Okay, some cussing in this chapter, even though I HATE using foul language(in writing). But still, I want to make it as authentic as possible, so here's another hopefully-hard-to-read chapter.

Over and Out

When morning finally came, it was a shaft of bright winter sunlight peeping through the drapes that woke me. The bright light fell directly on my face, pricking my eyes as I opened them slowly.

For a second I was disoriented, not recognising where I was, and why I felt so… odd.

Then it all came rushing back to me. The wedding, Edward, last night…

I felt odd because my body was completely sore, like I had worked for hours and hours. And I felt odd because I was completely nude.

And stretched out next to me was Charles' naked form, which made me turn away immediately. Ugh. Not an inch of the covers were on the bed- it looked like we had slept like this, exposed, all through the night.

Immediately shivers racked my body. Exposed was the word. Exposed, and vulnerable, and doomed… Bit by bit, everything that happened the previous night was coming back to me. The blows, the cursing… and what came later was too painful to even try and remember. I tried to hug myself from the cold, but this was of no use, my thin, cold arms offering no respite, and besides, my ribs hurt.

What had he done to me?

A sudden grunt from Charles made me jump, terrifying me. He was only snoring. Snoring.

As quickly as I could, I leaped off the bed, my joints aching and several parts of my body throbbing with pain. My hips felt the worst, like I had torn a muscle there, but of course, I knew what the matter was, and hobbled my way into the bathroom, trying not to think about it.

The cold was unbearable on those tiles, and I realised there was one thing I needed to do. I placed a little bucket under the cold water tap in the bath, filled it to the brim, and before I could change my mind, upturned it over my head.

The water was so cold that the frigidity hit me like a strong physical force. And little hitching sobs in my chest, which had been slowly rising to the fore, were silenced, like I had expected. I would not cry. I could not.

Then, shivering more violently than I ever had in my life, I filled the bath with hot, scalding water, loose bits of my skin wriggling as I shivered throughout. Then, without thinking again, I stepped into the bath and submerged myself completely.

Every cell of my skin screamed in protest as it burned; after the intense cold, this burning heat was no soothing balm. But I stayed, nonetheless, completely ignoring the agony on my skin.

I had learnt long ago, that very cold water would stop your tears immediately, strengthening you. I had also learnt that hot water could calm the pain in your wounds- physical or otherwise. And since these wounds from last night(physical and otherwise) were worse than I had ever been hurt all my life, just plain hot water wouldn't do. I needed to burn. Sullied and dirtied as I was, I needed to burn away the filth from my body. So I did just that.

I stayed in the bath even as the water cooled, having no wish to go back too soon. When the water had cooled enough, I stood in front of the mirrored counter which held the basin, and observed my body dispassionately.

Bruises were everywhere- bright blue, purple, sometimes even red against my pale skin. On my arms, my thighs, my stomach, a monstrous deep purple bruise forming on my chin, where he had punched me… and on my chest were many bright red finger marks- evidence of his violent groping.

I shuddered, drained the tub, filled it with more hot water and sank into it again. What had I gotten myself into?

When I was finally done, I reached for a towel from a stack when I froze mid-action, remembering something belatedly. My dress. I had seen it on the floor, torn and tattered and in several pieces.

I had nothing to wear.

The hitching sobs seemed to return, but I quelled them, thinking wildly and drying myself as slowly as possible. In the end I found no solution to my dilemma, and I bolstered myself into accepting that I would, in fact, have to be naked for a while with my husband.

What's wrong with that, anyway? It's not like he hadn't seen me undressed before. Except for him being a horrible, vile fiend, he was just my husband.

So I wrapped myself up in the thickest, largest towel I could find, and tiptoed outside the bathroom door, to find Charles already awake.

I froze, only a few paces from the bathroom, my hands clutching my towel to my chest tightly. The fear began to rise again, and I noted absently that he had found the covers and had deigned to cover himself waist down.

"Good morning, darling," he drawled, making me jump. I had been secretly hoping that it was drink that had made him so vile last night, but it looked like that hope was smashed. His voice didn't sound any different from last night.

Meanwhile, his eyes roved over my half-concealed body, making me squirm uncomfortably. The fiend!

"Come on."-he said, patting the space on the bed beside him, as though stating the obvious.

I hesitated for a moment. His eyes narrowed and immediately I jerked into motion, fear driving my limbs for me. I climbed into bed and set next to him demurely, staring at my lap.

His hand snaked around my waist again, causing gooseflesh all over my skin. "You look absolutely delicious, you immodest little bitch," he mocked me, burying his face in my neck.

"I… I don't have any clothes," I whispered, gulping. No. Not again. Oh please, God, not again…

"Clothes can wait," he murmured, his hands finding my hips. "What's the hurry?"

Unthinkingly, I whispered, "Edward…"

He froze and I froze with him, the fear in me so acute that I found myself bracing for more blows.

When it did come, it wasn't a blow. Charles pushed me back into the bed so forcefully that I was winded. Then he climbed onto me. "Let me make this clear, my dear," he wheezed, his eyes glittering with familiar anger. "I do not like to hear his name being mentioned. The way you go on, it sounds like he's your lover, not your baby brother. Until the funeral, I will give you some respite. Some, mind you. And after the funeral, I do not want his name on your lips ever again. Do I make myself clear?"

I nodded mutely, my mind already shutting itself up.

He flashed his white teeth at me, a triumphant smile. Then he mashed his lips with mine again, and then the obvious followed.

The dull, subdued clinks of cutlery was the only sound in the room. I was picking at the food in my plate with my fork; very occasionally, I put in minute bits of the food into my mouth, chewing slowly and swallowing painfully.

The Platts were having dinner. And specially invited for that solemn affair were Mrs. Whittaker and Mrs. Evenson- Eleanor and me, in fact.

None of us were really eating, except maybe Father and Eleanor. Father was making a big show of how heartily he was eating, the entire act just screaming-'Look, I'm perfectly fine! I'm eating absolutely normally, everything is fine with me, ha! Ha!' It was like he was hoping that eating in denial would drive away the memories of his beloved son. Eleanor was trying to follow Father's example, in a more refined way, of course, the proper lady that she was. Mother wasn't eating at all, just prodding her food when someone reminded her to eat. Elizabeth was eating in jerks; she'd put a whole mouthful of food in, then look completely guilty and not touch her plate for twenty minutes after that.

And I ate a little, not really in the mood for food but remembering that I hadn't eaten at all the previous day, and with the ordeal the previous night and that morning, I needed my strength. I was putting in the smallest possible morsels for precisely that reason- the bigger reason being that I couldn't open my mouth wide enough or chew hard enough- my jaw still hurt terribly.

I had vaguely explained that the nasty bruise had been a result of a fall in the bathroom, but no one questioned my vagueness, seeing how melancholy I was. Everyone credited it to Edward's death, but no one seemed to realise that it was also because I had happily sold myself away to a wife-beater.

Edward's funeral had just been done with, surprising lots of people in town by its speediness. My father's curt reply every time had been that he didn't want to prolong it any more than was necessary, and besides, all the out-of-town relations were in town anyway for my wedding- they'd might as well attend the funeral.

And so it was over. Over and done with. Open-casket, no flowers. A tiny, shrivelled baby, looking horribly tinier in the too-big coffin.

It was over.

We pushed back our chairs and stood up from the table, obvious relief etched on everyone's face except on Mother's, which was fixed in a permanently expressionless mask. Dinner had been an ordeal, and my sisters went upstairs to bed, even though it was ridiculously early.

I was, however, preparing myself with much trepidation. I had thought, and thought, and decided that I must tell my parents. It was inhuman, and Charles' irrational jealousy of dead-and-gone Edward would be terribly hard to live with.

So I stayed with them in the dining room as the plates were quickly cleared. They weren't surprised. We were supposed to be waiting for Charles, who would come to take me back home- the Evensons'.

Knowing that Charles would arrive any time soon, I plunged into speech.

"Mother, Father… There is something I must tell you."

Mother didn't look up from her needlework, but I knew she was listening. Father obliged and turned to me attentively.

I hesitated, so much so that Mother actually stopped sewing, waiting. I hadn't ever been this afraid to tell them something- even when I had accidentally broken one of Mother's prized decoration plates, when I had brought a little puppy home and it had made a mess in the kitchen, when I had been caught smoking in the backyard, when I had said no to all those marriage offers, when I had totalled my car and I had announced that I wanted to be a schoolteacher… Never.

"What is it, Esme?"-my father finally rumbled.

The little Swiss clock that had been Mother's wedding gift began to chime. It was half-past nine. Charles would come any second.

"The bruise on my chin," I began, again in a rush, "I… I didn't fall."

Father frowned. "What happened?"

"Charles hit me."

The term 'pin-drop silence' was proved to be existential when Mother dropped one of her sewing needles and we all heard it clatter to the floor. She still hadn't looked at me, but she had gone rigid. Father was staring at me, dumbfounded. This was the last thing they ever expected to hear from me, I knew. So I continued, in a low mumble, "He gets horrendously drunk, and then… he- does things to me. Last night, he coerced me into- into…" My voice trailed away. I just couldn't say it. How would, how could a girl tell her father that her husband raped her? This world is too, too cruel.

Father cleared his throat uncomfortably. "Gets drunk, you say…"

I simply nodded, my eyes on the dim carpeted floor.

Mother broke the silence, her deep, emotionless voice making us jump.

"Why are you telling us this?"

I gaped at her. Was this my mother, my dear, dear mother whose eyes used to fill up with tears every time I so much as scraped my knee(which was very frequent)? Did it really not matter to her that her Esme had been beaten like a pack mule and then ravaged mercilessly?

"Because I want to leave him." I said this incredulously, as though it was the obvious answer.

Neither of my parents seemed to want to support me, or even give their approval. My father cleared his throat again, a thing he always did when he was nervous. "Leave him, my dear? Well… er, that's not- not a very, er, nice thing to do…"

My eyes widened with shock. "Not a nice thing to do?"

"Er- I… I mean, it isn't right."

"He treats me like a slave! Or worse, from what I've heard of how the Southerners really treated them-"

"Esme." My mother said. She finally looked at me. "You cannot leave him." She turned back to her needlework and resumed to stitch.

My knees felt insubstantial. I sank into a chaise, almost missing it and sinking onto the floor.

"Why not?"

My father seemed to have strengthened his resolve from Mother's firmness. "Because it wouldn't be right, Esme. Think of the scandal! And how will you live the rest of your life as a divorcée? Oh, the very thought!"

The scandal. They were thinking of the scandal. While I suffered in hell.

"Do you realise," I breathed, tears streaming down my cheeks, "that he might kill me?"

"Nonsense!"-my father snapped angrily. "Stop saying such far-fetched tings, Esme."

"He could. He is mad, Father, he is mad because I loved Edward and not him…"

Mother dropped her needle again and Father grimaced momentarily. We hadn't taken his name at all since after the funeral.

With an effort, Father seemed to pull himself together, and said, "Well, then, it's up to you, isn't it? How should a man feel when his wife never shows him any love? It is expected of her."

How could he not understand? How could he think that I could easily love a man who had tortured me and ripped away my innocence? How? How?

My breathing hitched, my heart seemed to stutter for a moment, and the tears increased two-fold.

"You will not leave him, Esme."-my father said, sealing my fate. I choked and sobbed even more, but made not a sound. It is horrible when you want cry, long and hard, but you must pretend not to. Life was throwing too many painful things at me one after the other. I didn't know how I could take it.

Meanwhile, Father, his gaze fixed on the mantelpiece and oblivious to my pain, said, "After, a man is known to use his hand once in a while… that is, when his wife can listen to no other way."

My tears dried away immediately. They thought it was my fault? That I had been all high-and-mighty and rebellious, so Charles had raped me in punishment? How was that even justified?

Cold fury and resentment welled up inside me. They didn't believe me. Even if they did, they didn't believe in the extent of my sufferings. I was no longer their family. I was just a stranger, a ghost who used to haunt their house by filling the rooms with the smell of expensive perfume and the clatter of high heels. I was just "young Mrs. Evenson" who would be invited home for lunch about once a month.

I dried my tears and sat up straight. "Very well," I said in a cold voice not unlike Mother's, "I understand."

My father seemed surprised that I had caved in so quickly. Mother's hands were shaking, but her head was still bent down.

At that moment, the doorbell rang, announcing Charles' arrival, and I knew my time with my parents was over, for ever. This would be the last time I would ever see them as my parents; my indulgent, gentlemanly Father and my loving, graceful Mother were dead and gone to me- they too were ghosts haunting the recesses of my mind with deep, booming voices and warm hands smelling of lavender.

It was truly over.