He was still grimacing, as if I was paining him. I felt unstable, wasn't sure who I was anymore. Beyond that, I didn't know why I was so confused. My mind felt wonderfully blank, as if something were missing, or hidden. For a reason blissfully unknown to me, I wished my memories would stay out of my mind.
I didn't remember the faces that surrounded me, though it was hard to recognise anything in this alien world. Above me was supposed to be a ceiling, but it was too defined. I could see all the cracks, but that felt wrong. The sheet around me smelled too strongly; I reasoned that I shouldn't be able to smell the fabric softener, or the people who slept in it before me.
I couldn't remember much, though I knew things. I knew the names for the items around me. Lamp. Fabric. Window. I knew adjectives to describe coloos and shapes and words to describe scents. I knew the names of emotions and I knew how they were supposed to feel, but I never remembered feeling anything.
Searching through my memories (something I could never do before), I remembered something cool: the touch of the woman, whose face looked kind, albeit troubled. Her hands, I decided, had clasped around mine, patted my forehead, and pushed my hair-which I remembered was blonde and smelled of apples-out of my eyes. I loved my eyes, I discovered. They were the clearest, most lovely crystal blue. They were kind looking, and innocent. I was loved for them. I faintly remembered being loved by many. Another memory which I decided I didn't want to remember tugged at my brain.
I had been in pain. Agony, it was fire; torching each of my senses. I had no thoughts, no emotions, as the shades of violent red and unconscious black overtook me. I was suddenly aware of my every inch of skin as it burned. But that was it, physical pain and nothing more. And I had known a worse, deeper pain. A memory drifted back to me. It was vague at first, but became painstakingly clear.
Men. At first there was only one, one who had loved me, one who had worshipped me and flaunted me. He was my universe, my supposed knight in shining armor. That night, his breath was tainted with alcohol: something a lady like me had never drank. But I knew the effect it had on people, supposedly. They were free of insight and logic. The men that night were fools, drowning themselves willingly, removing themselves of barriers.
Oh, they had demonstrated that too well.
He had his way with me, grinning when I screamed in agony. He had no restraint, he was violent, a wild animal. I was covered in blood, I was naked, and I was crying. And when I'd finally thought he was done, like a ragged child's toy, he passed me along.
And these group of men, intoxicated and tainting me with their disgusting fluids, had finished raping me.
But they weren't done.
I thought I had no pride left. I was cowering on the street, shivering and bawling. I was beautiful once, it was common knowledge. It was a part of me, the only thing to be proud of. I had been cherished and loved and showered with adoration. Beauty was supposed to be my making in this life. But it ended up being my undoing.
Was it my fault, then, that I had been taken advantage of? My beauty was a part of me-more precisely, the purpose of me-to be admired. Was this part of it, then? Was this my purpose? Was it meant to be? For a second, I hated myself, hated my perfection. I had provoked this. But then my mind went back to the men, the rapists, who had whispered poisonous words into my ears. You wanted this, you deserved this, you asked for this.
But I hadn't. No. I had not asked for this brutal end. I despised the men, hated them. I would kill them, if only I had the strength.
I thought I had no pride left. And I was right. But I did have hate.
"You're wrong," I said quietly.
"What?" his sneering voice replied. His voice. My so-called "knight". My husband.
"I did not ask for this. You are a monster. I hate you."
"You might want to rethink that, love. You might want to consider your words. Because I own you. You are mine."
"No," I replied indignantly.
So they beat me. They told me that they would stop, when I told them they were right. But I was arrogant. I refused. And that had been my end.
I was sure I was dead. But I was lying in this clear, new world and staring into the strange eyes of three distant but familiar people. The tallest, the blond, reached to hold my hand comfortingly.
I jumped.
"No," I whispered, my voice unfamiliar. I was shaking, ready to bolt, though my legs were weak with fear. "No. Don't touch me."
He took a step back before he spoke.
"Rosalie Hale? I'm Doctor Carlisle Cullen. Don't worry, everything's going to be alright."
What do you think? The song "Face Down" inspired much of this, though I used the title "Your Guardian Angel' because I found the concept ironic. Rosalie's 'angel' is supposed to by Royce, but he destroys her, in the end. When she is 'saved', she despises what her new angel has done to her. I feel bad for Rosalie, and I was inspired, so I wrote this. This story needs reviews! If you don't like it, tell me why!