Oh-kay, my deepest, most hearfelt apologies for making the stupidest mistake a canon-obsessed fanfic writer can make. Thanks so much dressed in rags for the heads up; I swear, had any vampire seen the embarrassed blush on my cheeks after I read your review, I'd have been dead.
Anyways, for those who cannot make anything of my crazy talk, here's my explanation: so far, I've been using Esme's married surname as EveRson, when in fact, it's EveNson. I've edited all the previous chapters with the stupid wife-beater's name in them, so everywhere now, even in the previous chapters, you should see only "Evenson", not "Everson". If you find any anomalies I might have overlooked, just PM me and I shall correct the bug immediately.
So huge "sorries" once again to everyone out there for the totally lame mistake. Thanks for sticking with me throughout, and keep close, things are going to look up in just a few more chapters!
Escape
At half past four in the morning, I heard Charles and his sick, demented mistress sneak down the stairs. When I heard the motor start, I dragged myself out of bed and into the master bedroom. This room was very different from the beautiful one I had designed for my own house. Nevertheless, the feeling of being deeply wronged and betrayed upon remained. This was supposed to be my room as well. It was my right. And he had driven me away.
The room was in a mess, the bed was the pinnacle of disarray. An empty bottle of bootlegged whiskey stood on the armoire that was once mine. The windows were tightly shut and the drapes drawn, the air was nauseatingly stale. I only cleaned this room when he threatened me to, and he hadn't done that since nearly three weeks.
I took tiny steps inside, my thoughts buried in memories of past tortures by his hand in this room. I remained frozen in the middle of the room for a long moment. Then, with a shudder, I shook myself out of my terrified reverie and made my way towards the closet recessed in the far corner- the purpose of my visit to the demon's lair.
Charles always locked his room with a padlock when he left to work- not because he was afraid I would do something to his belongings. We both knew I was too mature to do such vengeful acts. He locked it because of what he kept there- my prized possessions, ones that had been denied to me by him.
The closet door was locked as well, but this one I knew I could easily pick. I pulled out a hair pin from my disarrayed coiffure- I had slept without bothering to let my hair down- and gently thrust it into the lock. After a few moments' tricky struggle, the door unlocked, and I swung it open slowly, heart thudding.
A row of old, mothball-smelling coats hanging on a rack welcomed me. I froze for a second, stunned. These coats hadn't been there the last time. I knew it, because I myself had placed my possessions in there- Charles had made me.
Slowly, mechanically, I pushed the coats aside, my mind thinking furiously. Where were they? I wanted them, I needed them. And Charles would be back soon.
Then I stopped, staring at the dark back of the closet. I reached for it and felt varnished wood. I remembered that the back of the closet had been just plain wall. Plus, it had been deeper.
Quickly, I pulled the coats down and felt along the entire sheet of wood. Even as I did so, I couldn't help feeling incredulous. Charles had done all this, taken such an elaborate measure to keep me from finding my personal things- things only valuable for sentimental reasons? I laughed humourlessly at the thought.
Pretty soon, my efforts were rewarded, and my fingers found a tiny hole at the top right-hand corner. It was too perfectly carved out to be a natural aberration. Standing on tiptoe, I inserted my thin index finger nimbly into the hole, and twisted it around a little. With some experimental manipulation, I found that half the wooden sheet could be slid back behind the other half, exposing the tiny crevasse of the rest of the closet.
Then I understood the reason for all these elaborate mechanisms. There were shelves placed from top to bottom of the hidden hole, and each shelf was stacked with bottles of whiskey. Some of the bottles were tied together with string; slips of paper with names and addresses on them were tucked into the knots. The quantity of the alcohol stunned me.
Prohibition had provoked many people into angry, mute rebellion, and bootlegging had begun to flourish. Some establishments had managed to avoid official problems by some twisted corrupted means- like the restaurant where we had celebrated our anniversary the previous month. But even there we could only get wine- whiskey was too strong and too potent to be openly served anywhere. And here was Charles, happily flourishing in the bootlegging business.
It was as if more and more evidence was being piled before me to enforce my decision. Add 'bootlegger' to my list of reasons- which already contained sadistic, egoistic, chauvinistic, narrow-minded, obstinate, shallow, stupid, violent fiend of a man- and nothing in the world would convince me to stay.
Quickly, but carefully, I moved the bottles aside, searching. Finally, on the second-most bottom shelf, I found all my belongings pushed back, hidden behind atleast a dozen bottles of whiskey.
My 'prized possessions' didn't consist of much- a framed photograph of the entire Platt family, one of me and Edward, a beautiful rosary with a gleaming cross that was my grandmother's, a tiny little bib that had been Edward's as an infant, a small wooden box filled with papers and other little bits of jewellery, some of them quite worthless in monetary value. I scooped them all up into my arm, pushed the bottles back into place and slid the secret door shut. In another minute, I had replaced the coats and shut and locked the closet door.
By the time I heard Charles open the front door, I was back in bed, my retrieved treasure stashed under my pillow, pretending to be asleep. I heard him slouch up the stairs, then his boots creaking on the floor outside my door. I struggled to relax my countenance- he was coming in.
My door opened with a low creak, and I heard him step into my room. Then, slowly, he advanced, my heartbeat rising as each footstep became louder, struggling to keep my eyelids closed.
I could feel him standing next to my bed, hear his ragged hangovered breathing. For a long time he just stood there, apparently staring at me. Then, after an agonising ten minutes, he walked away, making no attempt to soften his footsteps. He shut the door behind him with a bang that would have woken me had I been asleep; in any case, I jumped up with a loud squeal.
He opened the door again and peeped in, his face chillingly blank of all emotions. "I'm going to work early today," he said in short, rude bursts of speech. "I'll need breakfast in ten minutes."
"Of course," I mumbled, scrambling out of bed. Of course I'd make him breakfast early, seeing that it would be the last breakfast I'd ever make him.
I could hardly keep myself from smiling with relief and pure pleasure. Over his hurried breakfast, even Charles noticed that I was in a more optimistic mood than usual.
"What's the good news?"-he asked, eyeing me suspiciously as I poured out his coffee.
Without skipping a beat, I turned to him, and answered in an isn't-it-obvious sort of tone, "The baby, of course."
Charles grunted but continued to stare at me as I serenely sipped from a glass of warm milk.
"At what time did you come home last night?"-I asked him nonchalantly after a moment.
"None of your business," he snapped.
I didn't say another word.
Eventually, after helping him don his coat, as I opened the door to let him out, I spoke the last words I would ever say to him.
"Goodbye, Charles."
He paused, and turned around, sullen confusion on his face. I never ever said anything when he left for work.
Still, his eyes were as serious as ever, despite his confused expression.
"Goodbye, Esme."- he said gravely.
I stood next to my heavy trunk on the lonely platform, worry creasing my brow. I was on the run now, and already a million scary thoughts were running in my head. Shivering a little in the cold breeze, I stooped and clutched the handle of the trunk, ready to move, when a voice stopped me.
"Here, miss!" I looked up and saw a grinning, monkey-faced man already hurrying over to me with a limp to help me.
"You need help with this here," he mumbled, and pulled the trunk upright, already whistling for a trolley.
"Thank you," I said sincerely.
"You wan' be going somewhere, miss? I got a taxi."
"Oh, yes," I said a little more enthusiastically. "Sunnybrook Farm."
He eyed me critically. "Guest o' the Burnhams, eh?"
I simply nodded, not elaborating.
He shrugged and led me outside, disappointment for lack of gossip clear on his face.
As we made our way down the bumpy country roads in his aged contraption of a car, the taxi driver, however, resumed a stream of cheerful chatter.
"They're good people, Frank and Emma," he said airily, as a pothole made me jump two feet into the air. "Nice, well-behaved folks. And the kid such an angel!" I simply nodded, but I doubted he noticed it- I was bouncing up and down on the seat too much, thanks to the horrid road.
Twenty eventful minutes later, the car jerked to a halt in front of a familiar farmhouse. I had never been more happier to see it, but fear and worry still thrummed through me. What if they sent me away?
A little dark-haired girl ran out the front door at the sound of the car doors shutting. She was followed by a short, plump young woman whose rosy face was shining with curiosity.
"Esme?"-Emma gasped. "My, what a surprise! Frank, it's Esme!"- she called into the house and hurried to me, her daughter standing at the porch staring at us. I smiled tiredly at her and let myself be enveloped in her warm, welcoming arms.
My heart was still thudding fast as I watched Frank hurry outside and greet me just as warmly, then pay the taxi driver and carry my heavy trunk inside.
It was only after I stepped into the house that my countenance shattered like crystal.
I broke down completely and collapsed into Emma's arms. "Oh Emma! I left him! I left him…"
The night outside was dark and cold, but I was completely oblivious to it in my cosy, bright little room. After a very, very long time, I felt serene and content.
Emma and Frank had welcomed me with open arms, both literally and figuratively. Emma needed little convincing from me- though she didn't know the details, she had always suspected that my marriage was not a happy one. Frank didn't murmur one word of dissent, I was quickly given a warm, cosy room and a delightful meal, and it was immediately decided that the farm would my home for an as yet undetermined period of time.
Still thanking my stars that I had such wonderful friends and relations, I snuggled under the covers. I pushed the pillow upright against the headboard and leaned comfortably against it. Then I reached into the open trunk next my bed and pulled out the little bundle of "treasure" that I had recovered from Charles' room.
Slowly, quietly, I placed both photographs on the little bedside table, staring for a long moment at each one. The family portrait had been taken just before Eleanor's marriage, and all of us looked blissfully happy. Edward was a perfect little bundle of beauty in Mother's thin arms. Father looked as kind and portly as ever, Mother still beautiful without the new hard lines in her face, Eleanor as prim as ever, and Elizabeth looked bizarrely beautiful for a girl of twelve. And me- I looked absolutely happy, one hand on Elizabeth's lap and the other on Edward's little shoulder. It was perfect. And now it was all gone. All ruined…
Mine and Edward's photograph had been taken at the same time. I was seated on a simple, unadorned chair. Edward was on my lap, playing with a cameo locket swinging from my neck. I had my head bent over him, my face diagonally facing the camera. Both of us looked so happily involved with each other, we looked like mother and son.
Even as I thought of Edward's name, I winced involuntarily, heartbeat stuttering. Charles had made it impossible for me to even think of his name. But even as I shivered, tears pricked in my eyes as I thought of my baby brother- how full of life he had been, so beautiful- and then his tiny, lifeless form in the hospital bed. I shuddered and placed a hand delicately on my as yet flat stomach. I calmed down as I thought of my little baby. My baby. My own baby. The thought cheered me stupendously.
Then I picked up the wooden box. It was an ingenious little thing- it didn't have any handle of any kind. Instead, there were elaborate carvings of flowers on all six faces. Smiling at the familiar object, I gently pressed a little flower carving and the lid popped open. Inside were numerous sheets on which I had written with a hurried, passionate scrawl. I picked them up one by one and read:
Dear Doctor,
I am only writing to thank you for helping me in such an embarrassing situation-
...
Dear Doctor,
I would like to thank you so very much for aiding me in a moment of distress-
...
Dear Doctor,
Thank you so very much for your spontaneous act of kindness the other day. You have no idea how much it meant to me-
...
Dear Dr. Carlisle Cullen,
Thank you so very much for your spontaneous act of kindness the other day. I would like to inform you that I'm recuperating nicely. I was wondering when you'd intend to check on me again-
...
Dear Dr. Carlisle Cullen,
Thank you so very much for your spontaneous act of kindness the other day. I would like to inform you that I'm recuperating nicely. When do you intend to check on my injury again-
...
It went on like this for pages. I had never sent the final draft:
Dear Dr. Cullen,
I am writing to convey my heartfelt thanks to you for your spontaneous act of kindness the other day. Your doctoring skills have worked wonders on my injury and I can walk without experiencing any pain whatsoever. I am eternally grateful to you for playing along with my little charade so promptly without any misgivings on your part. I hope you will not consider it an impertinence when I say that, in fact, you are quite an extraordinary man, unlike any I have ever met.
Esme Platt.
After that came sheets and sheets of writing: imagined letters I would write to him had he been my husband; poetic prose describing his heavenly beauty; a list of all the meaningful words he spoke; several entries meant to be in a diary describing my ardent feelings for him… And over and over, on almost every page, in every corner, sometimes with embellishments or other times simply as a signature, I had written:
Esme Cullen...
Esme Carlisle Cullen...
Mrs. Carlisle Cullen...
Mrs. Esme Cullen…
Over, and over, and over again.
As I read through my heated, excited adolescent writings, I felt the old passion creeping up inside me. I had nearly forgotten how obsessed I had become about Carlisle Cullen. I wondered where he would be now, how he would have changed. It had been almost ten years since I had last seen him, and the thought did not cheer me.
For a moment, I wondered what it would be like had I married him…
Somehow, I felt Edward would be alive. Carlisle Cullen was a very good doctor, and he would have saved him. My family would have been just as happily close-knit as it once had been. Instead of cowering with terror, I would have awaited my husband's return impatiently everyday. We would have had a beautiful house, even better than the Evenson home, and we would not have slept in different bedrooms. We would have visited Frank and Emma together. The child in my belly would have been his, the child of an angel…
The tears streaming down my cheeks almost went unnoticed by me. The picture of such a rosy life taunted me, the dreamlike happiness of fantasy mocked the harsh cruelties of reality. Too acutely, I felt the pain of his loss once again; and for several hard moments, I was a girl of sixteen again, crushed by the abrupt end of her very first passion.
An interruption came in the form of a gentle knock on the door. Hastily, I wiped away my tears, thrust the papers out of sight behind me and called out thickly, "Come in."
With a soft click, Emma opened the door and stepped inside. When she saw my red, swollen eyes and wet cheeks she hurried to my side, concern showing plainly on her face.
"There, there, Esme," she said comfortingly, slipping a motherly arm around my shoulder. "It's alright. You're safe here."
"I know," I said quickly, wiping my cheeks even more harder. "Thank you so much, Emma-"
"Oh, hush, now! What's there to thank for, indeed? We're family, aren't we? And the baby- well, Esme, I assure you I would never think of sending you away with a poor little unprotected baby growing in your belly!"
I smiled warmly. "What would I do without you, Emma?"
"Quite a lot, I'm sure. You've always been so independent."
I shook my head. "Not independent enough, or I'd have never married him!"
There was a pause. "Now, Esme, I know you're absolutely set on your decision, but I wanted to ask again- are you sure you don't want to let your parents know?"
I looked up at her worried face, my mouth set in a grim line. "Yes I am," I said firmly.
Emma hesitated, then plunged into speech- "You see, it's kind of our duty to inform them- "
"Oh, if they ever ask, it's not your fault at all. Really, Emma, I'll make sure no one blames you or Frank- I'll put it in writing if you like-"
Emma cut in quickly-"Oh, nonsense! We don't need all that formality! Anyhow, that was only one reason, Esme. Really, don't you think you should let them know? That they'd want to know where you are?"
I laughed sarcastically. "Oh, they'd want to know, alright. So that they can drag me back to him."
Emma said meekly, "I'm sure if you told them what was happening…"
"Told them? Emma, they know. I went and told them that my husband had raped me, and you know what they said? 'It's your fault he raped you, now go back to him.' Now what do I say to that?"
Emma looked horrified. I'd spoken the "r-word" without thinking, and Emma still hadn't known the extent of my suffering.
"He-he did that to you?"
I smiled, though I myself didn't see what was funny. "That and a lot more."
That and whipping me with his belt. That and throwing entire platters of food at me when he was unsatisfied with them. That and so, so much more…
Emma's jaw set firmly in reply. "Esme Platt Evenson," she said slowly, but in a low, determined voice, "I will make sure you will never go back to him. I promise. This is now your home."
And after a long time I cried tears of joy.