Author's Note: This idea has been stored away in my head for a while now, and I finally decided to bite the bullet and write it out. In my multi-chapter story, Without You, many of my reviewers told me that I wrote excellently from Rosalie's point of view. This really surprised me, since I don't much care for Rosalie. In truth, I would have to say she's one of my least ( and I do mean LEAST) favorite characters. But I realized that, wonder of wonders, I do write her perspective fairly clearly. And thus, this one-shot was born.
Before you read this story, I'd like to say that I wrote this one-shot in a very unorthodox way. Instead of setting out a planned wavelength on which to travel, I let my thoughts drift in their natural patterns, hoping to capture some raw realism with my thoughts. I tried to stay in character, as Rosalie, in order to keep on track. The result rather disturbs me. ;)
Thank you! Enjoy!
Rosalie: A One-Shot
My life: A Tragedy in Three Parts.
I stare out the window, watching the rain drag itself down the cool glass. The droplets are persistent little things, small but stubborn, refusing to give up before they are ready to melt into the bottom of the pane. Nothing short of the greater force of gravity could pull them out of the path they want to travel. Their seemingly directionless fall is their own work; if they had simply surrendered to gravity, their tracks across the window would have been straight and boring. Instead, they strive to maintain their original course, while going sideways and diagonally, trying to escape the inevitable.
All my life, I've been like those raindrops. At first I started at the top, shining and beautiful. And, slowly, I've been pulled to the bottom, struggling against the forces tugging me down. I haven't gone quietly, however, as my new family could tell you. My new family wouldn't agree with me if I said I was at the bottom, though. They would claim that my life now was as complete as it ever could be.
They are all such liars. Kind, wonderful liars, but that doesn't change the fact that they are still lying: to themselves, and to me. Even Emmett, my sweet husband, can't tell himself the truth about our existence.
What is The Truth?
The Truth is that I can never be happy here.
I don't mean here, in Forks, Washington. The place of which I speak is not an actual location that can be marked on a map. I mean the place that we've all reached in our half-lives, the place where we live like recluses. It's the location in my mind that's devoted, every minute of every day, to the thirst--and its consequences.
Sometimes, those consequences are too dire for words.
I always find it ironic that the beginning of my tragedy started with some human men's thirst.
I remember with the clarity of my perfect mind the night when I decided it was time to avenge myself on my killers. The way Carlisle had looked at me when I announced my decision is something that's been etched into my head since, and I know the bleak understanding in his eyes will remain forever in my thoughts. Of all my new family, the last person I would have expected to understand my feelings on that subject was Carlisle. And yet, he knew why I felt this need, and he knew how I planned to fulfill it.
Carlisle has always known.
It was Carlisle who stayed outside our house, waiting, watching for my return from that dark venture. He had put out his hand to touch me, bloodstained though I was, to reconcile himself with his new daughter's brutality. I had stared into his ancient eyes and felt all my vindication die away, replaced by the cold, hard truth of what I had just done. I still think that's why Carlisle made sure he was first to meet me after my glorious vengeance.
I had fought those eyes and their potency. "You can't make me regret it," I'd said, my teeth still bared from their dirty work.
Carlisle had said nothing, but he'd nodded at me. And he had rested his hand lightly on my shoulder. I'd felt the pressure of his surgeon's touch and realized how different my adopted father and I were. From that moment on, I knew how much of a man he was.
And I had known I will never be like Carlisle. Instead of lashing out at the injustices committed every day in this world, my father stretches out his hands to the beauty and the love that can be found there.
I can never even be like Bella, either, who in my mind comes the closest among us to Carlisle's nature. Bella, the newest disturbance in our troubled waters. Bella, the most wonderful thing that ever happened to our family. Bella, the weak, frail, pathetic human girl who can move mountains, and who has the courage to do what I never can.
It seemed so fitting to me, on that terrible day when I heard Alice's voice growling at me from the phone. So appropriate for the fragile human to possess the kind of spine to fling her entire life into the path of destruction for one of us, a soulless blood-drinker. Heaven knows I never even thought of going after Edward to save him from the Volturi; Emmett had been the one to suggest that. I had just thrown the phone from me in horror at what I had done and sank down onto the floor, covering my head with my hands as if to shut out the accusing words Alice had said to me. Again, my harsh thoughts and my selfishness were about to wreck my family's life forever.
And then Bella had taken my place in our ranks, doing everything in her mighty human power to save my brother, despite the fact that Edward had said he didn't want her. I would never have done what she did, risk my being for a man who had cast me aside like so much old news. How much strength had that taken? I wonder about that all the time.
I also wonder if I'll ever be satisfied in this purgatory.
Stuck between a rock and a hard place, my life bounces from tolerable to insufferable. I have good days in which I enjoy the company of Emmett and my siblings, and I have bad days where I hide in my M3 parked out in the middle of the woods, alone with my bitterness. On the good days, I can see the benefits of being immortal, with my family as the topmost blessing. On the bad days...I don't know why I haven't punished Carlisle for what he made me out of his own selfish compassion.
Edward thinks I complain too much, considering all the good things that have happened to me. After all, I have a family that loves me, a husband that adores me, all the riches I could hope for, and more than enough good looks. Why shouldn't I be happy?
They say that you always want most what you can never have.
No one but Esme can imagine the pain coursing through me when I see a curly-headed miracle bobbing happily along behind his mother, his innocent eyes wide with the novelty of the world. It doesn't matter to me if the child I see walking down the street is as ugly as a gargoyle. It's still a baby, a bright life full of purity and blamelessness. I see the human mothers coddle their children with pride, and I pray with all my heart to be allowed to feel just one hundredth of a sliver of what they're feeling.
And I'm left with nothing but my thirst for that mother's blood.
Is there justice in the world? I would have to say yes.
I am paying for where I've faltered and fallen in blood.
Day after day after endless day of our colorless charade, nights full of the sweetness my true love can bring me. And then that time between day and night, the twilight. That part of the changeless cycle of my life in which I feel attuned to myself. For I see myself as some kind of gray creature, stuck in the middle of monster and angel. Any second, I fear I'll begin to slide back to where I once was, deep in the darkness of a monster's mind.
I know I'll never be close enough to heaven to be an angel. That possible part of my tragedy slipped away from me too many years ago to count. While I stand on this stage, with the lights pointed to the side and the shadows gently overlapping on me, I must play the part of the villain, never the heroine.
What kills me most is the defeating awareness that I'm not allowed off the stage. I'll not take a final bow.
My curtain will never fall.