So I sat down to plan some Alice/Jasper angst piece and this decided to pop out instead. This is my first ever look into Rosalie and Emmett, so I figured I'd start at the very beginning. This will remain a one-shot, but if people like it I'll consider doing more with the pair. So please review.

Also, if you like fluff, I suggest checking out Ski Day, Cullen Style.

Lyrics are from Eddie From Ohio's song "Candido and America". And no, I'm definitely not Stephenie Meyer.

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'Cause there's nothing left for me in the old country just heartbreak and shame and old truth
If there's a life to be found in this angel of towns I'll find it, I'll find it for you

Seven years was a lifetime away.

Seven years ago, I was the prettiest child in all Rochester. Seven years ago, the mothers would praise my mother, send their young boys after me, and I would laugh as I chased them away, knowing that none of them were for me. Seven years ago, I would walk into any of the stores lining the busy streets even in the midst of the financial crisis, and the ladies would dote on me, fingering my hair, holding fabrics against my rich, flawless skin, admiring my violet eyes. Seven years ago, everybody envied Rosalie Hale.

And now, I found myself jealous of the naïve girl who danced across my past, who was too confident in her beauty, too vain to know love.

I knew pain. I knew the physical pain, the lash of a human hand across soft skin, the crash of a vulnerable body against cool pavement, the searing burns that trickled through my veins and shuddered along with a racing heart. I knew all of that too well, and now, this new life, this new Rosalie Hale seemed void of all that would lash out against her body.

Now I knew a new pain. I had watched my mother falter, grow distant, and ceased to know her for who she really was. I had seen the ideal man breathe laughter and love into the soul of my best friend through her lips, and I had known that I would never have any of it, that I would be forced to lay a victim on a rain-soaked pavement, left for some fantastical creature's pleasure. I had known that I was only here to become the mate for a creature who only served to irritate me, and I had destroyed as much of my past, as much of what had brought me here, to this life, as I could.

That night, the night of pain and screams, of a hopelessly handsome man by my side, cool stone on warm flesh as the supernatural coursed through my body. I remembered it well. I remembered how the pain had ceased, always waning once it reached a peak, and how I stood. My feet were the first thing I saw. I remembered my slender toes, the shallow arch that had prevented me from becoming a dancer as my mother had dreamed. But they were thinner, sharper, softer – and a pale, icy white, white as the wedding dress that hung in the closet of my mother's home. I remember the concern – were these feet mine? But as I moved them, as I walked into another room, my head stayed focused on each toe as it curled and flexed and carried me across this foreign home. These feet were mine. I noticed the tiny imperfections that I had known – the way the fifth toe curled in on the others, the slightly too long cuticle on the largest toe. But the bunion that had developed from the shoes I had condemned myself to wear was gone. The side of my foot curved attractively, and I was pleased with it. Yet these feet, though mine, were not my feet.

And then he was speaking beside me, explaining once again what I was, as if I didn't know already. One glance up, one glance to the sweeping gilded mirror that graced the wall in front of me, and their words were confirmed. But I didn't want to believe it. I had wanted perfection. Yet it wasn't until then, until that moment, that I realized my perfection involved sitting on the shoreline, gray hair fluttering in the wind, the laughter of children echoing around me. Not this, not these gorgeous curves, pale skin, the hauntingly beautiful red eyes. It was someone else's perfection.

So I had done the only thing that made sense to me there, in that moment, without moving the feet that weren't mine. I had lashed out at the gorgeous woman in front of me, watched as her image shattered, felt the worried gaze of a caramel-haired woman on my back.

Seven years of bad luck.

I have lived through two of them. The caramel-haired woman was Esme, and I owed much to her. Without her, I would have long since succumbed to the thirst that always scratched the back of my throat. Her cool touch, one long gaze from her ocher eyes, and I remember my humanity. On nights when it became too much, she would grace my side, her hand sliding up and down my back as I cried tearlessly, the only way that was left to me now. And she became my mother, one day.

Now, I was running. I had assumed I was running away, running from everything, but her voice in my head prevented me from going far. I enjoyed speed. It was my getaway from the loneliness, and somehow one talent that defined my existence as a vampire became my one escape. I had been fast as a human. I had outrun the young boys as a child, been able to dart away from their grasp and constantly confound them. Now, there were only blurs around me as I moved, leaping over boulders, my black eyes scanning the distance, searching for movement.

Thirst remained unbearable, as if someone held a razor to the back of my throat. And it was Carlisle, the husband of my new mother, who told me in a horribly gentle voice that I could not quench the pain, that my new goal was to ignore it and satisfy myself with only the food I needed to sustain myself. And I was angry at him, very angry, disgusted that he could tell me how to live now, that he could take away everything I loved and then not allow me to satisfy the most primal urges of my new existence. Yet he remained calm, his gold eyes never scrutinizing me. He favored the other one, Edward. He forgave him when his thirst overcame him, when he would return home with crimson eyes. And though my eyes never tinged red, it was still Edward whom Carlisle trusted, Edward whom he confided in. Even Esme wanted me around only for her Edward, as I discovered. She wanted me to love him, and I could not, not after his family stole my very being away from me, not after he looked down on me with disgust, refusing to love me.

I had envied their family as a human. I had envied their riches, their beauty, and how they managed to stay out of the social circle, casting their noses up at us. For seven years they had existed, living in Rochester but casually stepping aside from everyone who milled the streets. And I understood why, now, of course. Yet there was more left of me from my human days than they accepted, and I longed to be normal.

They had fought again, the three of them, assuming I couldn't hear through the paper-thin walls. Their clear voices had carried over – I was the topic of their conversation, naturally. Yet this was attention I didn't crave. They were questioning my loyalty yet again. I wanted to scream, to stare at them with my golden eyes, to flamboyantly display my perfect track record, to explain everything to them, but I could not. And so, in the morning, my eyes were dark with thirst, and I slipped out the window of my room, leaving their voices behind me as they milled around, never sleeping.

I could run for hours, and it was much faster than driving. I didn't need gasoline, and I never had to check the brakes. There was no chance of my body igniting, not here, and so I continued moving, counting the miles. Ninety-seven. Ninety miles to the forests, seven to get deep within the plants, to feel the shadows crashing over my body, to cease the sparkling skin that I simultaneously loved and detested. My skin threw rainbows. And while I enjoyed the sensation, the tingling, while it felt alive, I wanted so desperately to be normal. Again, I thought back. Seven years ago, I had fantasies of children, of high voices and tiny dresses and blue blankets adorned with flowing bows. And still, I had no one, no one to realize my fantasies. There was no one.

Finally, I slowed, leaning against a particularly tall tree. My throat ached, yet I had no desire to submit to the animals. I desired more. The golden eyes were not enough for me. Carlisle would not accept me, regardless of the color of my irises – already he was disappointed in me for not living up to his expectations. Edward was cold, hostile, uninterested, and Carlisle was displeased. I rarely saw him, yet when we passed his golden eyes would never look at me, trained straight ahead, his face turned away. Did he think I didn't notice? I was unsure.

My eyes turned downwards, my hands folded across my lap. I cherished my hands – I had always loved my hands, the smooth skin, the callus on my middle finger that represented my literacy. The callus remained one of my few imperfections in this body, one remembrance of my human life. My fingernails were long, unbreakable now, smooth and well-shaped. I wore no rings.

It was silent here. The wind lashed through the trees, songbirds fluttered in the branches above. In the distance, miles away, I heard footsteps, but I ignored them, lost in my own self-pity, enjoying the absence of their voices.

I smelled it a split second before I heard it.

It was delicious, enticing, exactly what I had waited for. It smelled nearly magical, and instantly my throat raged, my body rising involuntarily, my legs lunging towards the aroma, my vision sharper. Four miles. I could see through the trees as I continued running, focusing on the movement in the distance where the trees faded and the boulders seized the ground.

His scream nearly stopped me. Human. The benefit of hunting animals was their lack of protest, their silent surrender, their ready acceptance of death. This was a protest, a cry, a desire for help, for someone. Yet the blood alone forced me to move forward, leaping over the rocks, listening for every trash of his body. A bear attack. They were quite frequent, really, catching hikers unaware. This bear was winning – his scent was overpowered by the fresh human blood that flowed through the rocks, the aroma plunging through my senses, all five of them screaming at me to feed, to eat, to satisfy myself. And within seconds, I saw him.

His face was contorted into a grimace of pain as he screamed again, his muscular body fighting against the bear which tore strips of skin from his body with ease. He was young, perhaps twenty, and he smelled completely intoxicating. But against everything my senses screamed at my body, my feet slowed as my eyes narrowed on this human.

His eyes were blue, bright blue, and as he fought the curls in his dark brown hair, plastered with sweat, cascaded across them. There was a charming aspect of this face, even contorted in pain, that so reminded me of the children I could never have. Seven years ago, I would have killed for a son with this face. Yet now, I wanted him, this man whom I had never seen before, whose face, whose existence proposed so many secrets.

And I found myself flinging myself at the bear, my teeth plunging into its neck, listening to the gurgle that escaped its lips as its life was torn from it. The powerful grizzly was no more, and I turned from it, eyes still dark with unquenched thirst, back to him, where he lay, his head against the cold stone as blood flowed around him, soaked into his clothing, his wounds exposed.

In him, I saw what I couldn't see in Edward – the simplicity, the normalcy, the vulnerability. I wasn't breathing, but he was, his chest shuddering with the simple action, my hand crushing the boulder I leaned against as I listened to his racing, faltering heart. No. He was dying, his blood flowing around the rocks, crimson rivers nearly lapping at my feet. And I should have drunk them, perhaps, left him there, admitted my weakness. Yet I wanted to prove Carlisle wrong, wanted to show him my worth. And I wanted him, this man who writhed at my feet.

I should have changed him there – I had ripped my fangs from the bear, perhaps, yet his blood was too sweet, and I was already alerted to his every move, every function. I could not tear my teeth from his skin, not like this, not while my black irises urged me to lap up the blood that spilled across the ground like a savage wolf, like an animal, the creature I really was. For Carlisle had been doing this longer, much longer. He was stronger than I was, more capable, and though I detested admitting that, it was the truth.

One hundred miles. A normal day, perhaps, and I could run it in fifty minutes – today, I had come in fifty-five. I closed my eyes, reaching for his shuddering body, holding it in front of me as if cradling a child. And he was – he was mine now, the one I was destined to save. I had to get him home.

Where was home? Was it really the house I had come from this morning, the house filled with arguing voices and my tearless sobs? I sighed as I ran, regretting the decision as his blood pierced my nostrils. I stumbled over a root, surprising myself, and he shifted in my arms. I slowed, afraid I would drop him, afraid we would both fall, that I could crush him, that I could lose this battle.

My throat screamed, blood still teeming from his fresh wounds. I kept my eyes focused ahead, dark as night, focusing on the textures of the trees, running to the syncopated rhythm of his uneven breaths. I counted them as I moved, darting between the trees. Three. Four. Five.

Home. Six. Seven.

Seven years of bad luck. I was never a superstitious person, yet now, the image in the mirror returned to haunt me, floating behind my eyelids. The ghost of an angel, with blood red eyes, eyes to match the wounds of the man in my arms. Perfect curves, a perfect body, a body I would gladly trade for humanity. Yet now, I was trapped here, trapped with my bad luck. Seven years was the blink of an eye in eternity.

He shuddered again in my arms, and my eyes scrutinized his face, memorizing the lines that spelled out creases by his eyes, the folds of his lips, the dimples that seemed out-of-place on this grown man, while all the while the predator of pain inside me begged for one bite, one lick. Resist. Seven years ago, the thought of drinking blood was repulsive, foreign. And now, I wanted his. I craved it like nothing else. Slowly, my senses were becoming overpowered by the thirst that threatened his life. I could hear little but the beating of his heart, the coursing of blood through his veins, his shallow breaths. I could no longer smell the evergreen – my nose was only for him, for the delicacy in my arms. As I ran, it became increasingly harder for me to tear my gaze away from his face, from the eyes that would flutter open every few seconds, allowing me to glimpse the deep pools of blue below before they closed again.

Fifty-two. Fifty-three. Trees blurred beside me, and I hardly noticed anymore as his breaths grew shallower, as his pulse slowed. I ran faster. He could not die. I didn't know him, but I knew he had to survive this.

I was selfish, I realized yet again. I did not know this man, but already I felt I could claim him, that he was mine, that he deserved to remain with me forever. I found my head bending towards him, my mouth open, and recoiled in horror. No. I couldn't – I wouldn't, not for him. I would return home with golden eyes.

He moaned again, and I sped, unwilling to lose him, unwilling to fail yet again.

Faster, faster. I ignored the logs that tripped my feet, willing myself past them, continuing the numerical sequence. One thousand, four hundred, eighty one. Closer to home, closer, closer. I wasn't sure – my senses were almost all overpowered. I couldn't smell anything but the blood that was soaking through my thin black shirt, and I heard nothing but his racing pulse, his haggard breaths, the twitch of his eyelids as they opened and he breathed yet again. Was he conscious again? I wasn't sure – his fingers flinched, his heart raced, and my eyes stayed glued to his face. Closer, closer. Carlisle would save him. He would succeed where I was destined to fail.

Forty-five minutes of running, forty-five minutes in which I was sure I would succumb to his aroma. My throat was hoarse – I wasn't sure if I could speak with the pain that breathing brought me, and I tried not to intake the blistering air. But I couldn't continue running without my lungs. Each time I breathed, I was compelled to kill him, to kill the beautiful creature in my arms, to lap up the blood that dripped from his body to mine.

One thousand, five hundred, sixty seven. I tripped again, and I found myself crashing to the ground, my clogged senses barely enough to keep me from dropping him, and his heart rate lowered. No. No. I tried to blink past him, try to see more in the setting sun, scraped him up into my grasp yet again and ran, further, faster. Please. Please. He couldn't die. He wasn't going to die.

I didn't realize I was sobbing until the familiar home with the blue shutters entered my vision. Our house was secluded from everything, ten miles away from the nearest neighborhood, accessible only through a series of winding dirt paths. And my new family was almost always home. I kept tripping, the world around me swirling into a blur, his heartbeat screaming in my ears, the wailing of my throat competing. Pain shot up and down my body, pain that I knew could cease if I bent to drink.

"Carlisle!" I screamed, hoping the name would flow through my sobs, hoping he'd hear, understand the source of my pain and care enough to rescue me, to rescue him. His eyes were closed again, his breathing shallow. He was fading. "Carlisle!" I shrieked, desperate to see the calm face, the collected nature.

A light flicked on in the huge house, and a shadowy figure was running, running to meet me, followed by two others, these shorter. My cries grew louder – I was about to drop him, he was going to die, and everything was inaudible except for his failing heart. I felt his weight on my arms, felt the blood that soaked my stony skin and stained my black sweater, staring once again into his face, the creases of his eyes, his dimples.

And then suddenly he was gone, and I cried out again until strong hands held my back, rubbing between my shoulder blades in a familiar pattern, and I clung on to Esme, letting her hold me while I shook, attempting to ignore the shrieks of pain that emanated from the ground. She continued rubbing my back, once, twice, always in the same pattern as his face contorted into pain yet again, and Carlisle rose.

I was selfish. I had done this for myself. I should have let nature claim him, should have allowed things to take their own course, yet I couldn't. The sobs shook my body harder, and I cursed myself for wallowing in such self-pity. It was always me. I always had to have the attention, and now I had condemned another to live the life I hated.

"No," a satiny voice whispered from a few meters away. "Do not think that of yourself."

I turned, glancing up from Esme's shoulder. Edward watched me, and finally there was a trace of worry in his perfect features. I hadn't noticed his presence. I had been too focused on myself yet again. "Why?" I choked out. "I'm selfish. And now, he has to live with what I hate." The words were mangled as I leaned into Esme yet again, letting her motherly aroma wash over me, still unable to let go of the way he'd looked at me, the way his eyes had smiled at me even in his unconscious state.

"Because he loves you," Edward said simply.

I stared into his golden eyes, meeting his gaze, and for once, understanding him. Perhaps, finally, he cared. Perhaps now he understood, knew that I wasn't all vanity. Perhaps I had rescued this man. Perhaps, one day, he would thank me for it.

Perhaps my seven years of bad luck had run dry tonight.