Dear all you beautiful and wonderful people,

Sooooo many apologies that I don't even know where to begin. Everything that could've gone wrong, did and in the space that you have been patiently waiting, I've been reading and writing and learning and discovering soooo much. I'm so sorry for my absence and I cannot thank you all enough for your continued support.

Two things to say.

One; I have plenty in store still and your patience will be well rewarded- in the sense that while this story DOES have an end in sight, that end is not today, or tomorrow... or for a while, I reckon. I have no plans to give up this story and even though I have been super busy, I fully intend to keep going until it's finished. Your interest has been a huge motivation and I'm so grateful you're as intrigued into this story a I am committed to writing it (I just wish I had more time to spare!)

Two; While it may not look as such, this chapter has been a very carefully written (and re-written) one and the themes expressed may be disturbing. I didn't always intend to write this chapter, and though the route isn't much different, this added detail is still important. However, it has been a bit of a risk and I'm hoping it'll play off.

All will be explained over time.

Many thanks to you all, I wish I had the time to thank you all personally, you are brilliant.

Deep disarrayed features mirror my own as I sink harder into the glass table, towards the scent of tobacco. He looks like he's about to say something I'll dislike. I sharpen my tongue ready, sitting up tall, stretching my shoulders to prove how mature I am without fiddling with the rings on my knuckles.

'You shouldn't have done it.' He mutters disapprovingly.

'I had to, Daddy.'

He reaches over to tug my ringlets affectionately and from sitting up straight and breathing the coffee, I now swing my frilly-socked feet to and fro, admiring my dirt covered knees beneath a green dress.

'Are you mad at me?'

'You don't know what you've gotten yourself into, Maple.'

'It was an accident, Daddy.'

'It was stupid!' He curses, jumping up so suddenly that the garden furniture snaps shut. He smashes the brittle glass of the table by pressing into it. 'You stupid child. You don't realise what he's doing to you!'

'It's not his fault, Dad!' I shout defensively, bulbous tears streaking eyeliner into my ironed hair. I try to hold my ground but the boots of my high heels slink deeper into the very dirt that once stained my skin.

He snorts, spitting the excess phlegm into trodden grass. 'You love him, do you?'

'He cares for me!' I cry, clasping desperately at him. He swats me away.

'You have no idea the damage you're causing yourself!' Sneering at me, he lights a cigarette. It makes him cough and cough and cough. He's suffocating, but he still keeps breathing from it until clouds form from his mouth and his tongue blackens.

'You shouldn't be smoking!' I beg him, trying to be louder so that he can't shut me up. 'Please! The chemotherapy!'

As I reach towards him, he closes his hand along my wrist like manacles and forces my eyes to focus. My skin is burnt, swollen, delicate. The skin is wet newspaper, tearing and disintegrating under any touch.

'It was an accident, Daddy!'

'Look!' He screams, and when he pulls my arm into sight again, I see the only marks along my rosy arms are the outline of two perfectly sweet lips. Kisses decorate my arms, along my neck, leading up along my cheek bone and down my spine until I can feel them prickling all over.

'It's happening again, isn't it?!'

'It's not his fault!' I cry again, stamping my feet and begging him to listen to me. Yet the louder I scream for his attention, the less he notices.

'He loves me!'

'It's not enough, Esme!'

'Please.'

'I said it's not enough!'

'He's trying to make it better!' I say, salt water rising up my throat.

He's started walking away, feet pressing deeper into the grass and soil until its staining his slacks. I try to chase him but he's so far ahead of me that I can only see the back of his dirtied coat. I keep running towards him, faster, pounding my little legs into cycles, tripping over falling rocks and my own balance... I can't reach him. The marks on my skin have started to itch, they're uncomfortable, sinking into my flesh like brands.

'Daddy, I love him!'

'You don't know what love is, you stupid child.'

I'm screaming for him to turn around but he keeps walking deeper into the pit, far from my grasp. I scream louder, I throw a tantrum, I'm kicking those little black shoes into the dirt, trying to catch up and never getting close enough, my skin smoking under each burn until suddenly, I'm seized.

'Esme?! Breathe, my love. You're okay. Breathe.'

Moist hands try to hold my shoulders still. They're shaking, and I don't realise until he puts a white palm upon my cheek that I'm still trying to scream. Attempting to brush away non-existent tears, he incidentally leads my line of sight towards his damaged one. Carlisle's once-soft face now looks haggard, pained and sleepless, his left eye too bruised and too swollen to sit symmetrically with his face. Noticing the steel of my bones, he tries to hold me steady but I push him violently, slapping him away in case I dare taint him.

I want to cry in between choking but the task proves too much for a suffocating automaton. He encourages slow inhales and exhales by example, dramatically filling his chest in case English is a forgotten language. His blue eyes are wide, or as wide as they can be, almost like they're reading every word in every gasp. Both hands he lays still on the bed; within view but not on my body.

'What's going on?!' Edward demands huskily rushing to my doorway and looking just as pale as the sleepless Saint.

'It's fine...' Carlisle murmurs, reaching over to brush a thumb across my puffy cheeks. On my flinch, he stops and when I turn my face away he lets his hand drift back to his side. The water smears itself on my bottom lip. 'It's fine. Why don't you go back to bed?' He sighs, gently.

I'm not sure who that's directed to until he answers.

'Go back to bed? She was screaming, Carlisle!'

We both turn to give a salty, displeased glare. More so because Edward's just confirmed what I already assumed. They're speculating, making suppositions and choosing what they think is best for me. The disbelief on those heavy blonde features looks exhausted and eventually, Edward stormily leaves my room.

'Are you okay?' Carlisle whispers.

This is the closest he's been to me in three days. I can't stand it. I can feel him testing the tenderness of my wounds, taking in the state of my hands, judging the bandages on my head. I haven't changed them as instructed. I haven't done anything. Even as I struggle to sit, he's examining my every bruise.

I nod dumbly and resist comfort, backing out of his security to sit spaciously on my side of the bed without posing an invitation. I'm still dressed. Not in the hospital clothes. Those are buried in the corner behind my door. The t-shirt and jumper I'm wrapped in is far too hot to wear with the sweat is gathering beneath my hairline. My tracksuits aren't like pyjamas, more like patterned jeans and I have my socks rolled over the ankles to keep from contaminating too much air. Honestly, I'm ready to run and the expert he is knows this. Aptly noting my desperation to inch away from him using the bedding as a shield, he tugs the duvet around me, placating me like a child until my eyes are closing again.

'Do you need anything?'

I shake my head and without another word, he nods and silently leaves the room.

'You should've told her.' Edward chides, loudly, as he closes my door again and for yet another night, I stay in my room and don't leave.

'Pacing isn't doing anything.'

'It's something.' Carlisle responds bitterly and even from up here, my shoulders shudder.

'You don't think I feel guilty, too?'

'Just shut-up, Edward...'

'I'm worried as well, Carlisle-'

'If you were so worried, you would never have-'

'That's not fair!' The kid yells petulantly. 'We did it for you! She was trying to sort this shitty-'

'And look where we are now!' Comes the furious interruption. 'I am lying through my teeth telling everybody she is fine, accepting your bullshit excuses when I know for a fact she isn't fine and it's my fault-'

'Dude-'

'Don't!' He snaps and I wonder if Edward has his eyebrows interwoven like a Sudoku puzzle.

'You can't just act on assumptions!' The youngest Masen insists. 'We don't know what happened-'

'We know that if I hadn't have been so careless, she wouldn't be...'

He can't bring himself to consider the answer.

'That's bullshit, Carlisle!'

There's a crashing sound of something colliding into the wall and I hope more than anything it's the house phone. It's been the one sound impossible to drown out these last few nights.

'Is it?! She hasn't left her room for three days and the only sound she does make during those three days is a scream. What are we meant to think?'

'You need to talk to her-'

'And risk causing more injury? She doesn't want to see me, Edward. She couldn't even look at me!' The anger quietens down to a gentle bemoaning and I can see him sitting on the sofa with his head in his hands, fingers wrenching at the darker roots. 'It's my entire fucking fault.'

'You need to make her listen-'

'I'm not making her do anything.' He growls, and the sound is like a slap across the younger one's face. The slap isn't hard enough because Edward's musical tones darken in empathy.

'And how is it going to go down when she decides that she's ready to talk and you're gone? Did you think about that?' Edward asks, smartly and there's almost a vibratory snort in response.

'I won't risk hurting her.'

'She's already hurt. Walking on eggshells isn't helping. You need to tell her before something bad happens...'

'She's fucking catatonic! She doesn't want anything to do with me and I don't blame her. I just, I need to leave before I ruin her-'

'You really are fucking stupid!' Edward shouts and there's a long uncomfortable silence between them for a few more moments. 'If you go there's no guarantee you'll come back. How is she meant to cope with that?'

'It's clearly better-'

'She… she can't lose you, Carlisle.'

'She doesn't want me. Especially now-'

'Stop being so stupidly self-centred!' Edward groans. 'For fuck sake, have you considered that it's nothing to do with you-'

'It's everything to do with me!' Carlisle fights.

'You know she deals with things in this way-'

'What things, though, Edward?' He isn't as loud this time but he sounds just as furious even in lower decibels. 'What have I done to her?'

'It's not our fault…' He murmurs gently but this just pushes him back into emotional outrage.

'You know perfectly well it is my fault!'

'You need to be supporting her...'

'Supporting her through what? I have no idea who to look at. I have no idea if it was someone involved in this shitty ordeal, if it was a stranger...I have nothing to go by. Except if I leave this house-'

'Why are you blaming me?' Edward asks rather shrilly and despite the obvious answer, there's another clatter of sound. 'That's not fair, I had to call him.'

'You know darn well you didn't!'

'For fuck sake Carlisle, if it wasn't him, it would've been worse and you wouldn't even be under house arrest, you'd be right out the country-'

'Which is exactly where I'm going to end up, anyway. You had no right to get Charlie Swan involved!'

'Jesus Christ, can you not see it yet?!' Masen retorts sarcastically. 'You were seconds from having your license revoked. The man is in hospital and we don't even know if he had anything to do with-'

'How can you say that?!'

'Why would it involve him? Really?'

'He started this whole shit. If it wasn't for him, she wouldn't be-'

'You can't know that!' Edward growls.

'No!' Carlisle roars in agreement. 'I can't. But you can.'

'You need to talk her-'

'Grow up.'

Sometime later in the silence of the evening when my bruised body aches for the movement that hurts it, I try once more to gather my surroundings. Every inch of my defiled skin itches like insects are crawling along my blood stream. My stomach is empty, a black void within a cage but on the scent of food, I'm nauseated again.

It's like I've just awoken from laser eye surgery. The ceiling overhead is ghastly white, spotted with black holes in my vision and made deadly by my dizziness. I don't see the details of my room; I simply recall them from the direction I face. Sensitive eyes glance over where the wardrobe should be, my laptop, the soiled clothes in the corner of the room. I shiver despite the sweat on my slender neck.

The three day lack of energy is so bad that when I pull myself from the bed I come falling to my feet. Sucking the toxic air into my mouth, I force weight onto my step and trip foolishly hard into the wall, sliding down the plaster dramatically and struggling to find a breath.

The window won't open. I haven't tried it but I know it from the heat in the room. The struggle to move makes my head spin so fast that the ground starts to slant beneath me and I quickly tumble to my knees like a newborn deer. One hand on the door knob, eyes streaming from light sensitivity and gasping, I haul myself against the door, ease it open and stumble past the several platters of cold food left outside my room.

Once in the bathroom, I slip painfully and though I aim for it to do so, I'm lucky my forehead misses the sink.

The shower would be so much easier if I didn't have to sit down. It's a long shower, too. Interrupted by the several times I heave up bile. Edward, I know it's him by the announcing footsteps, knocks lightly on the door but assuming the obviously reply, he returns back to his room in silence.

It takes so long to shower that I must have blacked out. I awaken sharply at the feel of a razor upon my skin. The water is unusually cold, beating upon the purple on my wrists, my eyes dropping with it. My hands are empty, wrinkled, sore, and grazed but still empty. Yet the sight of blood was so clear-...

For the hour it took to shower, it takes another to dress. I even pull on a jacket though I don't plan on going anywhere. I get halfway down the stairs when I realise my mistake, but it's warm so I leave it on. With any hope, I can sweat the disease from me. Though I don't know which is sweat and which is blood anymore.

I pass Carlisle on my travels into the kitchen. He's asleep at the table, forehead resting on the back of a scraped hand. Hesitating, because I can barely see, I decide I need food before making any rash decisions.

My three day fasting surprises me once more. I'm ravenous. I eat so much bread that my stomach swells beneath me, growing out from under me like a cartoon balloon but I don't stop there. Alice has stopped by. She's fed the boys and tried several times to feed me judging by the note on the casserole dish. It would be rude to disappoint her so I eat a bowl or two of her pasta. I follow this with ice cream, tonnes of ice cream, and chocolate and left over cake, cookies, candy, snacks...

In fact when I open my eyes again, I'm still sat at the table. I've made tea and one slice of toast and touch neither. My hand shakes when I try to lift either to my mouth and my eyes glaze over.

With no amount of enthusiasm, I place a cube of sugar my tongue and wait patiently. It gives me a headache but once I promise myself I can keep it down, I can try the toast. The butter is thick and warm and struggles to sit nicely in my stomach. It makes me guilty about the untouched food upstairs in comparison but at least I can trust this food hasn't been poisoned. The boys wouldn't do it deliberately. Maybe just truth serum stirred into my drink. Or antibiotics into my soup.

The start of their interrogation.

I don't move from my seat for a long time. It's like I've over eaten with a swollen stomach to accommodate it but it's enough sugar to stop me thinking about driving off the edge of a cliff.

Or that's what I tell myself.

It's twenty past two am according to Carlisle's watch. The hand not supporting his head is stained with ink on both sides. It's outstretched like a painting, waiting for a scalpel to be placed into it. His wrists are worse than mine. Realistically, he looks worse too. I know he's been arrested, not from the mass of paperwork on the table, or the conversation with Edward, from the outline on his wrists. The skin looks worn away and despite being asleep in the most social area of the house; his long sleeved t-shirt aims to cover it. His thick hair is even more tousled over dark eyes and though I'm tempted to wake him, I stay safely in my realm of silence.

He's exhausted anyway and I don't want to speak to him.

An uncontainable gasp leaves my lips and though he stirs, he doesn't wake. My shoes move around his opposite side and moving his fringe aside, it's clear how the deep purple and yellow under his eye stands sickly against his pale skin. Noticing suddenly that I'm at risk of infecting him, I snatch my own whimpered arm from him and cover my mouth.

Considering I have less than a cup full of water in my system, I'm alarmed by the rush of water towards my lashes. Desperate to not see the state of him I balance a hand on a surgery book. Moving it aside there are more school note books underneath. Then there's certificates and medical qualifications, graduation certificates, reports... Paper covers every panel of the table.

I hesitate once more but deciding I don't want to know about it, I look away again... and beneath my eyes is another letter.

His visa has been revoked.

I'm suddenly grateful for the shoes and coat.

'Esme?!'

Words are thrown aggressively their way and more aware than ever at my lack of energy, I stumble thoughtlessly into Elizabeth's arms at the cross of the steps. She almost struggles to bear my weight.

'Edward!' She calls aside, her voice brittle and sore. 'Oh my word. Edward! Come on, my love. Come sit down...'

She tries to lead me patiently into their hotel living room, an address I'd managed to gather prior to my hasty escape, but my legs stumble and initiated more by the lack of voice, I try repeatedly to explain my purpose.

'What happened? Tell me what happened?!' She emotionally demands as I try wordlessly to speak.

My stomach spews up the only remains of food onto their pristine carpet and after one last blank stare at her jeweled eyes; I don't notice another thing until I come round again an hour later.

Edward Senior's dulcet mumbling can be heard through each wall in this villa. He treads lighter than his son but speaks louder and it's only in confusion that I manage to guess he's talking to someone important.

'Drink something.' She urges from behind my hair.

It's less of an emotional plea this time and more of a motherly order. In spite of its ferocity, Elizabeth still caresses my cheek softly and bites her request for an explanation. Moving slowly, I do as I'm told and drink something. Properly this time. Water at first, small sips repeatedly until my head no longer screams. From that I could manage a healthy snack bar, to pick my way through half a tub of grapes. Then more cake and sugar until E numbers are raining in my system.

'I'm sorry-'

'Don't you dare.' She barks. 'Don't you dare apologise for being here! To think-' She suddenly stands away from me, clutching at her waist like she can't breathe as rolls of tears drown her cheeks. 'To think that- to see... oh my Lord... we've been so worried!'

I hear her repulsion through telepathy; 'You're so bloated.'

It is so disorienting seeing someone else breakdown for my purpose that for a full two-minutes I don't budge to breathe. Though soon realising that she can be heard in the next room, I appear at her side, trying to reassure that I'm fine. She squeezes my hand so hard it hurts but I have to let her do it while she cries a little more. Part of me wants to ask who she's crying for but I don't want the answer.

'I know it's late...' I utter, feeling that this is the closest I'll be allowed to regret. Sentences absolve her honour and swallowing the lump in her throat, she shakes her head.

'We've been awake for days.'

'You must be exhausted then.'

She glares at me and I realise that she doesn't like to be pitied either. Nor does she like to be placed into competition with anything.

'We are so worried...'

'I'm sor-' But she glares again, forcing me to stop short. Edward's famous eyes are mocking me and guiltily, I look to the carpet where I thought I vomited. She sees me frowning and imitates but I'm so exhausted trying to distinguish which is true and which isn't, that I make myself chew on nothing, swallowing without a taste.

'I have something...' I say instead, already guessing the route of her questions and feeling far too sick to want to discuss them. 'Something that'll will help.'

I pat down my coat pockets, check inside and to my horror... find it's empty. I check it again, turning them inside out. Just fabric. The breath goes out from under me and collapsing to my knees, my nails scratch at the holes.

'It was here!' I squeal hysterically and I find myself so frantic in searching for the old paper that I don't realise Elizabeth is holding both my shoulders steady.

I don't blackout this time, I don't faint and I don't cry. My whole sense of worth shatters in her delicate hands and before she can calm my hysterics, I'm already gasping for air, dampening her smooth cardigan with dry spit and not calming though my steel lunges need it.

'It was for nothing.' I stutter wordlessly as she smooths my back. I flinch from her but she ignores the movement and keeps placing pressure on my spine until the warm taste of oxygen is distinguishing the fire of suffocation.

Mrs Masen dares not to correct me until she can be sure I've made noise of every bitter snort of air tortured from my frame and she doesn't shy from it. I warn her not to touch me. I try to tell her I'm diseased but she doesn't loosen her hold on me.

'You gave it to him, My love.' She reassures, pushing a warm cup towards my hands. It's a ceramic hotel mug and the liquid inside smells strongly of chamomile. Her long lashes, wet unlike mine, brush against her top lid when she glances towards the door. 'The boys...' She stops and looks away, ashamed. 'We called them...'

'Is... he okay?' I manage to ask, using the strength of my elbows to bring the cup to my lips. It burns my lip and tongue and hurts my throat but I take it down without a fight. It's raw, scratching open wounds like a bladed knife.

'Would you like to speak to them?'

Her melody has gone down a tone and listening to the wariness of the men next door, I'm embarrassed to think about the state I must appear to Edward Senior. Typical girl; hysterical over uncontrollable things while the men sort things out next-door. My sore eyes speak for me and though I flinch again, she softly pats my hand even though I've hidden them beneath the jumper cuffs. I stay hunched together; afraid that my limbs will fall apart and together we try and distinguish the various words from the main room.

'Can't you see what it is, Carlisle?' Senior implores and the submission of his voice proves that no one is over joyous by this discovery except for Senior himself.

'I won't look at it.'

'I really think you should-'

'I said no.'

'But Carlisle- Edward! For Heaven's Sake if you can't control yourself then get out. Carlisle look. This is everything... This is you in its entirety.'

A sarcastic snort turns sharper and before I can force my shoulders to tense, I realise I'm flinching again.

'Please?'

'Dad...' Edward snivels.

'Fine.' Senior concedes, tiredly. 'I'll send this off with the application and I'll phone in the morning just to see if I can hurry the process along...'

'Thank you.'

It's cold, and said with an air of distaste. Elizabeth likewise is hiding within her shoulders. Her hair has been straggled from its clip and she reminds me quite like the mother of a newborn, kept up all night. Guilty, I look away but her imploring green eyes are still on my face.

'You don't...'

'I do.' I whisper. 'I have to talk to them.' Wiping my nose on my sleeve, I jump a little when she touches me.

'In your own time.'

I nod.

'You need sleep.' She comments and though I think this is self diagnosis too, the weight of today is enough for me to agree.

'All I've done is sleep.'

'It's... it's a sign of trauma.' She says, under her breath and I feel nauseated again.

'How ...?' I won't look at her.

'The marks...' When I think she's going to continue, to assume the worst, she turns her head away and bites her lip. I want to the same but instead, I hold my throat. Her voice is frail when she starts again. 'You can stay here tonight? Or another room? If you want?'

'No...'

'Oh, Esme.'

'I...' I take a very deliberate breath and look towards the door. The boys are spread across the room. Senior is at a table with his head bowed, Edward's eyes are red, his Adam's apple high with his eyes on his shoes and Carlisle is glaring outside the window with both hands behind his back. No one hears me approach and all look suddenly surprised when I clear my unrecognisable voice.

'I want to go home.' I announce.

Both boys hedge towards me but with a curt shake of my head, they stop in their tracks. Carlisle retreats, face hard and his bruised eye forcing him to squint in a way that makes my chest ache.

'It is late. How about we call you three tomorrow?' Senior's head tilts towards me and I realise that he's trying very hard to avoid catching my eye while still trying to assess the damage, too. Edward is itching to stand close to me: to share a look of triumph or defeat, I'm not sure but I can feel the heat of his shame warm my own cold skin.

'If you think that's necessary.'

I look at Carlisle, embarrassed tenfold when we catch each other staring and both flinch away.

'You'll call us if you need anything, right?' Liz says from behind.

I can almost feel her hesitating to put her hand on my back and I'm glad that she decides against it. With no offence intended I say goodbye to both Masen's at a distance. Senior is clearly attempting telepathy because he watches me earnestly when we leave and tries to catch my eye in a nod but Carlisle's horror at such a document is enough to make me doubt the worth of getting it.

That's what's actually going through my mind when I get in my car. The words are balancing there.

Are you looking for an excuse to leave?

Maybe that's why he's angry. He wanted to go. Look at how calm he was... oh I've been so stupid, so fucking foolish-.

When the gentle tap of his knuckles bounces on my window a scream tries to force its way out my lungs. Luckily I'm too hoarse, and breathing deeply while my heart rate decelerates, I allow the cold to breeze against my warm cheeks.

'I think Edward wants to... stay...' His mouth falters on the last word. It's like he's trying to smile but he's forgotten the natural sympathetic sounds of his natural voice. He doesn't elaborate to stay where and I don't ask. I have a feeling we both mean the girlfriend. 'Would you mind...?'

I don't let him finish the sentence. Opening the door I wait for him to slide in. It's too warm again, so I turn off the heaters, rub my puffy face with both palms and exhaustedly breathe though it evolves into a yawn.

'I can drive?'

Trying not to look at him for the guilt of the swollen eye, I ease my foot off the clutch.

'If you'd like?' He offers again and I'm aware that he can't possibly understand that he sounds angry. The offer is genuine and sweet though he says it too tightly, it could almost be sarcastic.

Letting my hand drop from the ignition, I open my door and we switch sides silently. It's so easy to forget he's a better driver than me and even while mad, he drives so smoothly that the engine's purr lulls me to sleep.

The hotel is less than half an hour's drive from our street and the fact that I've slept for three days and still feel like I've been awake throughout, surprises me into a peaceful, not uncomfortable silence.

'Es...?'

Tightening my eyes closed from the disturbance, I nestle further into the seat and let myself relax a little. It's easier to do when I can hear him.

'My lo-urm. Esme?'

No reply.

'I... I don't want to disrupt-... I can carry you? But... but I need your permission?'

The silences where he waits for my reply are even quicker to pass me by than usual and in my irritability, at his tone, at my exhaustion, at our mutual embarrassment...

'Esme?' he asks again.

This time my tongue doesn't withhold a sharp 'yes' and my sleep goes undisturbed until I realise I'm alone.

I wake up from my bed colder than usual and shivering violently. It's still dark outside, no later than four. I'm dressed, excusing my shoes, and a few blankets have been tucked over me but that doesn't stop me shivering.

Until I realise with horror that my window has been wedged open.

Terror paralyses me for a few moments and while I try and force a scream, my trembling hands grasp the iron frame of the bed and wrenching myself from it, I hurtle myself, with tremendous clatter into Carlisle's room. He'd been lying on his side, sleeping I'm not sure, but at my entrance, jumps up confused to clasp a hold of me.

'Esme? What? What is it?'

The words are squeaks, noiseless shrieks and sinking my dirtied hands into his tender skin, I gasp and cry and shake until the only thing I can be aware of are his arms holding me up.

'Es. You're okay, you're okay...'

But the fear spews forth in rivers from my eyes and shaking violently under him I try disastrously to warn him.

'Carlisle, please,' I choke out, coughing on my own winded heaves while he tries to comfort and soothe and calm all in one and his bruised eye only makes me panic more.

'Babe, slowly. That's it... inhale.'

'The window.' I sob helplessly. 'My window, it's open.'

He doesn't betray his soothing tones and continuing to rub my back, repeating the same even pattern, I tremble harder at his next sentence.

'I know it is, I opened it... Esme?'

My claws on his arms knead tighter and at the release of paralytic terror, I cling to him so tightly I may draw blood.

'I can't breathe.' I wheeze, moving away from him to try and gasp a relief of air that won't come. My lungs crush tighter and though I try to restart my system into action, the shock has stunned me.

'What?'

'I can't breathe, Carlisle.'

'You can breathe. C'mon now, Love. You've just got to remain calm...'

Calm doesn't help because I've worked myself into such a state that I end up flapping my hands at him, breathing in and in and in... and failing to exhale. With a firm hand placed delicately on my shoulder, I watch the panic in his face refresh to work mode as he hands me a paper bag. The pressure of his touch is immobilising.

'Listen to me, breathe deeply. Even breaths, Esme.'

'Uh-huh.' I gasp, holding the bag over my nose and mouth and trying desperately to suffocate myself just to stop the flurry of images from hurtling into my brain. I've squeezed my eyes shut trying to stop water from flowing which means I gasp at the touch of something cold on the back of my jumper.

'Shh-shhh,' he hushes gently, shoulder close to mine as if he's concerned I might fall without it. 'It's the stethoscope.'

I give myself several more breaths before daring to humiliate myself.

'I'm sorry.'

More than sorry but I don't want to think, I just want to hide and scream and cry... I don't know what I want.

'You're okay,' He murmurs, sternly and casting a quick gaze my way, he noisily inhales through his nostrils. 'Slowly, Esme...'

We continue to wait, unmoving, until my breaths become silent. The minutes that tick by must be agonising for him. Only because he hasn't moved an inch. Hovered around me with a stethoscope raised close to me, he turns statuesque. What should be tears on my face dry quickly, hardening on my cheeks so that my mouth is stiff. He doesn't say a word. I don't think any. Just images. His purpled eye, his bitten lip. His split bitten lip. And all those bruises.

It's so hard to tell which ones were made with good intentions. They all have that purple glow of pain. Both of us.

'C-Can... Can you hear over my jumper?'

'Not well.' He grimaces. 'But I wasn't going to ask...'

When I look up, I'm surprised to find he's not shying away from looking directly at me and I'm wondering if this is because the outline of my health has softened his temper. My voice shakes just as bad when I address him again.

'Carlisle?'

'Mm?'

Inhale.

'...Go ahead...'

He nods and with one hand resting gently on my shoulder, he drags the instrument back up my naked spine. He can still feel me tremble, I realise, and trying to offer an apologetic look, I'm surprised to find his eyes tightly closed. As if concentrating.

'Breathe in.'

I do so in another tremble and cough haggardly. He waits for me to settle before sweeping the tool across my back. I try and dodge it. His was well meaning but by closing his eyes he's blind on where and where not to lean. The tenderness parts deepen under his touch.

'And out...'

Due to the repeated coughing fits, he asks me to sit through it again and knowing it'll reassure his drumming heart, which could not help but thump unintentionally into my arm, I grant him permission to take my pulse, too. He looks away again, one ear bud in his ear as he squints sorely out the window. I don't realise I'm breathing normally until my shoulders stoop. My eyes are staring at his stubbled jaw.

'How are you feeling?' He asks, carefully. It's like he's daring me to lie.

I'm...

'In pain.' I mouth, looking towards the ceiling, sulkily and I'm mortified by the need to cry. I flinch when he lifts my chin up, but I don't look away either. My eyes read the blurry sounds from his mouth.

'It's my job to fix that.'

I dont know when he slipped the jumper on, but the humiliation of his own exposure hurts immeasurably. The volume is now been ripped soullessly from my tongue; 'And if you can't?'

'I'll try anyway.' He swears and looking from me to at me, he heaves a heavy sigh and shakes his hair from his eyes.

'Carlisle?'

'Yeah?' He replies, wringing his hands delicately.

'..What's wrong with me?'

He doesn't like this question. He moves uncertainly, the shoulders of his jumper shifting like it's a knee-jerk response.

'Exhaustion, malnutrition, dehydration... and probably a cold, I'd say.' His eye twitches, maybe like he's trying to smile again, it'so hard to tell. He's just so... sore.

'You know that's not what I meant...' I mutter quietly and I'm surprised to hear an impatient sigh, it's sharp and uncomfortable and before I can control myself, my emotions flail at his feet. '...Are you...mad...at me?'

'Of course.' He replies quickly. His blonde eyebrows furrow and he shakes his head. 'I didn't mean that. I'm not mad, I'm just.. I'm ...Yes?...' He looks quickly at me and I think the sudden movement pains him. 'I'm... d-'

-evastated.

'Is that why you didn't look at it?'

'The birth certificate?' he guesses, again talking quickly. 'No. Not entirely...'

'Then why...?'

'Esme...'

'I'm sorry, I'll stop.'

'Please...never do that again?' It takes for the harsh clearing of his throat for me to notice his eyes brimming with tears. His jaw sharpens like a window edge.

'Do...?'

'You just up and went... Twice and I... Oh God, I thought I'd lost...' Just as he's about to collapse into a gasp, he exhales forcefully and covers his mouth with both hands, locking the sounds inside. He's still shaking his head, eyes clamped shut and when he speaks, his words are muffled by both hands. 'I thought you were gone, Esme.'

The poison in my stomach turns to ice. He... thinks I would go? He assumed I'd... left?! Everything...everything and he thinks I would just go?!

'How can you say that when you were leaving me anyway?'

The bitterness and the speed from it hurtling off my tongue shocks him just as much as me. He wasn't expecting this sudden energy, neither was I and we gaze hard at each other, furious with restrained dissimilar passion.

'What?'

'This whole time Carlisle!' And suddenly, I've found my buried voice. 'You were preparing every day to leave-'

'Necessity.' He whines, tilting his head up.

'Necessity?! Bullshit I would never have left you like you were going to leave me!'

'I wasn't leaving you, I was trying to protect you!'

'By leaving me,' I cry, furiously and when he reaches out his arms, my own smacks his dramatically away. I hear it, the sound of of his misery, I feel it... and yet I can't let him touch me.

'I was always coming back for you. You know that. Esme, I could not last a single week without-' In his irrational foolhardy naivety, he steps three millimeters closer to me, standing like my equal with head tilted in submission.

'Stay away from me.' I groan, moving back. He drops his hands, but both eyebrows, one still shadowed with pain, are raised; he keeps his feet pointed towards me.

'I'm just trying to explain to you-'

'Don't come near me!' I shout at him.

'My Love, I'm nowhere near you?' and though I want to see him step away, though I can recite the detail of hurt in his pained blue eyes, the way his long jumper hangs off of him and the joggers clasping at his legs... though I see and hear the fabric rustle against the wall, I can see it approaching me, too.

'Don't fucking touch me.' I scream, both hands over my ears as I back further away from him. 'You can't touch me.'

'What? Es? I'm not touching you. It's okay, look?'

Two palms up in innocence

'I'll kill you.' I wail and then I lock myself in the bathroom for the next hour, hiding my hyperventilating under the shower.

I'll kill him... It's not a threat. It's a warning... I could... kill him...

I bathe again, scrubbing bristles of soap suds deep into my flesh. My eyes are even sorer, my hands trembling beneath the boiling water and my skin looking like that of a child's monster. I'm blotchy red, purple and yellow all over and though I've tried to soothe my face, it looks more swollen this morning than it has all week. Having realised the state of my overreaction with the boots, I choose very deliberately to dress in softer more aerated clothing. Pyjamas, hoodies, things that will prove I'm not well enough to make decisions yet. Like drive for example and suddenly I can't remember how I got home but I can picture, almost perfectly, my car rammed into a street light.

His bedroom door is open, the light is off and I'm thankful to see he's closed my bedroom window.

'I'm downstairs, Esme.'

'I'm just coming.' I mumble and I'm miserable by the sound of my swollen sinuses distorting my voice.

The kitchen light is on but out of habit, I check first to make sure the front door is locked.

'It's bolted.' He says from behind.

'Huh?'

'You said you were checking to make sure it was locked?' He reminds me and I shudder though the heating is on.

He nods to the table, inviting me to sit without saying so. Very carefully he places a bowl of soup on the cleared space, bread and a very tall glass of ice cold water. I have to check to make sure he's not in a suit because the move is so professional it makes me feel like a guest. It's not a nice feeling.

'Eat?' he pleads.

'Is this because I was sick at the Masen's?' I ask, resigning myself to the chair he's pulled out for me. He frowns, irritating his poor eye, and shakes his head.

'No?'

'I was sick at the Masen's, right?'

'I...don't know.' He answers with a shrug. 'But I doubt it.'

Feeling even too tired to be embarrassed, I look across and find him staring sleepily into a bowl like me. I look down at my soup and scrape my teeth along my lip.

'Carlisle... this is... soup, right?'

'Why do you ask?' he responds, brushing hair from his face and finding my concentration lost solely in the bowl.

'It's just that it's not yet six in the morning and-'

'Yeah, you're eating soup.'

Must everything sound so... broken? Is that my fault? Is he copying my voice?

'Is this a bad time to tell you I already ate?'

'No you didn't.' He answers quickly and by his flinch, I can guess he's irritated by his tone.

I frown like him and non-judgementally take a tentative spoonful of the soup. It goes down easily, very easily and I'm pleased he chose a liquid based diet over shoveling solids down my throat. Perhaps I should be more grateful for my hour long shower however because it means the soup is warm and settles a groaning I've been ignoring for a while.

'I did.' I argue gently. 'I made toast.'

'And tea?' he finishes. He grimaces a little and chews his breakfast carefully. 'The bread is still in the toaster and the two cups untouched by the sink.'

'But... but I remember...'

'Hey,' he murmurs softly, reaching across and retreating immediately. 'You're just exhausted.'

'I'm not crazy.' I mutter, bitterly.

'You're not crazy.' He confirms and there's a badly timed question of a smile on his thin lips.

This time, I know for a fact I definitely eat something, and there's a witness to attest to it. I drink more though, finding I can't quite quench my first. He pushes his glass towards me and looks surprised when he see's me drain it just as quickly.

'You must be tired.' He murmurs and this time, he can't help but chuckle.

'What makes you say that?' I retort, already filling my third or forth glass with more.

'You never drink milk.'

'I don't like milk.' I remind myself and pausing, I look up to him to confirm that I did actually speak aloud. Did I? I don't remember saying-

'You did.' He chuckles.

...

'I don't understand why I'm so tired, all I've done for three days is sleep.'

He's biting his lip and after drinking my glass of milk, my second glass of milk without complaints, I encourage for his corrections.

'I don't think you did.' He theorises, chewing very carefully and looking under his lashes.

'Great, I am crazy.'

'No, I just think you've told yourself you were asleep when you weren't.'

'Right...' I agree and even though the suggestion is starting to make sense, it's also too confusing to commit to. Out of curiosity, I delicately touch my eyelid and find they're so sore that I must have been squinting since I got out of bed today. Or yesterday. Or today.

'I think that's also why you keep mumbling to yourself... but you do that when you're drunk, too.'

'I do?' I ask.

'Occasionally.'

'How ridiculous...'

He tries to smile but hesitates, dropping his spoon into his bowl and pushing it away from him. This would be the perfect time for a joke. I'd say it. He'd chuckle, shake his head, shake those golden locks out of his eyes and pull me into his arms...

I push away from the table a little.

'I've been eating.' He jokes, defensively.

'I wasn't going to ask...'

It's less like breakfast now... or dinner. It's more like I'm under surveillance. Maybe he's afraid I'll choke or worse, force it out of my system because he pretends to not look at me while counting my every breath. Maybe I should let it be counted... Maybe I should let him touch me... maybe I should just let the poison taint him just as it has me.

'When I was about seven...' He starts ominously and then noticing that he holds my attention, he continues, softly, soothingly, no urgency to his voice, just trusted sound... 'I used to go to the market with one of the chefs. Lovely Italian woman... We used to buy these gorgeous tomatoes, so sweet and so ripe that with one bite, the seeds would shoot out the either side.'

He brings his knee up and locks his hands over it, looking intermittently at the table and my face.

'She used to take me to these local markets and if ever I didn't know where I was, I should head to errr... fountain and she would find me... One day, when I was a little closer to eight... I...got lost. Well... no, I didn't.' He sighs, frowns again and fiddles with the thumb of his left hand. 'Where we lived...it wasn't far from the city, tourists everywhere, and one day... she sat me by the fountain, took my left shoe... and slapped me so hard that I fell into the water.'

I stay very still, watching his face change but it doesn't, he's still almost smiling.

'It hurt, obviously, but being acquainted with the swimming pool, I managed to pull myself out... Only to find that she was gone and being very lost, I obviously burst into tears...'

'Anyone would.' I reply, he nods.

'The markets in Italy open fairly early and the place was swarmed... but no one came near me, the Polizia seemed to think it was a stunt and warned people away... So I didn't move. I waited and didn't move. The only food I had were scraps, I wet myself because I was too terrified that I wouldn't find her... it was horrific... Anyway... On the third night, she came back. She found that I hadn't moved and she sobbed the entire way home.'

'Three nights? What about the care system-'

'When I got home, I ran crying to my father to find he wasn't there. The study was packed up... On the night she'd left me, she presented the shoe to him as evidence of my escape... but he didn't come looking. He packed...' He says it with a sort, as if I should find it funny. 'A while later, he was contacted and returned to find me hysterically crying for forgiveness. He was so...repulsed to see me, with my snotted nose and red cheeks...'

He flexes his knuckles on his knee and nods to himself.

'I've had an irrational fear of being left ever since...'

'It's not irrational, Carlisle.'

'Esme-.' He leans across the table and tries not to portray his hurt when I shuffle back. He presents both palms open to me on the table and watches their details with a hard but hurt expression. '... I can't pretend like I have the solution... But... I'm-'

'Devastated, I know.' It leave my mouth far quicker than I wanted but it's out now and I have to stick to it. I have to... The bruises are swelling before me. 'I know you're devastated, I'm sorry-'

'No.' The pained expression has little to do with the contortion of his features. 'I'm dying from the reality that I can't fix this for you... That I can't fix whatever it is, and if it's a case of waiting then that's fine... but I need you to know that for as long as you want me... I will never leave you.'

'Don't say that.'

His left hand twitches inwards but he holds it open. 'Why?'

'You can't possibly understand-' I start to say

'Do you want me to leave?'

'What?'

'If you want-.'

'Do you really think I want you to go? Carlisle, if you go, I have nothing.'

'Tell me how to help-'

'You can't leave-'

'Tell me what to do-'

'I can't-' I can breathe, I can breathe, I can... 'I can't do this...' I try to push the chair away from my legs but in looking at him, I see his open hands are closed together, clasped as tight as his closed eyes. The horror is eating me alive.

'Give me the strength to support-'

'Carlisle- no!' He isn't, oh my, he isn't he's... he's... 'I can't do this...'

'And the faith to-'

'I can't do this without you. Please. Please, stop... Listen to me.'

He opens his eyes, pulls apart his hands and rises from his seat at the table.

'I need you to listen-'

I don't get another word out. At the crumble of his prayer, I crumble likewise. Moving swiftly, he sweeps me into a thunderous hug, wraps his arms securely over me and for the first time this week, has me releasing fresh hot tears into his neck.

'What seems particularly striking...is the voice that cries out, a voice that is paradoxically released through the wound'

- Caruth, The Wound and the Voice.