Post by Emma “Emmz” Squalor on Sept 21, 2008 21:09:18 GMT -5
Title: Punishment
Author’s Disclaimer: I do not own A Series of Unfortunate Events or any of its characters or places. They belong to Lemony Snicket a.k.a. Daniel Handler. Emma Squalor belongs to me.
Rating: PG-13 (for violence).
Genre: Angst/Drama/Romance
Story-Type: One-Shot
Summary: Jerome puts a stop to Esmé’s self-destructive behavior the only way he knows how.
Author’s Note: Dedicated to my wonderful friend, Jenny. Not only for suggesting the idea to me a while back, but also because her last fic, Prayer (if you haven’t read it yet, then I insist you do so! Now! It’s fantastic!) was such a huge inspiration. This is also the first fic that I have written in the present tense. Anywoo, enjoy.
Slam!
This is for letting Olaf talk her into helping him burn down the Quagmire mansion.
Slam!
This is for marrying Jerome before she actually fell in love with him.
Slam!
This is for inviting Olaf over to the penthouse and sleeping with him while Jerome took the three Baudelaire orphans to dinner at Café Salmonella.
Slam!
This is for pushing three helpless children down an elevator shaft.
Slam!
This is for giving Jacques Snicket the bowl of oatmeal in the Village of Fowl Devotees, when she knew in the back of her mind that it was poisonous.
Slam!
This is for agreeing to assist Olaf with Violet Baudelaire’s crainioectomy at Heimlich Hospital, even though the operation never officially took place.
Slam!
This is for trying to convince Hugo, Colette, and Kevin to push Madam Lulu into the lion’s pit at Caligari Carnival.
Slam!
This is for taking Madam Lulu’s necklace after she fell to her death into the lion’s pit.
Slam!
This is for agreeing to assist Olaf in burning down the Spats mansion, even though the two of them never essentially followed through on it.
Slam!
This is for giving Carmelita the same harpoon gun that killed Dewey Denouement.
Slam!
This is for being stupid enough to believe that Olaf had ever really loved her.
Slam!
This is for being unable to win the approval of Maxwell Squalor right up until his death.
Slam!
And this is for being unable to get her figure back after Emma’s birth.
As Esmé Squalor slams her head for the thirteenth and final time against the wall of the walk-in closet, dizziness overtakes her, and she stumbles backward. She has the worst headache she’s ever experienced, and it is of her own doing. She feels nauseous, and the room is spinning. She closes her eyes to see if that will help her vision to improve, but when she opens them again, the room is still rotating. Pressing the palm of her hand against her forehead, she closes her eyes and feels her legs give out from underneath her. She allows her body to rest, letting herself fall back onto the carpet.
Esmé isn’t sure how long she has been unconscious, but when she opens her eyes, it is to the overwhelmingly concerned face of her husband. The back of her head is cradled lovingly in his large hand, while the other is very gently stroking her cheek. Her head is positively killing her, and she feels tears well up in her eyes at the memory of what she has done.
Before she can stop herself, Esmé’s plump lips part and she whispers softly, “I’m sorry.”
“What on Earth for, darling?” Jerome asks. “You can’t help it if you’re ill.”
Too ashamed to continue staring into Jerome’s clueless green eyes, Esmé turns her gaze to the wall. For the first time, she notices that her actions have left a large dent there, and she wonders if he has noticed it as well. If he has, then he certainly isn’t making an effort to let her know it.
“I’m not ill, Jerome,” Esmé replies in the same soft whisper. “I’m— I was just—“
He lifts her head a little higher, and the slight movement is enough to make her feel as though someone is hitting her in the back of the skull with a heavily blunt object. She winces, unable to stop the tiny whimper from escaping her.
“What?” Jerome asks, and leans forward to examine his wife’s face. “What hurts?”
“My head,” Esmé tells him.
“You must’ve hit it when you fainted,” Jerome clarifies. “Why don’t I take you to bed? Then I’ll go into the kitchen and make an icepack for you.”
Before Esmé can explain herself any further, Jerome scoops her up in his strong arms and carries her out of the closet. Just having her eyes open causes her head to throb intensely, and she keeps them closed until she feels herself being deposited gently down onto her grand bed.
When she opens her eyes again, she slowly turns her head over on her pillow to face Jerome. He is kneeling on the floor beside the bed, his thick fingers knotted anxiously together. Esmé hasn’t noticed before, but her vision has cleared since the time of her unconsciousness, and she can see the damp spots marking Jerome’s chubby cheeks. She feels so guilty now, and she reaches out one slender hand to press against his face.
To her surprise, Jerome seizes her hand in both of his and begins to cover it in kisses. Esmé’s heart breaks as she feels warm tears stain her fingertips, and she lets out a little sob. Jerome stops kissing her hand, but goes on holding it tightly as he stares at her.
“Sweetheart, what’s wrong?” he asks.
“You’ve got it all backwards, Jerome,” Esmé explains. “I didn’t hit my head because I fainted. I fainted because I hit my head. Hard. Against the wall. On purpose.”
Jerome’s green eyes seem even greener as they widen in disbelief. “But… but why would… how could you do such a thing?”
They have had this discussion many times before. Esmé has hit her head against the wall more than once, but never more than twice in a row, and never to the extent in which it will cause her to lose consciousness. The anger in Jerome’s eyes tells her that this time, she has gone too far. The guilt it leaves her with is overwhelming, and she turns her head over on the pillow so that she won’t be forced to look at his horrified expression any longer.
“What excuse do you have for me this time?” Jerome demands, and Esmé squeezes her eyes shut. Maybe if she doesn’t answer him, then he’ll go away, which will give her a chance to punish herself for hurting him. “Your figure? My father? The fact that you accidentally burned the first batch of pancakes at breakfast this morning, despite the fact that the second was delicious? What, Esmé? I insist that you look at me when I’m talking to you!”
Jerome’s shouting is only making Esmé’s headache worse. Despite the fact that he is yelling simply because he is so worried about her, there is no denying that his tone is eerily similar to Olaf’s. But of course, Jerome has never raised anything but his voice to her, and she knows in her heart of hearts that he will never hit her. The only time he gets upset is when she intentionally does herself harm, and that is perfectly understandable. He is even the one who found her a suitable therapist and pays for her sessions out of his own pocket, all because he loves her so unconditionally.
But now, as Jerome sits there shouting at his wife for rendering herself unconscious, all she can hear is the voice of her ex-boyfriend as he tells her how stupid she is for actually believing that he loves her.
“You told Kit all the time when you were with her,” Esmé hears herself saying. “But I’m your girlfriend now, Olaf. How long must I wait before you say it to me?”
“My dear,” Olaf says, and Esmé can feel his scraggly hand as he reaches out to stroke her chin. “If I say it too often, then you might start to take it for granted. And we must all work hard for the things we desire.”
“So… you do love me?”
“If I didn’t, then would I have taken you in when your parents could no longer afford to care for you?”
Esmé recalls the smile she felt on her face that afternoon during her nineteenth year, when Olaf told her (in his own way) that he loved her.
Now, fourteen years later, the only things she has left to show for it are a throbbing headache and a husband who is too angry to stay in the same room with her. This is apparent by the slamming of the door as Jerome storms out of the bedroom, and Esmé finds herself all alone once more.
The pain in her head is intense, but the belief that she is to blame for everything wrong in her life is stronger. She manages to drag herself back across the room to the closet, positioning herself in the same spot she was standing earlier. Taking a deep breath for courage, she closes her eyes and slams her head as hard as she can against the wall.
There is an explosion of pain ten times worse than what she felt just moments ago, and she bites down on her bottom lip hard enough to draw blood. Another slam, followed by more pain. Tears gather in her eyes, and she bashes her head into the wall for the third time. She screams loudly, and is about to go for a fifth round when she feels a pair of hands close tightly around her arms and yank her back.
Esmé tries to flee, but the grip on her arms is too strong. She feels herself being spun around, and a moment later she is standing face to face with her husband. She opens her mouth to say something, but the words lodge in her throat as she feels a sharp sting as the back of Jerome’s large hand cracks painfully against her pale cheek.
He lets out a sharp gasp, as if he can’t believe what he has just done. He seems frozen in place as he watches his wife stumble and fall to the floor, her hand covering the part of her face where he has just struck her. He is getting ready to tell her how sorry he is when she begins to cry. He takes a step towards her just as she shrinks back and disappears into the clothes.
“Darling,” Jerome begins, “I— I’m so sorry. I don’t know what came over me…”
But Esmé doesn’t hear his apology. All she can hear is Olaf’s voice, as he condemns her for burning the roast and therefore not having anything to serve his acting troupe for dinner.
“You’re thirteen!” Olaf screams. “Thirteen is old enough to know how to cook a meal the proper way! Honestly! How on Earth can anyone be this stupid?”
Esmé sits cowering in a corner of the filthy kitchen, her too-long bangs shielding her tearful blue eyes from the terrifying man in front of her. The directions on the slip of paper Olaf gave her that morning are partly smudged, and she has misread the time it takes for cooking the roast. He is angry with her, and she knows that there is nothing she can do or say in order to make up for her horrendous mistake. All she can do is hope he won’t change his mind about letting her perform for his troupe tonight.
This wish is short-lived as Esmé feels herself being dragged across the kitchen floor by her skinny wrists. Her feet are bare, and the wooden tiles leave splinters in the bottoms of them. She bites down hard on her bottom lip to keep from screaming (screaming only makes him angrier), and a moment later tastes blood. She can feel it dribbling down her chin, watching it stain her pink and white-striped t-shirt.
Esmé whimpers as Olaf hauls her onto her aching feet and shoves her up against the wall. Her feet are throbbing and her lip hurts, but otherwise she is unharmed. His dark eyes are shining venomously, as if he can see into the depths of her soul. She hates it when he looks at her for long periods of time, mostly because when he does, it means he is angry with her. She starts to lower her eyes to the floor, only to be stopped by his voice as it cuts through the air like a knife.
“I’m speaking to you, Esmé,” Olaf says. “When I do, I expect you to look at me.”
Esmé follows her guardian’s orders, and lifts her head. She thinks that he might offer to help her salvage what’s left of the roast, but this turns out to be another wish that remains unfulfilled. Extending one bony, scraggly hand, he slaps her hard across the face. It happens so suddenly, that she loses her balance and collapses onto the floor, the splinters in her feet digging in even deeper. She starts to cry, the pain in her feet outdoing the pain in her face by hundreds. She listens to Olaf as he stomps across the kitchen to the oven, and listens to the sound of screeching metal as he slides out the pot containing the roast. He stomps back over to her, and she shudders and shuts her eyes as the horrible sound of the pot hitting the floor fills the kitchen.
“Stop your pathetic crying,” Olaf demands. “And clean up this mess!”
It isn’t until he leaves that Esmé realizes how loudly she has been crying, and she opens her eyes. There, lying on the floor a few feet from her is the dinner she had worked all day long to prepare. It is burned on the outside, but perfectly edible on the inside. She has never cared for the skin of meat anyway, and so she has no idea why Olaf is making such a big deal about it.
Esmé takes a few minutes to dry her tears and calm down. She digs out what she can of the splinters from her feet, and then limps across the kitchen to the broom closet.
“Esmé?”
Esmé turns to see Fernald Widdershins, the only person in Olaf’s acting troupe she likes, and who is closest to her own age. He has always been kind to her, and she smiles slightly.
“Would you like some help cleaning up?”
Esmé nods, and Fernald shuffles slowly into the kitchen. She can tell by watching him that he fears Olaf as much as she does, and perhaps this is why the two of them are such good friends. As they begin to tidy up (Esmé holding the dust pan while Fernald sweeps the bits of scattered meat into it), he doesn’t say a word about her unsightly bruise, and she doesn’t tell him what happened.
They finish cleaning the kitchen, and Fernald helps Esmé take the splinters out of her feet. (It isn’t difficult to do, considering he still has his hands and is able to hold a pair of tweezers.) Afterward, he makes her a sandwich using two pieces of bread and a single slice of cheese. He even pours her a glass of milk.
“I’d best be getting back to rehearsal,” he says, and waves to her before taking his leave of the kitchen.
“Esmé?”
Esmé is still hiding in the closet, too afraid to come out. Jerome, disgusted with himself for what he has done, is standing outside, his soft voice having already called her name twice now.
“Darling, please,” he begs, and Esmé can tell from his wavering voice that he is crying. “I’m so sorry. Will you at least come out and let me put an icepack on that bruise?”
Esmé lifts her hand and touches the corner of her face where Jerome struck her. But she feels nothing, no pain. Her head is still throbbing, and she presses the tips of her fingers against the spots that have had contact with the wall. Even the slightest amount of pressure causes her to wince, and she begins to cry. She can’t be sure whether or not Jerome can hear her until she hears the sound of the closet doors opening. She peers out from in between two of her Chanel dresses at her husband’s enormous stomach. A moment later, his hands are reaching for hers, and she allows him to help her up. He pulls her close against him and begins to stroke her hair. She can hear him weep as he apologizes over and over again for hitting her.
“I love you,” he whispers in a choked voice once he has finished apologizing. “And I only did what I did in order to protect you. What if you had ruptured your skull? What if you had beat yourself so deeply into unconsciousness that you never woke up? What would I have done? How would I have ever been able to carry on?”
Esmé doesn’t answer. By now, tears are rolling down her cheeks, and she knows that if she opens her mouth to speak, then the only thing to come out will be an anguished sob. Instead, she wraps her arms around Jerome as much as she can, pressing her damp face into his neck. She kisses him there, and he squeezes her even more tightly.
“Jerome,” she says tearfully, “I don’t feel well.”
“You probably have a minor concussion,” he replies with a sniffle of his own. “I’ll telephone Dr. Leer and see if he’ll make a house call. In the meantime, why don’t you come back into the bedroom? There’s an icepack and a cup of hot cocoa waiting for you.”
Esmé grants Jerome permission to carry her over to their bed, where he lays her carefully down. She has a small gash on her forehead from hitting it against the wall sixteen times, and Jerome disappears into the built-on bathroom to retrieve some first-aid supplies. He returns quickly and administers the proper care to his wife’s injuries, icluding the area of her lip she has bitten. Afterward, he picks up her cup of cocoa and two aspirin from the nightstand.
“Thank you, honey,” Esmé says as Jerome hands her the items. She downs the aspirin and takes a few sips of her cocoa. Still too ashamed to look him in the face after all that has happened, she settles back against the pillows and focuses her gaze on the cup of cocoa in her hands.
The sky outside has grown dark, and the first droplets of rain begin to fall. These are the only sounds to echo throughout the whole of the room, as neither husband nor wife seems ready to participate in conversation. All Esmé wants is to have Jerome hold and cuddle her the way he always does whenever she is upset; while the only thing Jerome wants is for Esmé to tell him that she will stop hurting herself once and for all. Silence is a hideous thing, made only more hideous as time passes.
Esmé has always hated thunder storms, but she finds the sound of rain pelting against the windowpanes surprisingly tranquil. Setting her cocoa back down on the nightstand, she lays her aching head down against her pillow. Jerome picks up the icepack he has made, and lays it carefully down on his wife’s head. He begins to hum softly, hoping it will be enough to relieve her tension and not the other way around.
Esmé closes her eyes, the sound of the rain outside and her husband’s soft voice creating a melodic tone that soothes her headache. She reaches for his hand, and smiles as she feels it close over her own. She is just about to ask him to lay beside her when the bedroom door suddenly creaks open.
Her eyes flutter open, and together she and Jerome turn their heads in the direction of the door. Standing there is two-year-old Emma. One tiny fist is rubbing slightly at one sleepy eye, while in her other hand she clutches her teddy bear. Apparently, all of the banging has woken the toddler from her afternoon nap.
“What’s wrong, sweetheart?” Esmé asks.
“Heard wowd noy-sees b’fore,” Emma says as she walks slowly into the room. “Thwot I heard Mama cwyin’. Mama O.K.?”
“Mama just has a headache, darling. But I’ll be alright.”
Emma stops before the bed, and Jerome turns to his wife for permission to lift Emma up into it. Esmé smiles softly, and he places their daughter beside her mother before crawling in beside his two girls. Just as he finishes draping his arm over both of them, Emma notices the bandage on her mother’s forehead. Pointing to it, the toddler asks, “How dat happen?”
Esmé’s eyes fill with tears, and she wraps her arms around the little girl, laying her cheek against the identically pale one of her daughter. Sensing her mother’s sadness, Emma very gently kisses her forehead.
“Better?”
Esmé begins to cry softly and, not knowing what else to do, Emma kisses her on the same spot once more.
“Wuv you, Mama,” Emma says. “Don’t wike it when you’re sad. Don’t wike it when you cwy.”
Esmé closes her eyes, and Emma rests her small hand on her mother’s shoulder. Jerome continues to hum softly, and Esme feels her mind fill with a strange sense of happiness.
There will be no more waiting.
There will be no more wishing.
There will be no more punishments.
From now on, there will be only love.
Author’s Disclaimer: I do not own A Series of Unfortunate Events or any of its characters or places. They belong to Lemony Snicket a.k.a. Daniel Handler. Emma Squalor belongs to me.
Rating: PG-13 (for violence).
Genre: Angst/Drama/Romance
Story-Type: One-Shot
Summary: Jerome puts a stop to Esmé’s self-destructive behavior the only way he knows how.
Author’s Note: Dedicated to my wonderful friend, Jenny. Not only for suggesting the idea to me a while back, but also because her last fic, Prayer (if you haven’t read it yet, then I insist you do so! Now! It’s fantastic!) was such a huge inspiration. This is also the first fic that I have written in the present tense. Anywoo, enjoy.
***
Slam!
This is for letting Olaf talk her into helping him burn down the Quagmire mansion.
Slam!
This is for marrying Jerome before she actually fell in love with him.
Slam!
This is for inviting Olaf over to the penthouse and sleeping with him while Jerome took the three Baudelaire orphans to dinner at Café Salmonella.
Slam!
This is for pushing three helpless children down an elevator shaft.
Slam!
This is for giving Jacques Snicket the bowl of oatmeal in the Village of Fowl Devotees, when she knew in the back of her mind that it was poisonous.
Slam!
This is for agreeing to assist Olaf with Violet Baudelaire’s crainioectomy at Heimlich Hospital, even though the operation never officially took place.
Slam!
This is for trying to convince Hugo, Colette, and Kevin to push Madam Lulu into the lion’s pit at Caligari Carnival.
Slam!
This is for taking Madam Lulu’s necklace after she fell to her death into the lion’s pit.
Slam!
This is for agreeing to assist Olaf in burning down the Spats mansion, even though the two of them never essentially followed through on it.
Slam!
This is for giving Carmelita the same harpoon gun that killed Dewey Denouement.
Slam!
This is for being stupid enough to believe that Olaf had ever really loved her.
Slam!
This is for being unable to win the approval of Maxwell Squalor right up until his death.
Slam!
And this is for being unable to get her figure back after Emma’s birth.
As Esmé Squalor slams her head for the thirteenth and final time against the wall of the walk-in closet, dizziness overtakes her, and she stumbles backward. She has the worst headache she’s ever experienced, and it is of her own doing. She feels nauseous, and the room is spinning. She closes her eyes to see if that will help her vision to improve, but when she opens them again, the room is still rotating. Pressing the palm of her hand against her forehead, she closes her eyes and feels her legs give out from underneath her. She allows her body to rest, letting herself fall back onto the carpet.
***
Esmé isn’t sure how long she has been unconscious, but when she opens her eyes, it is to the overwhelmingly concerned face of her husband. The back of her head is cradled lovingly in his large hand, while the other is very gently stroking her cheek. Her head is positively killing her, and she feels tears well up in her eyes at the memory of what she has done.
Before she can stop herself, Esmé’s plump lips part and she whispers softly, “I’m sorry.”
“What on Earth for, darling?” Jerome asks. “You can’t help it if you’re ill.”
Too ashamed to continue staring into Jerome’s clueless green eyes, Esmé turns her gaze to the wall. For the first time, she notices that her actions have left a large dent there, and she wonders if he has noticed it as well. If he has, then he certainly isn’t making an effort to let her know it.
“I’m not ill, Jerome,” Esmé replies in the same soft whisper. “I’m— I was just—“
He lifts her head a little higher, and the slight movement is enough to make her feel as though someone is hitting her in the back of the skull with a heavily blunt object. She winces, unable to stop the tiny whimper from escaping her.
“What?” Jerome asks, and leans forward to examine his wife’s face. “What hurts?”
“My head,” Esmé tells him.
“You must’ve hit it when you fainted,” Jerome clarifies. “Why don’t I take you to bed? Then I’ll go into the kitchen and make an icepack for you.”
Before Esmé can explain herself any further, Jerome scoops her up in his strong arms and carries her out of the closet. Just having her eyes open causes her head to throb intensely, and she keeps them closed until she feels herself being deposited gently down onto her grand bed.
When she opens her eyes again, she slowly turns her head over on her pillow to face Jerome. He is kneeling on the floor beside the bed, his thick fingers knotted anxiously together. Esmé hasn’t noticed before, but her vision has cleared since the time of her unconsciousness, and she can see the damp spots marking Jerome’s chubby cheeks. She feels so guilty now, and she reaches out one slender hand to press against his face.
To her surprise, Jerome seizes her hand in both of his and begins to cover it in kisses. Esmé’s heart breaks as she feels warm tears stain her fingertips, and she lets out a little sob. Jerome stops kissing her hand, but goes on holding it tightly as he stares at her.
“Sweetheart, what’s wrong?” he asks.
“You’ve got it all backwards, Jerome,” Esmé explains. “I didn’t hit my head because I fainted. I fainted because I hit my head. Hard. Against the wall. On purpose.”
Jerome’s green eyes seem even greener as they widen in disbelief. “But… but why would… how could you do such a thing?”
They have had this discussion many times before. Esmé has hit her head against the wall more than once, but never more than twice in a row, and never to the extent in which it will cause her to lose consciousness. The anger in Jerome’s eyes tells her that this time, she has gone too far. The guilt it leaves her with is overwhelming, and she turns her head over on the pillow so that she won’t be forced to look at his horrified expression any longer.
“What excuse do you have for me this time?” Jerome demands, and Esmé squeezes her eyes shut. Maybe if she doesn’t answer him, then he’ll go away, which will give her a chance to punish herself for hurting him. “Your figure? My father? The fact that you accidentally burned the first batch of pancakes at breakfast this morning, despite the fact that the second was delicious? What, Esmé? I insist that you look at me when I’m talking to you!”
Jerome’s shouting is only making Esmé’s headache worse. Despite the fact that he is yelling simply because he is so worried about her, there is no denying that his tone is eerily similar to Olaf’s. But of course, Jerome has never raised anything but his voice to her, and she knows in her heart of hearts that he will never hit her. The only time he gets upset is when she intentionally does herself harm, and that is perfectly understandable. He is even the one who found her a suitable therapist and pays for her sessions out of his own pocket, all because he loves her so unconditionally.
But now, as Jerome sits there shouting at his wife for rendering herself unconscious, all she can hear is the voice of her ex-boyfriend as he tells her how stupid she is for actually believing that he loves her.
“You told Kit all the time when you were with her,” Esmé hears herself saying. “But I’m your girlfriend now, Olaf. How long must I wait before you say it to me?”
“My dear,” Olaf says, and Esmé can feel his scraggly hand as he reaches out to stroke her chin. “If I say it too often, then you might start to take it for granted. And we must all work hard for the things we desire.”
“So… you do love me?”
“If I didn’t, then would I have taken you in when your parents could no longer afford to care for you?”
Esmé recalls the smile she felt on her face that afternoon during her nineteenth year, when Olaf told her (in his own way) that he loved her.
Now, fourteen years later, the only things she has left to show for it are a throbbing headache and a husband who is too angry to stay in the same room with her. This is apparent by the slamming of the door as Jerome storms out of the bedroom, and Esmé finds herself all alone once more.
The pain in her head is intense, but the belief that she is to blame for everything wrong in her life is stronger. She manages to drag herself back across the room to the closet, positioning herself in the same spot she was standing earlier. Taking a deep breath for courage, she closes her eyes and slams her head as hard as she can against the wall.
There is an explosion of pain ten times worse than what she felt just moments ago, and she bites down on her bottom lip hard enough to draw blood. Another slam, followed by more pain. Tears gather in her eyes, and she bashes her head into the wall for the third time. She screams loudly, and is about to go for a fifth round when she feels a pair of hands close tightly around her arms and yank her back.
Esmé tries to flee, but the grip on her arms is too strong. She feels herself being spun around, and a moment later she is standing face to face with her husband. She opens her mouth to say something, but the words lodge in her throat as she feels a sharp sting as the back of Jerome’s large hand cracks painfully against her pale cheek.
He lets out a sharp gasp, as if he can’t believe what he has just done. He seems frozen in place as he watches his wife stumble and fall to the floor, her hand covering the part of her face where he has just struck her. He is getting ready to tell her how sorry he is when she begins to cry. He takes a step towards her just as she shrinks back and disappears into the clothes.
“Darling,” Jerome begins, “I— I’m so sorry. I don’t know what came over me…”
But Esmé doesn’t hear his apology. All she can hear is Olaf’s voice, as he condemns her for burning the roast and therefore not having anything to serve his acting troupe for dinner.
***
“You’re thirteen!” Olaf screams. “Thirteen is old enough to know how to cook a meal the proper way! Honestly! How on Earth can anyone be this stupid?”
Esmé sits cowering in a corner of the filthy kitchen, her too-long bangs shielding her tearful blue eyes from the terrifying man in front of her. The directions on the slip of paper Olaf gave her that morning are partly smudged, and she has misread the time it takes for cooking the roast. He is angry with her, and she knows that there is nothing she can do or say in order to make up for her horrendous mistake. All she can do is hope he won’t change his mind about letting her perform for his troupe tonight.
This wish is short-lived as Esmé feels herself being dragged across the kitchen floor by her skinny wrists. Her feet are bare, and the wooden tiles leave splinters in the bottoms of them. She bites down hard on her bottom lip to keep from screaming (screaming only makes him angrier), and a moment later tastes blood. She can feel it dribbling down her chin, watching it stain her pink and white-striped t-shirt.
Esmé whimpers as Olaf hauls her onto her aching feet and shoves her up against the wall. Her feet are throbbing and her lip hurts, but otherwise she is unharmed. His dark eyes are shining venomously, as if he can see into the depths of her soul. She hates it when he looks at her for long periods of time, mostly because when he does, it means he is angry with her. She starts to lower her eyes to the floor, only to be stopped by his voice as it cuts through the air like a knife.
“I’m speaking to you, Esmé,” Olaf says. “When I do, I expect you to look at me.”
Esmé follows her guardian’s orders, and lifts her head. She thinks that he might offer to help her salvage what’s left of the roast, but this turns out to be another wish that remains unfulfilled. Extending one bony, scraggly hand, he slaps her hard across the face. It happens so suddenly, that she loses her balance and collapses onto the floor, the splinters in her feet digging in even deeper. She starts to cry, the pain in her feet outdoing the pain in her face by hundreds. She listens to Olaf as he stomps across the kitchen to the oven, and listens to the sound of screeching metal as he slides out the pot containing the roast. He stomps back over to her, and she shudders and shuts her eyes as the horrible sound of the pot hitting the floor fills the kitchen.
“Stop your pathetic crying,” Olaf demands. “And clean up this mess!”
It isn’t until he leaves that Esmé realizes how loudly she has been crying, and she opens her eyes. There, lying on the floor a few feet from her is the dinner she had worked all day long to prepare. It is burned on the outside, but perfectly edible on the inside. She has never cared for the skin of meat anyway, and so she has no idea why Olaf is making such a big deal about it.
Esmé takes a few minutes to dry her tears and calm down. She digs out what she can of the splinters from her feet, and then limps across the kitchen to the broom closet.
“Esmé?”
Esmé turns to see Fernald Widdershins, the only person in Olaf’s acting troupe she likes, and who is closest to her own age. He has always been kind to her, and she smiles slightly.
“Would you like some help cleaning up?”
Esmé nods, and Fernald shuffles slowly into the kitchen. She can tell by watching him that he fears Olaf as much as she does, and perhaps this is why the two of them are such good friends. As they begin to tidy up (Esmé holding the dust pan while Fernald sweeps the bits of scattered meat into it), he doesn’t say a word about her unsightly bruise, and she doesn’t tell him what happened.
They finish cleaning the kitchen, and Fernald helps Esmé take the splinters out of her feet. (It isn’t difficult to do, considering he still has his hands and is able to hold a pair of tweezers.) Afterward, he makes her a sandwich using two pieces of bread and a single slice of cheese. He even pours her a glass of milk.
“I’d best be getting back to rehearsal,” he says, and waves to her before taking his leave of the kitchen.
***
“Esmé?”
Esmé is still hiding in the closet, too afraid to come out. Jerome, disgusted with himself for what he has done, is standing outside, his soft voice having already called her name twice now.
“Darling, please,” he begs, and Esmé can tell from his wavering voice that he is crying. “I’m so sorry. Will you at least come out and let me put an icepack on that bruise?”
Esmé lifts her hand and touches the corner of her face where Jerome struck her. But she feels nothing, no pain. Her head is still throbbing, and she presses the tips of her fingers against the spots that have had contact with the wall. Even the slightest amount of pressure causes her to wince, and she begins to cry. She can’t be sure whether or not Jerome can hear her until she hears the sound of the closet doors opening. She peers out from in between two of her Chanel dresses at her husband’s enormous stomach. A moment later, his hands are reaching for hers, and she allows him to help her up. He pulls her close against him and begins to stroke her hair. She can hear him weep as he apologizes over and over again for hitting her.
“I love you,” he whispers in a choked voice once he has finished apologizing. “And I only did what I did in order to protect you. What if you had ruptured your skull? What if you had beat yourself so deeply into unconsciousness that you never woke up? What would I have done? How would I have ever been able to carry on?”
Esmé doesn’t answer. By now, tears are rolling down her cheeks, and she knows that if she opens her mouth to speak, then the only thing to come out will be an anguished sob. Instead, she wraps her arms around Jerome as much as she can, pressing her damp face into his neck. She kisses him there, and he squeezes her even more tightly.
“Jerome,” she says tearfully, “I don’t feel well.”
“You probably have a minor concussion,” he replies with a sniffle of his own. “I’ll telephone Dr. Leer and see if he’ll make a house call. In the meantime, why don’t you come back into the bedroom? There’s an icepack and a cup of hot cocoa waiting for you.”
Esmé grants Jerome permission to carry her over to their bed, where he lays her carefully down. She has a small gash on her forehead from hitting it against the wall sixteen times, and Jerome disappears into the built-on bathroom to retrieve some first-aid supplies. He returns quickly and administers the proper care to his wife’s injuries, icluding the area of her lip she has bitten. Afterward, he picks up her cup of cocoa and two aspirin from the nightstand.
“Thank you, honey,” Esmé says as Jerome hands her the items. She downs the aspirin and takes a few sips of her cocoa. Still too ashamed to look him in the face after all that has happened, she settles back against the pillows and focuses her gaze on the cup of cocoa in her hands.
The sky outside has grown dark, and the first droplets of rain begin to fall. These are the only sounds to echo throughout the whole of the room, as neither husband nor wife seems ready to participate in conversation. All Esmé wants is to have Jerome hold and cuddle her the way he always does whenever she is upset; while the only thing Jerome wants is for Esmé to tell him that she will stop hurting herself once and for all. Silence is a hideous thing, made only more hideous as time passes.
Esmé has always hated thunder storms, but she finds the sound of rain pelting against the windowpanes surprisingly tranquil. Setting her cocoa back down on the nightstand, she lays her aching head down against her pillow. Jerome picks up the icepack he has made, and lays it carefully down on his wife’s head. He begins to hum softly, hoping it will be enough to relieve her tension and not the other way around.
Esmé closes her eyes, the sound of the rain outside and her husband’s soft voice creating a melodic tone that soothes her headache. She reaches for his hand, and smiles as she feels it close over her own. She is just about to ask him to lay beside her when the bedroom door suddenly creaks open.
Her eyes flutter open, and together she and Jerome turn their heads in the direction of the door. Standing there is two-year-old Emma. One tiny fist is rubbing slightly at one sleepy eye, while in her other hand she clutches her teddy bear. Apparently, all of the banging has woken the toddler from her afternoon nap.
“What’s wrong, sweetheart?” Esmé asks.
“Heard wowd noy-sees b’fore,” Emma says as she walks slowly into the room. “Thwot I heard Mama cwyin’. Mama O.K.?”
“Mama just has a headache, darling. But I’ll be alright.”
Emma stops before the bed, and Jerome turns to his wife for permission to lift Emma up into it. Esmé smiles softly, and he places their daughter beside her mother before crawling in beside his two girls. Just as he finishes draping his arm over both of them, Emma notices the bandage on her mother’s forehead. Pointing to it, the toddler asks, “How dat happen?”
Esmé’s eyes fill with tears, and she wraps her arms around the little girl, laying her cheek against the identically pale one of her daughter. Sensing her mother’s sadness, Emma very gently kisses her forehead.
“Better?”
Esmé begins to cry softly and, not knowing what else to do, Emma kisses her on the same spot once more.
“Wuv you, Mama,” Emma says. “Don’t wike it when you’re sad. Don’t wike it when you cwy.”
Esmé closes her eyes, and Emma rests her small hand on her mother’s shoulder. Jerome continues to hum softly, and Esme feels her mind fill with a strange sense of happiness.
There will be no more waiting.
There will be no more wishing.
There will be no more punishments.
From now on, there will be only love.
The End