September 6th, 1920
Esme's POV
Morning was breaking in the living room, the suns rays peering through the window. It was early, maybe six in the morning. Footsteps make their way slowly down the stairs, every odd step creaked under the weight. Esme slowly wandered into the kitchen, looking extremely pale and tired. Despite that, she was already dressed in a full skirt and blouse. They looked terrible together; a deep green colored loose skirt, and a frumpy, elbow length looking ivory top. But they were home clothes, not clothing for out in public. Clothing for cooking and cleaning.
Her caramel locks were disheveled and cascading over her shoulders. Like they had been brushed but not styled with any purpose.
I let go of Carlisle, ending our embrace, giving him a soft kiss, before the two of us walked towards the kitchen for the first time. We stood just outside the entrance.
Esme had put the coffee pot on, and had started on breakfast, cracking several eggs into a pan. They sizzled loudly, filling the house with the smell of them.
She sighed heavily, and then closed her eyes, moaning in pain, discomfort. She ran the back of her hand over her forehead, wiping away the sweat that was forming.
She leaned back against the counter, her eyes still closed, taking slow deep breaths, and then swallowed hard, before turning back to the pan of scrambling eggs, and plated them, before grabbing an orange that was on the counter, peeling it, and breaking it into wedges, and adding it to the plate.
Just as she finished assembling the single plate of food, setting it on the table, the stairs creaked like before.
Charles brushed passed Carlisle and I.
"Morning dear," he said with a gruff, morning voice, reaching around Esme to grab a coffee mug. She didn't move, as she was leaning against the counter again, breathing deeply. But when Charles bumped her, she winced, gently touching her breast for a moment.
"Morning," she mumbled, opening her eyes, and trying to fake that she was ok. Charles poured himself his cup of coffee, black, the way he always drank it.
Like his soul, I thought bitterly to myself.
Esme watched as he sat down, "No toast this morning, we used the last of the bread last night," she said.
"You have all day to bake another," he said plainly, nonchalantly as he dug into his breakfast.
"Do you just want leftovers then for work?" she asked. He waved a hand at her.
"No," he said with his mouth full, mid chew, "I'm having lunch at the Black Rabbit with some co-workers," he said, going back to shovel in another mouthful of eggs.
"That pub?" she asked, seemingly annoyed. He nodded.
"Are you not eating anything?" he asked, changing the subject. Esme shook her head.
"I don't feel too good. I think I might be getting the flu early," she grumbled.
"Get some air after you do your things today, I'm sure you'll be fine," he said as he shoveled in a few orange slices and chugging half his coffee. There was silence in the room for the rest of the time he ate.
He ended up leaving two slices of the orange before hurrying to get his coat of for work. He offered Esme a forceful kiss, as he took his hat off the rack, and stepped out the door. Esme leaned against the wall, closing her eyes again.
"You look very ill," Carlisle said, speaking for the first time since we got to this time point. I nodded, smiling almost, because he didn't seem to realize what it was.
Esme groaned uncomfortably again, and she opened her eyes, her face suddenly draining of all color as her hands fell to her stomach, resting for a second, and then she darted down the hall, running into the bathroom, not even closing the door. I didn't look down the hall, but I heard the violent retching that brought back a lot of emotional pain. After several moments, the vomiting and coughing stopped, and I pulled Carlisle a few feet from the open bathroom door. I felt his arms wrap around me. Esme lifted herself from the bathroom floor after several minutes, and stood in front of the sink, rinsing out her mouth. She splashed her face with cold water, then dried off. We watched as she stared at her reflection in the mirror, and then tenderly touched her chest again, wincing again. Then her hands fell to her stomach, her face contorting, almost thoughtful, before she left the bathroom, moving past us, and going into the living room, stopping in front of the calendar.
"No," she let out a shaky, disappointed sigh, touching her stomach again, "Shit,"
I felt my husbands' arms tighten, around me, his hands falling to my own stomach.
Esme sat down in the chair by the fireplace, relaxing into it, her face ridden with shock, one hand on her stomach.
"That's when you knew?" my husband asked. I nodded, sighing softly, leaning back into his chest.
"I had been feeling tired for about a week, my breasts were sore, the vomiting. And then I checked the calendar, and I was late," I said the last part quietly. Despite being with my husband for over a hundred years, and him being a doctor, human bodily function had never been apart of our lives, and strangely felt like a taboo thing to even mention.
I felt him nestle his nose into my hair, offering a comforting hug.
"How long until you leave?" he asked softly. I let out a heavy sigh, taking pity on the poor woman who was trying to process this new information.
"Tomorrow," I told him, "He doesn't show for dinner, and comes home drunk. Normal for him most nights since the war ended. I had planned on telling him, but when I protest going to bed to with him…" I cut myself off, I felt shaky, "A lot of bruises, and a welt from his hand…" I choked out, "I packed as soon as he went to work,"
Carlisle kissed my temple.
"Ready to go back?" he asked, gently lifting our tangled hands, eyeing the pendant. I turned in his arms.
"One more thing, then we'll go back," I told him, picking the pendant up myself, and turning it forward again.
Esme had long left and started her new life. The house around us had change tremendously. It had become much more haunting.
Dark, depressing, desolate.
Dust settled around us, having not been cleaned in several years. Photos that were once on the mantle had been pulled down. Beer cans littered the kitchen counter, dishes piled randomly, a coat was tossed over a chair. Even the floors were much dirtier.
March of 1927
I didn't care what specific day it was. But I had stopped when a very ominous figure entered the house in the dark. I turned, seeing Charles on the couch, a beer in hand, half empty, dark circles under his eyes. They snapped towards the shadows, the figure lurking in the hall.
"Who the hell are you?!" the drunken slur of Charles barked at the shadows, fumbling to stand up. The intruder stepped out of the dark and into the light.
Edward.
His eyes were barely holding onto gold. But they were blazing with a fire of hatred. I recalled the time when he left. It had been devastating. I had been a mess, Carlisle had chased him to state line, but returned to me without him later that night. I later found out from Edward that Charles had been his first victim of rebellion.
"You get the hell out of my house!" he shouted, reaching to grab Edward, but was stopped dead in his tracks, Edward's strength holding him back.
"I'm here for something," Edward's throaty, ominous tone had Charles sitting down cautiously, a fear growing behind his eyes.
"What would that be?" Charles asked, his voice still very sharp and demanding. Edward chuckled to himself, as he stalked in that ominous, predatorial way, running a hand over the dirty mantle. When his fingers grazed over a down facing frame, he tilted it up, setting it back upright. It was the photo from our wedding. The glass was cracked in a perfect line diagonally. Edward took the frame off the mantle and handed it to Charles.
"Take it," Edward snapped harshly at him, and then let a growl rumble in his chest. The kind that was threatening a prey.
I felt Carlisle's hand rubbing my upper arm soothingly.
The Edward got very close, hovering over Charles threateningly, whose hands were shaking slightly as he took the photo frame from Edward.
Charles looked down at it, and for a moment I thought I saw a look of remorse.
"You Charles Evenson, without a doubt, are the most disgusting, disgraceful, waste of life to walk this earth," Edward snarled at him, stalking around the living room again. Charles looked up, probably confused how this disturbing teenager had broken into his house, had more strength than a grown man, and was talking so disrespectfully to him.
"Excuse me!? You should watch your fucking mouth!" he shouted, going to stand up again, but Edward was in front of him in the blink of an eye and shoved hm back down, knocking the air out of his chest.
"And you should stay down you piece of shit!" Edward snapped back, snarling baring his teeth.
"What are you? Why are you here?" Charles asked, when the air returned to his lungs. Edward chuckled, smirking.
"I'm here, as a little favor…to you wife… I mean ex-wife," Edward told him, and Charles' eyes snapped right up to him.
"That bitch ran off, and I hope she got just what she deserved," Charles seethed, and Edward glared at him.
"Oh she did, but you and I are thinking very differently, you bastard," Edward said, looming over Charles, "She got everything she deserved, the first and foremost being a husband who loves her, and has never violently laid a hand on her," Edward snapped, his hand suddenly holding Charles throat. The fear was evident in the man's eyes.
"How…do you even... know where…she is?" Charles choked, Edward's hold on his trachea was cutting off his ability to breathe.
"That doesn't concern you," my son told him, letting go of his throat, Charles gasping for air.
"That woman belongs to me! So it does concern me! And you'll tell me right now or I swear I'll-" Charles snapped again. In a fraction of a second Edward had cut him off and had an iron grip on his arm, and I heard the bone snap, making Charles scream in agony.
"She does not belong to you! A woman is no one's property! And you had no right to do the things that you did to her!" Edward barked at him, releasing his now mangled and broken arm from his grip. The pain and fear in that man's eyes almost brought me joy.
"She…deserved…everything that came her way!" Charles shouted through gripped teeth, holding his broken arm. Edward's eyes were on fire, he was shaking with rage.
"You beat your own wife unconscious and raped her!" Edward shouted so loud that it made me flinch, and Carlisle embraced me tighter, "You treated her horribly! And you sit there, looking at your wedding photo and wonder why she never loved you!?" Edward seethed, and the reach out, hitting Charles across the face.
"Edward…" I whispered. I had seen my son's outburst against his father and I, but I had never seen him this violent. So watching this scene unfold in front of us was scaring me.
By now, Charles' arm, throat, and face were beginning to bruise. He could no longer get off the couch, and the empty beer bottle had been long forgotten on the floor.
"What do you want from me?" Charles asked Edward, his voice trembling. Edward smiled, chuckling almost demonically.
"Justice," he stated, "For her, not on behalf of her. Because if it was up to her, I wouldn't be here," Edward explained to him, and suddenly he was pinning Charles by the throat again, "But you don't deserve to live, you absolute filth," he seethed, his teeth inches from Charles' neck.
And at the moment he sunk them into the man's flesh, Carlisle pulled my face into his chest and the agonizing scream was abruptly cut off.
OoO
April 16th, 2023
"It's ok," Carlisle's voice soothed in the darkness. Fingers were stroking my hair softly, "It's ok love. It's over," he whispered.
When I looked up from his chest, we were outside again, beside the car, and it was morning.
He had turned us back to the present.
I felt the chain that was tight around my hand and panicked, letting go of my husband and frantically pulled it free. It fell to the sidewalk and I threw myself back into his arms, burying my face in his chest again.
"You're ok," he said softly again, his lips resting on the top of my head. He held me just a tight.
"I-…I didn't think…he would taunt him so much," I stuttered, shocked by my son's actions. It was one thing to hear Edwards telling of what he did, but a completely different thing to see it.
Carlisle leaned his back against the passenger side of the car, and I turned my head to the side, as he softly ran his fingers through my hair at the nape of my neck.
"I think that was enough. We should go home," he suggested, his tone very deep and almost haunted. I shook my head.
"Not yet," I mumbled, my cheek pressed into his shirt, "Not yet," I repeated, pleading.
"Esme," Carlisle sighed, as I inhaled his scent to try and calm myself. I had been on the verge of tears since past Edward had walked into the house.
"Carlisle please," I said, gripping onto his shirt firmly, "Please," I nearly had to beg. Carlisle sighed again almost in defeat, lifting my chin to look up at him. Our eyes met and I could see the worry and pain in them. But I snaked an arm behind his head and pulled his lips down to mine. He cupped my jaw softly, before breaking our lip lock.
"OK," he whispered, "Where to next?"
I smiled, pulling out of his arms to pick up the necklace and tuck it safely into my jacket pocket again, and then reached up and caressed his cheek with a soft smile.
"Ashland," I replied.
