There was always something about the rain that Carlisle did not like.

He was sitting there in his desk. There was an open textbook in front of him, a single wax candle in his brass candelabra.

He had changed into a more formal dressing gown for the evening.

The dressing gown he wore that night allowed more freedom of movement, as opposed to the formal suite he was accustomed to wearing during the day. Or, when he reported to the local hospital as a general practitioner.

Though sleep was no longer a part of him, the thought of sleep itself seemed more like a dream to him. He remembered watching Esme sleep, five days ago. Her spirit was resting, her mind far away from the cries of the waking world. How he envied her, envied the sweet forgetfulness of slumber, for only in sleep was the soul truly free.

And here he was, a prisoner of his own thoughts. A prisoner of his own mind. No escape, no reprieve. Only one continuous path that never ended.

It was half past eight. Several days since he first met the occupants he would have to live with next door.

The rain was falling more freely now. Each drop he was learning to loathe with a bitter passion. It is ironic how certain sounds can send the mind back in time. Blurring the lines that separated the past and the present; sending back the person to a moment that had happened eons ago - or so it seems.

His entire home was shrouded in darkness. An empty echo within its halls. The only light came from the single candle that burned before him. There was electricity in the house, but he found it of very little use.

The simple flame before him deemed more worthy of his gaze, compared to a bubble shaped glass that held artificial light. Before there even was electricity - there was fire.

That perennial flame that was constant as the perpetual sun.

A thing of beauty he once revered, but now feared. Turning his face to the secrecy of the shadows to hide his shame.

The intricate vein on the corner of his temple was protruding due to the clenching of his jaw. He was fighting a tenacious memory from resurfacing into the consciousness of his thoughts.

Carlisle could take no more. He stood up rather abruptly, causing the chair to fall backwards. He walked across the room to where his favorite painting hung; eager for some sort of release, a desperate attempt for peace.

He sat before her image, in front of his piano.

Tonight, he dared not a glance at her.

Instead, he began to play his instrument. His fingers were strong; masterful, demanding, as he pressed down on the keys with a fervent desire. He glided his hands with exact precision. His eyes closed.

Carlisle listened as music filled the room, deafening his ears to the sound of the rain. His only comfort, his only refuge from himself.

But slowly, his mind was betraying him.

There was a lash of thunder in the distance.

He was slowly - remembering.

The storm was raging throughout the empty streets near Monmartre. The heavens was raining down upon him as guilt flooded his blood.

He felt immense remorse at the consequences of his words. Words that had hurted her deeply, her heart became the victim of his ire.

He left her there in their room

- distraught.

And where was he? Where was he when she ached to be held, to be comforted from her inner wounds?

The pain that he had caused?

He left.

He left out of his own selfish anger.

She had done nothing to deserve such chastisement. She had been so gentle; so kind, so soft were her words, yet his heart had been hard.

He wandered through the sodden streets, basking in his own self-loathe. Feeling the wetness of the rain bathing him in an angered outpour.

He wanted to ask for her forgiveness. To beg pardon for his impetuous ways. To be worthy again of her love.

His fingers were now beginning to pound harshly at the keys, the sound of his misery and agitation echoing into the air as his eyes opened. But by then the images were pouring into his senses like wine.

He had made his decision. He needed to make amends for his actions. She deserved far more than what he gave her. She deserved love. His love that he so denied her out of a cowardice heart, and a doubtful mind.

He turned a corner at the beat, adamant that he could and would make it right again.

The rain was beginning to fade as the scent of mud and cobblestones entered his olfactory.

It was a starless black night. The cold air was stifling.

He was walking down the street that led back to his home, when suddenly out of the darkness emerged an ominous figure...

Carlisle's fingers froze as his eyes landed on the painting in front of him. His emotions were beginning to be whirled out of the dismal black hole he had kept them in.

Still the images did not stop.

He took a step back. Surprised that anyone had even been out this late in eventide, especially during a storm.

He could not see the beggar's face, it was covered by some sort of ragged cloth. Its filthy pale hands were outstretched before him.

He was about to ignore the stranger, when it spoke.

The voice was so aged, he could not determine whether it was of female nor male origin, " Un peu de monnaie?"

Carlisle regarded the stranger for a moment, before reaching into his pocket to retrieve a few pieces of coins when...

He stood up from the piano, anger seething into his bones. He stepped away from his instrument to glance at the image of the woman before him. The candle's light reflecting onto the delicate portrait.

There was so much blood. There was blood on his clothes. He could not remember returning to his house.

His eyes opened, his vision clouded as he looked at his surroundings. He realized that he was now in the private parlor of their home...

But why was there so much blood?

The maroon carpet was dyed by the crimson that was now flowing at the lifeless body before him...

Carlisle fell to his knees before the portrait. The thunder crashing outside.

"Why do you do this to me?" He whispered, his voice pained and slowed.

"Have I not suffered enough for you? Have I not been condemned to living with the memory of your ghost!?" He screamed.

"Have I not suffered enough when you were lost to me? How many times must I die in order to gain your forgiveness?" His desperation was evident in his voice.

He stared longingly at the painted reflection of the woman. A longing that ran far too deep, a longing that cannot be named.

He stood up and walked up to the portrait, pushing aside the stool in front of his piano.

The cold center of his being was being churned yet again from its frozen depths.

He pressed his cheek against the painting. Closing his eyes, as the memories filled his mind, branding itself to every molecule of his being. He knew he could never escape it.

"Don't leave me...don't ever leave me... my little ghost...my lost angel..."