The Promises of Twilight P.1
Foreword: As promised—well, with a two-day delay on the schedule I set for myself… deadlines and I—here is the direct continuation (and still incomplete) of Esme's POV. Originally, I was only supposed to proofread the second part I mentioned last week, but, as usual, the little gremlins in my head had their way: in trying to refine it, I ended up adding a whole extra heap of words… which brought the total, including endnotes, to over 11,000 words. I figured that was really too much, so I decided to re-re-split it ''
This chapter is a long flashback into Esme's human past (a flashback that will continue in the second part, which I plan to publish by the end of the week… yes, very soon, otherwise I'll just keep tweaking and lengthening it :p). Apart from the fact that she had two younger brothers who died during World War I (an element I invented), the details of her encounter with Carlisle and her unhappy marriage remain faithful to canon (I only deliberately shortened some parts; for instance, she meets Carlisle only once, rather than being watched over by him during her recovery).
Explicit mention of domestic abuse: I do not go into detail, but the exploration of this theme may be disturbing.
Happy reading!
The few precise memories that had escaped oblivion were tied to pivotal moments in her human life.
Esme remembered perfectly her first encounter with Carlisle.
« Happiness is the greatest conquest, the one we achieve against the fate imposed upon us. »
Albert Camus – Correspondences .
October 26, 1911, Plumwood [1] , Ohio
The October wind bit into her reddened cheeks, but she paid it no mind. The cat, stuck high in the tree, was mewling pitifully. Below, the little girl sobbed, her fists clenched against her dress. Apparently, the poor creature had been stranded up there for over three hours.
On an impulse, Esme climbed. Without thinking, without hesitating, she grasped the rough bark and hoisted herself up branch by branch until she reached the trembling animal. She carefully scooped it up, murmuring soothing words, then prepared to descend.
The creature—cowardly and ungrateful—startled at the movement and scratched her, drawing blood.
The sudden pain made her lose her footing, and she let go of her grip. A panicked cry escaped her as she plummeted, landing with a sickening crack. The treacherous feline, on the other hand, landed gracefully on all fours and bolted without so much as a backward glance.
The pain radiating from her leg was blinding, relentless. She clenched her teeth, desperately trying to hold back the burning tears in front of the panicked child. She didn't even dare glance at her injured limb, fearing she might faint if she caught sight of a bone jutting out.
Her uncle and their neighbor—the mother of the cat-loving girl—rushed her to the hospital in a nearby town. They placed her in the wooden cart used to transport vegetables to market. As Esme tried to ignore the pulsing agony in her shin with every jolt of the vehicle over the uneven paths, she also had to fight back the overwhelming urge to vomit, brought on by the suffocating stench of cabbage that clung to her mode of transport.
By the time they reached the hospital, Esme was battling a vicious headache and a dizziness so intense she feared she would pass out at any moment. Despite the searing pain in her leg, she held firm, grinding her teeth. She didn't want to sob like a child in front of doctors who had surely seen far worse than a simple fracture.
Her uncle carefully helped her down, carrying her—despite his own fierce back pain—as if she were a toddler. As soon as they stepped into the hospital's entrance hall, a nurse rushed to meet them. From there, everything happened quickly. She was laid on a crude stretcher while her uncle was asked to wait outside. They asked her a few routine questions, to which she responded in a trembling voice—she felt rather foolish explaining how she had fallen—before she was wheeled into the main building, its walls a faded, yellowed white. The place smelled of wilted lilies, laundry soap, and antiseptic.
It was then that she saw him.
At first, she noticed only his tall silhouette, a pale figure illuminated by the amber glow of oil lamps. Then, as he turned toward her, his features sharpened, and Esme felt her heart stop for a fraction of a second—the vicious pain radiating from her broken tibia momentarily eclipsed by sheer astonishment.
The man before her looked like no other.
He was so breathtakingly handsome that, for a moment, she wondered if he was real, or if the shock from her injury had given her a fevered delusion. His features were sculpted with an astonishing precision: perfectly symmetrical, both harmonious and striking. His skin, extraordinarily pale, had the luminous quality of marble under the dim light. His high, noble forehead, finely chiseled cheekbones, and impeccably defined jawline… every aspect of his appearance carried an almost painful elegance.
But it was his eyes that captivated her, unsettling her far more than reason should allow, leaving her momentarily speechless.
Framed by thick shadows—sharp against his porcelain complexion—they were the lightest shade of hazel she had ever seen, almost golden, lined with lashes as dark as his thick blond hair was fair. His gaze was strikingly alert—despite what the dark rings beneath them suggested—and those uniquely colored irises glowed with profound kindness.
The doctor was tall, lean, and radiated an air of serene confidence. As he moved forward, every gesture made him stand out violently from his surroundings; his natural grace and composed demeanor contrasting starkly with the rushed movements and weary faces of both patients and caregivers bustling around him. He looked like an illustration from a storybook: a prince who had left his castle to don a white coat.
"Miss Platt, I presume?"
Esme hadn't realized she had been staring at him so impolitely until he tilted his head slightly in inquiry, a courteous smile playing on his lips.
She felt her cheeks burn and quickly lowered her eyes.
"Yes… Good evening, Doctor."
He gave her a polite nod, offered her a small dose of pain medication, then leaned in, placing long, ice-cold fingers gently around her swollen, misshapen leg. The bone hadn't broken through the skin, as she had feared—at least that was something. At the cool touch, a shiver ran down her spine, and the striking doctor murmured an apology in a soft voice.
"I'm sorry, my hands are always cold. Your admission report states that you fell from a tree… something about a cat, if I'm not mistaken. You're very lucky—you won't need surgery. However, I'm afraid I have bad news: the bone is indeed broken, and I'll have to set the fracture and fit you with a splint. The recovery will take some time."
Esme weakly nodded, swallowing back her tears. She had already sensed that the bone was broken, even before the man gave his diagnosis. She wouldn't be able to help with the farm work for a while—her parents would curse her for her recklessness.
"I read that you are about to turn seventeen. Have you ever thought about what you would like to do in the future, Miss?"
He had asked the question in a soothing tone. His cold fingers manipulated her leg with such delicacy that she had the sensation of being brushed by feathers. His eyes remained lowered, focused on his task, and it was clear that he was trying to distract her from the sharp pain with a lighthearted conversation.
Esme blinked, caught off guard. Few people ever asked her that sort of question. She was expected to find a good match and marry quickly—no one ever inquired about her aspirations. She hesitated, then answered in a breath.
"I would like to be a teacher."
The man briefly lifted his head, his curious copper eyes locking onto hers for an instant. The movement sent an unexpected warmth fluttering in Esme's stomach. He seemed pleasantly surprised, giving her an appreciative look before nodding.
"An admirable choice. It is a very noble calling. What draws you to this profession?"
Despite the pain, Esme managed to sketch a smile. More than the conversation, the cool hands working on her injured limb provided a welcome distraction.
"I loved learning when I was still in school. And, I think, that was mostly thanks to the schoolmaster in my village—he had a unique way of presenting things, making them enjoyable to remember. I would like to resemble him, even if only a little; to help others learn. I believe education can help children better understand the world around them… and well, I adore children."
She added the last sentence with a blush, her shyness taking over again. Perhaps she had been too detailed in her response? The man seemed kind and patient, yet Esme feared she might be boring him with all her explanations. He didn't seem bored—quite the opposite. He seemed to be drinking in her words. His attention was fully focused on her, and the doctor was watching her with a captivated expression, as if she were the only person in the crowded room. He slowly nodded, then remarked perceptively:
"Those are noble and insightful reasons! But your hesitation before voicing them suggests that some do not share your enthusiasm."
She hesitated before answering and sighed, briefly averting her gaze.
"My parents find the idea absurd. They say I am too reckless and that it would be better for me to learn how to be a good wife by diligently practicing household chores, rather than dreaming of impossible things… They want me to find a stable fiancé quickly instead of insisting on having a profession of my own. They think it's useless for a well-married woman."
Esme didn't know what had come over her to babble like this, to confide in a stranger. And yet, something in his demeanor encouraged her trust. She almost expected a frown or a condescending remark. After all, criticizing her parents' views in front of a stranger must make her look awful. Instead of reprimanding her, the doctor gave her a bright look and nodded.
"I can understand why they think you're reckless, he said with a vague gesture toward her injured leg and a wide smile."
A traitorous warmth—one that had nothing to do with embarrassment—rose to Esme's cheeks. He had the most magnificent smile.
"Nevertheless… far be it from me to contradict your elders, but I believe the more fitting word would be "courageous." A great deal of bravery is required to pursue one's dreams… As for matrimony, you are yet of tender years to be much burdened by such concerns. And whilst it is assuredly a weighty matter, rest not in doubt—for he who holds you in true esteem shall find no disgrace in your having undertaken a few noble pursuits ere your fates entwine!'
His voice was surprisingly low but carried a passionate inflection. A hint of a curious accent colored his speech… perhaps British? Esme wasn't sure she had ever heard a grown man speak quite like this—his phrasing was so old-fashioned, yet his tone brimmed with sincerity. She had the strange impression that he saw through her, that he noticed her. The realization stirred her more than she wanted to admit, and she tried to crush the foolish infatuation blooming in her heart. The man was far too old—she had no desire to disgrace herself by acting foolishly in front of him.
He carefully placed his hand on her bandaged shin, then finally stepped back, straightening as he assessed his work with a critical eye. Esme was surprised to find that the pain had receded considerably—either the medicine was already taking effect, or his icy hands had temporarily numbed her leg.
"There. You should be able to walk again without issue in about three weeks. In the meantime, I prescribe complete rest. Just try not to climb trees once you're healed—no cat is worth breaking your neck over!'
She gave him a small, amused smile, grateful. Just as she was about to thank him and bid him farewell, he fixed her with an intense gaze that made the words die in her throat. For a brief moment, he looked strangely melancholic [2]. He tilted his head slightly, as if lost in thought.
Esme couldn't help but wonder about his age. He was young—surely not yet thirty—but there was something in his eyes that made her doubt. A veil that made him seem infinitely older, the distant serenity one only found in the gaze of certain elders. He finally overcame his hesitation and added a few words, his tone almost solemn.
"You have beautiful aspirations. I hope they come to fruition. I wish you a wonderful life, Miss Platt."
He bowed politely and gave her one last smile before abruptly taking his leave, turning on his heels to attend to another patient. The man had disappeared before Esmée could regain her composure enough to reply. She hadn't even thought to ask his name.
His strange farewell could have been nothing more than an anecdote, drowned in the many trials and tragedies that followed in her life—but the words of the handsome stranger left a lasting mark on her. They remained engraved in a corner of her mind.
Many years later, when Esme opened her eyes to Carlisle after the transformation into a vampire had been completed, the first thing to slip past her lips was an astonished, almost dreamy statement.
« I remember you. »
It was strange, the way the mind worked. While she had willingly let her human memories fade, Esme could recall with absolute clarity a meeting that had taken place when she was sixteen. Down to the smallest details. Yet, in contrast, she was utterly incapable of recalling anything precise about her first husband—a small blessing.
Whether it was a good thing or not, she had wanted to forget everything. And she had almost succeeded.
Now, her memories of Charles were so fragmented that she sometimes felt as though she had been married to a ghost. She struggled to recall his features or the sound of his voice. The man was nothing more than a menacing shadow, made of smoke and sticky fog. The insubstantial, monstrous figure of a golem drawn from old nightmares—almost forgotten, yet leaving an indelible mark.
Fragments persisted, returning to haunt her. Fleeting flashes, remnants of deep misery and an unshakable sense of fear.
A plate shattering. Furious eyes. Heavy footsteps approaching. A voice rising. Insults raining down. The sound of a belt buckle being unfastened. Doors slamming. The stench of foul breath at her neck. The hairs on the back of her neck standing on end. A grip too tight around her wrists. The cream-colored ceiling of the bedroom.
…
The same torment, repeating endlessly. A hated house, a man who terrified her, and the suffocating feeling of being utterly trapped. The sensation of shrinking into herself. Of disappearing. Long days spent pretending not to exist, hoping it would be enough to make her invisible.
Years 1917-1920, Cincinnati, Ohio
Esme no longer remembered the first slap, nor the circumstances in which it had fallen; however, she distinctly recalled having attempted to flee after the second occurrence. At the time, she had only vague notions of what married life was supposed to look like. Yet, even in her inexperienced mind, it did not seem conceivable that blows were a "normal" part of marriage.
Esme was twenty-two when she finally agreed to become Mrs. Charles Evenson. She had yielded to please her family. Her parents had repeatedly insisted that the longer she waited, the harder it would become to find a good match; a young woman her age who was still single attracted whispers and sidelong glances.
In the end, Esme abandoned her own plans, bending to the expectations of those around her. She barely knew the man, but she had been convinced that he was her best option: an agreeable, respectable person, with money, a stable position, and good standing in his social circle. Two weeks after they were officially introduced, the engagement was announced.
Her mother had assured her that she would be safe by his side and that she would learn to love him.
The only thing she learned was fear.
Esme could barely remember her parents' faces or any good moments she might have shared with them in childhood. In contrast, she still remembered the cold indifference with which they had received her when she returned to the family farm, seeking refuge. Less than three months after her wedding, she had come back. Panicked, humiliated, but convinced she had ended an unhappy marriage by having the courage to leave and ask for help. She was met with refusal, to her shock. The faces were forgotten, but the last words exchanged still echoed in her mind.
Her father, furrowing his brows and scolding her as if she were a misbehaving child:
Do not act like a child! These things happen. There is no need to make such a fuss. Go back to your husband and sort things out with him.
Her mother, avoiding her gaze but wringing her hands, before delivering the final blow:
Imagine what the neighbors would say, Esme! Making a marriage work can be difficult, but with a few adjustments, everything will fall into place. Go home and be a good wife. You are a good girl; I am sure things will improve if you learn to be patient with Charles.
The betrayal was almost harder to bear than her husband's slaps. She was given no escape: without refuge and with no other options in mind, Esme resigned herself. She returned to Charles, trying to convince herself that her parents were right. That what her husband was putting her through was not so bad. That, perhaps, it was a common thing… After all, what did she know of relationships between men and women? If her parents had not been outraged by what she had described, then surely, it must be more common than she had assumed [3].
She had tried to be perfect. Doubling her efforts to please him and making herself invisible. Trying to anticipate his moods to soothe them. Telling herself that perhaps, in doing so, he would eventually soften and treat her better. Of course, it was a delusion. Things only got worse: the humiliations piled up, and the beatings became frequent. And more violent.
One can grow accustomed to anything. To misery as well as to fear.
Before she realized it, Esme had become absorbed into this grim reality, accepting it as the norm. Slowly suffocating in it.
And she had not found the courage to attempt to flee again. Since even her own parents had refused to help her, she could not imagine who else might extend a helping hand.
Nearly three decades later, she still could not comprehend their reaction. Even less so after becoming a mother herself.
If love was conditional and could be erased under the weight of social conventions, then it had no value. That was not affection—it was affectation: a grotesque and hypocritical lie.
Her parents did not deserve to be remembered. The most vindictive part of her took satisfaction in having forgotten them.
Esme could not remember her brothers' faces as adults either… Yet she had loved them dearly. That forgetfulness frustrated her, tightening around her chest. Perhaps it was because she had seen too little of them after their teenage years. And that picturing them as carefree boys, always getting into mischief, was preferable to imagining them as thin, frightened young men in uniform, falling under a hail of bullets.
She had never seen them again between the day they enlisted and the day of her wedding. The eldest, burdened with the farm work, had to make up for their father's incapacity—his back, worn out from years of labor and a hernia operation, could no longer endure heavy work. He spent most of his days toiling in the fields and making deliveries to nearby markets. The youngest was an apprentice at a construction shop nearly fifty kilometers away. They had not been on the property the day Esme pleaded for help from their parents; she doubted they had even been informed of her visit.
She preferred to think they had never heard of her marital woes. The alternative—that they had known but, like their parents, had washed their hands of it—was unthinkable. And far too painful.
Before their departure for Europe, their mother had arranged a farewell dinner—a family gathering to which she and her husband had been invited. Charles, too, was soon to be sent to the front. Esme had canceled at the last minute, claiming she had a contagious illness. She no longer remembered why, but her husband had gone along with the lie, approving her excuse and allowing her to avoid the dinner.
She loved her brothers. She had wanted to embrace them, to wish them luck, to promise that they would see each other again. But the thought of being in her parents' presence, with Charles nearby, was unbearable. Not after their last encounter. Not after they had sent her back to him with indifference, treating her as if she were a petulant child who did not know how to handle a simple disagreement. Not after they had shut the door in her face and instructed her to behave better when she was terrified.
She had never managed to forgive them.
In the end, it was she who had been punished. Her resentment and self-imposed distance had cost her the chance to say goodbye.
Her brothers were only eighteen and nineteen when they left—boys still clumsy, full of dreams and impatience. She had written them long letters: pages filled with her love, her pride, her regrets. She hoped they had received them before leaving for the front, that they had known how much she cherished them despite the distance life had forced upon them. Every day, she had prayed for them, begged God to keep them safe.
They never came back.
On the other hand, while she had never consciously prayed for Charles's death, in the secrecy of her heart, she had wished for it with all her might.
When news of her brothers' deaths reached her in the form of a terse telegram, she wavered and questioned the weight of her sins. Was this divine punishment? Retribution for having hated her husband so much that she had hoped he would never return from the front? For daring to dream that he might fall in battle? [4]
So many men—boys barely past adolescence—had died. Her brothers. A cousin. The neighbors' sons. The husband of a childhood friend. All fallen on the field of honor, buried in mass graves and charnel pits; their bodies rotting somewhere beneath the European soil.
Charles, however, had come back.
Emaciated, irascible, alive. Crueler and more tyrannical than ever.
During the year he was away at war, she had been able to breathe again. His absence had been a deliverance. The fear of provoking his wrath with a misstep had gradually faded, no longer poisoning the air. She had learned to savor the silence and solitude, no longer tensing at the slightest movement in the accursed house that had become her prison.
With Charles's return, old habits and past terrors quickly resurfaced. If Esme had thought she had suffered during her first year of marriage, she was mistaken. Upon his return from the front, her husband's brutality seemed to know no bounds. No matter how hard she tried to satisfy him, it was in vain. The insults and beatings became daily occurrences, the abuse worsened. Esme withdrew into a corner of her mind, enduring in silence. And wondering, with a kind of weary detachment, when the ordeal would finally end.
Nearly a year after Charles's return, she realized she was pregnant.
Panic surged through her like a devastating wave as she considered the possibility with dread. A vertigo seized her. A child. The child of the man who tormented her every single day. For a brief moment, she wanted to deny the evidence and reject it, but numbers were stubborn things. No matter how many times she recounted the weeks since her last bleeding, the gap remained unchanged, and—combined with the violent morning sickness—it only confirmed her assessment: life was growing within her.
After several long minutes of contemplating the notion, an incongruous feeling took hold. Her entire being exulted with mad joy. Against all odds, when she should have been despairing, she felt a genuine surge of happiness. The only true spark of joy she had experienced since her husband's return from war. A shiver of emotion ran down her spine as the revelation struck her: this was her child. Not just Charles's. Hers.
And so, she had left everything behind.
Because if she had lacked the courage to flee for her own survival, the prospect of protecting the unborn child gave her wings. She would not bring her baby into a home where she was wasting away. She would not allow the fragile being growing inside her to join her in the sordid nightmare in which she was trapped.
Bravery… to fulfill her dreams… to have a wonderful life.
Perhaps it was not too late.
Notes:
* The title of the chapter references Romain Gary's novel Promise at Dawn.
[1] Plumwood is a small rural community surrounded by fields, located less than an hour from Columbus. It is mentioned that Esme's parents' farm was on the outskirts of Columbus, and it can be assumed that it was in a hospital in this city that Carlisle met and treated her.
[2] For context, Carlisle's "strange" behavior toward Esme stems from the fact that—just as he made a strong impression on his young patient—he himself experienced a kind of instant infatuation with her from their very first meeting. Yes, much like (well, without the bloodlust) Edward toward Bella, he felt an almost immediate attraction and fascination for his future beloved. But being Carlisle, he obviously did not give in to his desire to stay with Esme (let alone stalk her like a creepy… like Edward did with Bella xD). He told himself he was having a mid-life crisis at two hundred and fifty and was utterly mortified at having fallen for a human teenager. He suppressed his tender inclinations, packed his bags, and quickly moved to another state.
[3] I find it terrible—but historically very plausible—that Esme dared to ask for help and was coldly turned away. Even today, domestic violence remains a taboo and complex subject; one can only imagine what it meant to denounce such abuse in 1917, in a small rural town. Especially when the abuser was a man widely respected by the community… I believe the indifference Esme faced and the lack of support from her parents (who essentially told her to keep her "private affairs" to herself and make do with her husband, no matter how "bad" he was) were quite symptomatic and common for the time period she came from. With this "rejection," she found herself completely isolated and without any viable solution (at least, in the eyes of a young woman without money and disowned by her family in case of divorce) other than staying with her abusive husband. And since such things were rarely spoken about, she had no frame of reference to determine just how abnormal her situation was.
[4] According to the snippets from Midnight Sun and The Storytellers, Esme experienced a brief respite when her husband left to fight in Europe, an absence that lasted about a year. She hoped—guiltily—that the man would not return alive from the front. No wonder…
See you soon for the final part—at last!—of Esme's POV, which will be quite "abrupt" in certain passages.
PS: Regarding chapter length, I'd love to hear your thoughts! In the future, if I consider a chapter too long, would you prefer it as a single block or split into multiple sections like this one?