Hello, world! Sorry I've been gone for a long time, but I've mostly been planning out my epic ending and writing a few things down for it and stuff. I've also had a dreadful week. Anyway, hopefully I can make my ending come alive. That's been my main concern with it, and I don't really know if I can do it. So, if you guys would, please tell me if I've been doing an a good or okay job of making the story pop at all in the reviews. It's really my only worry while writing, and I'd really, REALLY appreciate the feedback, guys! Thank you so much to those who do in advance!

"Please, Charlie!" I yelled. Tears were coming fast and hard.

Charlie clicked his tongue. He said plainly, "Bella, dear, please relax. I'll have no use for this knife if you do as I ask."

My cheeks were already stained with tears, and my sobs were wretched. I tried my best to pull myself together, but so many things ran through my mind then that prevented me from even attempting. Finally, I whispered, agony rising in my throat, "What do you want?"

I knew he was smirking. "Carlisle hasn't boughten you yet because you haven't slept with him again; he's sure you buy you soon though, if you sleep with him tonight."

I gasped, and shook my head slowly, gulping down needed air. I then said between two sobs, "No."

"I'm sorry, Bella; it has to be this way." His voice sounded genuinely sympathetic, but I did not look at him.

I buried my face in my palms. It had to be this way. Charlie would kill me if I didn't choose his path. And if I died . . . I could only imagine what that would do to Edward. What it would do to Alice. I cringed at those thoughts, and I knew that I couldn't do that to them. They had helped me, and they had loved me. The least I could do to them was lay the most marginal amount of pain on them as I could. I would be more perturbing if I died instead of denying them both, and continue on with my former life of sleeping with an old man.

I was very quiet for a few moments. I subsequently noticed that the footsteps I had first heard had stopped. I listened harder: I could not hear them. I looked around briefly, but saw from my peripheral vision a girl. A girl with long blonde hair cascading down her back.

I tried to twist my whole self around to see the girl in the doorway, but Charlie would not allow me. He instead turned both of us. We both gasped simultaneously when we saw the appalled eyes and ajar mouth on the face of Charlie's most beautiful cocotte, Rosalie.

Her stance was awkward; her legs were spread apart, as if she had been walking, and paused, not bothering to move her position. Her eyes were wide and she looked frozen.

Charlie was frozen as well. He did not move. Rosalie stared into his face, shocked, for a long time; I could only assume Charlie was staring back just as steadily. I stared at Rosalie as well, though she obviously had her eyes dead set on Charlie.

After the long moments of fixated eyes, Rosalie's expression changed to anger, and Charlie flinched. Rosalie's mouth puckered into a hard line, and her eyes blazed with fire. She snapped her legs so they were beside each other, and placed a hand on her hip.

"What are you doing?" she hissed at Charlie. I was slightly surprised at this; I didn't think her voice would have so much anger in them for Charlie instead of the usual apathy.

"What does it concern you for?" Charlie hissed back. I imagined him sneering at her.

"You have a knife."

"Why does that matter to you? /"

"C'est un couteau, Charlie, un couteau fichu! Why the hell are you threatening Bella? Pourquoi!?"

"You're right, Rosalie, it doesn't concern you. One bit. Now, why don't you leave? Run along and play with your makeup? Sit around and stare at yourself in the mirror!" As Charlie said these unfair words, I could see Rosalie's face slowly melt into horror and sadness. She was hurt by these words. "Go on then! Stare at yourself. Soyez juste vous: une salope égocentrique."

After the last counter, Rosalie's expression became a strange, twisted mixture between anger and insult. She looked so sad and dismayed at Charlie's stinging verbal abuse, but so angry at them as well. I was interested and frightened to see what would be next.

Silence.

Then the explosion.

"Shut up!" she screamed. Her face was red with wrath. "Shut up! You don't know what you're saying! You're a foul man, a foul pimp! You don't understand anything but money and girls! You don't understand happiness, or love, or friendship. And it's sad. You'll burn in hell, and the funny thing is that deserve it. You deserve everything you're going to get for being the horrible man that you are! And you deserve your loneliness. You deserve every bit of that. You are scummy and foul. Permettez maintenant à Bella d'aller."

Then there was a long pause. Things were very still. The floating dust was even hesitating. It seemed as though the room was holding its breath. My own eyes were broad with surprise and admiration. Rosalie had pursed lips, and her chest rose as she panting through her nose. I could assume Charlie's face either stunned, hurt, or angry. Charlie and Rosalie stared each other down as my eyes flitted from one to the other.

A sudden admiration sailed over me for Rosalie, as well as a realization. Everyone in the cathouse classified her as a bitch and self-centered because she spent most of her time to herself, and didn't much care for anyone else in the whorehouse. But it then struck me that perhaps there was a reason behind all of this. A reason Rosalie had been too frightened to tell or reveal to anyone because perhaps it frightened even herself.

I looked down, my lips trembling solemnly, and was then suddenly so very sickened by my own self when I realized how cruel I had been to such a misunderstood soul.

"Let her go!" Rosalie screamed at Charlie again, pulling me out of my thoughts.

Charlie released me of his firm grip, something I hadn't been expecting, and placed the knife into his pocket again. I scurried over to Rosalie, and almost hid behind her. I tried to divert Charlie's eyes by looking at my feet, as Rosalie finished by saying, "You aren't even worth Bella. She should be somewhere else, living a happy life, without you. She deserves more than this. Tellement plus! She deserves real love. Now, don't you dare try that again on her."

Rosalie then turned on her heel, her sparkling blonde hair whipping back at him, and stomped out. She clutched at my arm, forcing me to follow, as she turned to leave Charlie.

Rosalie didn't say anything as she stamped down the hallway as I desperately tried to keep up by scampering behind her.

When we got to an unfamiliar door, she yanked the door open, seized my arm again, and pulled me into the cramped room. I assumed it was a closet, for it had broom and mop sitting in it.

There was barely enough light to see Rosalie. And there was barely enough room, so our bodies were almost pressed together, the gap between them minuscule. The air was musty and heavy. It was hard to breathe.

Rosalie began talking into the moldy air almost as soon as she shut the door behind us. She hissed, "Don't speak of this to anyone. If you do, I'll find you, and tell your secret to Carlisle."

I gasped. "You know?" I whispered.

"Yes." I blushed. "I saw you come out of the bathroom with Edward this morning. I only assumed you weren't supposed to be with him because word passed around Carlisle forbade his son from coming here."

I nodded. I was intimidated and somewhat frightened, but I ask Rosalie in a low tone anyway, "Why did you defend me, and tell Charlie to let me go? You don't like me, I stole your title -"

Rosalie placed her hand over my mouth. "Listen here, Bella: I didn't do anything. I don't care. I do still hate you. And I was simply a witness of you saving yourself. Understand?"

She let her hand drop to her side silently, and then crossed them over her chest. I shook my head, and my eyebrows inched down my forehead in perplexity. "No, I-I don't understand, Rosalie."

There was a stale silence. I waited for her to answer. She waited for me to drop the subject.

It was a nagging feeling, to want to know the secret that even kept Rosalie from showing any signs of friendliness to others. What had happened to her that made her so incompatible?

The silence was filled with my stubbornness and persistence to know her strange, limiting secret. Eventually, it was too much to bear in quiet, and Rosalie gave into it, and hissed, "Fine!"

"You'll tell me?"

"Yes!"

"Fine. Go ahead."

Rosalie took in a deep breath. She untwined her arms, and shook them, trying to shake the jitters probably. I presumed this was the first time she was telling anyone the secret. It was normal to be nervous, I suppose, and I did not try to rush her. She would tell me when she was ready.

Her voice was wobbly and unsteady at first. But as she continued on more into her story, her voice became more at ease, as if she was finally comfortable with someone else for the first time.

"So . . . So you know that I'm not the most open or friendly person in this whorehouse. And you know that I'm not particularly fond of you because I use to be the star that everyone wanted, and you replaced me. But you don't know the reason. And up until just now, you hadn't known there had even been a reason. You, as well as everyone else here, though I was just catty and egotistical. And I accepted that because I knew I couldn't change.

"Believe it or not, but I was never pretty as a child. Everyone, including myself, always found me to be ugly. I had blemishes, and greasy hair, and I spoke with a lisp . . . all things that children could make fun of easily, growing up. All through my childhood I was poked fun at for my appearance. And I can never forget those painful years.

"But the most horrible thing was my parents. They never loved me in the way that I always envied other children. In fact, I don't think they loved me at all. They were silent to me; they never talked. They preferred my older sisters, the beautiful ones. They didn't have any defaces on their faces, or greasy hair, or lisps. They were so attractive and always had a boy wooing them. And I was always jealous, always envious of the attention they received from my parents and attractive boys just because they were as perfect as perfect can be. They had everything, a beautiful face and smile, wonderful clothing, a charming personality that people instantly fell in love with, an adorable sense of humor . . . everything. It was never fair. It always hurt so much too. I wanted some attention, some admiration. I wanted love too, but no one wanted to give it to me because I was ugly.

"Even though around the time I had turned fifteen my blemishes and lisp had disappeared, still no one wanted because I was always a slob because I was so lonely and depressed. I often contemplated suicide, and if anyone would even care. My parents barely spoke to me, and the only time I saw their face was when they sent meals up to me.

"No suitors had contacted my parents by the time I was sixteen - my sisters having instant suitors when they were as young as thirteen - and my parents, so they kicked me out of the house. They told me I could not return until I was beautiful, married, had beautiful children, and were as, if not more prosperous than my older sisters. They then confided to me as I stood on their front step ready to go, that they would subsequently love me."

Even in the dark, I knew tears were sliding down Rosalie's face. She paused and sobbed quietly, I could just barely hear them. I let her cry. I didn't force her to continue. I let her take in the emotions of her childhood that she most likely been dodging for many years.

She sucked in a long breath, and continued, her voice cracked and scratchy with the fresh tears, "I hadn't anywhere to go. I didn't have a job. I didn't have any skills worth being paid for. I was all alone in Paris; all I had was one dress, a piece of bread, and a suitcase to keep them in.

"I wandered aimlessly all day. I barely remember it; it was so blurry with tears and confusion. People bumped into me, but I didn't feel it. People yelled at me, but I didn't hear them. I was unaware and unsure. It was like being in an alternate universe, one that I did not understand. Things were so very different to me, wherever the hell I was.

"I finally stumbled across a place I could at least say for that first night: a bar. I'd heard many of my parents' or sisters' friends talk about good times at bars. I was hoping for one as well.

"I floated in. I plopped down on a barstool, and dropped my suitcase down beside me. I propped my elbows up on the bar, and rested my face in my hands. A bartender came up to me, and asked me what I wanted. I told him I'd never been in a bar. He asked me how strongly I wanted my drink. I told him I wanted the strongest drink they sold, not even caring that I didn't have any money in my pocket. I just wanted to be so drunk that I killed myself. I'd heard of it many times, and I figured it was the best way to go. Being killed off of too much alcohol was the main reason I was there, I suppose.

"He brought me Absinthe. I drank it thirstily. As I gulped it down, the bartender told me I looked horrible. I told him I agreed between large swigs. He didn't say much more to me other than there was a girls' bathroom in the back, and he would keep a cot for me. He had a feeling that I would need it that night. I barely heard most of this.

"After so many glasses of Absinthe, I started to feel much better. I felt light, and happy. It was the first time I had felt those ways in such a long time. I can't even recall a time I was happy before that. As I poured more Absinthe down my throat, the happier I became. I wanted more happiness, more lightness, and my death, so I just kept it coming.

"Soon enough, someone came to sit beside me. I don't remember his face, but I remembered his name: Royce. That foul, sick name clenches my stomach even to this day. Though his face is shady in my memory, it sends shivers down my spine. But that name makes me so angry, so frightened, and so vengeful, that I barely recognize myself.

"He asked me my name. I told him my name was Rosalie between slurs. He told me his name. And then we started talking.

"'I think you're mighty beautiful, Rosalie,' he told me after a few conversations of my slur.

"'That's a lie!' I exclaimed. 'No one thinks I'm beautiful!' Imagine me saying all of this as if I had stuck two large apples in both my cheeks. That's how slurred and drunken I was.

"'Oh, but I think you are just the most beautiful dame I'd ever done see,' he continued.

"'Lies!' I yelled at him.

"And then he whispered the most vile, excruciating words I can remember in my life into my ear: 'I want to show you something.'

"You think those words are innocent. But no, those words are the most foul, abhorrent words ever spoken to me. They haunt me. I will never forget them. They are sickening!

"So Royce dragged me into the backroom that had the cots. He started to kiss me. Even in my drunken state, I was bit alarmed at this, for I had never kissed anyone, and I knew kissing was only for when two people loved each other. I did not love Royce. I didn't even like him. But he was kissing me. And I figured that I didn't care about myself enough to make him stop. So I kissed him back. I kissed his face, his neck, his everything. I didn't care.

"Soon enough, we had sex. I knew we weren't supposed to, but again, I didn't care. I thought to myself, 'Why not? You're going to kill yourself soon enough, why not have a romp before it?'

"When it was over, he pulled out a knife. He held me like Charlie had held you. Suddenly, I was frightened and confused. I knew I wanted to die, but not this way. Knives had always held a permanent fear within me, I wanted to die, yes, but not that way. Definitely not that way. But I remember thinking that that was what Royce had in mind.

"So I pled. 'Please, Royce, no!' I whimpered.

"'Shut up!' he yelled at me. His voice was rough and uncaring.

"'Please don't kill me like this! I don't mind dying, really, I don't, but please not this way, please!'

"'I said shut up! Look, I ain't gonna kill you if you cooperate, okay? If you don't cooperate, it's the knife, sweetheart, don't gotta another choice. You got that, huh, baby?' I nodded. 'Good. We understand this.'

"'What do you want me to do? I'll do anything! Anything -"

"'Shut up!' He slit my wrist and I screamed."

Rosalie paused. She took my hand, and grazed it over her wrist; I felt raised skin, and I knew it was the scar Royce had given her than dreadful night. I gulped. Rosalie continued, "He told me he was going to sell me into prostitution. He said he needed the money, and I was the kind of girl pimps were looking for. He said pimps would pay high money for me. I had no other choice but to agree to Royce's confusing plan about me and this prostitution business, something I had never heard of up until then.

"So the next day, he woke me up by yanking my hair. I remember the pain. That pain brought back the memories of that terrifying night. Royce brought me to all of the whorehouses here in Paris, looking for the best offer. He was disappointed, and took it out on me by beating me in an alley once. We were about to go back to the bar, a threat in place, when Charlie came up to us. He asked Royce if I was for sale. Royce said yes. Charlie gave him an offer he couldn't refuse. Charlie took me to the Black Snake that night.

"Originally, I was only terrified. I didn't know where I was or even why. I was hung-over, disorientated, and scared. Charlie explained everything though. And I was astounded, for he was the first person to ever speak kindly to me. There wasn't an underlay of some evil intent or hate, but genuine kindness. I was confused by it, but also so thankful.

"He offered me a room, and beautiful things. He told me men would give me more beautiful things if I slept with them. At first, I was hesitant. I remembered sleeping with Royce, and the consequences. But Charlie promised no one would ever do that to me as long as I was at the Black Snake. Again, I was astonished at the protection for me in his voice.

"So, I accepted. He and Esme made me beautiful. I was stunned. I couldn't stop looking in the mirror. I looked just like my sisters, and I wondered what my parents would have said if they could see me as beautifully as I was then. But then I became enraged, and pushed them out of my head.

"Soon enough, I became absorbed with my transformed appearance. I didn't want to really do much else except marvel at me. I didn't talk to anyone, and the only time I looked at them was to make sure they didn't look better than I. I was finally beautiful, something I had never been before, and I didn't want someone overshadowing me with their beauty.

"Soon, it became a habit for me to stare at myself in the mirror. It was addictive. I needed to look at myself, or I'd explode. I would go on a rampage. I needed a mirror; I needed to be beautiful. It was an addiction. And, as a result, I was dubbed as egotistical and selfish.

"And then you came into the picture. They replaced me with you because you were more beautiful. You were younger, prettier! That's why I hated you, and ignored you. Do you understand it? Do you understand it now, Bella? Please, understand! I can't help the horrible thing I've turned into. It's a dependency, a sad, lowly one that I so wish to get out of, but I can't. I'm stuck this way, fearing people, and needing to be better. And I'm sorry."

She started sobbing. I hugged her, and she buried her wet face into my chest. "No. I'm sorry, Rosalie. I'm sorry for everyone in the whorehouse, including me, because we don't understand."

"You have nothing to be sorry for," she squeaked between sobs.

It was a long time before she stopped crying. I didn't mind. I understood that she needed to let it all out, and I wanted to be there for it. She deserved someone to hear all of it.

After the pause, Rosalie lifted her head, and I dropped my arms. The wetness her tears had caused her cheeks shone in the darkness. She croaked almost inaudibly, "What are you going to do, Bella?"

Suddenly, everything had shifted to me, and I felt it on my shoulders. I knew what she was talking about. I didn't know how to answer, so I left her with an, "I don't know." My voice was low and much like Rosalie's. I didn't want to think of it, but I had to.

"I'm so sorry."

"It's not your fault."

"You really love him. I know it. I can feel it."

"I do. I've never loved anything before. Edward is my first love, and I will always love him."

"But you have to be apart from him."

"I know."

I don't really like writing stories within stories very much . . . next chapter with Esme (SPOILER) won't have such a long, weird, complicated story within it again. Promise.

I tried to write Rosalie's story in THIS so it would be similar to the one in the book. Hopefully achieved.

I don't really know WHY, but I had an urge to write about Rosalie. Maybe it was because I had developed her character beyond what she really was like most fanfiction authors do. Maybe it was because I still believe Rosalie is just misunderstood, and that other people don't understand that. Or maybe it was simply because she's a character that fascinates me. I don't know. Any of the reasons could totally be legit. Also, I think all of those reasons are true. But it doesn't matter I suppose, because I got to write about Rosalie, and the nagging went away. I got another chapter in. And you people/readers sure updated and hopefully happy. Win/win!

REVIEW, ADIOS!!

PS, don't forget to tell me if I do a good job of bringing the story to life. I really need to know :) Thanks!