With this being my first story completed in a very, very long time, it is rather short. But I have to start someone, right?

I would like to thank everyone who has worked with me to help improve what was a very mediocre and tedious task. You know who you are.

I hope that this newfound inspiration will last for a while. I truly cannot wait to add more to my collection.

On another note, this story is an introduction to Carlisle's initial thoughts on changing Rosalie. Whether his goal was to create a mate for Edward, or simply the fact that he couldn't bear to see such a beautiful human perish, this is how I believe that night played out. Later, I may add more chapters on how Edward reacts to Carlisle's decision, or Rosalie's newborn life, but for now, this stands as a one-shot.

Thanks in advance for the feedback!



Carlisle did not usually act on impulse. The first time that he had allowed himself to do so had brought him Edward.

Edward was not grateful for Carlisle's company as Carlisle was for Edward's companionship. He loathed who he had become - what Carlisle had made him into.

Carlisle hated himself for forcing another poor soul into the life of eternal misery.

There were many holes Carlisle's exterior. The things that he wanted, things that he could never have, ate away at him. No one was there to greet him at the door when he came home. No one was there to miss him when he was assigned an extra shift at the hospital, or when he was late after a particularly gruesome night. No one was there to listen to his worries and doubts, his hopes and dreams of the years to come.

Carlisle's loneliness wasn't cured until Esme came along. She was radiant; an angel sent from heaven to brighten his dreary existence - the product of his second impulsive decision.

This wonderful feeling of enlightenment, he thought, was what Edward needed. A solution for his dark temperament. A new beginning, filled with love and acceptance and company.

This, he knew, brought him to Rosalie.

It was early October in 1933. Carlisle found her on the side of the street, on his way to the hospital late at night in Rochester, New York. He could smell all the blood.

Before another coherent thought could pass through his mind, Carlisle swept the unconscious young girl into his arms, and followed the roads that would lead him back home.


He ran to the porch where his wife stood, arms crossed over her chest in a protective stance. Edward was no where in sight.

"He's away hunting, Carlisle," Esme confirmed his suspicions, and then his thoughts were once again consumed by the burden he carried. His wife looked upon them, inspecting the pale human.

The girl in his arms was limp and broken, like a neglected rag doll. Her soft, human features contrasted against the bloodied bruises that littered her porcelain skin. She was beautiful, even in her state of severe duress.

"Esme," he choked out in a whisper. She looked into his eyes. Obviously seeing the desperation and pity there, she let him brush past her without another word, and watched with somber eyes as he descended the spiral staircase.

Carlisle laid the dying blonde on the crisp, clean sheets of their bed. Her blood flowed freely, staining the white fabric a fragrant scarlet.

He loomed over her flushed body. She was so small, so indescribably fragile, that he was afraid to touch her. He thought that she might dissolve into a puddle of shimmering powder as soon as her brushed her with his fingertip.

He knew that she didn't have a chance to be saved by conventional methods. Perhaps that is what prompted his to act this way in the first place.

Carlisle didn't want to dwell on that thought any longer. He let himself fall into the familiar pattern of preparing a patient for operation.

Leaving her side only to retrieve a wet cloth, Carlisle carefully wiped away the evidence of her assault. As the rag passed over her skin, the imperfections disappeared.

He discarded the soiled linens, and stared down at his patient.

Her neck was the color of smooth, pink rose petals when Carlisle brushed her hair back, behind her shoulder. He could feel the heat of her blood radiating from beneath her skin as he bent over, his teeth mere inches from the veins that his vampiric instinct lusted after. Carlisle inhaled deeply, and he could feel his eyes darken. Flames seared down his throat.

He couldn't remember the last time he had hunted. Hours? Days? Weeks?

For that instant, Carlisle could feel himself slipping from that cliff, nearly tumbling down into the rocks that laid at the base.

As he pulled himself back from his prey, Carlisle glanced over her body again. I'm going do it, he thought. I have to.

"It won't happen, Carlisle," he heard Esme whisper from the living room. "Edward will react badly. Just let her go."

Just let her go…

He collapsed into a chair near the bedside and let his head fall into his hands, not answering his wife's pleas.

If he let her die, Carlisle might have let a great opportunity for them all slip through his fingers. Edward could have a mate. She could be a daughter for Esme…for him.

It was all up to him.

"I have to try," Carlisle whispered back firmly, and he stood up from the velvet-upholstered chair and approached the girl once more.

A sudden spout of courage flooded through his being as Esme curled up downstairs, understanding, yet regretful of his decision. Before the feeling could pass, he felt himself lean over the young woman.

His knifelike teeth sliced into her skin and the heavenly liquid gushed abundantly. Removing his jaws from the column of her throat, he dove back in immediately. And again. And again.

The unconscious woman reanimated, and screamed for mercy. Her body trembled violently, in almost rhythmic shudders.

Carlisle's dead heart seemed to pound with life as relief coursed through his body as he leaned back on the bed, perched on the side. He had done it.

But even the sweetest relief had a tang of regret, a razor sharp edge between what should have been, and what happened.

All he had to do now was wait.