Author's Note: I have a couple of the chapters written and I'm just testing this out. It really depends on the feedback I get on this if I continue. I'm a bit unsure about this story and I'd like your opinion on if it's worth continuing.

Also, as I said in the summary, this story is femslash. It's Rosalie/Bella because their fanbase is small. I'm aware this pairing makes no sense. It was never hinted in cannon that these two even slightly liked each other, but for some unfathomable reason, I love this pairing. I love it so much more than Alice/Bella.

Enjoy! Reviews are lovely.


I don't understand. Father calls me a harlot, and I have trouble not believing him, that's what children are supposed to do—listen to their elders, but I haven't a clue why I'm being called such names. I cry, both from the pain of the welts on my back and the emotional pain of the Lord being disappointed in me.

Father is sick. His forehead is hot to the touch. Father doesn't believe in doctors, saying that the good Lord will take care of him. Father has enough energy to deliver my beatings, though. The whip of his belt on my flesh is so hard. I'm surprised at the strength he has. I suspect that the angels give it to him. He is always physically exhausted afterward. He wishes not to see my face after he has delivered a beating, but I insist. He cannot do much without me.

My brother is out working. He keeps the roof over our heads and food on our plates. God mustn't be that disappointed with me, he still blesses each day by giving my brother the strength to take father's place in the world.

My mother passed not long ago, and I have taken over her role. I always cook and clean, but now I have to do it all day, along with taking care of Father. I fear he is taking the toll of her death. So deep in love, he cannot bear to be parted from her long.

The sun will set soon, but I must go to the market to cook Father dinner.

"Isabella!" a voice calls. A male voice. I jump at the loud noise, but ignore it. I know who it is, but Father has ordered me to ignore him. To never associate with him. I will listen to his words. I want to appease him and the angels. I don't wish to be punished again.

"Isabella!" it repeats. My eyes skim over the produce, trying to find the freshest ones. Father deserves the best. Truly, he is a good man. He listens to the Lord. He's only trying to help me, even if it hurts dearly. His hand touches my arm and I flinch away from him, but his hand is still planted firmly. "Isabella, didn't you hear me calling you?"

I look up at him and he lets go quickly, embarrassed. It would be rude to tell him the truth. Do I talk to him, or no? If Father found out he would be most disappointed.

"Hello, Christopher." I decided to talk. It is the polite thing to do. Christopher is the son of an older couple who go to our church. He is older than me, but his maturity level is that of a boy younger than I. I know he fancies me. I do not reciprocate these feelings. Christopher is very kind. His childishness is part of his charm. He's on the shorter side, with blond hair and dark eyes. He's sweet, but I am not looking for a husband with Father the way that he is.

He smiles at me and it lights up his whole face. I smile politely back, but I am on edge. Father knows of this, of whats happening right now. He's angry with me. I'm going to cry. He follows me as I shop all though I really wish he wouldn't.

Christopher is always so eager to please. He helps carry my groceries to my house and leaves when he helps me put them inside. My brother is leaving the house after Christopher departs. The sun has set. It is his duty—now that Father is sick and can no longer—to rid our town of the Devil's creations. Creatures of the night that feed on blood. He is brave and selfless to take on this job.

"Isabella!" he cries joyously. He sweeps down (he is a great deal taller than I) and pulls me into a hug. "I am happy I did not miss you."

I beam up at him. I fleetingly wonder how he could love one such as me. Surely Father has told him of my wrong doings—whatever they are. "I am so proud of you. Be careful."

He smiles. It is fake.

"What is wrong?"

The smile slips from his face. "How do you always know what I am feeling?"

"You're a horrible liar."

He shakes his head. "No, dear Isabella, that would be you."

I give a small laugh. "Right. Do not avoid the subject. What bothers you?"

He sighs and slumps to the ground. I want to scold him—he's going to get his clothing filthy, but tonight is his first hunt, so I suppose he will get the clothing torn to shreds anyway.

"What we are doing is wrong, Isabella. They convict many innocent people, but they will not listen. I tried to explain to Father what was happening, but he accused me of the Devil stealing my mind. I can only hope that with myself as leader, we will find real abominations."

I sink to the ground, careful not to get dirt on my dress. I brush his hair from his face. He looks much like Mother. I have taken after Father, which I know he is not proud of. He is ashamed of me and the things that I do. I am not perfect though, which he understands, but I could be better, which is what he and the angels try to teach me. I try so hard to be what they want me to be, but no matter what I do, they are still disappointed. Tears spring in my eyes.

"Everything will be all right. You are smart and resourceful. You will find these dreaded creatures and send them to Hell, where they belong. I believe in you."

He smiles at me, but it is strained. I help him stand and hug him. He looks down at me, the flesh between his eyebrows creasing like it always does when he is worried or thinking. "Isabella, I have a dreaded feeling." I do as well, but I do not wish to discourage him. He slips something from his trousers and presses it into my hand. "I want you to have this."

I stare down at it, surprised. Its was his wooden cross. Mother gave it to him as a child. He was frightened of thunderstorms and this calmed him down. He always has this on him, saying it reminded him of our mother and he felt like her presence was with him when he was fearful. I look up at him, too shocked to say anything. He wouldn't give this up. Never. Especially if he is as frightened right now as he sounds.

He nods, as if knowing what I am thinking. "I have a terrible feeling. If something happens to me, Isabella, I want you to have this so you're always protected. I know the Lord protects you as well, but it would give me peace of mind. Please."

I nod silently and hug him swiftly. "Don't speak of such things. You will come back. Father and I need you. Thank you."

He nods and departs, the crease still between his eyebrows. When I get inside I set the fruits and vegetables aside and go check on Father. As I suspected, he is angry.

"The angels have spoken to me, Isabella," he murmurs. I tremble. Oh, Lord, please, no!

I collapse to the ground, my body quivering with fear. "Please, Father, I do not know what I did wrong. I will do better, please—"

He shakes his head and he stands up. His face is deathly pale and shining with his fever. He looks like he will pass out any moment. His eyes are twitching, flickering back and forth across the room. He is mad. Completely and utterly mad! "The angels are telling me you need to be punished."

I scream out in pain as each lash is delivered. I am called horrible, degrading names. He calls me a harlot. A bloody whore. He collapses to his bed and I crawl to mine, my tears making my vision blurry. I tuck myself into a ball on top my bed and beg the Lord for mercy and guidance.

It does not come.

My brother does not return the next night. Nor the next. I begin to worry, but do not express this to Father. His mind is overcome with fever.

His body is not recovered and I fear the creatures of the night have stolen him. He has been taken from me forever. I express my grief at night, the only time I have to myself. I must now take care of Father while peddling for money.

The thought of selling myself passes through my mind, but I do not wish to disappoint Father, even to provide food for us. He would rather have food from begging than the food of a whore.

Father dies shortly after my brother. I am alone now. I wallow in self pity. This is my punishment. I have sinned and now I must pay the consequences. I cry in anguish freely now. This is when Christopher proposes the idea of marriage. He says he loves me deeply and that he could support me, a beautiful maiden. I decline. I do not wish to live.

It is night and I am walking as I wallow in my pity. My loss pains me so as to where I do not care for the danger. It is dark. A candle lights little around me, but enough as to where I think I see something. I freeze in my steps, but then continue. For a fleeting moment I fear that I am developing the fever that stole Father. He always raved about voices—other voices, not the angels nor mine or my brothers. But then I see her.

I let out a yelp. A woman. A beautiful woman. Her skin is so pale it seems to glow. It looks smooth as glass. Her lips are like two rose petals. Her hair is as blonde as the sun and curls down to her waist. Her eyes, though, are what have me captivated. Two black pools of ink are where they start, then a crimson crescent that fades to more ebony. It strikes me that I must be in love. I ache to please her, in any way she wishes. The bible says this is sinful, and I blush at the thought of lying in bed with another women. It's not proper. If Father were still alive, he would have beat me until I died from the pain.

A part of me is telling me I should be fearful of her, but I do not. She is death, I know. I no longer fear death. I welcome it. Even if it is an eternity in Hell. What could be worse than the life I am living now? Yet, somehow, I want to live...just for this women. This is mad! Then I realize she is manipulating my mind somehow. I do not wish to live, but this women is making me want to. I dispel these thoughts of living.

I stare at her evenly, and she does back.

"Are you the Angel of Death?" I finally question.

She laughs. "Of sorts."

I nod. "I am ready."

Her eyebrow raises. I do not think it is possible for an eyebrow to raise gracefully, but hers seems to do so. "Why is that, child?"

"My life is living Hell and I wish to escape it. Please, I beg you, kill me," I plead. My mother is dead, my brother is dead, and so is my father. I'm a disgrace and I have no reason to continue to be on this earth.

She looks at me, probing me with her beautifully frightening eyes. "What is your name?"


She repeats it and I feel beautiful as she does so. "You intrigue me, Isabella. I do not wish to kill you."

My legs give out and I am reduced to a sobbing heap. "Please," I beg.

"No. I will not kill you, in a sense. I would like to give you a second chance at life."

I look up at her. "I do not understand."

"This might hurt," she warns before attacking.