Short chapter, but really just couldn't write more...

Night

The very next moment, it seemed, the pain began, and after that it was all a blur. Laura had planned to take me to the hospital, but there was no time. I was carried into my meagre room and placed on my bed. Everything was happening so fast. The pain was so intense, I couldn't think straight. I couldn't breathe, lying down with my gigantic belly pressing on my chest. It was horrible. I screamed, but I couldn't hear my own screams. I hovered on the edge of consciousness, and every often Laura had to slap me into alertness.

"Don't you dare faint away on the baby, Esme! Someone has to do the pushing!"

It was that thought that kept me up, that kept me from slipping away into blissful unconsciousness. Edward's face remained plastered in my vision, and also the angelic innocent little faces of my students. For Edward. For my baby brother, I had to see it through.

It was long, and tiresome, and far more painful than I care to remember. After almost an hour's worth of pain and screaming, finally, it was over.

Through the haze of tears, pain and pure exhaustion, I heard something that was music to my ears- the tinny wail of a baby crying. And before I knew it, Laura was placing a tiny bundle of blankets in my arm, the tiny thing inside still shining red with a fuzzy dark head, still crying with its miniature eyes screwed shut tightly. It was the most beautiful thing in the world I had ever seen.

"It's a boy," Laura whispered softly to me. There was complete silence in the room, save for my son's cries. My son. My son. My Edward.

I looked at the tiny, helpless thing in my arms, the centre of my universe. I opened my mouth to name him, when he opened his , murky blue gazed solemnly into my plain brown ones. "Ed-" The name caught in my throat. He had Charles' eyes. And with Charles' memory came the sudden, branded-in block against the name. I couldn't say it. I just couldn't.

And my son continued to stare at me with those disturbing blue eyes, waiting, it seemed, to be named. A surge of rage welled within me. He was my baby. My Edward. Esme's very own Edward.

"Edmund," I said softly, compromising. Esme's Edward. Not a bad name, at that. And then I collapsed into a swoon, my exhaustion finally catching up to me.

After Edmund's arrival, I had mere hours left to live. But of course, I didn't know that. I was deliriously happy, refusing to let go of Edmund, and even if I did, I'd never take my eyes off him. Every single moment I kept telling myself, kept repeating to myself, "He is mine. He is my son. My baby. Mine. All mine." The euphoric joy that came with these thoughts is too hard to even describe.

I hid my joy from no one, not even Laura. I could see the pain in her eyes every time she saw me fondling or feeding. But I didn't care. With motherhood comes a certain kind of brutality, even hardness. Nothing comes before the child. Nothing. All my care for Laura's delicate feelings went to the dogs, as far as I was concerned. Edmund was my life. I didn't, couldn't see beyond him.

Everyone adored him, cooed over him, and congratulated me. Mrs. Hall somehow obliquely reminded me that I had to find another place to stay as soon as I was able and Edmund was old enough to be moved. I didn't really get offended or anything. I was happy. I'd be able to bring up Edmund all by myself. I hated staying in the stuffy, boring old widow's home anyway.

Within the first twenty-four hours after Edmund's birth, I had already made elaborate plans. I could actually move to the west and start teaching. I could do anything I pleased. I could pamper Edmund, deny no wish of his, bring him up to be a smart, intelligent young man. Perhaps a doctor. Someone like Carlisle Cullen. Keep his legacy alive…

On the second day after his birth, Laura made me take Edmund to a doctor for a 'check-up'. My insistences that Edmund was 'perfect' she brushed away disdainfully. "Don't be ridiculous, Esme," she said irritably. My obvious happiness had made her resentful, I wasn't doing anything to help her. She actually wanted me to take Edmund to the hospital, but finally she condescended into letting me taking Edmund to a doctor's clinic instead.

On that day, January 3rd, my life, which had started to look bright and rosy, went up in flames.

Edmund was underweight. He wasn't drinking enough milk when I tried to feed him. I was so happy, I hadn't even noticed that he wasn't getting nourished enough. And he had a tiny, trembling cough, something I couldn't even tell apart from his wailing until the doctor had pointed it out to me.

"My dear woman," the doctor said kindly, a very familiar tone of pity in his voice, "your son is very, very weak."

I didn't even cry. I didn't know what to say for a moment.

"Should I have brought him sooner?"-I demanded, voice quavering, hugging the sleeping Edmund close to my chest.

The doctor, a white-bearded old man, looked at me with pity. The look infuriated me. It was too much like the look the doctor in Columbus had worn, all those years ago, when he told us of Edward's demise. I refused to give up, refused to admit the fact that my Edmund would be snatched away.

"No, Mrs. Reed," the doctor said, still maddeningly kind. "It would have made no difference. His heart is too weak. And his lungs, well, he's been born in the wrong time of the year."

I refused to accept it. I kept demanding that something, anything be done for my baby. Anything.

The doctor sighed. "Look, Mrs. Reed. We could admit him in the hospital, force harsh drugs into his system. But it won't do any good, only prolong his suffering."-he said softly, soothingly.

"So there's no hope."-I said shortly.

The doctor hesitated, then sighed. "No, Mrs. Reed."

I just walked away.

For the rest of that day, I stayed in my room, Edmund in my arms. I sang to him, cried to him. I consoled him, played with him, talked to him. I told him stories- fairy tales and stories from my life. How his Aunt Elizabeth would have played with him. How well his Grandmother would have taken care of him. How much of a monster his father was, but I wouldn't have let him get hurt. How much of an angel Dr. Cullen would have been to him. How much he would have loved running in the fields in Milwaukee. How the wind would have felt against his face when I'd have taken him for drives in the country. How fresh the earth smelled when it rained. How wonderful piano music sounded. How beautiful a rainbow looked. How magnificent each sunset was. The taste of buttered toast and hot chocolate. The feeling when a snowflake fell onto your tongue. The feeling of the warm sunrays on your skin. The feeling of a kiss on your lips…

In a way, I was letting him go, saying goodbye, letting him embrace death easily. And somewhere in my subconscious, I knew it was for me, too. I was letting myself go, saying goodbye, letting me embrace death easily…

It was night, just about dinnertime. I was standing by my window, a silent Edmund in my arms, crooning a jazz tune in a cracked voice. And then it happened. Edmund let out a little wail, a slight tremble. For a moment, his eyes opened, and I saw a flash of tempestuous blue in the bright light reflecting from the snow.

Then his eyes dropped shut, and his tiny chest collapsed. It was over.

Over.

I gazed at him for a long moment. Then I leaned in, and kissed him fervently on his forehead. "I love you," I told him.

Then I walked over to the door, where my thick coat was hung on a hook. Still not letting go of the dead baby in my hands, I donned it and walked out of the door.

It was all over.

The end.

END OF BOOK I