Just as I was leaving for Poughkeepsie Saturday night, I recognized an eerie light emanating from the parlor. It was probably Edward; Carlisle and Esme were always quite "busy" during the dark hours of the night. I rolled my eyes and pulled my jacket tighter around my chest. It was a beautiful ivory jacket with a couple of brass buttons still in place. There was gold trim around the collar, and ruffled sleeves. It had been my favorite when I was human, but until five minutes ago, I had kept it locked inside a trunk with the few human possessions that had been salvaged from my parent's house. The reason that I had not looked at this coat in two years was chiefly due to the fact that there was blood splattered capriciously across the soft fabric.
"Rosalie," a placid voice called from the next room over. I jumped; it was not Edward's voice that had spoken my name, but Esme's. Esme had been nothing but wonderful to me since I had become a member of the Cullen family. While Edward made no attempt to masquerade his dislike for me, Esme had always stood loyally by my side.
I walked warily into the parlor, trying not to let my bitter mood vanish completely as I saw Esme's sweet face. She was sitting on the couch with her legs crossed.
"What?" I muttered, finding a middle ground between patronizing and polite. Esme smiled, gesturing towards the arm chair across from her.
"Take a seat, darling," she said sweetly, "We need to talk." Damn. I had no problem calling Edward a jackass but nobody with the slightest trace of a heart would ever tell Esme off.
"I don't need to sit," I retorted shortly, my hands balled up into fists at my sides. Esme let out a tinkling laugh.
"Of course you don't," she agreed, standing up, "Neither do I. Sometimes I get so caught up in this façade that we have here that I don't know where our staged world ends and our real one begins." I nodded slowly, unsure of where she was going with this.
"I really have to go," I murmured regretfully, taking a step backwards. Esme reached out and grabbed my hand before I could pull away.
"But that's what I have to talk about, Rose," she whispered, her topaz eyes boring into mine, "You're not a monster. You can't let them have this kind of an effect on you. Don't sink down to their level, darling." I grimaced, pulling my hand out of her grasp. She could have easily held on, but she let me free, a heartbreaking look on her lovable face.
"You- you don't understand," I blurted out, tracing the intricate patterns of blood on my jacket. Esme's eyes followed my gaze to the dark red stains, gulping.
"That's where you're wrong, Rosalie," she corrected me, "I understand more than anyone. You know my story, Rose. I ran away before my husband's abuse could have any permanent effect on me. You didn't find out in time, sweetie, but we're in the same boat here. Never forget that." I ran my hand through my golden locks, sighing exasperatedly. Why couldn't they just let me do what had to be done? I would not be content until those men were dead, and nothing that my new family alleged was making me reassess anything. If anything, it was just making it take longer.
"Look, I've heard it all," I snapped, staring at the ceiling, "Edward never hid what he thought, and I- I hate to hurt you Esme. I know you don't like to see me do this. I'm not arrogant enough to be completely oblivious to everyone else's views on this. But I have to… You know how that feels, don't you? When you just have to do something…" I let my voice trail off, shuddering dramatically. Esme closed her eyes and nodded slowly, her mouth contorted into a grimace of a thousand words left unsaid.
Silently, I turned around and sauntered through the doorway, hesitating on the threshold. Normally I was not one for hesitating. I was more of a no-second-thoughts kind of girl. But it was two whole seconds, an eternity in immortal time, before I got my feet moving again.
Charles van Whelan was a dumpy man with a heavy Russian accent. His voice was so distinct in my memory…heavy with whiskey as he called out my name. He was leaning against the brick wall of a pub in a clear attempt at nonchalance, his hat strategically dipped below one eye. The sight of him standing there sent shivers down my spine, but they were certainly not shivers of fear.
"'Ow you doin', bootiful?" he muttered, not entirely looking at me. His English had not improved one bit. I pulled my blood-stained jacket tighter around me, bending my legs a bit to allow him a look at my face. This pleased me; his glazed eyes lit up with comprehension first, and fear second. I felt his bewildered gaze on the crimson stains on my jacket, and this pleased me. The jacket had been part of the arrangement.
After a quick glance around to make sure that nobody was around, I closed my fist around the brim of his hat and whipped it off of his head, a playful smile dancing across my face. He froze, his cigar dropping out of his gaping mouth onto the frigid cement below us.
"Now, Rosanna," he murmured drunkenly. My instincts got the best of me, and I reached out to slap him.
"Don't you dare attempt to speak my name, you foul bastard," I hissed, the acid in my voice frightening me a bit. Charles cast me a sick look, making an ungainly attempt to duck below my arm. My hand clenched vice-like around his elbow, snapping the bone in half effortlessly. He let out a nauseating shout, collapsing to the ground in agony. I could hear the blood rushing to the new injury, yet I had not broken the skin. Good.
"You're a- a mad wooman…" he groaned in pain, clutched his arm. He made a sick attempt at a cry for help, forcing me to come down hard on his neck.
"Keep screaming, jackass," I snapped. "It won't change anything. You're going to die tonight… And you know it."