Title; Paradise Decay
Summary; She is Rosalie Hale, and she is beautiful. [Rosalie-centric, for Danie.]
Notes; For Danie (xPerfectlyImperfect) at the Gift-Giving Extravaganza 2014; first time writing Twilight, so, yeah. Also, apologies for poor research (I may have made this sound more like the 1800s than the '30s, tbh). Rather snippety. I own nothing.
Warnings; spoilers for Eclipse, highly implied rape and abuse, um. . .hinted slut-shaming and misogyny? (Since, y'know, this was the '30s.)
"Nights for sitting in the dark
Days for lying in the park
Wake me up from my sick dream
A requiem for this dead scene."
― All Those Friendly People / Funeral Suits
.
The snow starts, a fluffy storm descending on one broken, almost-dead figure like a spotlight. Flickering streetlights beam down at her every few seconds—at first glance, she is a crumpled angel fallen from grace, golden hair spilled around her head like a halo, breathing shallow.
Her lips are blue. Her heartbeat thuds away inside her ribcage. It hurts.
.
This is the first thing that Rosalie Hale learns―she is not pretty, she is not cute, she is beautiful, and she should never settle for anything else. When her father's colleague smiles down at her, a teacup in his hand, and says how adorable she is, she beams and her mother's eyebrows jump up so high they disappear into her hair. "That's not quite what I would call it." Adorable is too modest.
The gaze she sends her daughter looks like that of a museum curator paying for an expensive masterpiece, only to find a flaw upon further inspection. Rosalie shrinks away from it.
At six years old, she adorns herself with cheap, plastic jewels; if she isn't naughty, she can handle some of her mother's things―gleaming pendants, gaudy gemstones set into rings and necklaces that rest in the hollow of her throat like they're claiming her―when she's a bit older. The little girl waltzes throughout the street; all the girls glare in jealousy, tucked by their mothers' sides.
Her best friend, Vera, smiles and hooks her arm around the blonde. She drags Rosalie into a reluctant skip, reluctant because the girl doesn't want to get her dress tangled, and together they're the most beautiful children on the entire street.
.
When Rosalie is eight years old and in second grade, she's voted the prettiest—correction, most beautiful—girl in her class. It's not an official title, of course, though she thinks it should be. The ceremony takes place during recess, and the voting is done by a show of hands among the female students, all crowded underneath the jungle gym in a mess of frills and curly hair.
Of course, most of them vote for themselves, but Rosalie still wins. She smiles graciously and accepts the title without hesitation, though she is slightly annoyed that she stained her dress on the dirt. Her mother would definitely scold her. Usually, during recess, she sits on the bleachers with Vera and they compare headbands, ignoring the crowd of wannabees that try to slip into their conversation, usually with a compliment.
"I love your outfit!"
"Your hair is so shiny!"
Rosalie, basking in pride among the crowd of admiring girls trying to suck up to her, only nods in response, agreeing with them. Then—
"You're so pretty!"
Rosalie freezes, her eyes flashing with irritation. She frowns, turning towards the offender; mossy-haired Lucy Jenner, who's still grinning and unaware of what she said.
"Excuse me?"
"W-what?" Lucy stammers, surprised by the sharp tone. She seems to shrink under the harsh stares send her way. All the other girls are glaring at her now, too, and though they have no idea what's going on, if Rosalie Hale is angry, then so are they.
"I'm not pretty," Rosalie says slowly, emphasizing each word.
"Oh, um—"
"I'm beautiful. Got it?" She walks away without waiting for a response.
.
When Rosalie is ten years old, she's at the playground with Vera, babysitting her youngest brother. Andrew Hale steps aside for an eight-year-old girl on the swingset as his sister chatters along with her friend, beaming profusely when the little girl gives him a grateful kiss on the cheek. He turns bright red and blushes as she requests for him to push her back and forth for just a few minutes.
The problem is, he can't―she weighs far too much for him to handle, and it doesn't help she's also a year older. The girl looks upset when the most he can manage is a few inches, and not wanting to disappoint her, he asks, "Rose, can you please do it for me?"
Rosalie glances at the girl, noticing her for the first time and curling her lip in distaste. Vera has stopped talking, staring at her as well. "Andrew, don't be silly. Why should I help her? She's ugly."
It's true―there's a bruise on the side of her face, her eyes are more mousy brown than anything rich or worth looking at, and her hair is jaggedly cut as well as being the color of straw, plus the aforementioned being overweight. Rose continues to talk to Andrew despite the fact the girl's eyes are watering, her hands hooked around the chains supporting the swing and her toes digging into the earth. "She's not exactly interesting. I mean, how'd she even get that? Hit her head, maybe, and it probably did things to her brain. She really needs to eat well. Don't babies like her learn basic nutrition?"
"I know, right?" Vera joins in scornfully, despite the girl's face slowly turning red. "And she's so short, too. And her clothes―don't even get me started. What was her mother thinking?"
"She wasn't," Rosalie says with a snort. Andrew looks almost torn; you're supposed to obey your sister above all else, and they've never really been the bickering kind of family. He turns back to the girl, an apology on the tip of his tongue, but the girl ignores it and punches his sister in the face.
A parent nearby notices and starts to get up from the bench she's sitting on, but she can't do anything, having to set down the baby she's cradling.
The younger girl's face contorts into a fierce snarl, and there's a hint of a smug smirk as she stares at Rosalie, massaging her bruised knuckles. It shouldn't even be legal for an eight-year-old female to pack such a punch, but she just says, "See how that looks on your pretty face."
Rosalie stares at the girl, whose eyes are cool and unbudging and not at all like an eight-year-old's. The ball is in her court now.
She takes Vera's hand and walks away first.
.
When her fourteenth birthday hits, she has to decide who to invite. Fourteen is important; she's entering high school, and with the Depression around, that's enough of a privilege. At fourteen, girls are trying to get married so they have a husband to latch onto when their family income runs dry. But as beautiful as she is, she isn't quite so worried about money or boys.
Of course, Vera is first on the list; she also picks out Irma Goyani, the Walker twins, Hazel Bunzel, and Rachel Lee. It's not an invitation so much as a metaphorical handshake―they're her friends now, and they obviously can't refuse. She's richer and more beautiful than any of them, even if she's certainly not the richest or most beautiful in the town.
So starts her career in social climbing, though she's quite unaware that it's what she should want to do.
.
Her first courtier is a fifteen-year-old only a few months older than her named Joseph, often Joey for short. He's dedicated, to say the least―he smothers her in compliments, flowers, and chocolates. It's cliche, to say the least, but she likes him. Not loves, but she likes him, and her mother approves. Ambitious, they call him. Their first kiss is after a month of dating; it's on a moonlit seashore, romantic and swoon-worthy, like it should be.
She breaks up with him four months later―she likes him, even loves him, but she can't marry him. Not when the Depression hits his family staggeringly hard and he goes from handsome to palms smudged with dirt, and she can't be touched by those.
.
Half a year later, James casually mentions the name Sarah Colt at dinnertime, and she senses Andrew rooted to the spot. It's not familiar to her, but he says, "I know her." With a tilt of his head, he adds casually, "She's one of my friends. Why do you mention her?"
Ah. The name clicks into place. It's the swingset girl. It bothers Rosalie that the girl had gone on to make friends with her little brother, especially since she'd made it infinitely clear she didn't have the Hales' stamp of approval, but surely Andrew's joking, right? Anyway, he's barely a teenager, and their friendships never last, just quick one-year things.
With a grunt, James frowns in disapproval and points out the window as he wipes his mouth with a napkin. A smudge of gravy is on his chin, but no one points it out. "They moved near one of my friends' houses. It's annoying. They're so loud."
Vera, who's visiting the house for dinner, glances up and frowns. "What do you mean?"
"The father hits the kids," he says with a yawn. "Saw Sarah storming out of the house today." He notices the gravy in the reflection of his spoon and frowns again, wiping it off.
Vera turns pale. "Shouldn't they do something about that?" Guilt is thick in her voice, ridiculously obvious to her best friend, but of course, only two of the Hales at the table know what she did. She dabs delicately at her chin with a pink handkerchief.
"Happens all the time," James replies with a snort. "What are we supposed to do about it?"
Vera looks hurt, and she gestures to Rosalie. "Can we talk in private?"
.
"Look," Vera breathes, twisting her hands together as she drags Rose into the other room. "Shouldn't we apologize to that Sarah person? We were kind of mean to her, and. . .oh, God, how do you think she got that bruise?" She's crossing and uncrossing her legs as she plops down onto the couch, causing the neatly arranged pillows to fall out of their perfect formation.
"Don't be silly," Rosalie says with a roll of her blue eyes. She's standing up, her shadow overlapping her friend. "She's still not that pre―beautiful, you know."
Vera isn't appeased, saying all sorts of silly things about how beauty doesn't matter when personality comes first and that doesn't mean Sarah deserves what she gets and you're my friend, Rose, but―
Rosalie doesn't want to see that sentence finished, so she snaps sharply for Vera to shut up and placates her with a promise that she at least won't be mean to the Colt girl anymore.
.
Vera is eighteen now, and she gets engaged to a man named John. The two girls argue all night, about how she's an adult now and she can make her own choices and John is good enough for her, thank you very much, and anyway, it's not what her life revolves around. Vera extends a hopeful invitation that Rosalie will be her maid of honor, but the girl refuses, saying she's very well aware the maid of honor is meant to look ugly so she won't outshine the bride.
Rosalie's not having that.
They make up a week later and feed bread to the ducklings at the park pond, but she's a little shaken.
.
When Rosalie is seventeen, the Cullen family moves into town. She hates them instantly―gorgeous Edward, handsome Carlisle, and beautiful Esme. That's not the only adjective they use, of course, but it's the worst, worse than flawless, radiant, angelic, alluring, exquisite, resplendent―the list runs on and on, some of them aimed with sarcasm, others admiration.
When she's eating lunch with her parents one day, they openly discuss marrying her off to Edward. She nearly throws up at the idea, her pinky finger gripping her teacup so tight the knuckle goes white, but doesn't show it as she stares at her porcelain plate. The fluorescent lights glance off it, so shiny she can see her reflection. Her beautiful reflection. So much better than the Cullens.
What a delusion.
Fortunately, her parents come to the conclusion that they shouldn't. The Cullens are certainly well-to-do, and Rosalie and Edward would make a charming couple, but they're not social climbers the way the Hales are. They have no social status, and no interest in mingling.
The relief washes over her like a tidal wave, sweeping her off her feet, and she has to refrain from thanking her parents with watery eyes. They wouldn't understand it, why she hates them so much, when they're not a threat to the Hale parents at all.
.
"Rose, dear, run over to the bank for me, won't you?" asks her mother later that week, running a skilled hand through her daughter's hair. She rolls it up and pins it into place with an orange butterfly clip before standing back to observe Rosalie with a satisfied smile. Handing a small sack to her, she explains, "I forgot your father's lunch."
Rosalie nods obediently, tucking the sack under her arm and casting a curious glance at herself in the mirror. She's radiant, of course―decked out in a casual sundress, hardly skimpy, but not modest to the point of prudishness either. She wonders why she has to look like she's dressed for an afternoon party just to run over to the bank, but dismisses the thought. "Of course."
"Be back as soon as you can!" calls her mother, waving as her daughter reaches for the doorknob.
.
Royce King II is handsome for certain. He's no Edward Cullen, of course, but there are plenty of ladies swooning when he walks by. He sweeps Rosalie off her feet that first night, her unaware of the way he'd licked his lips predatorily when he saw her. When it's breaktime and her father has thanked her properly for giving him his forgotten lunch, Royce takes her out to the little sweet shop down the street.
Rosalie giggles like a child as she hangs onto his arm; she looks just like another ditz that her mother would cluck her tongue at and wonder how many beds she's been in, but she's Rosalie Hale and she is beautiful. She admires all the racks of candy as if she's never seen any before, as if she won't be vigorously scrubbing her teeth tonight to get any stains out.
The smell of sugar drifts across the shop and makes her lightheaded as she picks out a heart-shaped box of chocolate, sending a clear message to him. They share it under a tree together, making casual conversation.
She'll never mention she kissed a boy on their first date, but she remembers the lingering taste of sugar on his lips.
.
The next few months are like a dream. The day after the candy shop, her father helps her nail the empty chocolate box onto her closet wall, hidden by a curtain of dresses. That's also the morning she receives a bouquet of roses and a small card with only his initials scrawled across it in lovely cursive lettering. Rose petals are all that decorates her bedroom, some wilted and dry, some fresh and alive with every color a rose can be.
On her eighteenth birthday, he walks in with a ring in his hand.
She says yes.
.
That night, when her mother is running about on her two tiny feet in a storm of footsteps and squealing excitedly about what a lovely couple they'll be, Rosalie dances with him in the backyard garden. It's highly improper, but she excuses it just like she excuses accepting the first time he proposes, or him proposing a matter of months after he's started courting. It's all horribly sudden, yes, but it is beautiful, just like they are.
She likes how they sounds. Rosalie Hale and Royce King II. Rosalie and Royce. RosalieandRoyce. His name feels so familiar on her lips, like sticky sugar, like cotton candy melting in her mouth. They, we, us, our. Rosalie's going to be a wife, be a Mrs., be a King―no, a queen―and, well, what a fairy tale.
Fairy tales aren't real, everyone's always said, but she knows it's usually when they're sad and drunk and philosophical, or when they're yelling at their kids, so she dismisses it.
There are still months before their wedding, but they already have everything planned out, right down to the shape of the tables for the reception and the arrangement of flowers for the centerpiece (roses, of course).
They're eating strawberries out of a picnic basket at the park, Royce having just gotten back from a business trip. The sun is bathing them in shades of pink and gold as the day fades to night, the glow highlighting their features and brushing over any visible flaw (not that there were many to begin with). Rosalie pretends to be unbeknownst to the looks of jealously shot their way from bystanders, because among all the couples in the park at this hour, they were without a doubt the most handsome and beautiful pair.
Royce compliments her dress, saying how the purple brings out the color of her eyes, and Rosalie smiles, whispering "thank you" (I know, I wore it for a reason) in a way that still sounds modest and feminine without seeming over-confident.
"You look so pretty," he says, tucking a loose strand of hair behind her ear, looking proud that he has such an attractive wife-to-be. Rosalie almost frowns, before catching herself and forcing a smile.
.
Six months later, Andrew's sixteenth birthday hits and his mother says that he should start courting someone―he hasn't had even one girlfriend, even though he's far from ugly, isn't entirely unattractive personality-wise (not that that matters, Rosalie thinks with a roll of her eyes), and certainly doesn't have a bad reputation in any way. James is just a year older and it'll probably be only a year or two before he's going to get a ring, too.
"I already have my eye on someone," he admits sheepishly, combing his fingers through his hair.
Mrs. Hale leans forward, eyes bright with feverish curiosity. "Who?"
Andrew stutters a little as he tries to get the name out―normally, his sister would think it's adorable, how embarrassed he looks, but that all changes when the name falls off of his tongue and hits both the women on the way down. Rosalie never believed anvils fell from the sky at random, but now she does. It's the name of the swingset girl.
Mrs. Hale recognizes it. Naturally. A shriek of dismay rises as she stares disbelievingly at her youngest son. "But she's poor! And ugly! She has no sense of manners; she acts like a―a―" The word she says is so improper Rosalie's hands fly to her ears instinctively, but after a few moments, she decides to ignore her slip of the tongue and return to the matter at hand. "You can't marry her!"
"I like her," Andrew says defensively, even though he seems like he's wilting already.
Mrs. Hale shook her head, looking disgusted and crossing her arms over her chest firmly. "Absolutely not. I forbid you to marry her―"
"―I didn't say I wanted to marry her, just that I like her!" he snaps, then seems surprised at his own anger. He adjusts his glasses, the only lens the Hale family has ever hated, and leans forward. "Not everything is about how social her parents are or how rich or how beautiful she is―"
At this, his sister has to turn and leave. The way he spits beautiful like it's a curse, like it's poison in his veins. The word turned into something terrible. She half-expects Andrew to apologize to her when she's this upset, which she rarely is, but he doesn't even notice, still arguing with his mother.
The door slams shut a little louder than necessary, and still they don't notice.
.
Rosalie decides to go to Vera's house―surely that'll help her. Her best friend welcomes her with a radiant smile, carrying a baby boy in her arms. Setting him down on a chair with a velvet cushion on it, she gives the blonde a kiss on the cheek before asking, "What brings you here, Rose?"
The woman forces her voice into an airy, unconcerned tone as she walks past Vera. The baby crawls after her, making adorable gurgling noises, a bit of peach-colored fuzz on his scalp. "Oh, nothing, just thought I hadn't seen you in a while."
Vera nods in agreement, but she hasn't been best friends with Rosalie for over a decade without learning anything from her. As time passes on, the girl thinks the Hale is starting to really lose her naivete to the point the bubbliness is only a masquerade, and it hurts her. Maybe it's just pre-wedding stress. "How have you been?" she asks.
"Wonderful! The wedding's in only a week," responds her companion, perching on a red velvet armchair. Vera's about to ask something else, but her friend's too absorbed in the baby to notice as he crawls toward her. With a genuine smile, she picks up the boy. "He's so beautiful, Vera."
Like a proud mother, she nods, but notices the flash of pain on the woman's face.
Vera's husband, John, comes in. His eyes light up when he sees Rosalie, but it's not admiring, just friendly. The idea of it almost makes her sad, but really, she has no reason to be jealous. He's a married man, and it would be improper. Cradling the boy, she offers a small greeting and stares into the baby's eyes. They're green, like Vera's.
Rosalie would like to see her eyes in another person someday―she gets her own from her dead grandmother, and both her siblings don't have that shade of blue. Violet, she remembers Royce calling it.
John kisses Vera, and violet is still echoing in her head like it's a prayer. Why would she pray? Her mother may be Catholic and they go to church on Sundays, but Rosalie's never needed to pray for anything in her entire life. Violets, Royce, roses, wedding, Andrew, swingset. . .oh, God, her head feels like a train wreck.
She looks back at John and Vera, who are both plain. Vera used to be beautiful, maybe, but she's always be dimmed next to Rosalie, and she still has the slightest hint of a swollen belly from when she gave birth. And anyway, she's one hundred percent off limits as a married woman.
They look so happy, Rosalie thinks dreamily, staring down at the baby who's latched onto her leg. They're all so happy. And they're not even beautiful.
.
She starts walking back home at 3 AM, at exactly the moment a shooting star floats across the sky, but it disappears below the horizon before she can make a wish. Oh, well. She never was superstitious, anyway.
.
"Hey there, beautiful!" calls out a man, his words slurred, the syllables overlapping. She's truly getting sick of the word, and anyway, even if she likes compliments, she knows enough not to pay attention to sleazy street drunkards. The man's silhouette is illuminated beneath a flickering streetlight, slightly hunched over as he chats with his buddies. As she passes by, there's a series of catcalls and hoots, and she's about to dismiss it when the voice says, "That's my fiance. Isn't she beautiful? So gorgeous."
There's some other, less appropriate things there that she has to wince at, and she's about to dismiss it as a joke, but when she stops to look back, she realizes he's not joking at all.
A chorus of agreement from his buddies rings in his ears; as she scans their faces, she realizes she knows almost half of them. Quick, flirtatious glances at parties, small talk waiting for companions to arrive, sons of many of the most prestigious people in the town. Her blood runs cold; she's read about this in stories, but she never thought it actually happened her. No, not in Rosalie's town, where the Depression passed over like a harmless cloud and everyone is blessed.
This is just a snow globe of a world, is the cool reminder.
And she doesn't know what's happening, except that now people are tearing her clothes off and they're using beautiful to describe her and even all those words they used to describe Esme Cullen but she doesn't like it at all; it's terrible and―
―John wouldn't do this to Vera and Andrew wouldn't do this to the swingset girl and violets, she feels like she's made of fragile petals and being torn apart and they're all trying to get a hand on her or inside her―
.
Everything is breaking.
She was Rosalie Hale, she was beautiful.
.
She's being carried away (to where?). Her eyes are glassy.
There's a hot, warm slash on her throat.