A/N: *joy* To be perfectly honest I didn't think anyone was going to sneak a peek at my fic, let alone review it. ^_^ Four review for my disturbing little fan fiction. No violence here, more slightly off Carlisle moments. *does a dance* I'm eager to delve more into Esme the next chapter.

2. Happiest Days of Our Lives

[Carlisle]

I was happy to make breakfast. It was even nicer making it for two.

I sliced the apple and placed it on the tray. I poured cereal into the plastic white bowl, and then I filled it with milk. I was smiling; it was wonderful to take care of someone. I know this will work out so much better than Edward was …so much better.

Edward was a mistake on my part, a horrid mistake. At first things did work out, the piano that was in the basement proved that much. However, Edward was less than pleased, that I wanted more. He was so terribly greedy, Edward just did not under stand. I lived for people. I want to love people. Then came that night, I still regret a few of my actions.

"You can't do this Carlisle, people aren't things!"

Of course, people aren't 'things'!

Edward Masen, the first person I ever shared my passions with. My pleasures were at first his pleasures. Nevertheless, ignorance is within everyman's heart and the same could be said for Edward. I hope dearly that our path's never cross again because I'm not sure what I-

'thump!'

There was that sound from upstairs again. I frowned; Jasper was still misbehaving. It was frustrating. Nevertheless, he was usually a good boy, despite all of Jasper's protest. I know he will come to enjoy this. I love him; he is as much mine as I am his. We are family he will learn it. He has to.

However, before Jasper, I had another family earlier.

My life changed on that cold January night, I realized the extent of human cruelty and man's duality. We are capable of compassion and sheer unabashed cruelty. I was a child so starved of love I was willing to trust a monster, a monster that did not live in a closet of sort but certainly lurked about in the shadows. It hid behind the shadow of a man, my pseudo father. It was the town's pseudo preacher. God help me if I should ever come to know what fate lay in store for him in hell.

As I previously mentioned compassion was also within out nature. I came to know this through Mrs. Platt. She saved me that night, in more ways than one, I can't imagine what life would've been like if remained trapped with my father. Mrs. Platt took me in and I suddenly had a family, a real one. My life with the Platts was a pleasant part of my life. It was wonderful, a child needn't ask for more from a family. They provided for my every want. My every need was all but absent with them.

I should mention in note however, that all good things must come to an end.

January 1976

"The deepest definition of youth is life as yet untouched by tragedy."

-Alfred North Whitehead

January was even colder than I previously recalled.

I spent the next few days in the hospital following that awful incident. I laid in bed for that period and stared at the ceiling, my chest had far too many stitches for me to move around. I did have visitors. Dr. Evans and his wife came in, she gave me looks of deep sadness. He regarded me with something I'd come to know as pity. The only others who came were my neighbors the Platts. Apparently Mrs. Platt wandered found me when she investigated the sound of my screams. She was kind, still the same woman who asked me to play in her yard with her own daughter Esme.

Esme was, she is still to me the living embodiment of perfection. She was the first thing I saw when I awoke in the dank hospital. Her beautiful brown hair dangled near my forehead and occasionally tickled it. I was a afraid her wide green eyes bore into my brown ones. I was stunned, then overwhelmed my the grim sense of dread that filled me. I just knew where I was if I was alive, a hospital. I ached and my head throbbed from a horrible feeling of anguish that came from the memory of my father.

I was still laying flat.

I lifted my arm and tried to block away the tears, what would happen now, I thought. Where was…father? I couldn't go home now could I. I knew my father would be waiting. I could see his crossed gazed glaring down on me, he ever eager to finish what he started.

"Commend...His…Spirit."

I sobbed, my arm raised over my eyes to block out the light from my eyes. I was dying inside, every breath I expelled brought on more and more tears. I thought of all the times he hit me with his belt, all the times I waited for his approval, all the times I watched parents hold their child. Everyday that I had to walk home alone seemed even lonelier now that I was dwelling on it. God, why did you do this? There was not a God; there was nothing but the horrible sting of cuts and the feeling of an empty stomach.

Esme still stood on the side of the bed. She had a soft look on her face, she didn't try to reach out during my hysterics. She did not try to placate me by telling me everything would be okay. She was perfect; she just waited. She watched me weep out my soul and the very remains of my dreary childhood. I couldn't hold on to it, for the life of me I couldn't hold on to myself.

I quieted down eventually, perhaps due to exhaustion.

"Are you done?"

I moved my arm from my face. I'm sure I looked pathetic, my nose running my eyes puff and red. I had drool hanging from my mouth from my more violent set of cries. Her eyes were honest though, and for a second it didn't seem like were as small as were back then.

She touched my face. Her lips moved and words came out.

"Everything will just be different now."

It wasn't comforting, but the words weren't cold. They replaced my numb feelings with a dull ache and emptiness. Everything seemed new again. She stroked my cheek, her small hands were warm, I can recall that feeling with such nostalgia it causes me to cry.

Despite my aches, I raised my hand and placed it over her warm one, I leaned into her touch and savored it.

This feeling was simply the feeling of love.

It was only an appetizer for what was to come.

"Where is my father?"

Mrs. Platt was arranging a few flowers Esme had picked for me. She tensed at the question. She did not want to tell me that information, the fact that they neglected to mention my father in the fist place proved this. It was like walking on eggshells. I had nothing to talk about, but everyone else had plenty to say. At the time, I was not a very adept in interacting with anyone on a normal basis. However, my small group of visitors paid no mind to my long bouts of silence.

"He's gone. He can't hurt you now." She said. Mrs. Platt walked to the bed and placed a tender kiss on my cheek.

The question was still left unanswered, and it was perhaps best to leave it that way. The disturbing thing about that moment was that I truly what wanted to know was, did my father hate me so. Did he want to kill me.

It would be years before he himself received the opportunity to answer that question.

"Is Esme coming to see me today?" I asked, I was waiting for her to come in. She was one the only rays of sunshine during my period of confinement.

"Yes," she smiled at me before continuing, "My husband will bring her by later. So you'll have two visitors."

I smiled at her joy.

Unknown to her, Esme's father did not visit, he did poke his head in and enquire of my health, it was an idiotic question in my opinion. I wanted to leave him with a positive opinion of my self so I answered always with a polite little yes. Nevertheless, inside I seethed at the question, "I was just slashed open by my father, do you think I'm okay?" is what I really wanted to say.

Mrs. Evans often spoke of knitting me a sweater for the chilly February month as soon as I was released from the hospital. She mentioned to me rather enthused once, that she rather liked to make things for me. She said I was a good boy who needed some long over due spoiling. I could tell she wanted to say so much more to me than just passing words of a affection, but she never voiced it.

While Dr. Evans was not my doctor, he visited me and explained why he became a doctor. I found myself intrigued. He explained all the tools they used to save me, and went into gory detail with perverse fervor that I reciprocated. He spoke of his profession with such reverence and love; I couldn't help but be drawn into his world of healing. This world of beauty that showed that life was a series of pulling, and strung together by the tiniest of miracles. Atoms, cells, blood, veins, arteries, the heart, lungs, everything was interconnected in way that so intricate that Dr. Evans explained there had to be a higher power. We were a walking contradiction to everything that could go wrong.

I was gong to better myself and save people.

That is all I ever wanted for myself.

1976-1981

"You cannot create experience. You must undergo it."

-Albert Camus

The years passed by.

The Evans grew older, and the doctor grayed. Mrs. Evan gained worry lines and people moved into my old house. Esme grew to be lovelier. Mrs. Platt became something of a mother to me. Mr. Platt grew warier of my presence, especially in his home. They took me in, The Platts that is. They were warm and as loving as I imagined them to be, except Mr. Platt. He was tolerant; he lacked the caring nature of his wife and daughter.

I played in the yard as a child, and shared my clumsy first kiss with Esme. I loved to sleep on the couch in their living room, I loved to sit in the kitchen watch Mrs. Platt cook. I loved to listen to Esme practice piano. Most of all I loved her. Her laugh, her smile, every look she gave me when she though I didn't know. We held hands and sometimes fell asleep in the living while talking. But there was always a shadow waiting in our midst, Mr. Platt.

"I don't like your eyes, kid."

He told me that once, I responded cheekily, I don't like your eyes either.

I didn't have time to dwell on his obsessive behavior of myself.

Esme was ill.

Her recent bouts of migraines had progressed into something far more violent. She had dizzy spells and sometimes she shook so badly she would have seizures. The family was unsure of what to do.

Apparently, she had a tumor.

Surgery was the only way to remove it of course. Without the surgery she would die, rather painfully.

My sweet Esme.

2006 (Present)

"What I dream of is an art of balance."

-Henri Matisse

"Jasper," I found myself smiling in the white expanse of the room, "Are you going to behave and let me give you a bath, or am I going to have to sedate you?"

Jasper cowered when I pulled the needle from my pocket. I hated to scare him, but how else would he learn, kindness did not help in the begging but grim choices were having some affect. Jasper was physically healthy, he had a pale completion and a honey blonde mop for which he called hair. Less than four months ago he let me run my hands through it with a tender reception, now all I receive are flinches and frightened glances.

I sighed, he just didn't know yet.

I was helping.

"Come here."

He stood on shaky legs walking slowly towards me. He lost his footing. I caught his slighter frame easily, and he was pressed into my chest. I ruffled his hair fondly and kissed the top of it. Everything would be perfect, Jasper would see.

"Such a good boy…." I murmured. .

Yes Jasper was a indeed a good boy and he was mine to care for.

Jasper is there, I admit, I'm teasing you guys a bit. I love all your reviews *huggles them to my bosom* I want to sing joyously, no joke. :( I wanna write horror and dark things! But hardly anyone wants to read it if it doesn't involve anything that fits in with the "fads". *sigh* I like being different. I just worry no one's interested. I always see Carlisle's excessive need to care so I want to twist it so bad!

R & R ~with love 3

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