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palmofafreezinghand · 2 days

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By an act of fate Charles Evenson finds himself in Ashland, Wisconsin searching for his missing wife. cw: references to domestic abuse and infant death.

on ao3 here.

Saturday, February 19, 1921. 6:07 PM.

Washburn, Wisconsin.

“Edward, no.”

The car engine roared to life before the front door had a chance to slam shut.

“Edward, please.”

Within seconds the coupe was speeding down the dirt road, leaving a cloud in its wake.

“Edward, don’t.”

The woman was still pleading long after the woods had swallowed the view of the automobile. Her cries were heard by no one but a confused, but sympathetic, doctor.

__________________________________

Saturday, February 19, 1921. 9:01 AM.

Union Depot. Ashland, Wisconsin.

A steam whistle pierced the air as Charles Evenson’s train lurched out of the station, without him.

He skidded to a halt at the edge of the depot. He desperately bent over to catch his breath, his knees cracking as they moved. Between the bullet in his hip and his age, the sprint across the station had his irregular pulse pounding against his skull. He grimaced as a toddler waved at him from the train window, pointing at him and then getting his mother’s attention. Charles lazily waved at the young woman gaping at him through the moving window, sneer never leaving his face. She caught his gaze, quickly looking away, pulling her son from the window in what seemed to be a mix of guilt for catching the train and… fear.

“Excuse me, sir,” a shrill woman’s voice said behind him. He took a deep breath, attempting to wipe the irritation off his face, and turned to face the voice. An older, stout woman was standing in front of him, holding his wallet and cane in her hands. “I believe, you dropped these.”

“Yes. Thank you,” he said, taking his belongings. In his haste, he had failed to notice.

“Did you miss your train?” She asked.

It was such a pity for a woman to have neither brains nor beauty, hopefully she was a half-decent cook. Although perhaps she was not as dim-witted as she appeared and used idiocy as a ruse to cover a much larger sin for a woman to possess: inquisitiveness.

“Yes. I did not realize the service I took from Saint Paul was to a different station,” he huffed, tucking the wallet back into his coat pocket.

Charles had naively believed his secretary could book his trip efficiently. Misplaced faith meant he was forced to run a mile and a half in a Wisconsin winter in ten minutes, miss his train, and endure a dull conversation with a prune.

“You are not the first to make that mistake,” she smiled. Her teeth were yellowed and crooked.

He refrained from rolling his eyes, the woman was older than his mother, and he could be polite, even if it took every ounce of his willpower.

“You are from Saint Paul?”

“No, I live in Columbus. I was in Minnesota for work.” The work was smuggling hundreds of dollars worth of moonshine, a detail best kept secret.

“The only other train East today is towards Chicago. It doesn’t leave until nine this evening.”

“Of course, it doesn’t,” Charles sighed. He flipped open his wallet and searched for a bill. His fingers first found a five but he quickly stuffed it back, fishing out a single dollar bill instead.

He extended the dollar to the woman, she waved it off with her wrinkly bony fingers. What would it take to get her to leave?

“No, no. Enjoy your time in Ashland. Perhaps now you can say hello to Mrs. Bauer,” she said, slowly walking away from the platform and back to the main doors.

“Who?” He called after her, leaning down to pick up his baggage.

“The woman in the photograph,” she said, turning to face him. He frowned and she quickly amended her statement. “Your wallet was open to a woman’s picture. Anne Bauer is it not?”

His eyebrows furrowed. Was there a picture in his wallet?

He dug in his pocket for the wallet, and flipped it open, greeted by a woman he had not seen in nearly eight months: his wife.

Paul — Charles’ third eldest brother — had offered to take their portraits as a wedding present. Charles had still thought of her as lovable when he slipped the print in his wallet, the day before he left for the Front. It had been against protocol — which dictated all identifying artifacts were removed from your body — yet carrying a reminder of a woman he liked the idea of seemed necessary at the time.

They had their… differences, and in the eight or so months he had lived without her he had missed her a handful of times. The morning he awoke to find her gone — four sunrises after she truly left — he had been livid, which was quickly taken over by fear. The blood in their marital bed, the dried dirt under his nails, the occupied grave he had dug in her parent’s orchard. Details pointing to a sinister answer, she did not leave him in a fit of hysteria, he had escorted her out of this life.

Reluctant to admit, even if only to himself, that he was a murderer he had visited her cousin in Milwaukee, who had once harbored her for two weeks. Mary swore on her own children’s lives she had not seen his wife and threatened to report the disappearance and all she knew about Charles’ conduct to the authorities if he did not leave.

He returned home and concocted a lie about how he came home one night to find the lock broken and his wife missing. The neighbors who had heard screams of terror and fits of rage did not believe this lie, but they never said a word otherwise which is all that mattered.

It had not crossed his mind she could still be alive, his conscious free. He held the wallet out to the old woman whom he was praying was confused. “This was the photograph?”

“Yes. That’s her, the widow who teaches in Washburn.”

That bitch.

“You are a friend of hers?” She raised her left eyebrow at the word friend.

An emphasis, there was no mistaking the meaning of. It was odd for a man to keep an image of a woman, who was not his wife, on his person. Especially when the woman was in a wedding gown.

What relation would make it not odd?

“My sister. I had not planned on visiting her since the trip was intended to be short but seeing as I will be in town until late I may be able to visit.”

“Her brother,” the old woman smiled. “She’s such a sweet gal. Despite her circumstances. Has she had the babe yet? Last I heard she was almost due.”

His stomach lurched. She had still been home nine months prior. Of course, she could have betrayed him causing her to flee. But deep in the pit of his stomach, he knew this was not the case.

“We have not been able to write frequently as of late,” Charles lied, voice almost shaky. “She is busy, as you could imagine. Last I heard she had not, no.”

“Well, do give Mrs. Bauer my regards,” the woman said before finally turning away for good.

“Oh, I will.”

----------------------------------

Saturday, February 19, 1921. 9:25 AM

Washburn, Wisconsin.

A crisp ten-dollar bill had been enough to convince the cab driver to take Charles twelve miles to the small shoreline logging town and wait for an hour.

In the almost half hour since he had realized his wife might be alive, and more significantly he might have a child, he wafted from well-disguised rage to sorrow. If it turned out that the crone in the station had a riddled memory and mistook his wife for an innocent widow would he be disappointed? If his wife was alive and well could he convince her to return home? How would he explain her initial disappearance or the potential child? Perhaps they could move?

He was getting ahead of himself, he first needed a plan to meet ‘Mrs. Anne Bauer.’ If Anne was his wife, he could not simply waltz into the schoolhouse and demand she accompany him. She was charming enough to convince the town he was a madman, a threat, a danger. He needed to meet without an audience, at her home. Yet, if Mrs. Bauer was a widow whose only sin was bearing a mild resemblance to his wife he could not approach her at home without being escorted out of town by a Sheriff.

As he approached the town’s tiny one-room post office he paused to observe the first townspeople he had seen. A middle-aged couple were making their way down the stairs, arms linked, the man carrying a stack of envelopes in his free hand. The woman’s face turned to surprise when she spotted a young blond man packing boxes into the back of an automobile.

“Dr. Cullen!” The woman exclaimed, dropping her husband’s arm.

The man, apparently a doctor, turned to face the woman and Charles was able to catch the man’s face. Odd, was the only way to describe the man.

“Good morning, Mr. And Mrs. Birch,” Dr. Cullen said, stalling his packing to give them his full attention.

“I have been searching for you but you’ve been practically missing this past month. My niece is staying with us for the season, you must come for dinner,” the woman insisted.

“Oh, I appreciate the invitation, Mrs. Birch. But I must decline, I have been told I am an awful dinner party guest, I am utterly incapable of upholding conversation not concerning diseases and organs.”

“Then I will serve goose liver,” she countered.

The doctor laughed but was unmoved. “Thank you but that will be unneccessary, Mrs. Birch.”

“I will convince you one of these days,” she said pointedly, turning back towards her husband and linking her arm through his again. “Do not let her persuade you, Doctor,” Mr. Birch said over his shoulder.

“Arthur, hush,” Mrs. Burch said, lightly smacking her husband.

The doctor smiled to himself as the couple walked down the street.

“If you told them the truth you were attached she would relent,” Charles said, walking towards the doctor.

“Oh, I am n- How did you? What gave you that impression?”

“You have the air of a man shackled by a doe-eyed girl.”

“I would not use the term shackled,” Dr. Cullen said quietly.

“Ah, you are hoping to be attached.” “Perhaps,” the doctor smiled at his feet.

Charles knew soon enough the young man would realize the trap that was a blushing innocent but for now, he was intoxicated by the thrill of a nice girl.

“Do you live around here?” Charles asked. He figured if anyone were to know the people of a town it would be the doctor.

“Yes, further North. I work in the city,” Dr. Cullen said, resuming sorting his packages. “You are visiting, I presume.”

“Yes, Anne Bauer, do you know her?”

The doctor froze for a split second, something that should have gone unnoticed. “I believe the name sounds familiar,” he said slowly, focusing unnaturally on his task. He had loaded all the boxes and was now unnecessarily sorting them.

“She’s a widow, currently expecting, a teacher.”

The doctor nodded, ‘mhm-ing’ to himself. A noncommittal, unsatisfactory answer.

Charles dug his wallet out of his pocket, pulling the photo out of the wallet. He handed the paper over to the doctor. “Her?”

The doctor held the photo delicately, staring at it for half a minute. “She is young here, but yes, I knew her,” he said, finally tearing his eyes from the image. “You knew her well?”

“Yes, yes, we’re quite close. If you could tell me wher—”

“I apologize for being the one to break this news, Anne passed last month.”

Charles could feel his jaw drop. His legs felt like river reeds, swaying in the stream. “She… She’s dead?”

“You have my deepest sympathies,” Dr. Cullen said with solemnity.

“The child?”

“Her son passed shortly before her, lung fever.”

Charles Evenson had a son that he lost every chance to know because of his own selfish, cruel actions.

“Th-thank you,” Charles told the doctor, starting to walk, more accurately stumble, back down the street. He did not hear the doctor call after him offering him the photo and asking if Charles was alright. His mind was lost in images of a son that never would be.

-------------------------------

Saturday, February 19, 1921. 5:57 PM.

Washburn, Wisconsin.

Carlisle could hear his two companions inside as he made his way slowly down the dirt driveway. The familiar banter was quickly becoming one of his favorite sounds. While the transition into their world had not been entirely smooth, Esme had become a priceless addition to his life.

“Oh, I loathe this one,” Esme sighed as Edward began to play Beethoven’s Piano Sonata No. 23.

“It’s Beethoven,” Edward responded curtly, continuing on with the composition with masterful precision.

“It is utterly depressing.”

“Depressing,” Edward scoffed.

Carlisle smiled to himself as he parked the automobile. Esme was still reluctant to express any of her opinions freely but when she did allow the two men to know her thoughts on music it often sparked heated debates.

“I imagine this is what plays in a murderer’s mind before he kills.”

“You have too vivid an imagination for your own good,” Edward teased.

Carlisle tried to open the door quietly, so as to not disturb the scene of domesticity but his efforts were interrupted by a pleasant, “Good evening, Dr. Cullen.”

“Good evening, Ms. Platt,” he said, moving quickly to join the pair in the sitting room.

“Please, call me Esme.”

“I will not drop honorifics while you insist on calling me Doctor,” he said for what had to be the twentieth time, earning him a roll of her eyes. He took a seat on the opposite end of the couch, listening to Edward play the “depressing” tune. Esme returned her attention to the book in her lap.

Carlisle allowed his eyes to slip close briefly while he listened. “I suppose it is rather intense,” he acquiesced, opening his eyes as Edward began to play even more passionately.

“Not you too,” Edward huffed, attention never leaving the keys.

“Thank you,” Esme smiled slightly, she still had yet to freely smile in the time he had known her. “How was your day?”

“Quite fine,” Carlisle said. For hours he had debated how to broach the subject of the man in town. Esme’s constitution was delicate, to put it mildly. To remind her she was mourned could be potentially disastrous. Yet, as soon as he saw her his resolve to keep the man a secret crumpled. “I met someone in town I would like to ask you about.”

“Oh?”

“He was quite charming, very personable. He was not from Ashland. You once mentioned you have a brother, correct?”

“Harry,” she nodded, “he died in the war.”

That complicated the matter. Carlisle had presumed by the man’s reaction he was a close dear connection, one personally affected by the loss. Her brother seemed the logical conclusion based on how Esme discussed her childhood. How awful for her to have lost both her beloved brother and husband to the war.

Edward’s fingers halted mid-note. “Carlisle,” he said between clenched teeth. “Think of that face again.”

Carlisle did as instructed, unsure what significance the old friend of Esme’s held in the boy’s mind. Although, Edward had been overly paranoid about leaving any trace of Esme in Washburn’s history, going as far as to erase hospital records that so much as mentioned her son. Whomever this past connection was had left Washburn without fuss as soon as he realized who he sought was no more. Edward was, as usual, overreacting.

“When did you see him?”

“A quarter past nine?” Carlisle guessed. “Edward, the man poses no threat.”

“You have no idea the threat,” Edward said, standing from his bench and storming out of the room in one swift furious move.

Esme’s gaze followed Edward from the piano to the doorframe, and a look of recognition hit her face. “Did he have a cane?” She asked quietly.

“Yes,” Carlisle said, turning his attention back to her. Esme’s eyes were wide with an emotion he dared say was fear. As soon as the words were out of his mouth, Esme was off the couch and bolting after Edward. Carlisle followed out of pure confusion.

“Edward, please,” she pleaded, running down the hallway.

“Esme, stay,” Edward spat in a tone harsher than Carlisle had ever heard him use, throwing the front door open.

“Edward, do not do anything to him.”

“Go inside, Esme.”

“No,” she grabbed his arm. He flinched but froze in his step, refusing to use force to remove her. “You are not to find him. I am pleading with you.” Her voice was close to a tearless sob.

“Esme, the things he did to you,” Edward hissed. A statement that made Carlisle’s stomach turn. The things he did to you. The wedding portrait he had stored away in his medical bag. The man’s shock at the passing of her son. How Esme flinched every time someone raised their voice. No?

Edward nodded brusquely in Carlisle’s direction. “He must be dealt with.”

“Edward.”

“I will not kill him,” Edward said quietly, in a tone not entirely convincing. He placed one hand over Esme’s on his arm. “I promise.”

“Who is this man?” Carlisle asked, stepping towards the two. Although he presumed he knew a fraction of the answer already.

Esme glanced back at him eyes wide, mouth agape. Edward used her moment of distraction to pry himself away, marching towards the automobile.

“Esme will explain. I will be back.”

“Edward, no.”

The car engine roared to life.

“Edward, please.”

Within seconds the coupe was speeding down the dirt road, leaving a cloud in its wake.

“Edward, don’t.”

The woman was still pleading long after the woods had swallowed the view of the automobile. Her cries eventually turned into explanations which turned into tearless sobs.

When Edward finally did return it was with clean hands, finding Charles had unfortunately made his train and was out of Ashland, alive and well.

#charles evenson #esme cullen #esme platt #carlisle cullen #edward cullen #my stories #twilight fanfiction #thank you thank you thank you to the anon who requested this!!

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insp-exxmpl · 10 months

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effervescent-hoe · 2 years

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what if it was esme who turned rosalie (ignoring if shes capable) i think that it would affect Rose's opinion somewhat. something something abused woman giving another abused woman a second chance at living a life free from the influence men have had over them

#twilight #riley to the void #rosalie hale #esme platt #esme cullen #im drunk btw

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twilightishot · 15 days

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Moodboard of Earnest Cullen

#twilightishot #the twilight saga #thetwilightsaga #twilight saga #twilight fanfiction #twilight renaissance #twilightishotmoodboards #carine and earnest #earnest cullen #carlisle and esme #esme cullen #esme platt

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bramblrose · 1 year

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“It's twilight. It’s the safest time of day for us. The easiest time. But also the saddest, in a way...the end of another day, the return of the night. Darkness is so predictable, don’t you think?”

#twilightedit #the twilight saga #twilight #new moon #eclipse #breaking dawn #isabella swan #bella swan #renesmee cullen #nessie cullen #rosalie hale #rosalie cullen #alice cullen #alice brandon #esme cullen #esme platt #stephenie meyer #mine

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shelbgrey · 10 months

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Esme Ann Platt Cullen aesthetic

#Esme cullen #Esme platt #Twilight #Aesthetic #Esme cullen x reader #Elizabeth Reese #Mother

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aquanova99 · 1 year

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Hello can u write headcanons of the cullen clan with a female human s/o who can see Spirits and ghosts

Pls i love ur work❤

Carlisle

I think when you first tell him you try to make joke “oh you didn’t know? I see dead people.”

He’s and idiot who apparently doesn’t watch the classics and goes “yeah that’s what we are.”

No darling, like people who are vampires and are stuck halfway through life and death, ghosts?

Carlisle just blankly stares, he is somewhat surprised but I mean if vampires exists why not spirits?

Can he help them? No???? Probably says a prayer when you tell him you see them in hopes they find peace one day or something.

Doesn’t want to assume they’re evil but if they weren’t why are they still around???

Asks a lot of questions

Esme

She kinda just doesn’t believe you at first? “Haha. Oh okay dear.”

Like it just doesn’t process right away

I think after a while she probably has a lot of questions but her questions come from grief so she treads carefully

Does everyone become a ghost? No? What about kids do kids become ghosts (do you see where I’m going with this?)

Sometimes???

The answer is enough for her to ask you to go to where she buried her baby she wants to know he’s okay

You have to explain babies don’t really have the capacity to become ghosts they are young, they’ve never done anything wrong or have any unfinished tasks

Esme doesn’t know if she’s relieved or depressed

She’s glad the baby she lost so long ago isn’t stuck here but at the same to be able to talk them one more time even through you would be wonderful.

Esme realizes while she loves her adopted children she hasn’t allowed herself to grieve and you’re going to have to talk her through her feelings which you have become quite adept at doing since you’ve been helping people say goodbye for so long

Rosalie

She wonders if Royce is a ghost and hopes he’s miserable but other than the occasional question when you seem to see something she doesn’t press

She never stops you from saying anything

But she enjoys some of the stories you tell her from the spirits that stop and want your help

She urges you to help the kids and women who are stuck while someone who tormented them gets away scotch free

In fact if she knows how to find someone she will do something herself and tell you to tell them they’ve been taken care of. If you can help them she wants to help you

Emmett

Thinks it’s neat

Probably makes fun of some stories they’ve told you

He died how? Dude. Acts as if he can see the ghost too. You’re there with your head in your hands because you really need to stop telling him these things

Asks a few questions at first but also mostly listens to the stories you have.

Jasper

Thank god I don’t feel their feelings too

Literally first thing he thinks of. Because it sounds miserable when he already has to tolerate Edwards moods

After he gets over his relief he wonders how it weighs on you since it must be hard to see all of those people

Not really it’s not much different than you, but they can’t touch anything

This probably send Jasper into a spiral tbh

Tries not ask too many questions because he is honestly worried about dying and having to worry about a whole other world of deal with other peoples emotions

Alice

She knows

Doesn’t care

She probably relates to being the weird kid but she’s convinced she fits in perfect now and you two will be fine

You don’t tell her she is definitely not fitting in

It’s nice someone is understanding without needing to explain yourself

Edward

Worries that someone as wonderful is plagued by this

Does not listen when you say you are used to it

Worries about spirits bothering you

Because if they are stuck surely they are degenerates that couldn’t get to heaven

You ask him how it’s any different from vampires stuck here eternally

He is distraught for months

#carlisle cullen #esme platt #esme cullen #rosalie hale #Rosalie cullen #emmett cullen #emmett mccarty #jasper hale #jasper cullen #alice cullen #edward cullen #cullen headcanons #twilight #new moon #eclipse #breaking dawn

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effervescent-influenza · 2 years

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Cottagecore Esme Cullen moodboard

#twilight #twilight renaissance #twilight saga #the twilight saga #the cullens #cullen coven #esme cullen #esme platt #twilight moodboard #twilight moodboards #moodboard #moodboards #cottagecore #cottagecore moodboard #cottagecore aesthetic #aesthetic moodboard

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kind-hufflepuff · 4 months

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ESME AS A DAUGHTER OF LETO

Powers and Traits

#aesthetic #ship #twillight x pjo #twillight characters #Esme Platt #esme cullen #Esme x Carlisle #loss of a child #demigod au #demigods #daughter of Leto #riordiverse

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youareonlyastory · 2 years

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I am having some very specific thoughts on Ms Evenson dying on a cliff in Ashland Wisonsin, and coming to awake as Esme.

The Esme who has to reteach herself to be messy.

To have her plant pots in disarray on her desk. Her agile fingers now sharp enough to splinter the nimble paintbrushes resting along a smooth index finger.

Learning to fold a cloth. Just once. Not to check the edging is neat. Not to ensure it fits perfectly square in the draw. For it to just simply fit.

An Esme re-learning to dance even when she does not know the steps. An Esme humming to tunes she does not know. A foolhardy, curious Esme, peaking between the words of her beloved Doctor and discovering what lays in them.

An Esme learning to grow on soil newly planted, on dirtying her hands, on fixing and designing and managing without a blueprint in order.

On loving haphazardly, falling clumsily and living brazenly.

#esme platt #Esme Cullen #thoughts #twilight #messy girls with the messy curls #big #bold #and beautiful m’darlins

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palmofafreezinghand · 1 year

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the cullens as of 1921.

for @exceptionally-unobservant 's @twilight-secret-gift-exchange gift!

#i hope you enjoy!#twilight secret gift exchange #carlisle cullen #esme cullen #esme platt #edward cullen

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queenofglassbeliever · 8 months

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I refuse to acknowledge that Esme ever used the Evenson name when she no longer had to. I know that when she married Charles she took his name, but I belive that when she ran away from him and she posed as a war widow she went back to using her maiden name.

Esme was in a whole new state. No one knew Esme Platt in Ashland, Wisconsin. No one knew that Platt wasn't her married name.

#esme cullen #the twilight saga #twilight #twilight renaissance #esme platt #esme anne platt #esme anne cullen #twilight saga #twilight books #twilight series

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musingsanddrabbles · 4 days

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A Good Wife, currently a one-shot.

( cw: domestic violence & physical abuse )

She had endured for months. In a tender, few weeks it would be their first wedding anniversary. She had nearly forgotten until opening the pocket diary she took shopping with her. The date was circled, something she had done the morning of the new year in the hope that it would all work out.

That belief was the only thing that got her through the wedding ceremony.

She hadn't slept at all last night. It was a Friday; Charles had come home drunk after missing dinner. By the time he stumbled through the door it was cold and of course it was her fault. She tried desperately to outrun him, use his inebriation against him, but her foot caught the leg of the dining table as she made her attempt to evade him. She was never quick enough at returning back to her feet.

Plates smashed as he swiped dishes from a clothed table, cutlery falling deafeningly around her. His fingers found her ankle as he dragged her toward him before her back was against the wall and his fingers around her throat.

She never cried.

His spittle found her face with every angry word— every insult he hurled at her. She did her best not to struggle, but his fingers grew tighter and tighter which caused her to wince. Soon enough she was struggling to breathe.

Is this how she died?

He released her on the brink, allowing her to fall onto her hands and knees as she heaved, desperate for air in her lungs. The respite was brief. Soon enough he had his fingers in her hair, forcing her to follow him clumsily into the living room.

She couldn't remember what happened once the door closed, but from the bruises staining pale skin, she had gathered it was nothing pleasant.

The fingerprints around her throat were her most urgent concern. She settled on wearing her hair down accompanied by a coat with a generous collar. No-one would notice if she kept herself to herself. Charles had left for work and he expected Esme to shop for groceries. A fruitless endeavour in her opinion, especially when he most often hated what she cooked.

The decision was sudden and derailing. Instead of turning left as she normally would, Esme instead found herself walking a route she hadn't dared tread for months.

As she walked, the first few raindrops began to fall. It was gentle at first, almost relieving against skin that ached beneath clothing, but soon enough the rain pelted down as hard as her husband's punches and Esme found herself beginning to soak through. As roads transformed into dust tracks, the hem of her skirt picked up mud with shoes sinking into it.

The smell of the farm was a different type of pungency to the city. Manure was familiar to her, as was the sight of pigs and chickens.

The tree that came into few as she rounded the curve of the road caused a smile to pull at her lips. She was glad it was still there. With its presence, she was also reminded of the blonde-haired doctor so long ago.

She stood for what felt like hours at the door or the farm house. With every stuttering breath, she tried to find her bravery. An equally as shaky hand (curled lightly into a fist) came up to rap knuckles against the door, but she was interrupted by her name said behind her.

Esme startled. She turned, expecting Charles but was instead met by her mother with a cluster of eggs collected freshly from the hens.

Esme's chest collapsed in partial belief, but anxiety remained chained around her ankle. Rain dripped pitifully from the rim of her hat as she offered a strained smile. Of course her mother ushered her in with comments about Esme catching her death.

They had barely closed the door before Esme revealed she had come to talk to both her mother and father about something which drew her father from the doorway leading into the living room.

They invited her to sit, but nerves refused them.

With nothing more than an deep inhale, Esme revealed the treatment she suffered at the hands of Charles. She peeled away material to show bruising, her voice trembling but not breaking as she detailed his true nature before asking for their help.

The silence between them was as violent as Charles himself.

Esme's mother spoke first; Esme had to understand that Charles had a very taxing and stressful job. Perhaps she could do better not to frustrate him after a hard day's work.

Then Esme's father joined in, supporting his wife by suggesting Esme try to please him physically. The last thing a husband wanted when getting home was a wife who criticised them. He'd want to let off steam somewhere, she should be available for him to do that.

The figures in front of her suddenly became unrecognisable.

In the midst of their appeal of Charles' character, Esme's fingers found the door handle.

The rain had not subsided, but she did not care to stay a moment longer.

She had always wondered when she would lose her parents. This unexpected grief of losing them despite still living nearly doubled her over. Even with the aching in her chest, Esme retraced her steps until the key found the lock of her own house. Tears fell as heavily as the rain outside as she shed nature-stained clothes.

She would not wash them, Charles would be too suspicious. Instead she watched them burn in a fire that burned not only fabric, but any lingering connection to her parents.

Eventually, Esme found her diary again. She circled this date before glancing her reflection in the mirror. Lingering tears were wiped away, a smile stretching cheeks despite her agony. A dwindling fire was extinguished, the evidence of her disobedience gone and absolving her of her crimes.

The grocer commented on how late she was, how she usually appeared like clockwork. Esme dismissed his observation with a laugh, fruit and vegetables finding her basket as she explained she simply lost track of time waiting for the weather to pass. He laughed in return as bills were exchanged and Esme accepted her change.

And again she was alone, the sickening recognition of déjà vu lodging itself firmly in her throat as she cleaned and peeled potatoes. She wondered if she would be able to enjoy any of this tonight or if it would be her usual meal of iron with the threat of teeth.

Just a few more weeks. Maybe she would learn to be a good wife, yet.

#drabble #one-shot #esme platt #esme cullen #twilight saga #twilight #stephanie meyer #the twilight saga #fan fiction #domestic violence men #cw: domestic violence #tw: domestic violence

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