ROSALIE POV
I killed my husband. Well, he was actually my fiancé at the time, but no one really cares. I loved that man, I really did. I loved him enough to kill myself after I saw what I did, but he deserved it.
When I was sixteen, my mother made me take my father's lunch to him at work. It struck me as odd, but what did I care? I was getting out of the house. On my way to my father's work, many men whistled as they saw me pass, some even asked for my name.
I remember smiling demurely, and their raucous voices going "Tell me your name, beautiful!" and I remember blushing like a little embarrassed girl. I loved the attention, then. Not so much, now.
I was nineteen, when I died; I was seventeen when I got engaged.
"Rosalie, Rosalie!" His gasps are thick, his moans are heavy.
I don't feel, I don't think. I try to move my arms, my hands; I try to do something that can make me show a sign of anger, a sign of…a sign of something. "Rosalie! Rosalie!" I feel a smack on my face, my face rears back. My eyes close, and my lips twist again. I feel the other hands, holding me down.
I don't want to think, I don't want to feel.
Kill me, God. Eliminate my life, please, kill me.
"Royce! Royce!" I'm smiling, tears streak my face, and my makeup must be a mess.
"Is that a yes?" He has a smile on his face; his gray eyes are bright, his brown curly hair is tight on his head.
"Of course I will marry you! Oh, this is the happiest day of my life," I stoop down, grab his face in my hands, and kiss him until my lips feel chapped, until my fingers are strained from holding him so long.
He gets off his knee and takes my glove off of my left hand, slipping the beautiful ring onto my finger. It fits perfectly.
"We're meant to be," I whisper in awe at the good sign we are given. I screech in happiness, bouncing onto my toes, pulling Royce down to kiss me.
He tastes like victory.
I briefly press my hand onto my stomach, smoothing my red dress down. Vera's little Henry is beautiful, but my little Royce & Rosalie's will be even more beautiful.
"Oh!" I cry, as he trips. I quickly go to his aid, but Vera stops me.
"It helps him learn," she whispers, watching her boy with her bright green eyes; he has her dimples.
"Where am I?"
"Why, my dear, you are Here," a tall lanky colored man is speaking. My distress must be apparent; I am wearing a bloodied dress. My skin is cool to the touch, my lip is quivering. I know what I did; I know what I thought, while I did it.
I do not regret it. My mouth sets in a hard line. I stand up, and I rip my dress off; I am here for a reason. I will make it function.
"How do you know she killed herself?" His green eyes and dimples are just like Henry's. His blond/brown hair is tight, straight, and short. He is tall, taller than me, he is muscled, and he is thick. He is beautiful.
"I met her after I killed myself," his voice is hushed, his face is almost pained, but it also seems resolved. I just met this tall man, but I feel like I have finally reached what I was meant to do Here. My hand reaches up, involuntarily, my hand smoothes his wrinkles. The same action I did to my red dress.
"I killed my husband, after he gang raped me," my voice is quiet, I am angry, my voice is angry, my eyes are screwed tightly. My companion is silent, his silence lets me continue.
"I was walking from my friend Vera McCarty's house, her husband was a carpenter; I had a passing fling with him," I say, reliving the whole moments, I remember kissing Vera quickly, and going to the kitchen to give her husband a more acceptable kiss, a kiss to cut the night in two, a kiss that ended with his hand up my dress. "I was not a harlot, but I wasn't entirely innocent."
"Goodnight Vera," a quick kiss on the cheek, "I left my scarf in the kitchen," I say, a steaming excuse.
"I'll put Henry to bed," she is unsuspecting, and she is genuine, happy, beautiful, but not as beautiful as me.
"Mr. McCarty," my voice is quiet; I stare at him, his hand is in his pants. He has no shame. I walk up to him and kiss him, moaning into the kiss. He pulls his hand away from his trousers, and trails it up into my dress, pressing into my delicious spot. I moan deeper, and kiss him harder. I want to lose my virginity to him.
"I think my fiancé knew about the fling, he certainly implied it, when he was raping me,"
"Rosalie! Look at my beautiful fiancée, she is such a fucking whore," Royce's voice is thick with slurring, his eyes are bloodshot, his hands are poised for attack. I find that I do not care; I just want to go home.
He grabs me, taunts me, and licks me. He kisses me, and throws me down, telling my friends that they better get hard soon, because they're all having a go.
"I wanted to kill him, every second I felt pain, but most of all: I wanted to kill myself," I want to cry, I want to be teary-eyed, and I want to tell everyone else. "Royce was the gentlest, maybe he did love me, and was drunk enough to let his friends do what they wanted, but he was also the one that held down my head." I hear a sharp intake of breath, and large arms are suddenly holding me. I do not bat them away.
"I was raped in ways that still make me hurt; I wasn't just losing my virginity, they raped my mouth, my ass, my breasts; nothing was left untouched," and I am quickly shutting down. My emotions are starting to get the better of me, I throw the piece of shit in my hand, and I bite this man I barely know, and I start to heave.
I am startled when I feel hands on my back and a mouth at my ear. I shiver, but not from being scared; from being turned-on.
"My last name is McCarty," the words whisper, and I want to take him back to my room, and I want to lie with him in my bed, and I want to lose my virginity, the right way.
"Her name was Isabella Marie Swan-McCarty, we married each other after a year of amazing sex, and even more conversations," his eyes are glittering, but there is also a sense of doom in his words. I am sad for this man. "She left me for a man named Edward Cullen, and I think she really did love him," and I know there is a silent but.
"What happened?" I am silent, my hand is on his bare chest, his arm is around me, and his other is tweaking my nipple, touching my breast. But I must know this, before I fuck him again.
"I called her after I found the note; I let her know how much pain I was feeling. I might have been the reason behind her suicide," and he says it with finality. I know that he knows he is the reason. It is written on his face, in his hands, on his chest, it is written in his heart, and I feel it in my own heart.
"She told you that you were the reason."
"She told me almost immediately after I saw her, she smacked me, tried to cry, screamed, she did everything but tell me why she didn't stay alive for Edward."
"Edward killed himself, didn't he." It isn't a question, it is a statement, because I know Edward, and I know Isabella.
"No, and I think they are together." He whispers, and his eyes close tightly, and he pulls away, he is fixing his walls up, and I bite him again.
"Who gives a shit, we will find a way to live again; we will find a way to get over our stupid deaths. We are accidents, we were not meant to be with Royce King or Isabella Marie Swan we were meant to be with someone else," and I silently put each other, because I know that I love this man.
"We will find a way to live again, I would give up everything, but life, if I could," and he opens his eyes, and they are filled with hope, and I gasp.
"To be able to bear children, taste, feel, love, cry," and I am whispering excitedly, and he is getting agitated and enthusiastic.
We have been on the road for more days than I can count. We have questioned many people; we have made love more times than we both have fingers and toes, combined.
If life was a puzzle, then we are the two missing puzzle pieces, and we will try to fit it all together.
Parts of this story depressed me, parts of this story overjoyed me. I may continue it; I have an idea for Edward and Isabella, and Alice and Jasper.
Yes, no?
