Post by Emma “Emmz” Squalor on Aug 12, 2007 20:13:46 GMT -5
Title: Very Forthright Discussions [Esmé/Jerome]
Author’s Disclaimer: I do not own any of the A Series of Unfortunate Events characters. They belong to Lemony Snicket a.k.a. Daniel Handler.
Rating: PG-13 (for language and suicide references)
Genre: Angst/Romance
Story-Type: One-Shot
Status: Complete
Summery: Story #4 of The Spotlight Series. This is the discussion Esmé and Jerome have behind the closed door of her hospital room in chapter 4 of The Terrible Truth.
“Why, Esmé?” Jerome demanded as he paced back and forth across the room, waving his hands frantically above his head. “Why? Is your life without Olaf really so unbearable that it would drive you to commit an act as foolish as this?”
Esmé didn’t say a word as she listened to her former husband rant and rave about how selfish she was for purposely throwing herself down the spiral staircase of the apartment building at 667 Dark Avenue where she lived. Until now, she had never seen Jerome in such a state of distress. Even when Esmé had left him and returned to Olaf, Jerome had managed to get on with his life and even write a book dedicated to the history of injustice— a book she couldn’t help but feel she had inspired.
“Stop pacing, Jerome,” Esmé said calmly. “And lower your voice. You’re lucky Emma left or else she might hear you.”
Jerome spun around to face her, his face streaked with tears. “You really are one hell of an actress,” he snapped. “You couldn’t bear to tell Emma the truth, could you? That’s why you refused to answer her question when she asked why you didn’t take the elevator instead of the stairs.” He laughed sarcastically. “It’s too bad elevators are no longer ‘out’ or else you’d be free of all that pesky suspicion.”
“You aren’t going to tell her the truth, are you?” Esmé asked shakily.
His hands shoved into his pockets, Jerome tilted his head back to fix his eyes on the ceiling for a moment. “You would think that, wouldn’t you, Esmé?” he said. “Of course I’m not going to tell her. Think about it. What good would it do Emma to learn that her mother made an attempt to end her life while she wasn’t around to see it? I love Emma as if she was my own daughter. I would never do or say anything to hurt her.” He wanted to add “Unlike you”, but held his tongue fast. There was no point in making things worse, especially since they were about as worse as they were going to get.
Ashamed, Esmé lowered her eyes and stared down at the thin yellow quilt that covered her right leg and part of her stomach while her left leg, which was wrapped in a cast, remained supported by a sling attached to the ceiling by a strong chain. She watched Jerome as he flopped into the chair beside her bed.
“I’m sorry,” she whispered, and hesitantly reached for his hand. “How many times do you want me to say it?”
His response was a wry smile. “You can say it as many times as you like,” he replied. “But it still won’t be enough for me to forgive what you did.”
Jerome’s words were like a cue for tears to rush forth into Esmé’s eyes. “But you’ve forgiven me before,” she reminded him. “And this isn’t exactly the same situation.”
“You’re right. This situation happens to be much more serious.” His tone matched his grave expression all too perfectly. “For some reason, being used in a ploy by you and your villainous boyfriend hurt a lot less than coming out of my apartment just in time to see you throw yourself down the stairs.”
Esmé felt a tear as it trickled down the left side of her face, and she watched Jerome as he took a few tissues from the box on the nightstand and offered them to her. She took them and gently dabbed at her eyes.
“How long did you know Olaf for?” Jerome asked.
“Since junior high,” she replied, and he raised an eyebrow at this. “It’s not what you think. He was my acting teacher, and the reason why I became a member of V.F.D. in the first place. Olaf promised me that if I stuck with him and did everything he said, then it would mean my happiness, as well as the happiness of my parents. We were poor and living in squalor in a shack located in the poorest area of the city. My only friend was a girl named Beatrice who later betrayed me when she stole the boy I loved away from me as if my feelings meant nothing to her. But it didn’t matter. By that time Olaf and I had grown as close as we ever would be and were just waiting until I turned eighteen before we took our relationship to the next level. As it would turn out, he was the one who eventually helped me to forget all about Bertrand Baudelaire.”
Jerome frowned. “So that’s what you meant when you said you intended to steal the sugar bowl away from Beatrice like she stole from you,” he said.
“Yes. Although it doesn’t matter anymore,” Esmé answered gravely. “Nothing matters anymore. The only thing that matters is the safety and happiness of my youngest daughter.”
“I apologize for being so hard on you before,” Jerome said, and squeezed Esmé’s hand. “I was distraught. I just couldn’t believe how someone as talented and beautiful as you could do something so foolish. I’m going to ask the doctors about bringing in a psychiatrist to talk with you. I don’t think it’s a very good idea for you to come home just yet when you’re in this sort of condition.” He paused. “And I’m not referring to your broken leg if that’s what you’re thinking.”
Esmé nodded reluctantly. Still, she knew arguing with Jerome was the same thing as talking to a brick wall. He’d had his say, and it would be at least a week until he raised his voice again. “Whatever you think is best,” she replied.
Still holding Esmé’s hand, Jerome eased himself out of the chair and leaned forward, kissing her on the forehead. “I love you,” he said. “And you don’t have to worry. I’m not going anywhere.”
Author’s Disclaimer: I do not own any of the A Series of Unfortunate Events characters. They belong to Lemony Snicket a.k.a. Daniel Handler.
Rating: PG-13 (for language and suicide references)
Genre: Angst/Romance
Story-Type: One-Shot
Status: Complete
Summery: Story #4 of The Spotlight Series. This is the discussion Esmé and Jerome have behind the closed door of her hospital room in chapter 4 of The Terrible Truth.
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“Why, Esmé?” Jerome demanded as he paced back and forth across the room, waving his hands frantically above his head. “Why? Is your life without Olaf really so unbearable that it would drive you to commit an act as foolish as this?”
Esmé didn’t say a word as she listened to her former husband rant and rave about how selfish she was for purposely throwing herself down the spiral staircase of the apartment building at 667 Dark Avenue where she lived. Until now, she had never seen Jerome in such a state of distress. Even when Esmé had left him and returned to Olaf, Jerome had managed to get on with his life and even write a book dedicated to the history of injustice— a book she couldn’t help but feel she had inspired.
“Stop pacing, Jerome,” Esmé said calmly. “And lower your voice. You’re lucky Emma left or else she might hear you.”
Jerome spun around to face her, his face streaked with tears. “You really are one hell of an actress,” he snapped. “You couldn’t bear to tell Emma the truth, could you? That’s why you refused to answer her question when she asked why you didn’t take the elevator instead of the stairs.” He laughed sarcastically. “It’s too bad elevators are no longer ‘out’ or else you’d be free of all that pesky suspicion.”
“You aren’t going to tell her the truth, are you?” Esmé asked shakily.
His hands shoved into his pockets, Jerome tilted his head back to fix his eyes on the ceiling for a moment. “You would think that, wouldn’t you, Esmé?” he said. “Of course I’m not going to tell her. Think about it. What good would it do Emma to learn that her mother made an attempt to end her life while she wasn’t around to see it? I love Emma as if she was my own daughter. I would never do or say anything to hurt her.” He wanted to add “Unlike you”, but held his tongue fast. There was no point in making things worse, especially since they were about as worse as they were going to get.
Ashamed, Esmé lowered her eyes and stared down at the thin yellow quilt that covered her right leg and part of her stomach while her left leg, which was wrapped in a cast, remained supported by a sling attached to the ceiling by a strong chain. She watched Jerome as he flopped into the chair beside her bed.
“I’m sorry,” she whispered, and hesitantly reached for his hand. “How many times do you want me to say it?”
His response was a wry smile. “You can say it as many times as you like,” he replied. “But it still won’t be enough for me to forgive what you did.”
Jerome’s words were like a cue for tears to rush forth into Esmé’s eyes. “But you’ve forgiven me before,” she reminded him. “And this isn’t exactly the same situation.”
“You’re right. This situation happens to be much more serious.” His tone matched his grave expression all too perfectly. “For some reason, being used in a ploy by you and your villainous boyfriend hurt a lot less than coming out of my apartment just in time to see you throw yourself down the stairs.”
Esmé felt a tear as it trickled down the left side of her face, and she watched Jerome as he took a few tissues from the box on the nightstand and offered them to her. She took them and gently dabbed at her eyes.
“How long did you know Olaf for?” Jerome asked.
“Since junior high,” she replied, and he raised an eyebrow at this. “It’s not what you think. He was my acting teacher, and the reason why I became a member of V.F.D. in the first place. Olaf promised me that if I stuck with him and did everything he said, then it would mean my happiness, as well as the happiness of my parents. We were poor and living in squalor in a shack located in the poorest area of the city. My only friend was a girl named Beatrice who later betrayed me when she stole the boy I loved away from me as if my feelings meant nothing to her. But it didn’t matter. By that time Olaf and I had grown as close as we ever would be and were just waiting until I turned eighteen before we took our relationship to the next level. As it would turn out, he was the one who eventually helped me to forget all about Bertrand Baudelaire.”
Jerome frowned. “So that’s what you meant when you said you intended to steal the sugar bowl away from Beatrice like she stole from you,” he said.
“Yes. Although it doesn’t matter anymore,” Esmé answered gravely. “Nothing matters anymore. The only thing that matters is the safety and happiness of my youngest daughter.”
“I apologize for being so hard on you before,” Jerome said, and squeezed Esmé’s hand. “I was distraught. I just couldn’t believe how someone as talented and beautiful as you could do something so foolish. I’m going to ask the doctors about bringing in a psychiatrist to talk with you. I don’t think it’s a very good idea for you to come home just yet when you’re in this sort of condition.” He paused. “And I’m not referring to your broken leg if that’s what you’re thinking.”
Esmé nodded reluctantly. Still, she knew arguing with Jerome was the same thing as talking to a brick wall. He’d had his say, and it would be at least a week until he raised his voice again. “Whatever you think is best,” she replied.
Still holding Esmé’s hand, Jerome eased himself out of the chair and leaned forward, kissing her on the forehead. “I love you,” he said. “And you don’t have to worry. I’m not going anywhere.”
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The End