A/N: This story is rated M and contains dark, mature themes.

Emmett

He hadn't touched alcohol in almost a century. Like food, it smelt sour, bitter, and just wrong. Suffice it to say that it wasn't something most vampires would choose to imbibe unless forced. But, his vision was blurry. He felt dizzy. When he moved, he stumbled into the stool beside him. When he tried to speak, his words came out an embarrassing, almost unintelligible slur.

"That's it." The bartender beside him said with a heavy sigh. "I'm cutting you off."

He was human again, he realized dumbly. Or, at least, he was reliving one of his memories of being human. He couldn't be dreaming, that couldn't be right, he told himself. Still, his body moved without him telling it to, and he picked up the bottle beside him, smashing it against the far wall. He remembered his anger, his absolute rage that the party had been called to an end. It flowed through his veins like lava, and he had to actively remind himself that he really shouldn't be drinking any more. He had been young and stupid in his youth, and it had literally been the death of him.

It took all his concentration to force himself to storm out of the bar that looked almost like a shack with its chipped paint and sagging roof. Emmett had never minded those sort of details. Besides, what he had been looking for in those days had been a dive. Strong drinks, without the premium. Usually he would buy a bottle from the liquor store and go drinking in the woods, but that was just so lonely. He wanted touch, he wanted comfort. He wanted a woman, which was why he had been so angry about getting sent home early. He had been going home alone.

Despite the size of his family, Emmett had always felt lonely at home. It was the pressure to be the man of the house after his father's passing, the pressure to be strong and emotionless despite his own mourning that had broken him. He had cracked under the pressure. Despite all his efforts, he had failed his family. It wasn't long after this night that he had ended up mauled by a bear in the woods, leaving it to his brothers to provide for their family in his passing. He hated himself for having done that to them. He had tried to forget them, to forget what he had done. Over the years, the memories had begun to blur and fade, but just now they were bright and shiny, like a dew drop glistening in the sun.

The air was ice cold as he stumbled outside. One would think that it would have been sobering, but he swayed in the chilling wind, his body colliding with another.

"Excuse me." An all too familiar voice sniffed.

It was Rosalie. His Rosalie, a lovely blue jacket and skirt bringing out the color of her eyes, her wispy blonde hair rolling down in perfect curls around her face. She was painfully human, he could feel her warmth, but even so, she looked like a goddess. In his drunken vision she even seemed to glow.

"Oh, Rosie. I'm so glad you're here." He slurred, reaching out to grab her hand, probably too tight. He expected the same relief from her, but she didn't seem to recognize him. In fact, she looked terrified of him.

"I should be going." She said, her stilted and formal voice trembling. "It's rather late."

"No, no, no." The words came tumbling out of his mouth. Loneliness and desperation gripped him as tightly as he was gripping her poor wrist. "Don't leave."

"Let go of me!" She screamed.

She tried to tear herself away from him, but Emmett couldn't let her go. It was like he didn't have control of his own hand. She started crying, and the sight broke something in him. Still, he couldn't let go. His body was moving without his permission, clumsily drawing her to him, his free hand beginning to tear at her clothes. It was like he was watching a horror movie, only he was the antagonist. He was watching from the driver's seat, but it was like he wasn't even in control.

"Stop!" She sobbed, pitifully, as they wrestled on the ground. "Please."

He wanted nothing more than to stop. He remembered the early days with her, he remembered her intense fear of being touched, of more than being touched. He had been so patient in those days, because he loved her, and he understood her pain. But the man who was touching her now was no better than Royce. He was a monster.

He tried to stop himself, he tried harder than he had ever tired at anything else, but it was like it had already happened, he was just watching the inevitable play out. Except he wasn't just watching it. He was living it. He could feel the warmth of her body as flesh met flesh. He could feel rage, lust, and power wash over him as she cried, her eyes going dead as she tried to escape from what was happening in her mind. He could feel her jaw crack under his fist as he hit her, as if he wasn't taking enough from her.

When it was all over, she was still and cold, like a corpse. He wished that he was the one who was dead as control of his body was finally returned to him. He cried miserably as he cradled her ruined, broken body. It was his deepest, darkest fear realized: He was a monster. He had destroyed his mate.