So, after popular demand, I decided to write Fireblast, a Carlisle+Esme fanfic.
It's basically an alternate ending to Esme's story, if her baby had survived. We all know that no matter what, she wouldn't have jumped off that cliff if her baby were alive.
I must warn you, this story will probably make you cry (unless you're one of those people that just can't cry. I've come close enough, but I'm sorta one of those people! lol)
Well, here it is!
By Mrs Sky Cullen
The baby in my arms seemed impossibly small. Beads of sweat trickled down my forehead from the final moments of my labour began to dry as my tiny baby boy began to cry.
“Hold on Mrs. Everson, we’ll wrap your baby up so he’s nice and warm, and then you can hold him again,” said Dr. Andrews, the doctor who had helped me through the birth.
Hesitantly, I handed the baby up to him. I realised I didn’t have a name for the baby yet. What could I name him? I never really made up my mind.
The name wasn’t even one I had considered until just then, but it seemed to fit. As Dr. Andrews handed Nickolas back to me.
“Does he have a name?”
I smiled as my baby looked up at me with curious blue eyes, like mine. The locks of hair that faintly covered his head were the same caramel as me as well, but he had Charles’ tanned skin and bushy eyebrows.
“Nickolas,” I smiled. No matter what he looked like, Nickolas why my little boy.
“Oh, by the way,” Dr. Andrews said as he went to walk out of the room. “We contacted your husband. He’s on his way.”
My heart stopped.
Chapter 1: Enough
The heat of the stove radiated onto me, making sweat. I tried not to panic, knowing Charles was watching me, and would shove my face onto the stove with the pot if he saw a single drop hit the stew I was making.
Little Nickolas stood in the doorway, barely able to stand. He was only two, but Charles treated him no differently than he did me. The poor boy had bruises up and down his legs and arms, but he had learned not to cry. I hated it.
“Hurry up you stupid dog!” Charles hissed. “I’m hungry!”
I bit my tongue until it bled to hold back the whimper in the back of my throat.
I grabbed the salt, remembering that last time I had forgotten it and been thrown in the cellar, when his hand snatched my wrist.
“You know I can’t have salt!” Charles roared.
“B-but you said-” I began, before my face met the stove. I screamed as an unimaginable pain filled the right side of my face.
“Daddy no!” Nickolas cried, unable to control the sobs that shook his tiny body.
“Shut up you little punk!” Charles hissed, forcing me off the stove and towards the cellar door.
As the door swang open I felt myself falling down the wooden steps, each bump harder than the last. I screamed in agony and fear as the door closed, sealing in the darkness.
From upstairs, I heard Nickolas crying out for me. I wasn’t even sure if I could whimper my throat hurt so much.
“Mummy help!” he cried. His words ripped through me, and I just managed to crawl up the first few cellar steps.
“Don’t hurt him Charles. Do what you want to me, just don’t hurt our boy,” I said hoarsely, probably only just loud enough for him to hear.
My limbs collapsed underneath me as I fell back down the stairs. A crack of light escaped the door and Nick’s sobs became louder.
Heavy footsteps trudged down the stairs, until the awful smell of alcohol was breathed into my face. I knew by the way he dragged me towards the wall what was next.
“Make it good, or the stupid kid gets it,” Charles warned, slapping the burnt side of my face to emphasise his point. The pain slithered through my skin, stabbing at me as a painful reminder of what a bad mother and horrible person I was.
I couldn’t move anything. My arms protested every time I tried to get back up, and I was sure a couple of my fingers were broken.
My face hurt the most. I could feel where Charles had slapped me, and I could feel my pulse beating quickly through me, causing a new flow of hurt through me.
I wondered briefly if the burn was bleeding, because there seemed to be a small pool of blood forming around the burn.
Nickolas. Was he okay? What had Charles done to my precious little boy?!
The tears that were already streaming down my cheeks flowed quicker than ever. I would never forgive myself if Charles had hurt him.
A crack of light seeped in through the cellar door, and I winced at how bright it was. Charles wasn’t coming back for more, was he? I began gasping for air, although my lungs were complaining from my trip down the stairs.
Please god, I thought to myself. Don’t let Charles be the one walking through that door.
I was half relived when I heard tiny footsteps pattering down the stairs, as my son came and blindly towards me.
“Mummy?” he whimpered, crawling on his hands and knees until he came face to face with me.
He was sweating so much his caramel hair stuck to his skin, he had a black eye, and the rest of his tiny little face was either swollen or badly bruised. The choppy way he moved and the pain that filled his eyes told me just how much my little boy was hurt.
I tried not to imagine what my husband had done to my little boy. I couldn’t stand the thought. But it was my fault.
I was the horrible wife. I’d brought him into the world. And I was the one who didn’t run away from this hell until it was too late.
And now my little boy was suffering the consequences.
“Are you okay sweetie?” I croaked, lifting my hand so I could wipe Nickolas’s tears away.
He nodded, seeming more concerned about me. I wished so badly that I could take his pain away, because he seemed to be shaking so hard I was sure it was my fault that my husband had done that to him, because I hadn’t satisfied him.
With a huge effort, I managed to pull myself up, biting my tongue to stop myself from screaming at the pain. I couldn’t take this anymore. I couldn’t take the constant abuse and fear, trusting nobody and seeking help from nowhere.
I knew that I had only one option left. We had to leave, before one of us ended up dead.
It seemed drastic, but it was the only way I could keep Nickolas safe. How could we stay, when we could never grantee that one wrong move wouldn’t kill us both?
I knew that he wouldn’t remember the abuse later in his life, and I was glad. No mother wants their child’s first memory to be of their father hitting him.
“Is daddy at work?” I asked softly, taking his hand. He nodded. Good. “I need you to do mummy a favour then Nickolas. Could you go to your room, and put some of your clothes in a bag?”
Confusion swept across his features, but he didn’t complain as he climbed back up the wooden stairs. Now I had three challenges; finding Charles’s stash of money, packing my own clothes, and getting up the stairs.
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