After a brief and awkward honeymoon in Maryland,
Esme and Charles moved in to their new home a mile away from town, a few weeks into their marriage.
The cavernous mahogany coloured house was situated in an area that was surrounded by nothing but raw and lush greenery. Near some rustic woodland with a nearby crystal blue lake a few meters from the home.
It was just, perfect. Simple yet elegantly decorated, eclectic antique furniture hedonistically scattered throughout the large home.
The first two weeks were quiet and uneventful. The air sombre and silent, steeped in stony and dormant anticipation.
Charles was in his own world, and so was she either of them cautiously wary of the other's presence.
Esme wasn't quite ecstatic about sleeping in the same bed as Charles. She didn't know why, but to her he felt, dominating.
Before they had settled into their new home, Esme had her diary along with the handkerchief surreptiously smuggled from her old home and into her new house by the old housekeeper.
She knew she was married. But she had no intention of parting with that white piece of cloth.
Ever.
As long as she had it, she knew a piece of him would always be with her.
Always.
Esme had meticulously searched for a new hiding place for her beloved treasure.
She was sweeping the floor one day when the lock in her gold necklace came off and the heart pendant rolled under the bed.
As she reached out and retrieved the pendant, a loose floorboard came off.
She took it as a definite sign that this would be the haven to her little secret.
That way she could be sure no one could ever find it except her.
Esme was the utmost perfect wife.
Every day she cleaned, swept, mopped, folded and cooked for her new husband, always eager to please as she lovingly tended to him.
But for some reason, things felt no different to her than when she was 16. Except now, she's living with a full grown man, a full grown man and a house that came with dreadful chores.
Her beloved husband, the stranger.
Even during the early days when Charles had courted her, Esme knew still so very little of him. And even now that they were married, there was no difference. She always had to anticipate what he was thinking, so that whatever came out of his mouth, she had either a solution or a plan.
And Charles, like Mrs Robinson, was a perfectionist.
Charles spent most of his days at the training camp. His military career was unfolding at such a rapid rate that he was gone for most part of the early mornings, but always came back promptly at 8 in the evening every night.
During those times, Esme was alone. But she didn't quite mind. She was happy when she was just by herself, the sweet freedom that came with being married. She didn't have to answer to her parents anymore nor did she have to answer to Mrs Robinson anymore. She was free.
Sort of.
She still had to answer to Charles though. But he wasn't a problem.
Or so she thought.
As a husband, Charles was simply satisfactory. Rather boring, but bearable.
He was charming and pleasant but dull. And his words always seemed to be ambiguous in meaning.
If the man could speak in riddles, he would.
There were aspects of his personality that seemed mechanical, and other parts that seemed just downright strange.
He had humour, but it wasn't exactly even humour to Esme.
It was a form of inappropriate sexual innuendos.
After their meals in the evening, when she was washing dishes he found it amusing to walk by and slap her posterior.
Among other things, that was the least of her worries.
He was rather short tempered, to say the least.
The summation of their marriage was rather strange and forced, with a side of something insidious in the chemistry from Charles towards Esme.
There was little affection between the both of them behind closed doors.
The most affection they shared was during their honeymoon. A memory Esme had no intention of remembering.
She was thrusted into the adult world completely naked and without an idea even how to begin. Her bare skin unprotected from the sharp blades of reality that surrounded her.
Mrs Robinson spent all those years and lessons, teaching her what exactly?
None of those lessons taught her anything useful, except how to fold your napkin without losing the grace and poise in your fingertips.
As if that can help me in my situation.
No one can be fully prepared for life.
Life is precarious. Filled with imminent possibilities and the strange distant future that fate has ordained for you.
They lived under one roof but it might as well be separate countries.
Over time, Charles's once charming and solitary mask started to crumble, as his dark nature emerged from the deep and dark corridors of his being.
It first started with him dictating around the house.
Esme's usual hobby to pass the time would be to read in her room, after a long day of cleaning. The book that had caught her heart during those idyllic hours was Romeo and Juliet.
And then sometime during the afternoon, usually on a Sunday, he would come in and inspect her work, and somehow would manage to find something wrong with it.
And without even blinking, he would tell her to do it again.
At first Esme thought he was teasing. But then the intent in his eyes told her that this was not so.
In the beginning she would redo the floors she had just cleaned, without argument.
Maybe I missed a spot.
She would innocently say to herself. But deep down she knew it wasn't true. She practically grew up cleaning floors. She knew exactly what she was doing.
But as her duty as a wife, she wanted to please her dear husband.
As time progressed he had become incessantly meticulous in his dictations.
He would tell her to wash their laundry using only warm water.
"It's to get rid of bacteria, dear." He would say.
Or those times when he would ask her to remove the dead leaves from the high rooftops of their house.
Not that she minded climbing ladders. Heck she climbed trees. But when she did climb, it would be purely for the rush of adventure and excitement. Not for cleaning ridiculous leaves off the roof. But as always, she swallowed her thoughts and kept them to herself and carried on.
"It doesn't look sanitary honey. You gotta do it." He would tell her.
And she would willingly oblige.
The cleaning and sweeping she could take. But the boiling of water and the endless piles of clothes that she had to clean was just unfathomable and arduous, aside from the fact that she had to gather the firewood herself just to heat the enormous pot that resembled like a witch's cauldron was completely neurotic. Her petite arms diligently hanging large bed spreads across the laundry line in the hot sunlight, as she would go back to the house to finish the rest of her work which consisted of more piles of clothes to clean and fold.
She couldn't take it anymore. Even she had her limits.
One night, during a silent dinner she had prepared.
Esme sat across from him, watching him across the wooden kitchen table with observant eyes, as he ate.
She had been debating to discuss it with him, she just had to. She was working her hands raw, she needed a break. Surely he wold understand.
She tucked a hair behind her ear as she cleared her throat.
"Charles?" She softly said as she finished her meal, wiping her soft lips with a table napkin.
"Yes?" He replied, as he toyed with his potatoes. His eyes concentrated on his plate.
"Sweetheart, is it really necessary for me to boil water? Just for our clothes?" She asked as she gingerly stood up and placed her plate in the sink.
Charles sat there. His face thoughtful.
"Yes."
"But dear, my hands. They're bruised and battered. I don't think I can handle everything all at once anymore." She reasoned.
He quietly stood up, his large frame casting a shadow on her delicate face. He walked over to her as he placed his plate next to hers.
"Esme, you don't understa-"
"Charles dear, I can't work this hard anymore. I need a break, my hands are so tender and painful, and you have to understand me." Esme spoke, cutting him off.
Suddenly the air in the room began to grow thin, as it happened within a blink of an eye.
Something in him snapped as he backhanded her to the floor.
She was in a state of shock as her body hit the cold checkered floor, her hair billowing in the air as she fell, her face in burning pain as she looked up at him. Her heart racing as the sour taste of fear consumed her.
"Sweetheart. You have to understand that when a man speaks. You don't interrupt him." He said sweetly as he knelt beside her. She flinched as he tried to touch her face; he then forcefully grabbed her by the wrist and pulled her face close to his as he kissed her cheek.
Esme felt her skin crawl.
She watched him get up and exit the room, whistling.
As if nothing had happened, nothing at all.
This was where it all started.
"Dearest Diary,
He started again tonight.
I tried to fight him but he's too strong. I think he sprained my wrist. I don't think I could last long if he keeps on doing this to me.
I'm frightened.
Frightened for my life. I don't know who I can turn to about this. I've never felt so alone in my life.
I could hardly see anymore as he struck my face again and again.
What have I done to deserve such pain.
Growing up, I've read of fairy tales with such hope that I would one day find the man of my dreams.
Is this it?
Is this the man, all those books so ardently promised to me?
Is Charles the prince to whom my parents have sold me to?"
"Dearest diary,
I can't take this anymore.
And it had only happened again because I had accidentally broken his favourite brandy glass.
He had struck me down and kicked me in my stomach. Even as I write this, I'm still quite in pain. There is no one I can talk to. He keeps a watchful eye on my movements and demands to know where I go if I do go out. The worst part is, I don't think mother and father want to help me. I've sent them several letters in secrecy. My heart burning with the hope that they would help me. But the only reply from my mother I got was a month after I sent all those letters. She told me that I should compromise and keep silent, because we do not wash our dirty laundry in public.
How could she say that? How could she say that to me? Compromise and keep silent? Dirty laundry? That's the only help she could give me? So it's all about appearances then?
Smile when you are told to and to just forget, everything?
I am not a puppet. I can't just be dragged on like some carcass of an animal left on the sidewalk to rot.
I'm being strangled by my own screams almost every other night. Charles is ruthless. It seems he takes pleasure in my pain.
I can't think of a reason as to why he is the way he is. Perhaps he hates me.
But what on earth have I done to make him hate me so?"
Her world was slowly crumbling down in ruins.
The glass vase had fallen, as it shatters onto the uncaring floor. Time slowing to a crawl as it descends with a tremendous crash.
The pieces superfluously scattered and tossed about. It's broken transparent body shining brightly underneath the glare of the yellow light. The vivid glistening in it's reflection, resembling frozen tears.
The only thing that kept her from completely falling apart was Carlisle.
His memory keeping her alive. The happiness and pleasure that came when she thought of him.
His face. His eyes. His kindness.
Giving her strength to swim through the storm amidst the tidal waves of pain that lay ahead.
As long as he was out there, she knew she had to keep going.
The breath of hope within her heart knowing that she would one day see him again.
She wouldn't give in so easily.
Each blow she suffered, each slap, each bruise was tempting her to throw herself into the dark and unknown depths of depression.
Telling her to let go and lose all sanity.
To simply dissolve with the tears that streamed down her cheeks.
But inside her, she knew she would fight. Fight to the bitter end.
She would spend her long nights in pain, on her bed curled up into a ball. Her limbs, her body covered in bruises as each move she made pained her. The cavernous walls, her only witness to her injustice.
But defeat would not be her friend.
A/N: Hey guyss! So sorry for the delayed update. There was so much distraction going on while I was writing this haha. Forgive me? :)
To be honest I had a bit of a struggle in writing some parts of this. Just the thought of her being alone in her pain made me feel exactly what she was going through. Anyways haha. Sorry for the long blab. Enjoy! and pleeeeeeeeeease review :) they make my day all the more brighter :) Love you guys! God bless and stay tuned for chapter 11 and another big shout out of thanks to my beta reader Jucy Sam, she's awesome XD