A/N: Just series after series of one-shots. If you haven't noticed, I have MAJOR writer's block. This is why I haven't updated Angels on The Moon. The next chapter will be coming. When I have time.

I am going into surgery next week. I might have time to write while I am recovering, but I can't promise you anything right now. It all depends how I feel.

For now, please enjoy this one shot.

"I am involved in a freedom ride protesting the loss of the minority rights belonging to the few remaining earthbound stars. All we demanded was our right to twinkle."

- Marilyn Monroe

DISCLAIMER: I don't own these characters. I am just using them to breakthrough the block that is in my mind.

Rosalie Hale:

DOB: May 12th 1915

DOD: April 2nd 1933

Simple lives are taken by trivial desires…

In my experience as a human, I had learned to rely on a man; on his wealth, on his desires, on his promises.

As a vampire, I learned to rely on myself and my instincts.

Much as I should have done while I was human.

But this was something I did not learn until much later…

This night is cool, and dank, and dark. Crystals of ice are falling from the heavens—the stars are clouded over.

Somewhere a clock is ticking.

Something has happened—something I can't understand.

Backs of men disappear into the fog… leaving me… leaving me by my lonesome.

I curl into myself. The ground is frozen, and I am cold. But my head is hot.

Lost in the haze of a death induced wine, I cannot focus. I cannot process the need to rise from the cool ground, the need to call out for help.

This is why I stay silent.

I am eighteen—barely a woman.

Fantasies and whirlwinds in my head are still the basic necessities of life.

"Don't leave me." The words are scant and metallic tasting on my tongue. But speaking makes my head spin, so I stop.

A cool breeze washes over my skin, and I pull the scraps of my dress to myself, trying to stay warm for the remainder of my stay here.

I roll onto my back, squinting, peering up into the night. This is not how it should be. In death, there should be no pain, no complications, just peace.

Peace and quiet.

There is quiet all right, but there is no peace. The quiet is foreboding and horrible.

In the middle of a crowded street, I am alone.

And I shut my eyes.

And I drift.

Sweet… something sweet is drifting in through my nostrils—surprisingly pungent in the stale, cool air.

A man is kneeling next to me, and cool fingers are on my neck, at my wrists, palms are compressing on my chest.

I try to tell him to stop, that is no use, but he can't seem to hear my begging whispers; maybe I am not even speaking aloud.

Arms under me.

Air under me.

Burning, I am burning.

Fire, there is fire.

My fingers are falling off.

The flesh and muscle are falling off my bones.

My face is being charred.

And I scream…

Oh, do I scream.