Post by Emma “Emmz” Squalor on Apr 14, 2008 11:27:59 GMT -5
Title: The Secret
Cast: Esmé Squalor; Jerome Squalor; Emma Squalor.
Author’s Disclaimer: I do not own A Series of Unfortunate Events, or any of the characters or places mentioned herein. They belong to Lemony Snicket a.k.a. Daniel Handler. The character of Emma Squalor belongs to me.
Rating: PG-13 (for sensitive subject matter including sexual references)
Genre: Angst/Drama/Romance
Story-Type: One-Shot
Summery: Jerome comforts Esmé during a time when she needs him the most, and in the process she reveals a secret that she has been keeping from him.
Author’s Note: This is basically just a recap of what I go through every month that I decided to write in the form of a fanfiction using my favorite pairing of all time.
Esmé Squalor didn’t know which was worse: the intense pain in her belly that refused to disperse no matter how many aspirin she took, or the pounding headache she was presently experiencing.
Her period had come late again, and the results were almost more than she could bear. But it was the presence of her small daughter (who was sleeping soundly in the nursery across the hall) that kept Esmé from hitting her head against the wall. She didn’t know why she was plagued by such self-loathing only once a month or why it was always accompanied by the desire to harm herself in ways that she could never reveal to her husband. Jerome was already so sensitive that she was unable to bring herself to express these negative feelings to him for fear he would go into hysterics.
As another sharp pain shot up from between her legs and into her belly, Esmé moaned and pressed both hands firmly against it, her little body writhing in agony beneath the tangled bed sheets. Tears sprang to her eyes, and she cried out desperately: “Jerome!”
Jerome Squalor appeared in an instant. In no time at all, he had dropped to his knees beside the grand bed and taken one of Esmé’s small hands in his. “What is it, Esmé?” Jerome asked, his own voice as desperate as his wife’s. “Are you not well?”
Her hands trembling, Esmé wrapped them both around Jerome’s wrists and guided his hands to her stomach, pressing them against it. He felt his face flush as he made contact with the sweet softness of her post-baby belly, and for a moment the room seemed to spin.
“Jerome,” Esmé whimpered, “my belly hurts. Do you think you could rub it for me?”
Jerome’s breath seemed to leave him for a moment, and the hope reflected in his wife’s beautiful blue eyes was all that kept him from fainting dead away. He wondered if she had any idea just how overjoyed he was to be granted permission to touch that part of her beautiful, perfect body. What made him even more giddy was the fact that she had actually made the request.
“Oh, Esmé,” Jerome sighed. “Oh, darling, of course I will. Nothing in this world would give me greater pleasure.”
Esmé rolled over on her side and Jerome crawled into bed beside her. Snaking his arm up her nightgown, he laced his arm around her waist and then rested his large, warm hand on the tender flesh of her stomach. He could feel goose bumps prickle beneath his hand almost instantly; and as he began to massage her belly gently, he smiled in response to the little murmurs she made to signify her contentment.
“I know it annoys you to hear this,” Jerome said. “But your stomach really is one of the most smashing things about you, Esmé. It’s so perfectly sweet and perfectly soft. When I caress it with my fingertips, I love the way I can feel it curve in a little as you shiver.” He stroked her just above the panty line, smiling as he felt her stomach curve inward slightly just as he had predicted. “You and our children are the most precious things in the world to me, my darling. I don’t know what I’d do without you.”
For a long moment, Esmé chose to just lie there quietly while her husband continued to lovingly fondle her belly. He was far too much of a gentleman to travel a fraction lower or to even touch her breasts, and maybe she preferred this to the other offerings that most women gave their men. Jerome had always been painfully shy when it came to intimate relations. The first time they had made love had been nearly a year after she had returned. He had gotten no further than her panties when he had suddenly pulled back and burst into tears. But instead of becoming annoyed and disgusted with his behavior like the old Esmé would have, she had only smiled before tenderly brushing the tears from his eyes. Jerome’s behavior was that of an inexperienced teenage boy when it came to sex, but Esmé had never shunned him for it. Instead, she had guided him through the process and even shown him the correct way to position himself. He had asked her a number of times if he was hurting her, and every time she had answered his question patiently by assuring him that he was not. In between his tears and showering Esmé’s face with kisses, Jerome’s fingertips had traced what must have been thousands of little hearts all over her belly. It had been the most beautiful experience of Esmé’s life, and by the time it was over both she and Jerome were both crying for joy; Esmé because she realized for the first time that she really and truly loved her husband, and Jerome because he had actually managed to please his wife.
“I love you,” Esmé said just then. “And I… I need to tell you something. It’s important.”
Jerome’s hand stopped. “What is it, sweetheart?” he asked.
Esmé closed her eyes a moment and bit down a little on her lip. She had been dreading this conversation for three long months, but at the rate things were going she highly doubted that things were going to improve. In fact, they would probably get a lot worse, and so the best thing to do was to come clean.
Esmé turned over on her side to face Jerome, and his hand slipped reluctantly out from its warm spot beneath her nightgown. She nestled herself up against him, the warmth of their bodies resonating through the blankets. She clung tightly to his shoulders, her long sharp nails digging in to the fabric of his shirt. Even with him right there, she still felt so desperately sad and alone.
How could she possibly tell him of the horrible thoughts spinning through her mind at that very moment?
“Jerome,” Esmé said.
“Yes, Esmé?” he replied.
Hiding her face in his chest (a gesture she only performed whenever she was especially frightened or upset), she let out a quivering breath. She suddenly felt Jerome’s fingers as they stroked themselves down along her spine, and once more she could feel the tears return to her eyes.
“I don’t know how to even begin explaining this to you,” Esmé began. “I don’t want to hurt you, Jerome— believe me when I say that is the last thing I want to do —but I can’t go on pretending like nothing’s wrong.”
Jerome’s fingers stopped midway down her back, and she soon felt his hands on her shoulders. He pushed her back a bit so that he could look down into her face.
As Esmé looked up into the green eyes of her husband, she was almost sorry that she had. For the look he was giving her was identical to the one he had given her the morning of the In Auction at Veblen Hall when she had declared Count Olaf to be “the handsomest, innest man in town”. But Esmé Squalor was not the same person she had once been, and Count Olaf no longer held that title. That title belonged to Jerome now, and Esmé couldn’t stand the thought of upsetting her husband a second time.
“What do you mean, Esmé?” he asked, his voice and face desperate. “Have I done something?”
Esmé shook her head. “No,” she said, hoping that Jerome could sense the honesty in her voice. “No, darling, you haven’t. You’ve never been anything but patient, loving, kind, and absolutely wonderful. It’s just that…”
“What?”
“It’s just that…” Esmé lowered her head and reached for Jerome’s hand, which she squeezed as hard as she could. “I’m not sure why, but all I’ve been able to think of lately is how much I hate myself. All I want to do is hurt myself, while other times I… I just want to die.”
There was a long, desolate silence, and when Esmé finally looked up, her face fell. There were tears running down Jerome’s cheeks, and he honestly looked as though someone had just told him that his wife was dead. “Why?” he whispered. “Why on Earth would you have such morbid thoughts?”
Esmé shrugged. “I don’t know,” she confessed, and wrapped her arms around her husband. “It hasn’t been going on that long. Only about three months, but—”
“’Three months’?” Jerome exclaimed. “You’ve been wanting to physically harm yourself for three months, and you never said anything to me about it? Esmé, you are my wife! When you have a problem, I expect you to come to me immediately. Why suffer in silence when you don’t have to, darling?” He threw his arms around her and held her tightly, soaking her dark hair with his tears.
“I only feel this way whenever my period approaches, and I didn’t tell you because I didn’t want to hurt you. I couldn’t stand the thought of causing you anymore pain than I already have. Because I love you too much, and I saw no point in making you worry about me when I am perfectly capable of handling my own affairs.”
“Have you ever hurt yourself before?”
“Only once,” Esmé said. “It was last month when I slammed my head against the bathroom wall a few times. You weren’t around because you had gone out to buy stamps, and I was just so upset that I…” Esmé trailed off, as the sound of Jerome’s sobs interrupted her. “I’m sorry.” She began to weep softly right along with him.
“I can’t have my precious wife behaving so foolishly,” Jerome said in a choked voice. “On Monday morning I’m going to take you to see Dr. Leer and have him prescribe something for you. My mother experienced something similar when she was just around your age. It turned out to be hormone related, and so the doctor put her on a very low dose of birth control pills. Her mood soon improved, and her periods became regular again. I remember you mentioning that yours have been coming later than usual.”
“I’m sorry I didn’t tell you at first,” Esmé replied tearfully. “It’s just that I know how sensitive you can be, and I didn’t want to…”
Jerome sniffled back the last of his tears, then shook his head. “You have nothing to apologize for, Esmé. I’m just glad that you finally decided to tell me.”
“Wait here. I’ll be right back.”
“Where are you going?” Jerome asked. After what Esmé had just told him, the last thing he intended to do was to let her go off alone by herself— even in her own home.
“Just across the hall,” Esmé said as she slid out of bed. “I want to check on Emma.”
“I’ll come with you.”
Esmé wasn’t going to argue with him, and instead nodded in agreement.
They crossed the hall together and crept quietly into the nursery, being sure to stay as quiet as possible to avoid waking Emma. Esmé and Jerome headed over to the crib, smiling at the sight of their beautiful one-year-old daughter, who was sleeping peacefully. She had her tiny arms curled around the teddy bear that Carmelita had bought for her at the hospital gift shop the day Emma had been born. Her hair was the same jet black as her mother’s, and their complexions were the same lovely shade of porcelain.
As Esmé stood looking down at her sweet, innocent child, she felt the thoughts that had been burdening her slowly begin to vanish. Tears sprang to Esmé’s eyes, but unlike before these tears were tears of joy. She felt one roll down her cheek just as Jerome laced his arms around her waist and rested both hands on her stomach.
“Emma’s beginning to look more and more like you each day,” he said, and Esmé smiled.
At the sound of her stepfather’s gentle, soft-spoken voice, Emma opened her shiny, shiny eyes— which were the same sky-blue shade as Esmé’s —before sitting up in her crib and looking directly up at her mother.
“Mama,” Emma said, and stretched out both arms to signal that she wanted to be picked up. “Need Mama.”
Cast: Esmé Squalor; Jerome Squalor; Emma Squalor.
Author’s Disclaimer: I do not own A Series of Unfortunate Events, or any of the characters or places mentioned herein. They belong to Lemony Snicket a.k.a. Daniel Handler. The character of Emma Squalor belongs to me.
Rating: PG-13 (for sensitive subject matter including sexual references)
Genre: Angst/Drama/Romance
Story-Type: One-Shot
Summery: Jerome comforts Esmé during a time when she needs him the most, and in the process she reveals a secret that she has been keeping from him.
Author’s Note: This is basically just a recap of what I go through every month that I decided to write in the form of a fanfiction using my favorite pairing of all time.
************************************************************************************************************************
Esmé Squalor didn’t know which was worse: the intense pain in her belly that refused to disperse no matter how many aspirin she took, or the pounding headache she was presently experiencing.
Her period had come late again, and the results were almost more than she could bear. But it was the presence of her small daughter (who was sleeping soundly in the nursery across the hall) that kept Esmé from hitting her head against the wall. She didn’t know why she was plagued by such self-loathing only once a month or why it was always accompanied by the desire to harm herself in ways that she could never reveal to her husband. Jerome was already so sensitive that she was unable to bring herself to express these negative feelings to him for fear he would go into hysterics.
As another sharp pain shot up from between her legs and into her belly, Esmé moaned and pressed both hands firmly against it, her little body writhing in agony beneath the tangled bed sheets. Tears sprang to her eyes, and she cried out desperately: “Jerome!”
Jerome Squalor appeared in an instant. In no time at all, he had dropped to his knees beside the grand bed and taken one of Esmé’s small hands in his. “What is it, Esmé?” Jerome asked, his own voice as desperate as his wife’s. “Are you not well?”
Her hands trembling, Esmé wrapped them both around Jerome’s wrists and guided his hands to her stomach, pressing them against it. He felt his face flush as he made contact with the sweet softness of her post-baby belly, and for a moment the room seemed to spin.
“Jerome,” Esmé whimpered, “my belly hurts. Do you think you could rub it for me?”
Jerome’s breath seemed to leave him for a moment, and the hope reflected in his wife’s beautiful blue eyes was all that kept him from fainting dead away. He wondered if she had any idea just how overjoyed he was to be granted permission to touch that part of her beautiful, perfect body. What made him even more giddy was the fact that she had actually made the request.
“Oh, Esmé,” Jerome sighed. “Oh, darling, of course I will. Nothing in this world would give me greater pleasure.”
Esmé rolled over on her side and Jerome crawled into bed beside her. Snaking his arm up her nightgown, he laced his arm around her waist and then rested his large, warm hand on the tender flesh of her stomach. He could feel goose bumps prickle beneath his hand almost instantly; and as he began to massage her belly gently, he smiled in response to the little murmurs she made to signify her contentment.
“I know it annoys you to hear this,” Jerome said. “But your stomach really is one of the most smashing things about you, Esmé. It’s so perfectly sweet and perfectly soft. When I caress it with my fingertips, I love the way I can feel it curve in a little as you shiver.” He stroked her just above the panty line, smiling as he felt her stomach curve inward slightly just as he had predicted. “You and our children are the most precious things in the world to me, my darling. I don’t know what I’d do without you.”
For a long moment, Esmé chose to just lie there quietly while her husband continued to lovingly fondle her belly. He was far too much of a gentleman to travel a fraction lower or to even touch her breasts, and maybe she preferred this to the other offerings that most women gave their men. Jerome had always been painfully shy when it came to intimate relations. The first time they had made love had been nearly a year after she had returned. He had gotten no further than her panties when he had suddenly pulled back and burst into tears. But instead of becoming annoyed and disgusted with his behavior like the old Esmé would have, she had only smiled before tenderly brushing the tears from his eyes. Jerome’s behavior was that of an inexperienced teenage boy when it came to sex, but Esmé had never shunned him for it. Instead, she had guided him through the process and even shown him the correct way to position himself. He had asked her a number of times if he was hurting her, and every time she had answered his question patiently by assuring him that he was not. In between his tears and showering Esmé’s face with kisses, Jerome’s fingertips had traced what must have been thousands of little hearts all over her belly. It had been the most beautiful experience of Esmé’s life, and by the time it was over both she and Jerome were both crying for joy; Esmé because she realized for the first time that she really and truly loved her husband, and Jerome because he had actually managed to please his wife.
“I love you,” Esmé said just then. “And I… I need to tell you something. It’s important.”
Jerome’s hand stopped. “What is it, sweetheart?” he asked.
Esmé closed her eyes a moment and bit down a little on her lip. She had been dreading this conversation for three long months, but at the rate things were going she highly doubted that things were going to improve. In fact, they would probably get a lot worse, and so the best thing to do was to come clean.
Esmé turned over on her side to face Jerome, and his hand slipped reluctantly out from its warm spot beneath her nightgown. She nestled herself up against him, the warmth of their bodies resonating through the blankets. She clung tightly to his shoulders, her long sharp nails digging in to the fabric of his shirt. Even with him right there, she still felt so desperately sad and alone.
How could she possibly tell him of the horrible thoughts spinning through her mind at that very moment?
“Jerome,” Esmé said.
“Yes, Esmé?” he replied.
Hiding her face in his chest (a gesture she only performed whenever she was especially frightened or upset), she let out a quivering breath. She suddenly felt Jerome’s fingers as they stroked themselves down along her spine, and once more she could feel the tears return to her eyes.
“I don’t know how to even begin explaining this to you,” Esmé began. “I don’t want to hurt you, Jerome— believe me when I say that is the last thing I want to do —but I can’t go on pretending like nothing’s wrong.”
Jerome’s fingers stopped midway down her back, and she soon felt his hands on her shoulders. He pushed her back a bit so that he could look down into her face.
As Esmé looked up into the green eyes of her husband, she was almost sorry that she had. For the look he was giving her was identical to the one he had given her the morning of the In Auction at Veblen Hall when she had declared Count Olaf to be “the handsomest, innest man in town”. But Esmé Squalor was not the same person she had once been, and Count Olaf no longer held that title. That title belonged to Jerome now, and Esmé couldn’t stand the thought of upsetting her husband a second time.
“What do you mean, Esmé?” he asked, his voice and face desperate. “Have I done something?”
Esmé shook her head. “No,” she said, hoping that Jerome could sense the honesty in her voice. “No, darling, you haven’t. You’ve never been anything but patient, loving, kind, and absolutely wonderful. It’s just that…”
“What?”
“It’s just that…” Esmé lowered her head and reached for Jerome’s hand, which she squeezed as hard as she could. “I’m not sure why, but all I’ve been able to think of lately is how much I hate myself. All I want to do is hurt myself, while other times I… I just want to die.”
There was a long, desolate silence, and when Esmé finally looked up, her face fell. There were tears running down Jerome’s cheeks, and he honestly looked as though someone had just told him that his wife was dead. “Why?” he whispered. “Why on Earth would you have such morbid thoughts?”
Esmé shrugged. “I don’t know,” she confessed, and wrapped her arms around her husband. “It hasn’t been going on that long. Only about three months, but—”
“’Three months’?” Jerome exclaimed. “You’ve been wanting to physically harm yourself for three months, and you never said anything to me about it? Esmé, you are my wife! When you have a problem, I expect you to come to me immediately. Why suffer in silence when you don’t have to, darling?” He threw his arms around her and held her tightly, soaking her dark hair with his tears.
“I only feel this way whenever my period approaches, and I didn’t tell you because I didn’t want to hurt you. I couldn’t stand the thought of causing you anymore pain than I already have. Because I love you too much, and I saw no point in making you worry about me when I am perfectly capable of handling my own affairs.”
“Have you ever hurt yourself before?”
“Only once,” Esmé said. “It was last month when I slammed my head against the bathroom wall a few times. You weren’t around because you had gone out to buy stamps, and I was just so upset that I…” Esmé trailed off, as the sound of Jerome’s sobs interrupted her. “I’m sorry.” She began to weep softly right along with him.
“I can’t have my precious wife behaving so foolishly,” Jerome said in a choked voice. “On Monday morning I’m going to take you to see Dr. Leer and have him prescribe something for you. My mother experienced something similar when she was just around your age. It turned out to be hormone related, and so the doctor put her on a very low dose of birth control pills. Her mood soon improved, and her periods became regular again. I remember you mentioning that yours have been coming later than usual.”
“I’m sorry I didn’t tell you at first,” Esmé replied tearfully. “It’s just that I know how sensitive you can be, and I didn’t want to…”
Jerome sniffled back the last of his tears, then shook his head. “You have nothing to apologize for, Esmé. I’m just glad that you finally decided to tell me.”
“Wait here. I’ll be right back.”
“Where are you going?” Jerome asked. After what Esmé had just told him, the last thing he intended to do was to let her go off alone by herself— even in her own home.
“Just across the hall,” Esmé said as she slid out of bed. “I want to check on Emma.”
“I’ll come with you.”
Esmé wasn’t going to argue with him, and instead nodded in agreement.
They crossed the hall together and crept quietly into the nursery, being sure to stay as quiet as possible to avoid waking Emma. Esmé and Jerome headed over to the crib, smiling at the sight of their beautiful one-year-old daughter, who was sleeping peacefully. She had her tiny arms curled around the teddy bear that Carmelita had bought for her at the hospital gift shop the day Emma had been born. Her hair was the same jet black as her mother’s, and their complexions were the same lovely shade of porcelain.
As Esmé stood looking down at her sweet, innocent child, she felt the thoughts that had been burdening her slowly begin to vanish. Tears sprang to Esmé’s eyes, but unlike before these tears were tears of joy. She felt one roll down her cheek just as Jerome laced his arms around her waist and rested both hands on her stomach.
“Emma’s beginning to look more and more like you each day,” he said, and Esmé smiled.
At the sound of her stepfather’s gentle, soft-spoken voice, Emma opened her shiny, shiny eyes— which were the same sky-blue shade as Esmé’s —before sitting up in her crib and looking directly up at her mother.
“Mama,” Emma said, and stretched out both arms to signal that she wanted to be picked up. “Need Mama.”
The End