Disclaimer: I don't own the Twilight Saga.

Author's Note: (January 3, 2013) This is the bad/angsty ending to Carlisle and Esme's relationship.

~Chapter Four~

Bad Ending: Last Resort

Head bent, arms and legs spread, teardrops splattering all over the floor, along with the blood-red liquid flowing from the open gashes on my skin, the clear fluid dripping out my mouth, the salty droplets of my sweat dripping, my body leaning lifelessly forward, my wrists and ankles tightly cuffed to keep me restrained against the chilly iciness of the basement wall.

It's been a little over a month since I received the bloody cut of letters across my thighs, and I was barely holding on to life today. Days seemed to pass by in a hazy blur through my weary, bloodshot eyes, filled with a handful of draining sessions, incessant tirade of my husband's anger as my health deteriorated thus leading to the instability of my overly fatigued body thereby leaving the house unattended to, accompanied by vomit as I tried to force myself to keep my meals down for nutrition, and the unending cascade of my tears.

His lustful anger took a large step into torturing me to my impending death. Forced into full submission, my body got beaten, bruised, abused, branded, burnt, cut, sliced open with new tools like the unforgiving whip repeatedly stinging my body until blood appeared from the open lashes, a riding crop marking my skin blistering red, and the steel iron in the form of a letter C to brand me for eternity, the searing dent of the letter deeply engraved onto my back.

I was so tired. So exhausted. Tired of crying, tired of the sobs racking my body, so sick and tired of the punishment he laid upon me day by day, still in the dark as to what I had done to deserve such mistreatment.

He wasn't around. He was at work. While I haven't seen anything but the darkness of this bleak, depressing prison of mine for two days in a row. My shame, my bodily fluids, all mixing on the floor at my feet, but I no longer felt humiliation or disgrace. Stripped of every emotion within, I was long gone. There was nothing left within me, no strength to fight. All that was left was the repetitive wish for death.

I had no idea if I was going insane, for by the time my husband arrived, I was screaming at the top of my lungs, like a deranged lunatic. I wondered if I was trying to call for help, for I sounded like a wounded animal being slaughtered, the desperation in my wails trying to reach one human soul out in our neighborhood. I knew it was a futile mission for this basement was so deep underground, even if there were people in the floor above, they wouldn't be privy to any personal secretive obsession going on down here.

Every time I screamed, a slap across my face would silence me. But not this time. This time, the more he hit me, the more the mental state of my madness would get triggered into shrieking, the pitch of my cracked voice so high it almost felt like I could shatter glass. The sound of the harsh knock of my head against the stone wall behind me reverberated through my skull and my ears as I lost the ability to breathe, his hand clasping around my neck so viciously brutish.

I wouldn't be surprised if he'd finish me off now. I could feel myself slipping away already, losing myself in the blackness as my eyes fluttered close. So close, so close…

'Do it! Do it!'

But reality wasn't that forgiving. I knew he wouldn't give me the satisfaction of rest through death. If I wouldn't be around, he'd no longer have anyone to punish, and where would that lead him to? Jail, if he'd start punishing other people. He needed me. I was essential to his living. He lived through this, felt alive only during these sessions. As much as he probably hated me for it, he needed me.

Gasping desperately for life as his hand released its hold on me, I exhaled and inhaled, so dizzy from hunger, so weak from these sessions, and the choking sensation sent my stomach reeling until I felt my throat constrict without the help of his tight grasp, and before I could control it, the retching feeling pushed its way forward, the disturbingly clear liquid falling all over the floor, my liquefied vomit merging with the many stains on the ground before me.

Filthy. So filthy, so nasty. How could he stand coming back down here with this horrible stench pervading the air, suffocating us both with the nauseating bile and filthiness at my feet? How he kept the basement clean after every session was a huge mystery to me. But being imprisoned for two straight days down here, this was the filthiest state this room has ever undergone.

The restraints loosened around my wrists and ankles and in one harsh pull of gravity, my whole body dropped to my knees and hands, my skin blending with the mix of urine, the sliminess of saliva, dampness of sweat, pools of tears, drops of dried and wet blood, and the new addition of my watery vomit.

I urged my body to crawl forward, to separate myself from the disgusting fluids that all came from me, to stop myself from vomiting my intestines out. It wasn't easy. Being shackled for two days in a row made my muscles numb, my bones aching from tightening, clenching cramps. Still, I pushed, pulled and dragged until my feet were the only ones left planted in the revolting combination of everything that left me with no ounce of shame.

Raising my head, I caught the sight of my husband's naked body before me, standing so erect, so proud. While my body's condition worsened, his seemed to be brimming with strength, power and life. But as I lifted my eyes to meet his, I was instantly terrified.

His eyes were nothing I have ever seen before. So blank, so lifeless.

I then realized that we were both gone.

Deranged. Mad. Crazy.

These sessions were our only way of living, spurring us forward with our tedious, monotonous routine of daily life where we'd pretend nothing wrong was going on in our relationship.

The truth swept under the rug, secrets hidden in the dark corners of this room, recreating this home into our very own prison, and this basement our cell.

Harshly hauled up to my feet by the tight painful grasp of his hands around my arms, then dragged to the table against the wall, my back cracking at the hard contact of the hard surface hitting my spine, the lower half of my body dangling limply from the edge like a mere pathetic rag doll, incapable of doing anything by myself, needing the help of my master to mold me into every position he wanted me in.

In no less than a second, his penetration reawakened all my senses, so quick, so unloving, so unkind, this sexual act devoid of all emotion, lacking in warmth, the connection between a married couple completely, absolutely, downright absent.

'More! Harder!'

I wanted him to crush me, break me, shatter me, smash me, pierce me. The more he did, the faster the reality of my wish for death advanced. This relationship was messed up, and this realization hit me long ago, yet I was never able to bring myself to acknowledge it.

With much effort, I swung my arm to cover my eyes, to conceal the tears that admitted that I was past broken, that this marriage was past ruined, these nine years spent together no longer having a significant meaning to either of us, the past months happening inacceptable, spent torn apart.

His thrusts – so unemotional, so detached, so animalistic in its utmost basest nature – split me in half, cracking from the deepest point of my core, paring every inch of me that came into its contact, stretching my body in half, ripping my soul along with it, ominously creeping up my body, threatening to shred me into pieces.

The mark of his hands wrapped around my thighs, the dent of his nails etched into my skin, the hardness of his length ramming inside me while his emotionless gaze held mine, were now the only proof that my husband was still with me.

I couldn't bear the thought any longer that this is what became of us, of our marriage, of our vows we made nine years ago. My filthy hands reached up to shut my eyes from the intensity of his frightening, lifeless glare, as my body continuously shook with the heavy sobs, each one countered by his forceful shoves, my tears falling with each one, the wails of agony, anguish and my torment leaving my lips without need for permission.

How long were we going to continue on like this? How much more pain would we both have to go through to get back to how we were before? How many more sessions will he need until he's had enough?

Wild, erratic, the table slamming against the wall repeatedly in time with his rough, hard, piercing stabbing within me, his hands tightening around my thighs, the pain of his grip causing me to cry out aloud, numbing me to the sensation of feeling the rush of his climax spurt inside me.

As his body left mine, my own slumped down to the ground as I let my body lead me to my peaceful stupor. The coldness of the floor drained the warmth from my cheeks, just as I felt his seed leaving the cavern of my nether lips. Everything left me. Everything was slowly drawing out from within me. I was losing myself to the emptiness inside, huddling, inching toward the nothingness awaiting me.

As my body lay motionless against the iciness of the ground, the vision of my husband lifting the gun to the side of his head flashed before my eyes and before I could even blink away my tears, the blaring sound of the bullet's impact as his finger pulled the trigger immediately echoed off the walls, my scream blending into it, followed by the dead pause until a soft clank on the ground interrupted the silent aftermath, the bouncing, rolling shell of the bullet resounded until everything seemed to stop.

Time ceased, my body frozen in place, my eyes glued to the falling figure of my husband. The mellow thud of his body hitting the floor seemed so gentle, a little too gentle.

There he was, his naked form mere inches from mine, as his blood stained the floor, his body twitching in convulsions.

With excruciating effort, I scrambled my way to him, dragging my body, my stomach grinding against the rough edges of the floor, my knees, legs, arms, elbows, hands, every inch of my skin scraping, my wounds gaping, I made my way to him.

His lips were moving, but only croaking sounds left his lips. I myself couldn't form any words.

"F-forgive me…"

I loved him despite all the heartbreak he caused upon me, despite all the emotional breakdowns I had because of him. I never stopped loving him. I've always loved my husband. I never hated him. Not once. I may have felt nothing for him at some point, but never hate. I couldn't. I knew everything he did was to show me he still loved me. So there was nothing to forgive. Nothing at all. I wish I could've told him that.

As my immobile body rested beside him, my hands in fists upon his chest, I felt the burning heat of renewed tears streak down my cheeks. I listened to the faint shallow breaths of my husband and tried to find the feeble beat of his weakening heart. It was giving out. The amount of blood dripping from the side of his head spilling onto the floor was a clear indication that nothing and no one could save him now.


I held my breath as I heard the loving, tender tone in his voice saying out my name. Through the pain and agony I could so clearly hear, I noted the gentleness and reverence in his voice as he called out for me, like my name on his lips was a sacred prayer of worship.

"I'm so sorry…"

'You don't have to tell me that, Carlisle,' I thought to myself. Again, I wish I could've told him, but my throat felt blocked, my tongue dry, my lips paralyzed.

"I love you…"

I wish I could've said it back as well… For with those three words, he took his last breath. Those last three words…

The pain in my chest seemed to intensify as a sharp, excruciating, restricting feeling seemed to clench my heart together and press it until it felt like it was about to burst into tiny shards of glass. The ache didn't stop and I felt like I could suffocate from the tight confines it pushed onto my fragile heart.

For what seemed like hours, I laid there beside my dead husband on our cold basement floor and stared into his pale blue lifeless eyes that stared back at me.

Even in death, he was beautiful.

As the painful reality of my husband's death dawned upon me, I realized that this was unacceptable. I wanted him to be alive. I didn't care how much more pain he'd inflict upon me, I wanted him living, breathing and punishing me. I wanted to him to hurt me some more, make me feel alive; make me feel like this relationship was still worth saving because if it were really past the point of being saved, there would be no connection at all. Yet every night, he still dared to touch me. I knew now that it simply meant I was still too important in his life to be ignored.

The cruel reality of my situation hit me full force and for what seemed like hours, I wept, yelled and screamed at the top of my lungs, my body shaking with pathetic sobs. Once again, I was left all alone down here in our gloomy, dismal basement to bear the burden of shouldering this messed up relationship all by myself.

Anger poured forth from inside me at the loss of my husband and the frustration within me sent me jumping to my feet, my arms wailing in desperation, my hands finding the table, clutching onto it until my fists turned pale white. My tear-glazed sight rested upon all the equipment laying still on the hard surface, and before I could stop myself, my hands smashed everything against the stone walls, broken pieces ricocheting off them, some bouncing back to me, sending a sharp slice of pain past my delicate skin, but I was too numb to feel anything except for the emotional downfall of the loss of my life.

He was my life.

Carlisle, my husband – who I loved unconditionally, irrevocably, for all eternity – was now gone forever.

Through the torrent of my tears, my gaze settled upon my husband's dead body then lingered on the gun that was inches from where he lay.

I loved him. I loved him. I loved him to the point that the thought of him dying triggered my own sense of urgency to follow him right away into the abyss of hell. There certainly wouldn't be a place for us in heaven. Not with the way we'd die…

Taking the gun in my hand, positioning it to the side of my head, my finger ready to pull the trigger, I closed my eyes and counted to five.


'I'm coming, Carlisle…'


'I won't let you leave me like this…'


'You know I can never live without you…'


'I love you…'


The lack of a bullet impacting my skull with the deafening bang made me snap my eyes open.

"What…? Why…?"

At the realization that only one bullet was inside, my fingers quickly checked the other slots of the gun confirming my assumption and as the boiling anger surfaced within me, sending the gun crashing into the opposite wall, my body lunged forward and fell against my dead husband's, my fists now beating against his chest.


Yelling with all my might, my frustrated anger at my husband blending with the inner turmoil of my other confused feelings, I smashed my fists repeatedly against his chest, craving, longing, begging for a response.

"Why, Carlisle! Why! Why didn't you leave me the same option to follow you...?!"

The warmth of my husband's body was long gone under my fists that now flattened out, my palms trying to recapture the remaining heat of his body.

"Come back to me… Please…"

Time passed, my tears dried up, and only silence followed.

Absolute silence.

Everything I did afterwards seemed like I was watching someone else carrying it out. I watched myself get rid of all the equipment he used to punish me. I wanted people to keep the way they saw Dr. Carlisle Cullen: compassionate doctor, kind neighbor, and the perfect gentleman. I wanted to keep his reputation clean. In fact, I didn't mind as I watched myself transfer all the gadgets to my room.

'Let them think I was a dirty whore who enjoyed pleasuring herself with all these,' I told myself. 'If it keeps from Carlisle's reputation being soiled.'

His body was beautiful. Naked in the dark under the only source of light in our cold, confining basement, blood painting his unusually pale skin, he was entrancing.

Mesmerizing. Glorious. Dead.

To the best I could do, the basement was cleared off any signs of what occurred down here every night. Only the chair that I always was strapped to remained in the room, along with the rope that was used to strap me into it sitting in my place, plus the shackles that hung against the wall that I didn't have the knowledge to take down, just like the chain hanging from the ceiling with the hook at its end.

I needed some of these materials. I needed them to see my lover again.

After working on the rope to create a makeshift noose, I fastened it onto the hook. Kneeling down beside my husband, I leaned over and pressed my lips to his cold, pale ones.

'So lifeless, yet so beautiful.'

I couldn't stop admiring my husband and be envious of his beauty in his death.

'We'll be together now, Carlisle…' I thought to myself as I stepped up onto the chair.

I was familiar with this choking feeling. I could almost imagine it was my husband's hand around my neck and I welcomed it with love. The familiar feeling of getting the air cut off from my lungs awakened all my memories with my husband.

The day we met, the day he asked my parents for permission to court me, the day he proposed, the moment he slid the engagement ring onto my finger, our wedding day, our first night together, greeting him back from work after kissing him goodbye in the morning…

The delicious memories of seeing him naked with only an apron while making breakfast in an attempt to make me laugh whenever I woke up on the wrong side of the bed, the arousing moments of stolen kisses in front of a busy audience, the endearing minutes of a kiss with an attentive audience, the amusing hours of laughter in our garden…

We were happy. We were happily married. And even after all that's occurred in the past months, I knew there was still an ounce of happiness, especially since neither of us decided to leave the other. Even in the end, we loved each other.

And so with my last breath, I barely managed to choke it out, wishing, hoping and praying that somehow, somewhere, he'd hear me.

"I love you, too…"

This was the only way I could love him now. This was the only way I could show him how.



The relentless ringing out in the hallway awoke the Chief of Police with a start. Groaning, he got up from the bed and sluggishly made his way to the annoying shrill of the telephone. Rubbing his eyes, he lifted the receiver to his ear and answered with all the clarity he could muster through his grogginess, "Swan."

"Chief Swan, there were a lot of reports that flooded in today about the Cullens."

Upon hearing this, Charlie Swan's mind felt alert all of a sudden. "What's this about?"

"Well, Sir, it seems that Dr. Cullen hasn't showed up to work for four days now. He hasn't been answering his pager, nor has his wife been answering their home phone or the door, when neighbors went to visit. Today's the fifth day and their house is still as an empty nest. We're sending over a squad car right now with officers ready to break into the home."

"I'll be right over."

'What in God's name was going on? The Cullens were one of the friendliest people this neighborhood could have, and I liked Dr. Carlisle and his lovely wife, Esme, very much ever since the first day I welcomed them to town. My wife's even smitten with the blonde doctor.'

Changing quickly into his uniform then planting a light kiss on his wife's forehead, Chief Swan rushed to the door, but the lovely voice of his wife stopped him in his tracks. "Charlie? Is everything all right?"

Walking back to the bed where his pregnant wife was struggling to sit upright, he spoke to her calmly without alarming her with the news on the Cullens that made his heart race inexplicably. Somewhere deep down, his intuition was telling him that there was something wrong going on.

"Renée, honey, I'm called in for duty. I'll be back soon, I promise."

"Okay. Be careful," she whispered sleepily and with one last kiss on her cheek, Charlie left, rushing to the Cullen home.


[Charlie Swan]

Nothing could have prepared me for the sight that distorted my vision and destroyed every pleasant image I had of the doctor, side by side with his wife. Blood wasn't much of a deal to me, but this huge amount of blood was sickening and not at all something common here in this town.

Flashes of cameras flickered in the dim light of this depressing and claustrophobic basement. Before the stench filled my nostrils and smothered me with the thick, clammy air in the underground room, I quickly emerged from the stairs, desperate to inhale fresh air. My hand flew to my mouth instantly, trying to prevent the lurching feeling of my stomach to reach my throat.

I watched as officers searched every room while waiting until the dead bodies of the two people everyone seemed to look up to was bagged and carried out from the basement. Could it even still be called that? By the looks of it, it had become a torture chamber.

The reeking smell of dried blood permeated the air and the shackles against the wall spoke of such oddity in the nature of the couple we all admired. It all became even more cryptic as an officer handed me a clear bag full of adult toys coming from Mrs. Cullen's room.

What in heaven's name happened here?

Investigation ensued, but as I stood in the clear, clean basement, putting the puzzle pieces together, hearing the causes of death, it was clear they both committed suicide.

The doctor, naked, in the middle of the basement surrounded by the immense amount of his blood, gun not far away from his body, one bullet shot, the other shells empty. As for Mrs. Cullen's bare body – hanging by the rope around her neck, the tightness imprinted so clearly on her skin.

Another thing nagged on the back of my mind. Why did Esme have so many bruises? Was there domestic violence involved here? I immediately dreaded going back home. How would I be able to break this news to my wife who was such a huge fan of the good doctor and his wife? My cellphone rang, breaking the train of my assumptions and I picked up right away.

"Chief Swan, please make your way down here immediately. Autopsy showed some interesting things you might want to know about."

"I'm on my way."


"Heartbreaking news to hear the Cullen couple committed suicide. It's such a waste, they were about to receive good news, if only they'd lived for a little longer."

I turned around from the cadavers lying on the center table in the middle of the morgue and faced the medical examiner holding the little clipboard on which he was busily scribbling on.

"What do you mean?"

"Well, based on the autopsy, Chief Swan," he started then paused as his scribbling stopped and he looked up from his writing, "we found out that Esme… was six weeks pregnant."


Author's Note: That was the bad/angsty ending to Carlisle and Esme's relationship. If you wish to, you may read the other ending as well. Do tell me which one you preferred more if you do read the happy ending as well.

Please leave me your thoughts on the story or my writing through either a review or a PM… I'd appreciate any very much. Thank you.