I held out my hand, flexed it. Long and elegant. There was not a hint of pink, or of blue veins. Normally I regarded it as ethereally beautiful.
Right now, my skin just looked overly pale, strangely so, as though I was made of wax.
It was no wonder. Blood did not flow under it.
I miss the startling blue of my eyes, the pink of my skin. I miss paper cuts, and the drop of crimson that emits from the tiny wound.
Believe it or not, I was always happy with the way I was. Shallow. Like a pool in summer. Don't you think the light that makes its way through is pretty? It makes those lovely little patterns on the bottom. A silly comparison, I know, but it serves my message well.
Now, I do not believe myself to have a shallow soul: I only believe that I am soulless.
I try not to think deep thoughts. When you think too deeply, you become moody. Only look at Edward. But there is one thing that he and I can agree on, and that is the fact that we wish our fate on no one.
True love? Don't try to tell me about true love. Don't tell me you'd throw your soul away for true love. I did not love until after death, I did not know the meaning of love during my short life. Love only comes in the wake of great, great pain.
You do not know pain until your blood is consumed by poison, until your insides combust into flame. You do not know pain until you writhe in a bed for weeks, screaming until you become too hoarse. Then you moan, murmur, hallucinate.
And worst of all, one by one, your memories will trickle away.
That, Isabella, is pain.
a/n: Oh, the angst, the angst. Just a quick Rosalie drabble thing. I might continue, because I have all these ideas of what I could do to lead up to this moment - that is, go into the events that lead up to her being a vampire and being such a cynic. oO But if I did, it would be some kind of a summer project... I hope it was okay! And, oh, yeah. Review. xD