Death, Be My Friend.

By Miss Bra

I. Esme

Remember how we used to talk, you and me, and then, how we met. Our parents, in the Evergreen Park just around the corner from my house, I had just turned sixteen, you were almost seventeen. You stood out from your parents with glistening blonde, slick hair and had your hand extended. I shook it and you murmured in the voice I would come to know so well.

"Esme Platt, it's nice to so finally meet you, I have heard so much about you. My name is Charles, Charles Evenson."

And I shook your hand, smiling back and you told me how you liked the freckles on my nose and the way my hair curved at the end.

You kissed me once on the lips when we were alone. Soft and tender, I was drinking from your lips. The liquor of life, as I had gushed to you once when you broke away, though you quickly kissed me again.

And when I leave my family, I walk across the train tracks in which I followed in the 1920's, I gaze into the depths to where I threw the ring, knowing the band on my finger now isn't just a wedding ring. I know that it signifies love, comfort and compassion- the very essence of Carlisle. And, lastly, I go to the chapel where we were once wedded, knowing that the guests, the minister and mostly you are dead.

That your bones now rot in a grave where they spent far more than you are worth on your tombstone.

"And I, Charles Evenson, take thee, Esme Platt, to be my wife, to have and to hold from this day forward and forever more, for better or for worse, for richer, for poorer, in sickness and in health, to love and to cherish and I promise to be faithful to you until death do us part."

And I looked at him lovingly and said my lines, with as much passion as I could for I truly loved this man. "Until death do us part."

"I do."

"I do."

I sat on the bench of the train station, one hand over my stomach, one hand picking at the peeling green paint. The ticket to Ashland was stashed into my handbag, next to my worn lipstick and petty cash. An older woman looked at me, her grey eyebrows puckering for a moment and then she approached me.

"How far off, dear?" She asked, her old voice wobbling and crackling.

"Due any day," I replied softly, running my hand over my large bulge. "A little boy, I think. A little Lincoln."

"Such a lovely name," She murmured. "And… your husband dear?"

"Is waiting for me in Ashland," I replied, "Just got home from the war."

"What a noble man."

"I know."

I felt the locks of caramel hair being ripped out of my head and then the sudden blackness against my open eyes when I knew my body was blocking out the pain of his hands against me.

I felt the tearing sensation of my clothes and then the taste of blood in my throat and through my mouth.

"How dare you!"

"What did I do, oh god, what did I do?"

"You know exactly what you did, Esme!"

"No, I don't, please Charles, I'm sorry, I'm sorry!"

His hand ripped through my hair and he yanked my head up to meet his lips at my ear. "You are lucky I have you," He seethed. "How pathetic you are, no man would want you. No man would put up with you, give you everything the way I give you everything. No man will ever want you- a sniveling, spoilt brat! You will never do this to me again after this night! Do you understand me?"

"Yes, yes, please, I love you, what did I do? Please, I want it to be better again!"

And all I remember was my head hitting the wall, feeling the crack against my skull and then my lids falling as everything went dark.

The train pulled up at Columbus station and everyone boarded. I was given a seat when a young boy was told to stand up. I thanked the mother greatly and she smiled knowingly.

"Not long to go now," She said softly, pulling her short, blonde hair out of her face.

"Any day now," I confirmed with the best smile.

"It's the best feeling in the world; I wouldn't trade it for anything."

"Nice to know."

The mother got off on the first stop, ushering her two children to follow her. I moved across to the window seat, my hand tracing circles on my stomach and watched out the window, letting the time pass me by.

Ashland was exactly what I wanted when I arrived. It was comfortable, quaint and homey and snowed in the winter and bloomed in the spring. It was exactly the kind of place I wanted to raise Lincoln.

The house wasn't very big- just a bedroom, small bathroom and living area- but the garden was nice and it was very pretty. It was an older house, perhaps one of the first to be built in the area.

My neighbours were nice too, Gregory and Amelia with their two daughters Janice and Penny. When my waters broke only a week or so later, they were wealthy and owned an automobile and drove me to the hospital. Amelia stayed by my side all night, holding my hand while the nurses fretted around me and called up the night shift doctors that weren't in surgery.

At a quarter past one, on a Wednesday night, 1924, Lincoln Platt was born into the world and the screaming was the most blissful thing I have ever heard in my life. He was in my arms for a second and then whisked away not a moment after. His lovely little face with curls of caramel hair and amazing blue eyes, it was the best memory.

And then, when he went home and I tucked him into his cot in the corner of my bedroom and he slept through the nights without a peep, I thought it was pure ecstasy. I was due to start at the Ashland local school in a few weeks while Amelia looked after Lincoln. I needed some income and the petty cash I had stolen from Charles was running out too quickly.

I didn't know what to do when I woke up one morning to find Lincoln cold in his crib. He was only three weeks old and so tiny. They tell me now that it was SIDS, the Sudden Infant Death Syndrome, or that's what I came up with anyway.

I grieved for days and was barely able to pay for his funeral. It was a personal thing; I stood crying dry tears while his small casket was lowered into the ground and covered up.

I never worked at the school.

I never stopped crying.

And I never wanted to survive after I jumped off that cliff.

Oh, death, be my friend and take away this pain that I feel from living. I wish to live no more and be with my infant son in the holiest place, telling him how much I love him so and keeping him safe away from the tyrant that has bruised and broken me.

"Oh, shh, don't move, please, everything is going to be alright. Oh please don't move, shh… My name is Carlisle Cullen and everything is going to be alright. Oh, shh, shhh."

Disclaimer- I don't own the twilight characters in anyway, everything goes to Stephanie Meyer and I'm not making any money. Just playing with my imagination.

I hope you liked the first installment of my story. Please review.

Miss. Bra.