I lie on the pavement, barely conscious. I look around . . . nothing looks familiar. Did I even know where I was going?
Their laughs still echoed in my mind . . . their drunken guffaws of glee, the slurred boasts of my beauty, how it didn't matter because I'd end up being a whore anyways. . .
The pain of being pushed to the ground . . . the power, the sheer strength, even in their drunken state. I can hear the grisly knock of my skull against the pavement that sent stars to my head. The blurred, cut-up images of trying to get away, my nails snapping and shredding as I tried to claw away, trying to get a footing to run.
Their slurred, crude remarks . . . their slobbering, foul-smelling aura was enough to send my stomach careening out onto the stone ground beneath me. I can still hear their laughs echoing in my mind as they dragged me away from the disgusting muck by the ankle, into a more secluded corner of the alley.
Why hadn't I asked Vera's husband to escort me home?
My screams . . . nothing but my screams. A fist collides with my jaw, cracking it, sending a few teeth flying . . . I spit blood . . . still clawing away. Blood, everywhere there is blood. Scrapes and blood on my hands and knees . . . blood in my mouth and on my face . . .
I can feel cold air all around me as my skirt is lifted up . . . the rest is a blur . . . a horrible, awful blur. I can taste blood in my mouth . . . there's so much I can barely even keep it in my mouth. I can't spit, but I can't swallow it either . . . I cough back the urge to vomit again . . . my spit and blood and tears are all mixing . . . I can't breathe, I can't move.
I'm choking in my own blood. My life is ending.
No one is around . . . no one is staring . . . no one is watching . . . no one bothers to help.
She's dead anyway. . .
Suddenly, a glowing light surrounds me -- a worried face
"Ma'am . . ."
The voice is so echoy that I can barely make out what it's trying to say . . . but I realize it is a man's voice. No, no . . . not again . . .
I could feel it building in my stomach, feel the horror and the fear building. The slow, soft rumble in my throat, before I let it slip. A scream erupts from my lips, an awful, blood-curdling sound. I try to roll over and crawl away, but his hands are stronger than my willpower. One hand on my shoulder, he rolls me back over. But unlike the harsh, drunken movements of Royce and his friends, this man is firm and gentle. His skin is smooth on my bare shoulder.
"Can you hear me?"
The voice reverberates in my skull, hitting and bumping against every bruised and broken part of me. It aches . . . everything . . . everything hurts. I whimper . . . I can taste the blood on my lips.
"I'm going to take you home."
No, please, no . . .
I knew what "home" meant, and I didn't want to go to this man's home . . . I knew only where that would lead. But my home would mean destruction-- shame on my entire family. I would be done for. Part of me wanted the man to ruin me. Kill me, kill me now . . .
I can feel something coming from my lips ... I know that it's words . . . but how? I have no strength left, I have no willpower left . . . the only thing still working is my mind. I don't want it to work. I don't want my mind to wander. I want it to die . . . to be ruined, just like everything else. I'm done for. I'm useless, hopeless. Suddenly, I realize what I'm saying . . .
"Kill me . . ."
"I'm not going to hurt you," the voice continues. Is it the man, or God?
God, I whisper to myself. Take me into your Holy Land . . . Our father, who art in heaven . . . hallowed be thy name.
What was I doing? What was I saying? I had never gone to church . . . my family had always boasted to be of the good Christian faith, but we never went. It was part of our societal status. It was part of our life, but it wasn't.
"What is your name?"
I didn't answer -- I couldn't answer. I only kept praying . . . it was all I could think to do.
Thy kingdom come . . .
Where had I heard this prayer? I had no idea where it was coming from.
On earth as it is in heaven . . .
I could feel the man wrapping his arms around me . . . he was so strong . . . how was he lifting me? My entire body felt so heavy, so lost . . . I must weigh 500 pounds . . . He was running now . . . running? How was he running? How could anybody run like this, when the world's very weight was weighing down upon my body? Nothing left in the world had strength. I felt myself flying through air, my hair whipping across my face.
And give us this day our daily bread . . .
Of course . . . Vera said this prayer. She said it at every meal with her husband. She had said it when I had had dinner with her earlier . . . when was that? A week ago? A year ago? It felt like one hundred years.
"Henry. . . "
I could see the boy's face, his dimples and his curly hair. Was it so awful that I had wanted that too? I wanted a son, I wanted a loving husband . . . I had only realized it . . . and the minute I leave their haven, this is what happens to me. Why . . . why did God torture me so?
"What's your name?"
My name? My name . . . I had a name? What could it possibly be? Nothing had meaning, nothing had life. . .
"Rosalie . . . hell . . ."
No, no not hell . . . Hale . . . Hale? What was Hale? Wail, stale, mail . . . hail . . . like ice? My body didn't feel like ice . . . it was burning with a fire so intense . . . the pain of Royce's fists and his monstrous, claw-like hands . . .
As we forgive those who have trespassed against us . . .
Not Royce. Never Royce. Never, never . . .
"Never . . ."
I could feel an odd sort of heat . . . I was inside a room now, in a building. No longer was the cold air of the outside world whipping against my face. I was lying down on something soft . . . a bed . . . a small sofa, perhaps.
If he was going to have me, let it be quick, I prayed.
And lead us not into temptation . . .
I could feel tears sliding down my face. The pain was so awful . . . everything ached and stung and stabbed at my heart.
"I don't want you to be afraid."
The voice had gotten clearer. It was still the man. I felt that I could open my eyes. I did, and I saw the most beautiful face in the world. It was a man, but the look on his face was so kind, I knew I was in no danger. Everything around him was so dark and painful, it was like I was in hell, but his face was so pale it almost gleamed . . . it was glowing, I was sure of it -- I had been touched by an angel.
"Who are you?" I whispered.
But deliver us from evil . . .
"I'm Carlisle Cullen," he whispered back. "Rosalie, I'm not going to hurt you. Don't be afraid."
Tears trickled in a small stream from my face. I was dying. I was dead. But he would be with me . . . this . . . Carlisle-- he would be with me.
"I'm . . . s-sorry . . ." I whispered. "Save me . . ."
For Thine is the Kingdom . . .
"There's nothing to be sorry for," said Carlisle. "Everything will be okay."
And everything started to fade, everything around me was blurring . . . even Carlisle Cullen's beautiful, pale, gleaming face was spinning away. But he was getting closer, and closer. He brushed the hair away from my neck and my face . . . his lips grazed my throat. For a split second, I thought I had been wrong all along about him, that he really was going to hurt me.
And the power . . .
"Don't be afraid . . ." he murmured again. "I need you to trust me."
And the Glory . . .
". . . save me . . ." I managed to croak out.
Forever and ever . . .
I knew I was going to be alright. I didn't know how, but I did. I closed my eyes, welcoming death, or whatever it was that awaited me on the other side. Whatever this angel had in store for me. My lids fluttered closed, and everything around me finally went dark.
Amen.