I sat there, looking into the mirror. I looked pretty enough, but something was missing. My mothers wedding dress hung around me, framing my body perfectly. My caramel hair hung in perfect curls around my face. My powder was perfect. I pinched my cheeks, so now my face had color in it. I scanned my reflection for the flaw that I could not pin point. Then I saw it. My eyes. They had no life in them. All other brides' eyes sparkled on their wedding days. They looked like they would sprint down the isle if they could, just to kiss their husbands. I couldn't care less. I tried to make my smile reach my eyes. I couldn't. I sighed, hoping Charles wouldn't notice.
My father walked in. He held out his hand for me to take. I could tell he was too close to tears for him to talk. I took his hand, and we walked to the isle. When we got there, the music began, and we walked down the isle. I saw Charles beaming, like he had just won a prize. When I reached Charles at the end of the isle, my father placed my hand in Charles's.
While the minister spoke words binding us together, tears began to form in my eyes. I hoped that the guests thought they were tears of happiness.
The rest of the ceremony went by in a blur. All I could think about was how I did not want to be here with this man. If I closed my eyes under my veil, I could almost pretend that I was holding Carlisle's hand. But this hand was to warm, and I could not slip into my fantasy. Then I heard my part.
"Do you, Esme Anne Platt, take you Charles Evenson, to be your lawfully wedded husband, to have and to hold from this day forward, for better or for worse, for richer, for poorer, in sickness and in health, to love and to cherish; from this day forward until death do you part?"
Part of me wanted to run away screaming 'I don't want Charles!' But I knew this would do me no good, so I managed to stutter out "I do."
"I now pronounce you husband and wife. You may kiss the bride."
Charles leaned forward to kiss me. I mustered up as much passion as I could manage.
The reception was just the average, traditional reception. Nothing special. I didn't want anything special. I felt as though I was giving up a part of me today, instead of gaining a part. I was giving up the part of me that hoped that some day Carlisle would come back and find me, and then I would confess that I had always loved him. Now I never could. I was a married woman now.
I wanted to scream at myself. Weddings were supposed to happy times, especially for the bride.
But I knew I wasn't happy. And deep down, I knew that with Charles, I never would be.
The first days of our marriage were happy enough. We moved into a comfortable home up on a gorgeous hillside. I cooked and cleaned like a good wife, and he worked very hard.
But one day, it all took a turn for the worse. I was fixing dinner. Charles was out later than normal. Just as I was wondering where he was, he stumbled through the door.
"Charles! Are you alright?"
That's when I realized that he wasn't stumbling because he was hurt, he was stumbling because he was drunk.
"Dammit woman, of course I'm fine! Where's dinner?!"
"Its on the stove, it'll be ready in one…"
I felt something hit my face hard, and I stumbled backward. It took me a second to realize that it was his hand.
"Now listen to me, and listen good. I expect a full meal waiting for me when I get home. Got it?" I nodded. "Good. I'm going upstairs to change clothes. When I get back, dinner should be on the table, and it better be good. I don't think you need me to explain what would happen if it wasn't." I nodded again, and he stormed up stairs.
That was the first time he hit me. But it just worse and worse. Every night Charles came home later and later, drunker and drunker.
The beatings got worse. Every morning I would have fresh bruises covering my whole body. I also had plenty of scabs, from times when he broke the skin.
Finally, one day when Charles was at work, I rode to see my mother.
"Oh Esme! What a surprise! Its great to see you! How are you? And how is Charles?"
"Well, that's why I came mother. I need to speak with you about something. Its Charles."
"What is wrong dear?"
I lifted up my sleeve to show her the many bruise marks and scabs that Charles had caused. With practice, he began to only beat me in place I could hide. After all, he wouldn't want to tarnish that reputation of his.
"Ahhhhhhhhhhh." My mother mumbled. "Ah, I see. Don't worry, it was a mistake. We all make mistakes. I know I feel bad when I make mistakes that annoy your father. But at least your being punished. That way you learn. Don't worry, soon you won't make mistakes and won't be punished. Stay quiet and be good. Don't worry. Things will work out."
I couldn't believe my ears. No words of sympathy telling me to escape? Just 'stay quiet and be good'? I couldn't believe it. I wasn't the one making mistakes, Charles was. But I supposed I should listen to my mother. After all, she had much more marriage experience than I did.
But that night was the worst so far.
We were eating dinner silently this evening when all of a sudden, he flung his plate off the table, screaming "What is this? Its disgusting! Tastes like poison!"
The fist hit me in the face again, with such force that I crumpled to the ground. He pounded me at least 20 more times, before stopping, an evil grin on his face.
"I know how you can make it up to me. Don't clean up, just go wait in our room."
I did as I was told, hoping to spare myself more pain. But I knew something worse was on the horizon.
I sat on the bed, waiting. Charles thundered in, and told me to lie down. I did as I was told.
It took me a minute to figure out what he was trying to do. I finally realized when he ripped my shirt off, the buttons flying everywhere. I was pounded once for the button that hit his face.
"Please Charles, I'm not ready. Not tonight."
"Hell yes tonight! Or do you want a repeat of earlier?" I shuddered once at the memory.
"That's what I thought!" He said.
So I endured what was the worst night of my life so far.
I could never have imagined that these worst nights would turn into my every night.