Persephone
September 1933
Music has always been my retreat. Even in my hazy recollections of a childhood long ago, there is always a soundtrack, an auditory pathway that leads my mind back to more vivid memories buried deep within. And in this life, my vampire life, it is like a cocoon from the thoughts I am bombarded with every second. I liken it to lying with one's head submerged in the bath tub, the noise outside is still present, but pleasantly muffled. An aside, as opposed to the main storyline.
Back then, in Rochester, it had suddenly become even easier to immerse myself in sound. I had choices. The radio was a marvel, it truly was, but my most enduring fascination had been for my new portable gramophone. It meant I no longer had to be convivial and listen to music in the parlour, but instead could shut my bedroom door and indulge myself in whatever genre my mood drew me toward. It made the nights pass more quickly, and my room was quickly becoming congested with stacks of records, to the point that Carlisle had suggested I store some of them in the library, a suggestion which I had baulked at. My music was exactly that, mine. I liked having it around me.
On that particular day, I had just purchased a new classical piece, Persephone's libretto. Like an eager child I had carried it from the store, reverently drawing the glossy black vinyl from its sleeve and lying back on the carpeted floor of my bedroom as the music washed over me. I revelled in the narrative, the story of the goddess who had been ripped from her life and abducted to become mistress of the underworld, formidable and majestic queen of the shades. It was engaging, and I was quite prepared to absorb myself in its subtleties until dawn broke, when a particularly frantic thought from the other vampire in the house broke through my barricades.
Esme? I sat up quickly, my senses already on high alert, wondering if there was a threat. And then all at once I knew the source of her alarm, the rich, cloying scent of human blood, lots of it, enveloping me and causing venom to flow freely in my mouth and down my throat. But there was another scent that tainted the aroma, and this one drew forth a low rumble from my chest. What had he done?! Within fractions of a second I was downstairs, joining Esme at the open front door as Carlisle drew into sight. He was carrying something, someone, and as he came closer, so the heady scent grew stronger. I couldn't stop myself from dragging in a breath, nostrils flaring as my mouth flooded again, and I must have taken a step forward, as my mother laid a cautionary hand upon my arm.
Remembering myself, I did as I should have done already, and ceased breathing, noticing for the first time the thoughts of my creator as he hurried towards us
Such a waste, such a terrible waste.
He looked up then, and met Esme's eyes, repeating aloud his thoughts as he stepped up onto the porch and into the light spilling from the open door. The severity of the situation suddenly became clear to me and my eyes widened it outrage.
"Rosalie Hale? Are you out of your goddamned mind?" I spat out, unable to comprehend the events that could have led to my father standing on our porch, cradling the battered and broken body of one of the most recognisable faces in Rochester. The scent of her blood was mingled with that of his venom, meaning he had already placed us in an untenable position. I spun round, my hand crashing into the side of the house and splintering the wood "What the hell, Carlisle?!"
His voice didn't waver as he shouldered past me into the house. "I could not leave her to die Edward. Whatever you may think, it is not the time to be discussing such things. She is changing"
" I'll..I'll make up a bed in the small room" Esme stuttered, glancing worriedly between us before blurring up the stairs. Carlisle followed, the girl within his arms already starting to twitch as the fire of the venom coursed through her veins, burning as it went.
I stood uselessly on the porch for a moment, seething. In the quiet I could hear the sound of Stravinsky drifting down from my room, an oddly disjointed soundtrack to the last few moments. About to reach its crescendo, the music was suddenly drowned out by a screaming torrent of thought crashing into my mind. It was not the voice of my father, nor Esme and I frowned in confusion until the babble of thoughts suddenly took shape and became crystal clear.
I'm dying, I'm burning…oh God, help me…
I turned and fled into the night.