Esme's POV -- Age 24 -- Columbus, OH

I stood by the window, peering through the raindrops cascading down the glass. The relentless downpour mirrored the storm brewing in the household. The tension in the room was palpable as Charles argued on the telephone, his pacing causing my body to shake with anxiety.

Words, sharp as knives, flew back and forth between them. The intensity of the moment increased with each passing second. And then, in a moment of sheer rage, he raised his hand and slammed it against the wooden table that the telephone rested upon. The hum of a disconnected telephone line echoed through the room before dying with a final click.

The room fell silent, the only sound audible being the pitter-patter of rain on our rooftop. I looked into his eyes, searching for an explanation, a glimmer of remorse, but all I saw was a mixture of anger and frustration. His gaze turned towards me and I could feel my knees buckle.

-0-

I sat on the floor of our lavatory, the pain of recent bruises soothed by the icy exterior of tiles beneath heated cheeks. My fingers traced the spaces between each piece of pottery, taking great detail of each inch in an effort to achieve calamity.

Charles had always suffered from fits of rage, moments of weakness that seemed to only be relieved by violence and the color of deep crimson as though it was a pacifier. However, his temper was often contained to events that encouraged intoxication, which allowed for the development of a pattern. The smell of barley and wheat that once defined my childhood now offered a warning signal.

He would wonder from bar to bar with a group of friends who shared to same pains as he before finally, but always coming home. He searched for a body, seemingly any body, though it was always mine. I would greet him with open arms and open legs, sometimes neither, typically both. He would spill his sorrows as clumsily as his movement, though never able to remember an ounce when the sun rose.

That's how it was - before the war. As I waited for the swelling to relieve itself, I reminisced on the day that I set down a thick letter addressed to Charles Evenson. Notice of Call and to Appear for Physical Examination. The draft. A relief.

I had learned how to heal, but healing was not rosemary and milk baths m illuminated by the flickering of candlelight. Healing was sobbing in the shower until the water turns to ice. The trauma needed a release in the form of blood, dripping down forearms after collecting broken tiles from bruised knuckles. It came and went, wilted and grew, admitting defeat as my breathing slowly became my own.

As time went on, healing was soothing, dripping tanned fingers into wet earth, a sore attempt at growing life outside of the body. My mother still visited, though I was never sure if it was out of love or a poorly worded apology.

We would sit in silence after she would drag me out of the bath, sitting between her thighs as she took a soft brush to my curls, whispering prayers beneath my skin. We would listen to the fire crackle, though it was taunting a sweet release, my ears perking every night that an old static would list the name of fallen soldiers.

It was never Charles.

I had just strung the laundry when a black vehicle returned to our drive. He had returned, but there was a strange look in his eyes, as though nothing that he was experiencing was truly real. Brown eyes were milky and bloodshot, a piece of his soul had shattered and been left behind with the bodies he buried.

He walked slowly towards the house, never taking his eyes off me. I felt a chill run through my body as realization seeped into my bones.

An aggressive knock startedled me out of my train of thought, heavy footsteps continuing to pace outside of the door.

"I'm going with Oliver. Do not expect me tonight."

The footsteps retreated without waiting for a response. Another saving grace, his newfound infidelity. War brought a new demon to our household in the form of a succubus. Though, I have come to welcome her as an old friend as it meant Charles returned home less frequently.

I waited until the sound of heavy footsteps began to retreat before opening the door. His large body immediately swung around to place one large hand on the skin above my hip and another around my throat.

"Esme," He sounded animalistic, his breath resembling a hiss.

"Where do you think you're going?"

He could see the panic in my features, I was sure of it, but they melted into acceptance. Did the worst parts of me deserve to shrink and suffocate?

"I only forgot my clothes for a bath, my love." I whispered. His hands tightened, ensuring that a strict warning was left in writing right above my collarbone, 5 stanzas of lilac that would bloom into sunflowers with time.

Turning on his heel, he shut the door as swiftly as he held my throat.