type to bear a limited range. I could not share my responses even if I had thought them to be plain up to my hairline. Now, I could not hide them. I was sobbing before I was speaking. Fighting before thinking. Tearing and taunting and screaming and not getting anywhere productive.

I hate violence.

And yet I seemed to do everything violently.

'What does it mean?' Esme asks.

The doctors look between themselves.

'What does it mean?' she repeats, stronger.

'If you're willing, we will need to take a sample-'

Esme is up, the chair thrown back to the window in such a fierce ricochet I cannot believe it has come from her tiny posture. The sound echoes throughout the room

'A sample-?'

'It's okay,' I murmur, swallowing thickly again. 'Es, it's okay. I promise, it is normal-'

'A sample of what?!'

I fidget uncomfortably. Her hand comes to her mouth, the words soundless. Crying, she is crying but the tears aren't falling.

'No.'

'Es, they need-'

'I said no. No. No you're not giving them anything!' She snaps. 'You're not doing this, you're not a part of this-'

'My Love, please.' I weep. 'Please listen to me.'

'I said no!' she yells, covering her mouth with her hand, catching the flecks of the words, balling her fist.

I open my palms to her in pleading.

'You didn't do this,' she growls and now turning on the women, the shrill scream of her demands have their faces mute. 'Why do they think you did this; you didn't do this?!'

There were a number of reasons they might have believed I was at fault. First was the fact that we had sex. Several times. Including on that day. The second was undoubtedly the ties that existed between us. How we sat. The fragile, fearful glances.

And obviously there were the bruises, the marks the scratches. The inability to see them through one eye. I knew what they thought. I knew what they had to be aware of.

I knew there was a reason Doctor Ferrah didn't want me within kilometres of the meeting. IT was necessary if not painful

'Esme, please?' I urge again, trying to hold her eyes, trying to beg her on all manners possible. Her hair is even more knotted now and she's flushed and coughing viciously. 'I know it sounds bad, I know the implication is diabolical-'

'It's molestation.' She shrieks.

I flinch, nod.

'It is not necessary.' She spits, forcing words through the grit of her teeth.

'My Love,' she glares at me, whips me with such a frenzy of her gaze that my hands start to tremble again. 'You believe I didn't put you at risk-'

'You didn't,' she growls.

'I know. I know I didn't.' I know I knew it. I know I didn't hurt her but the responsibility was still on me. And she was still brutalised under my watch. I gesture towards the file. 'But they don't-'

'Miss Platt, semen can remain for up to three days-'

'Exactly.' I interrupt, hushing the so-called expert, cutting her sounds off quickly. Her lip is trembling, her arms wound around herself as she steps away. 'That morning-. We made love that Morning-'

I couldn't do it.

I had been meaning to say sex. I could have even said intercourse. Coitus. I should have been neutral. But I was not. I was manipulating her with my attack. Thankfully she does not register.

'At the time the report was taken-'

'I had a test the week you went away. There is no threat of STIs, STDs, whatever. I made sure-'

The suggestion hushes my mouth. I knew her opinions on the sexual health clinic. A propagator, Emmett would tease her. I did not realise she had... I believed her, I knew she was fine, I knew there was no risk with her. And yet to think she would ensure that. Provide that safety net.

It made me all the guiltier. Even if I went to her without knowing the understandings of sex.

My eyes turn back to the women. They are very calm amongst themselves, letting her rant and scream, letting us tear each other apart with understanding. Enjoying it perhaps.

'Honey, that's not why they are asking.'

They are not asking because of what I did to her. They are asking because I was a contaminate to their examination.

'But-'

'It'll be okay,' I promise. 'I swear to you-'

'These tests really don't take long- If Doctor Cullen is willing, we have the equipment at hand that we could have the matter done with-?'

Her lower lip trembles again. I swallow hard, nod.

'It's routine,' I promise, indicating the suggestion. 'Completely-'

A sob breaks out, her hands coming tighter around herself. I go to move towards her but she backs away.

'How can I ask you to do this? How can you expect me to say okay to this?'

'There's no expectations,' I tell her thickly. I stay standing above my chair, look weakly at the smiling doctor, rearrange my features.

'Doctor Asher, why don't you show Doctor Cullen the exam room and Miss Platt, you can take a moment? Have a drink perhaps, something to eat?'

'No.' She repeats, dizzily.

'It will be ten minutes,' I say, delusional. 'Ten minutes that's all.'

'You'll come back?' she asks. I nod.

'I swear.' And in a delicate twist, I sign an 'x' with my index finger.

'I'm not doing it without you-'

'You won't have to.' I repeat. 'Listen to Doctor Ferrah? Take a drink? Eat something?'

'Ten minutes?' she asks, wearily hiding her eyes beneath her lashes.

Doctor Asher looks unforgivably at me when I nod. She knew better than I, of course. That it wouldn't take me ten minutes. That the raw emotion of what they were asking from me…

Well, it would take the majority of my time just to attempt to get that far.

She leads me silently to a room way off from them. It is set up almost like a dentist. A rubbery chair laid in the middle, various locked draws and a sink to the far side. She grabs a bag of things from a side cabinet, opens her mouth to explain and stops herself-.

'Do you need me to-?'

'No,' I answer quickly. I knew what they wanted.

She smiles weakly, closes the door behind me and leaves me to hyperventilate in the privacy of an exam room. I run the water from the sink first. Wash my hands, my forearm, my face, my neck. It's cold enough that it seems to pause the nausea. As replacement it forces sharp stabbing pains along my features, sinks into the dry skin on my lip. Dries it further.

I start with the easy things first. I gag on the cotton bud, wince at the various causes of discomfort, write my name in full, my inaccurate date of birth. And then it comes to the main problem. I've wasted four minutes.

Five minutes left to get it over and done with.

I start clinically. Pulling down my zipper, remaining numb with a handle on myself. Esme is right of course. It does feel like molestation and at the understanding, I throw myself out my hand.

I try several more attempts, plead with myself to think of anything, nothing but even the suggestion of thinking of a woman is revoltingly ill-timed.

Any progress I was making, I quickly lose. I can't stay focused. I can't remain selfless without needing to vomit or cry or curl up in a ball and sob again.

Three minutes left.

I couldn't do this. In that, I had to do this and I couldn't be making excuses.

I simply mould myself in my hand, force friction, think of nothing, dream of nothing. I clamp my teeth down, ignore the pain, the disgust and repeat the action until I produce the sample.

Eventually biology takes over though I receive no gratification from it. Perhaps this is a blessing rather than a curse.

I wash several times over again. Wash my face, my hands, my forearms. Wash my mouth. Then place the items in the deposit box as instructed.

When I return to the room, Es is still on her feet. Her arms are still wrapped around herself and she is staring out the window, watching the patterns of water slink. A plate of cookies has been placed on the table, the old tea mugs replaced with mugs of steaming hot coffee.

She hasn't touched them.

But I won't refrain myself this time.

'Sorry I'm late,' I murmur, spotting the clock face above. Two minutes. Measly two minutes mocking me. I had once been so punctual.

The perfume bowls me over when I slink past. Squeaking in my seat, I tug the fringe of my locks out te way and reach for the coffee. I know Es is looking at me now, wary so I try to seem relaxed enough so as not to frighten her.

For a moment I almost briefly imagine confiding that I had a hard time getting it up.

But the horror of such a comment, at such an impertinent time- the coffee is bitter on my tongue. Not hot enough to burn but hot enough to reduce the taste of much else and I think only on that.

Her hot eyes are still on me and weakly, her hands still buried into the crook of her elbow, she comes to sit on my right again, further from me. Further from the table.

I come to learn the true meaning of horror there. Not from her distance. But from the words that come. Burying their gazes, a little, the two women arrange themselves, arrange their paperwork and with a softness beyond completion, ask her if she's ready.

I cannot bring myself to think in depth of all that I was being exposed to.

It was clear to me that I was not there for understanding purposes. Not to learn what happened, not to hear and face the visuals. No, that came to me without warning.

I was there for Esme.

Another thing I happen to discover is that in our rawest, most painful moments, in moments where I couldn't possibly stand due to weakness and exhaustion, her forwardness, the directness of what she needed comes without having to be spoken.

She is so distant at first, so far away so angry and hurt and attacked by a plague on her senses.

Then I hear the squeak of the chair.

I had thought she was fidgeting. Fighting a bad posture, perhaps.

From under my arm, her hand comes in again. The slight trepidation of her hold follows the line of my veins, rustles of the blazer jacket. She stops. Her knuckles paused at the heel of my fist.

She is not looking at me.

She's looking at the women.

Yet the enamoured softness of her cheeks, the fallen eyes, the cautious scent of her shampoo. The shake of her skin is sensitive against my wrist. I open my right hand, expecting her to query the reason it was held so tight, questioning the reason for the warmed, calloused palm.

She drags her tools along the fortune lines, tickling the path slightly and once the women tell her they are ready to start, she aligns her clasp over the shape of my index finger.

Muted, pained by her trust, I try to read the meaning again. She is still not looking at me. But her brow is furrowed, her lip parted, the words resting on her paled pink mouth. With my eyes still on her, I stretch my hand, fold my long fingers to the back of her knuckles, touching the errant freckle.

Then with my left, I rest that over her hand too.

She squeezes.

I squeeze back.

She begins.

When I would come to look back on this moment in the future, though would do so with closed eyes, I will imagine muttering soft reassurances to her. I will imagine myself calm, composed, and to some aspect, this image would remain true.

However, I would also imagine that she takes the narrative. That she provides a detailed but distant explanation to the events on Thursday morning. She would explain that while I worked, she visited her friends.

I might flicker in discomfort at this.

She would tell them how it was advised she not take her personal belongings when confronting the tormentor. She would tell them that while defenceless, she had taken tools with her. A can of mace. And she had planned to reach an understanding as to why my relationship with my father -because she wouldn't call me her flatmate, she would just call me Carlisle- had reached such a broken path.

Except this are not quite the words she uses. Or rather, it takes several questions of coaxing, of hot drinks and cold water and pauses for her to gather her thoughts.

Though they do start at the beginning.

As if I sit at Officer Swan's station, they want to know her movements to the hour and while hesitant, her hand stays still beneath mine and she responds.

The first few hours on Thursday Morning, she had obviously been with me. I left to work and she took comfort in Edward.

That's how I expect they hear it.

She makes it clear that following the events of Saturday, a few other rogue instances, she had concerns to the nature of her friends' privacy. She doesn't elaborate too far, simply comments that an employee she was no longer on good terms with was forming partnerships in such a way so as to suggest our ... finances… were at threat.

She is careful not to mould the narrative around me. Careful to make it seem as a flippant point of reference. Despite the attempt, I still find my ribs splintering.

Following a distracted morning then, a morning when I should have taken more care to realise just how distracted she had actually been, how eager- she discusses her concerns with our third flatmate.

Edward tells her that in spite of my family drama, to get involved with it is only to cause more issue. (And yes, she refers to me as a flatmate here too). In time, she convinces the third to assist her in confronting the employer.

Or words to that effect. What I am actually aware of is that this is a lie not for her conscious, nor for my safety, but for the implications of Edward's future.

For example, how can she possibly profess to sending him on girl-stalking task without such a request being seen as predatory?

I don't ask.

Following a conversation with the scholarship department for the art school, a reference she moves quickly past, she then popped over to speak to our neighbours. She'd asked to reschedule her babysitting duties and it wasn't questioned.

Mrs Walderman is usually at work in the week. Though she was at home on Thursday, prepared for Esme's cancellation. She'd been making cocktails apparently.

'And so you drank the alcohol?'

Esme nodded, took a breath.

The alcohol happens to be a brief stop. They make a point to come back to it, and several more questions.

Apparently Sarah had offered her a change of outfit, something about returning clothes to Goodwill or something and following a tense comment or two, Es left rather urgently.

Doctor Ferrah circles another note on her page, another detail to bring under fire.

She heads to my father's then.

My arms tense, fighting the need to clutch her hand, to stop the room from twisting in my eyes. They ask so many questions. What she was dressed in, what she took, how she got there.

A cab. Her friend's father's a cop and she was given a can of mace so she took that with her. And a screwdriver.

Why did she take a screwdriver?

She'd lost her phone. She thought she might have to break in, in order to recover it.

So she did find her phone. She'd have to correct the number I left on the paperwork.

What happened next? They ask. Who did she see? What did she say? Did she try to contact someone?

Vaguely, she passes over the details. Comments that she took a general wander of the place, and while I know this to be another lie, I don't push it. She says while 'snooping', yes 'snooping', the subtle way of placing the blame on her own shoulders, Mr Cullen arrives home and tries to lock her in the room.

At the raise of their eyes, the concern as watch my painted expression, they write several more points on their notebooks. The doctors do not refer to me as Mr Cullen again.

Why was she locked in the room?

I have to fight even harder to remain numb now. It was a preferred response of my father's. Easier to lock his problems away till he had determined how best to cope with him. I could feel it too. The memories of a cold sacristy. Locked in the room, drinking aged, soured wine in desperation of thirst.

Still, I couldn't go near the stuff.

Esme asserts that it not for the reasons it seems. Likely she is trying to defend him in a kind of sick, desperate way to comfort me. She is trying to suggest that his actions are not intentional as they seem. She is adamant that the locked door came more from panic than plan.

I want to believe her. But she is asking of things too demanding. Too conflicting.

They argued. That's all she says. They argued about his involvement in my life.

It's another thing both women circle.

They tussled a little. She reminds us that he is technically in his seventies. Aging if not aged and though he is stronger than she would've believed, she claims they did more damaged to the room than each other.

At this point, I am furious that she didn't think to stab him in the skull with the tool at hand. Maybe I'm not. Maybe I am angry that I had not done it myself. But I wanted him dead. I wanted him to suffer.

She says she tried to escape through the front door but it was locked.

'Odd?' The doctors converse.

I shake my head.

'He rarely uses the front door. He usually comes in from the garage through the kitchen.'

They would not know this. Esme would not know this. Though her expression changes, her breath sharper.

She believes he had been intending to have a business meeting with this old employer of hers. Mid-escape this old employer spotted her, queried her presence. Kicked her head into a table, she believes.

She struggles to provide anything else on this matter.

Her hand is heavy beneath mine. Caged. I'd varied the pressure of my hold throughout her answers. Sometimes I tried to hardly touch her, tried to just forget its existence. Others I gripped so tight I was likely to be hurting her. I went from marble to fabric, to hot to cold to all of the above and through it all, I remain unable to provide one line of comfort.

The only two things I wish to say are 'I'm sorry,' and 'thank you for trusting me enough to tell me'. Except the second is a horrific thing to think. Horrific to even put myself in a position where I am suggesting I am appreciating the knowledge of what happened.

'Can you tell us what happened after that?' They ask her softly. She shakes her head. Not because she's incapable.

'I don't know,' She confesses. 'I blacked out, I think.'

More notes, more scrawling and uncomfortable pens.

'But you know who you were with?'

'I think a car was involved somehow,' she looks my way and flicks her eyes back. 'That must have been after. There were only two of us in the car…'

'What makes you say so?' Doctor Ferrah asks.

Esme has a different quality to her voice now. Open still. Perhaps too open. Ike she is talking of someone else.

'No one was speaking.'

'Is this after or before?'

'I don't know.' Esme repeats.

'Do you remember if they were with you when you come round?'

'I don't know,' she repeats.

Doctor Ashton goes to reach out towards her, hesitates, pulls herself back. 'You're doing really well, Esme. We've just got a few more questions. Did you want to take a break-?'

'No.'

She was putting too much on herself again. Her voice is hoarser than before, her voice even more swollen.

'Take a drink?' I murmur hopefully.

She hadn't touched the last one. Hadn't moved much since the answer of questions. She looked even more exhausted now than she did before. Even when she raises the glass her hand is shaky.

It does not do much to soften the sound.

'Do you remember what you were wearing when you woke up?'

She nods.

'How did-'

'I knew.' Es murmurs. 'I just knew.'

They write a few more notes.

'Do you remember anything from… the act itself?'

She shakes her head, hesitates, very slowly tilts her head into a nod. I pretend I do not exist.

'I know what you're asking,' she whispers. 'I know you have to check but I just knew. I could... feel it. They say-' she gasps, tries again. 'They say from the marks let over he… took me from behind. Said he used a condom, too.'

My flesh and my heart may fail but God is the strength of my heart and my portion forever. My flesh and my heart may fail but God is the strength in my heart and my portion forever. My flesh and my heart may fail but God is the strength in my heart and my portion forever.

'You- you know this?' Doctor Ferrah asks in shock.

'They told me,' she corrects.

'Okay. That's brave of you to share that, Esme. It's-'

She snorts, laughs even, shakes her head.

I find myself pleading with them in my heart not to push her further. Not to condemn her to more. To give her the break necessary. But they don't.

They ask about the argument with Mrs Walderman.

Esme says that following a rather 'handsy-approach,' to work, the former employer had, on a number of occasions, been quite 'heavy-handed' with his affection. She admits to being defensive when it was suggested my own approach was the cause.

'They know of your… entanglement, then?' Doctor Ferrah asks, pointed pointedly between the two.

'It's not an entanglement,' She shuts down. 'But no, I suppose a few people expressed their concerns.'

Namely Mr Cullen and King.

As time goes on, she gets more and more dismissive of the concerns they try to express.

'You believe it to be King?' they ask her.

'No doubt about it.'

'Esme- just one last question.' They look amongst themselves again, look to me, shuffle their paperwork. 'Has this happened before?'

Her silence speaks volumes.

It's been hours since the afternoon drizzle. It is miraculously still light out but quiet. A few cars travelling home from work, the odd person pacing across the carpark.

Her coffee is cold. Her water missing only one or two millimetres of liquid.

I knew she was verging on the end of her tether. She was responding starkly. Laughing in such sharp cackles it was as though she was beating my head against the table.

They then providing leaflets she had no intention of reading, they suggest making an appointment with a therapist. She thanks them and I presume from the quickness of her manners, they know she has no intention of doing so.

The look they give me has manifested from complete distrust to immediate expectation. Convince her. They tell me.

She loosens her hand before she stands up, pulls it from me and though I let it go she, she smiles at me. Her feet move her very quickly too. Eager to be at home, eager to be out. Putting on a different mask to conceal the inner face.

We leave the room in silence. She has to fill out a few more things with the receptionist before we go so I excuse myself to the bathroom.

I don't hold back from the tears now.

I don't sob this time. I'm not noisy. I just weep aimlessly next to the bowl, hitting my head against my knees, desperately trying to remain conscious, to not pass out from pain or nausea or disgust.

I am not sick either.

I wish to be.

Purging sounds like the only solace left to do but I can't even part my lips.

Instead I run the water again. I run it cold, wait till it is icy on my skin and re-wash the back of my neck. I rinse my face too, swishing the aching water around my teeth, spitting a few times, cautious of the left over marks across my nose.

Pressing paper towels to my eyes, I realise I can hear distant shouting. No not shouting. Screaming. Es- she's screaming.

Throwing myself from the door, I hasten to the waiting room where she is half-crouched in attack towards the receptionist. She's still shrieking. Words are failing to separate, it's just anguished noises of torture and sobs. She lunges at the desk, throws herself into the edge, noticeably catching herself again and again and she demands for the receptionist to 'destroy it'.

'Es-?' I go to grasp hold of her but she dodges out the way, throws stationary at the terrified woman who is noticeably pressing a button on the underside of her area.

'Esme listen to me- it's okay. Honey, it's okay. Breathe, just breathe-'

'It's not okay!' she shoves me away from her, brittle hands barely able to form fists and she sobs and growls. 'Destroy it, I said get rid of it-'

'Sweetheart, what's the matter? Slowly,-'

She throws herself at the counter again, hurtles more things at the woman. She's hiding behind a protective screen now, panicking.

I try to put myself between them but she only moves to throw things around me.

'It's just contact details-' the receptionist starts to say but screaming, Esme sends another item, a small metal nameplate this time towards the woman.

I'd never seen her so- unrecognisable. So animalistic, so hysterical-.

'Baby, please.' I beg, tortured by the ferocity. 'You've got to stop.'

'Get away from me!' she screams.

The tears are bulbous now, heavy. Drowning her, making it impossible to hear what she is trying to say and the words get choked on sobs and snot. She presses the back of her hand to her mouth, wets it with her emotion.

'Honey, It's okay. I promise it's okay.'

She lunges at me to push me from her, gasping noisily as she cries. Her hands are even weaker this time. My feet don't even stumble. In spite of my inability to stand, she is so weak to battle me over, I don't even face the hit.

Not even when she is using it to try tackle me. I open my hands again, raise them to my shoulders in surrender.

She slips to the floor, falling to a heated mess and buries into her limbs. Cries. I step towards her, she throws her trainer at me.

It scrapes my cheek, my good cheek, on its flight past my ear. The rubber catches the skin, striking it hot like a match.

It's like the spoon incident. Only intentional.

'Esme?'

She's still sobbing, choking rather. Reason tells me to stay away. Logic and understanding and safety tell me to protect her at all costs, don't touch her.

For once, I favour impulse.

Moving towards her quickly, I pull her up into my lap. My arms come around her narrow torso and I hold her to me as she sobs, for the second time, into my throat.

'Shh,' I murmur, stroking her tangled hair, her back, covering her fractious bawling with my gangly uncomfortable arms. 'You're okay,' I promise. 'I've got you, you're okay. Breathe…'

She's so small in my arms and yet shaking with such magnitude, I have to target my feet into the floor to ensure I do not move.

'What happened?' I ask again now indicating the panicking receptionist.

Judging from the haunted look on her face, she is either new or not used to an outburst of this kind. She touches her chest dramatically, likely in shock given the smile.

'I don't know, she-'

I make a face. Esme might be snivelling enough so as not to want to hear the words but that didn't mean she is actually deaf to them.

'I asked her for contact details and she just went wild- insisted I destroy the ones provided. -'

Her fists tighten on my collar, her tears slowing but not her gasp. I tighten my hold somewhat.

'Do I destroy them?'

Initially, I hesitate. She's grizzling into my shoulder now, her hands like hot vines at my neck.

I nod and reluctantly, she starts to delete the blocks of data with a marker pen. It was not what was requested. But necessary. At the very least, they would have our address, I suppose.

Esme is slowing down now, thick, tired sighs taking place as she buries her head and inhales whatever cologne I was wearing today. It is doing the trick. By the time I get her home, I suspect she will just sleep into the night.

Hopefully at least.

I hear my name behind my ear. See several faces of doctors and staff now peering distrusting around the corner. None of them look like they spoke. My name again. Clearer. Esme stiffens.

No, that was- I move my head to the television in the far edge of the room. It cannot be avoided now. It's my father. Talking something about … well about me. It's an old clip I think. The local news repeating the incident of the hospital and following it up with a reference to the fire at the coffee house.

She's starting to hyperventilate again, shifts from me. I try tighten my arms. It's too late. She looks up. Sees his face. Hears his words, his lies. King and his repetitive bollocks. She pulls from me; I tighten my clasp.

'Es- it's fine. Ignore, please just ignore it-'

I tighten my hands on her, squeeze her painfully to me. Her teeth sink into my shoulder. I jut out a little, drop a complaint as she fights the tackle of my restraints but I stay tight. Her fangs sink harder, she draws blood and shocked by the sting, my arms loosen in surprise.

The minimal change is enough. She tears herself from me, plants both hands into the furniture behind.

'No- Esme, wait-'

It's too late.

With a sobbing growl, she swings it round, launches it so that it smashes directly into the screen, splintering shards of machinery onto us all. I shut my eyes, move towards her again, she got another chair, holding it by its wooden back and spinning it the cattle of staff who stare at her.

She's just sobbing now, crying so much that she's going to make herself sick.

She throws a chair my way, badly, and I miss it easily.

'Please, no more. No more.'

She stumbles behind herself, screaming hoarsely about something. She lets me seize her this time, submits against me though her fists pull and wrench at my clothes.

'Shh,' I murmur, brushing the words on her forehead. 'Just breathe, my Love. Shh.'

From behind her, Doctor Ferrah steps towards us.

I curtly shake my head. She's raising a needle, looking decisively at her as she sobs her way into exhaustion.

I can't say the words without alerting Es.

'Please,' I murmur instead, mouthing a sharp 'no'.

They ignore me. Two more people approach, Doctor Asher as one of them and a man. They're preparing to surround her. I pull her tighter to me as though she is a doll. She flops a little like a doll, dropping her head to me while she whimpers.

I shake my head again and finally: 'No.'

It alerts her enough. As she startles, they grasp handles of her flesh. She locks her fist on me, pleads but all I can do is hold her to me and hold her still.

'It's okay, Honey. Just relax. Just for a little while-'

She whines harder, pleading.

'Only a little while,' I swear, swallowing my tears. 'Sweetheart, it's okay.'

And after a tiresome minute, her hallow breathing down my neck, her handful slackens and slowly, the sedative starts to take affect.

The group of them, the team go to take her from me, drag her from my arms but I pull her tighter, comforted by the drowsy breathing from her nose.

'Doctor Cullen-'

'You had no right to do that.' I seethe. 'She was calm.'

'She was unpredictable-'

'Sedatives should only ever be used as a last resort- you were inhumane!'

They shift, come to take her from me but I block them again.

'However you condone it, legally your actions are the epitome of unethical-'

'You far from had a handle on it. Doctor Cullen, she was working herself into a state and given the very document you both signed, we both know of our duty to step in-'

'You should've got a second opinion!' I snap.

Doctor Ferrah shuffles, gesturing to the people behind her.

'I had it.'

They go to take her from me for a third time. I bare my teeth at them.

'Don't touch her-' I demand,

'We need to-'

Yes, they need to monitor her now. I was familiar. Despite my unsteady on my legs, I lift the two of us up, ignore the people fighting to touch us both and follow one of the women into a private room far off.

They hook her up to a few machines, and test a few of her responses. They try to engage me a little but I am too sour, too furious to even look at them. Of which they are well aware.

They bring her round after thirty minutes, fearing the reaction, expecting her to snarl and scream and throw sharp objects.

Her eyes flinch open. She takes one look at me, the stained red bleeding through my shirt and vomits on the other side of the bed.

Perhaps I might have forgotten to warn them it was likely she was going to be sick. Perhaps it was a pathetic manipulative allowance I gave as revenge. It didn't amount to much and it didn't make me feel any better.

Nor did it result in good things for Esme.

They try to keep her in. Understandably. They make suggestions on the kind of help she needed, help they can provide but she is so exhausted, she barely keeps her eyes open to listen to them. She apologies in confusion. I begrudgingly inform them I'll cover the damages and they let her go.

On the provision she attends both therapy and one example of group therapy.

She doesn't say anything, just replaces the shoe on her foot and lets me lead her to the car.

Unsurprisingly, Charlie Swan has shown up. Likely from the button pressed beneath the desk. He's recognised my car of course because he stands in waiting outside the door. I jump when I see him and though he makes reserved greetings to Esme, he waits till she is in the car to publicly berate me.

At the very least, I was grateful she looked as if she might sleep rather than watch us.

Dark masses of curls disrupted from uniformity, he throws his arms over his chest, peering inside to the damage before glaring at me.

'I might have known,' he sneers, yet another growl to his tone as he shakes his head at me.

'It's not what it looks like,' I mutter tiredly but he's already got himself hooked.

'Does this look like house arrest to you, Cullen? Do you want me to actually arrest you-?'

'No Sir.'

'Listen, Boy. I'm getting real tired of saving your ass just to have you bite back each time. Do you know what prison is like-?'

'No, Sir.'

'Have you ever been to prison?'

'No Sir.'

'Then you don't know half of what you are getting yourself into. What you're getting her into-'

At his point towards the car, I flinch.

'It was just a misunderstanding,' I murmur.

'Perhaps it's you with the misunderstanding, Kid. You think this is helping? You think this is necessary? To destroy that reputation of yours-'

'I'm not trying to destroy it. Charlie, I swear to you-'

He puts his hand to his forehead, waves an arm like it's a baton to strike me with.

'Do you think I could ever let Bella near the lot of you-'

The guilt is dismembering. Particularly after trying to brutalise my brother, I didn't want to hurt him further.

'Sir, please. Please. It's not- it's not like that. Edward has no part in this,' I promise, frantically. He growls again.

'You think that matters?! Take a look at yourself, Cullen. Think this is healthy? Not just for you, for Bella, for Edward. For Esme-'

'I swear, it's- I can, I can fix this-'

'You're too late,' he barks.

I swallow, hang my head again, shuffle away from him.

'Are you listening to me, Carlisle? Because I won't repeat myself and I won't make the same mistake again-'

'Yes, Sir.'

'One more incident. One more matter where your name happens to be thrown about and I will incriminate you myself. Do you understand?'

'Yes sir.'

'Now you go home. You go home. You stay home and you do not break your curfew unless specifically permitted by your lawyer or myself. Got it?'

'Yes Sir.'

He points at me again, his chin jutted out in threat. His eyes briefly go to Esme. I can see she's asleep now or at least that's what her expression says. Soft again, lost.

In front, Officer Swan is barrelling down at me as though cracking the gavel loudly.

'Not. Another. Incident.

Don't forget to lave your thoughts!