To Whom It May Concern
I remember my dawning day so clearly.
I woke on a bed, cold as ice and completely numb. The echo of silence in my chest—the empty space that showed my lack of a heart—was the first thing I noticed. Besides the cold, that is.
I remember raising one hand in front of my face, turning it in the light of the lamp that stood erect next to me. I sparkled, Bella. I wasn't surprised to find I was so changed—it was, oddly enough, expected. But the sensation itself was startling—it was an alien hand that was attached to my arm. It wasn't me.
Do you know what that's like? To not even recognize your own hand?
No, of course you don't.
Maybe this will make you comprehend.
Surely, by now, Edward has told you of my supposed ego. Has he told you that vanity is the only luxury I can truly afford? I had always felt precious as a human. I won't deny the fact that I was beautiful when alive—but mine had been a fleeting beauty, a passing beauty…the beauty of youth. Now, however…now I was diamond. Now I was stone—now I was eternally preserved.
Does it seem strange to you that I woke up sure of the fact that I was beautiful? Does it seem even stranger that it scared me? I, the one whom I'm sure you think is concerned only with her reflection?
I was going to last forever, Bella. I would be timeless; a statue. Eternity scared me…just as it should scare you.
No, don't shake your head. Hear me out.
I was frightened even more by something else pounding through my veins, though. No, not blood—you know as well as I do what I was by then. Not blood. Not even venom, though the unquenchable thirst had begun to claw at the edge of my throat. The feeling that coursed through me was something that I had never before felt in my entire life. At least, not to this degree.
Would you care to guess?
Envy? No, of course not. Try again.
Rage? Close, but not quite.
Yes. Hate. Hate was all that I felt. My vision was smeared with it—the room was filled with golden light, but streaks of burgundy permeated my sight. I, to put it quite clearly, saw red.
It was then that I noticed Edward and Carlisle standing in the corner of the room, their eyes glinting at me. Two glimmering sets of topaz, two sparkling sets of pure white skin, and a feral grace and beauty that was unnaturally sensual.
I knew they were behind this.
Tell me, how would you have reacted in that situation? Would you have screamed? Yelled? Would you have run? Or, would you, like me, know intuitively that you were the same as them? Would you be able to feel your heightened senses prickling at the sight of a fellow vampire?
I have prayed for so long that you would never have to know the bitter cold that swept through me at this realization, the icy tension that clung to my perfect limbs like a winter frost. I prayed you would never know the hatred that ran through me, that became as dear to me as a child. Does it disgust you to know that my abstinence from blood wasn't simply because I was clinging to my humanity? It was because of the hatred, Bella. It was the hatred that powered me. It was my food, my drink, my sustenance. I had no need for blood.
Are you ashamed of your sister? Are you ashamed that I stooped so low?
I can see in your face that you aren't—at least, not externally. After all, I was only, shall we say, an ex-human?
Don't smile, it's not funny.
My conversation with Carlisle and Edward was short. I had only known them in passing, and they had only ever stood out because of their beauty. I had always had more important people in Rochester to worry about. But now the Cullens were more than simply strangers, not to mention I was drastically changed.
"What am I?" I asked them. What an absurd question that was. I still don't know what I am. How could I have expected them to answer?
But Carlisle understood what I was talking about—and so responded to me.
"A vampire, Rosalie."
I'll never forget the pity that flashed through Edward's eyes.
I wonder why I was so accepting of them. So filled with hate, why did I not make them the brunt of my feelings? You couldn't know, of course, how overwhelming my feelings were—I needed an outlet. And, after all, I was strong enough—I was a newborn.
Somehow, though, I knew who my real targets were going to be.
"I have to go," is all I told them.
To this day, I still don't quite understand why they let me leave. Loosing a furious, bitter newborn into New York? Madness. Though, in retrospect, I suppose that Edward knew the only one I would harm was the one whose face kept appearing before my eyes. You don't know Royce, of course—he's been dead for nearly nine decades—but he had a very handsome face, Bella. He would have made a beautiful vampire.
Don't act so surprised. Of course I contemplated turning Royce, forcing him to feel the same rage and hatred that now consumed me, to feel the same three days of pain as I had. But then that would have meant dealing with him for eternity. I don't think I was quite prepared for that. And, besides, I couldn't really bare it if he was as beautiful as I.
Again, it was hatred that moved me.
I left, Bella. I left that desolate little house that had witnessed so much of my agony, so much of my shame. You know what I did next. I pursued them, all of them, and I murdered every single one—even Royce. The irony of the situation does not escape me—I was pursuing men, as opposed to men pursuing me.
Ha. Irony, Bella. A vampire's best friend.
I remember their final moments almost as clearly as I remember the hatred I felt during the whole of my killing spree. So wouldn't it be natural to assume that, afterwards, I felt satiated? I had put an end to my source of hate, after all...and yet, I felt no relief.
I still thirst for it, Bella. I still thirst to somehow right the world, to balance it all with justice, to revenge every victim. And my need, my hatred for my inability to do so…it gets worse with every year.
Do you understand now, Bella? Do you understand why you shouldn't subject yourself to this life? You don't know the meaning of forever. You don't know what it's like dealing with an eternity of guilt, of hatred, of a cold that reaches to your very marrow.
You can't possibly comprehend me, Bella. But please, please, for the sake of your humanity, for the sake of your warmth and your happiness…try.
I hate who I am. I hate who I've been. And, most likely, who I'm going to become—all because of how I started this half-life that I now lead.
You can't begin with hatred, Bella. That's bad footing. But that's how I started. I wish I could turn back the clock—sometimes there's so much time in the world that I really wonder whether there even is a clock—but I can't. I can't.
You won't be able to, either.
You think it's all about love. Of course I'm grateful for Emmett. Of course I'm grateful for my family. But there's so much baggage, Bella…a burden you'll have to carry with you for the next hundreds of thousands of years. You can't get rid of it all—you won't be able to answer your ethical questions or stop your self-doubt and pity.
We were created to endure, Bella. But does that mean that we can endure the cards we've been dealt?
My birth was that of hatred. The blood, the raw emotion of my awakening, of my first moments, has never washed away. I'm begging you, Bella, to listen. Listen to me.
Don't do this. Don't throw it all away.
Please. Don't wake up to hatred.