"The good in you, I can speak of.
But not of the evil. For what is evil but
good, twisted by its own hunger and thirst. When good is hungry, it seeks food in dark caves. When evil is thirsty, even of dead waters it drinks."
-Khalil Gibran, The Prophet.
Esme was awoken by the sounds of hushed voices outside her bedroom door.
She recognized the voice of the man who was speaking to her grandmother.
"The worst is over. She is still very weak, though I must warn you that her fever still is quite in a precarious state." Spoke the male voice.
"Yes, I understand Doctor-" It was Clementine's voice, "How long will it be till the rashes are completely gone?"
"About a week or so. And as for her appetite, I do not recommend forcing her to eat. But no matter how small the quantity of food there is in her system, it will have to do, until such a time her inherent eating habits return."
Outside the corridor...
"Thank you very much, Doctor Cullen. I would have not known what to do, should you not have aided Esme."
She noticed he had turned his head from her.
The man standing in front of Clementine took a sideways glance into the open door of Esme's room.
"I shall see myself out, madam," Carlisle replied, rather nonchalantly at her repeated praises of gratitude. "I believe your granddaughter is awake."
Said the Doctor with a small nod.
Before Clementine could respond, he had already left her side.
She caught a final glimpse of his tall stature in the hallway.
The female servants below waited for him to come down the stairs with a hesitant curiosity.
They were waiting for his presence to glide past their focal point.
All four of them were crammed into the single side opening of the wooden door frame; eager eyes that wanted to catch a glimpse of the strange man that had so suddenly come into their household.
The kitchen door was facing towards the foyer.
The eldest of the maids - Judith, quickly shut the door closed, when his footfalls could be heard descending the staircase. Much to the dismay and disappointment of the younger maids. She decided as newly appointed Parlor maid, that it was not appropriate what they were doing. Certainly if they were caught, provocatively staring at a house guest, Clementine would have their heads.
Not that they meant to stare at him in a lewd manner, no.
It was not that. It was simply because of the way they perceived his reticence.
He spoke very little indeed. But there was a manner in him that almost belonged to a brute, rather than a gentile man, and for them, he could be a ruffian for all they knew. For he was certainly like no Doctor they have ever met, nor seen. He struck a primal curiosity in practically every single personage in Clementine's home.
He seemed - inhuman.
Almost.
Carlisle crossed the foyer, silent as a cat. He halted for a moment as he stood at the front door, his large hand on the metal handle.
He was peering through the stained glass.
His yellow eyes penetrated even further past the red haze of the mosaic glass.
He could see that the day was heaving with the promise of rain.
He turned the handle and stepped outside, closing the door soundly behind him.
He made his way from Clementine's house, and walked directly back into his home next door. He was thankful for the obvious lack of activity in the nearby town square. He hated pretenses of feigned pleasantries.
People smiling at him in greeting. Their faces expectant, eyes cheerful.
What a dismal shame, for I have no smile to give them in return.
He stood at the threshold of his home, and opened the door.
Once inside, he twisted the lock and shed his outer coat. He hung the black piece of clothing on a hook in the wall, next to the door and set down his black leather bag.
He glanced at his surroundings. If this were another person's home, surely they would either be mortified or severely doubtful of his mental state at his living conditions. While the house was intelligently decorated, it was terribly unkempt. Several piles of text books were scattered in all corners of the house, seeping their way onto the hallway of the front door.
He bent over and picked up the leather bound reading material, before proceeding to the dimly lighted staircase.
And that was one other thing.
All the windows of the house were heavily draped; sealing whatever rays of sun from entering.
Shunning out the world from entering his.
The air was cold, the silence even colder.
Not even the sound of his steps reassured any living creature residing within the walls of his home that he existed. But he did exist, but not in the manner thought by a mortal, lest by a mouse nor a lizard.
He walked along the dark corridors of his home. There were even no pictures hung on the walls. No cheer, no joy, no memories to give warmth to the walls, and so they stood there bare and empty.
For the memories he had were not tangible by hand, but by mind.
He turned to a corner at the end of the corridor, it was his bedroom.
However, there was no bed.
He converted the master bedroom into his personal study. A fireplace sat at the center of the walls, in between two large oak-wood cases that were filled with over a hundred menagerie of books. To the other side of the room was his desk, decorated with intricate wood carvings, and a matching leather chair. And to the far left corner, was a small piano.
This was the only room where he hung portraits. Here, in the privacy of these four walls.
They were not pictures, but rather, paintings. Several of them, eerily foreboding images of the macabre. Ghosts and gargoyles to haunt dreamers who dared stare at any of his paintings for too long.
Others were abhorrently erotic. Men and women in ecstasy, bearing their breasts and flesh in lustful rapture. It was probably the strangest room in the house. Each painting was definite and unique, and certainly left a heavy impression that is bound to last for several hours.
He should know, he created them. The colors he used were vivid, screaming of silent violence from whatever memories he carried deep within. His technique was precise and filled with vehement purpose. His lines were harsh, but still, despite the livid images he created; there was still some form of beauty hidden beneath the art he made.
The picture he hung over the piano was excluded from the rest. Intentionally isolating it from the others.
It was different, sensual indeed, but different.
He did not make this one however.
He does not even know the name of the artist, only that he prized this one above all the paintings he made himself.
This painting exuded an air of tenderness, of a softness that was absent in his work.
While several of his erotic paintings were more bordering beyond carnal desires, this was more delicate.
It was a painting of a raven-haired woman lounging on a four poster silk bed. Her naked body positioned almost innocently as she rested her head on her arm; with a translucent cloth that barely covered her bare posterior.
Only the back of her body and head could be seen.
The cream of her complexion, the expanse of her back, and the delicate curve of her bountiful hips was one he affectionately traced a hundred times with his gaze.
But if one peered closer, there is a mirror in front of her. An oval mirror with rosette carvings molded into its frame.
Her reflection could seen. Her beautiful face was serene with slumber; her bare breasts lightly covered by her black hair.
This was the painting he had the most pleasure of looking at. But his pleasure always came with the price of pain.
Whoever this woman was, only he knew the secret to her history.
Carlisle walked across the room. Undoing his tie and the top buttons of his collar with one hand, while the other returned the book into its place in his bookshelf.
He heard faint voices.
He walked over to one of the windows hidden beneath its draperies. He lifted the cloth only in part and glanced straight past the transparent glass.
It seemed that the young girl Esme's bedroom window was directly faced to his.
He looked closer. He could see she was being fed by her grandmother, a spoon was in the old woman's hand, while the other held a white ceramic bowl.
Esme's bedside faced the window. He could see her reddish cheeks, wild hair and blank eyes. She looked like a ghost from one of his paintings, she looked so frail. But somewhere, deep down in whatever semblance of a soul he had - the little girl intrigued him.
For a moment, in a mere second of a heartbeat, it almost seemed as though she had glanced at him yet again. But that was impossible. She cannot see.
He continued to watch her for a few more minutes, till he closed the drapes once more.
Back in her room...
Esme was able to eat a sufficient amount of soup to warm her hungering body. She still felt incredibly feverish, but better.
Her grandmother had told her to lie back down while she would fetch her a glass of warm milk.
Esme did as she was told, still able to taste the vegetable broth in her mouth.
For a few long moments, there was a still solitude.
She was alone in her room. Till, out of nowhere, there was music.
Music beyond the walls of her room.
Though she could not see, her head turned in direction to where the sound was most strongest. Which was the window that was overlooking his.
It was a piano playing. Its melodic notes were distant and dark, as if it belonged to a soul who had been lost for a very long time.
She fell asleep listening to his music.
It seemed so close, so near to her ears. But it was separated by several layers of concrete and space.
Still the melody floated through the barriers of wood and stone, nesting in the very core of her mind as she slept.
A/N: Pardon again for the delay my loves. I had a busy week this month, and I'm still mourning the fact that the last week of summer is here. Not that I ever had the chance of going out that often this summer, but its probably the smell of the ocean on late afternoons that I'm going to miss most. Anyway, enough of my yammering. You know what to do my darlings! Please r&r, you know it drives me wild. ;) I send you all my love.
God Bless!
I wanted to use a line from Khalil Gibran's book 'The Prophet' because it was a line that I could not forget.
Again, I do NOT own anything. Except for the plot, which I made myself.
