DISCLAIMER: If I owned Twilight, I would turn Breaking Dawn into a musical. But since that isn't happening, I obviously don't own it ^_^_

"Living in the sprawl / Dead shopping malls rise like mountains beyond mountains / And there's no end in sight / I need the darkness, someone please cut the lights" -Arcade Fire

When I was young, my mother told me that every time it rained, the angels were crying. However, this was when we lived in San Diego, land of sunny smiles and perfect weather. I don't think she would have used this metaphor if we were living in Forks at the time.

Because the angels must be fucking sobbing over this godforsaken town every day.

I am currently in my bathroom, staring out the window at the depressing late-summer world outside of it. I have been doing this for the past 15 minutes because, no matter how soggy the day, the rain and fog are still less disheartening than my own reflection. The rain, at least, is real, and every moment of my day from this point forward will be entirely fake, from straightening my pretend blonde hair to watching my parents pretend they still have a real marriage to pretending that I am actually in love with my meathead quarterback boyfriend, Emmett.

About me. I'm Rosalie. I'm 5'8". I'm 17 years old. I'm cynical. I don't believe in love. I'm naturally brunette. I'm partial to Hunter S. Thompson and the early works of Bret Easton Ellis. I own an Xbox and probably have more gamer points than any boy I know. My music taste tends to err on the hipster side of things. I am, basically, completely average and somewhat nerdy. There is nothing special about me.

Nobody will see this part of me. Today, when I strut into Forks Fucking High School for the first day of my senior year, everyone will, once again, see "Rosalie," Drama Queen and Perfect Bitch Extraordinaire. "Rosalie" is never down. She always has a good comeback. She never has time to read or write because she's too busy having like the best social life ever!1!1!1! She always has a fake-ass, bleached white, Cheshire cat smile plastered on her face because when you're size 2 head cheerleader with a hot boyfriend and a rich father, what's there to frown about?

Here's a little secret: a couple of times a day, I sneak off to the bathroom to "powder my nose," because this façade (and my aforementioned size 2 figure) would be fucking impossible to keep up without a little help from Colombia's finest.

My phone rings, jerking me out of my sullen reverie. I'm tempted to ignore whatever asshole is calling me at 7 AM on a Monday until I see that it's my darling brother Jasper—two years older and far, far away at the University of Arizona. I answer. "Darling Jasper. What rouses you so early on a Monday?"

"Au contraire, sis. I'm just heading to bed now."

"Well played. Crew team shenanigans?"

He snorts. "Ding ding ding. Cacti and penguins were involved. Anyways, I just wanted to mock you for still having one year of high school left. Ready to dominate their world once again?"

"Oh, I've never been more thrilled. Have I told you how much I hate you for not being stuck in this hellhole?"

"Only 507 times. How are the parental units? Still living the American dream?"

"Dad's still banging his Swiss secretary and Mom's still strung out on Valium, if that's what you mean."

"Inspirational, those two." I hear a female tittering in the background. "Anyways, my, ah, bed is calling my name. Hang in there, sis. Don't forget that you're Rosalie Fucking Hale."

"Uh-huh. Wrap it before you tap it."

"You filthy minded minx! Love ya, Lee."

Jasper is an asshole. He also happens to be my favorite person on the planet. Though he's cocky, aggressive, and stubborn, he's also hilarious and 100% genuine. He will look you right in the face and tell you that you're a fucking idiot. Like me, he was a hot, popular partier in high school. Unlike me, he actually had confidence—he didn't have to fake it.

Things were a little more bearable when he was around.

I finish slapping layers of makeup on my face and head downstairs. Our house: large, expertly designed, cold. Stainless steel, minimalistic furniture, and black and white abound. Our house looks like one of those conceptual houses you see in magazines that you would never actually want to live in. More museum installation than actual family dwelling, there is no warm feeling of home here. Like the rest of the Hale Way of Life, it's all for show.

I decide to skip breakfast (again) and head out the door into the miserable rain. Let the games begin.