Her confident stride didn't betray the nervousness pulsing through her veins. Giving an air of belonging was the key to escape unnoticed—nobody would question her presence if they believed her a part of the staff. Heart pounding, she hurried her steps and burst out of the hospital into the warm, bright sun.
A vicious smile on her face, she felt a surge of satisfaction at what she had accomplished. For the first time, she thanked the hours she had been forced to sit through the boring nurse training. She never understood why she had been unable to sleep through that, as she always did when beat into submission, but now she was happy about it.
The syringe had been brilliant, and she wasn't above congratulating herself on a job well done. Of course, the old goat deserved way worse than dying on a comfortable bed, but it would have to do. At least, she hadn't been subjected to any pleas for mercy—that would have been truly pathetic.
And Rosalie really couldn't stand pathetic people.
Later that night, Rose was awakened by the scream her throat refused to release. She sat on her bed, sifting through the images plaguing her mind. Shaking her head, she got up and went about her morning routine. She knew better than to allow herself to take a closer look into the things her subconscious was trying to say.
However, that day she didn't go to the job she loved. Her destination was on the other side of the town, in a remote location that only the wealthy could afford. Keeping her emotions in check, she parked her car far from the entrance. Taking a deep breath, she tried to calm her pounding heart.
Contrary to her expectations, her former classmate had taken the time to attend the event. Therefore, Rose kept her distance, since she didn't want to add awkwardness to the thousand emotions threatening to overwhelm her. It had become a habit of hers, standing apart from the action.
She didn't understand the tangle of events that connected her grandfather to Isabella Swan. Nevertheless she was thankful for Isabella's involvement; for it meant that her grandfather hadn't spent the last years of his life lonely and miserable. Despite everything that had happened he was family—a good person didn't wish ill on a relative, or any other person, for that matter.
And Rose strived to be a good person.
Soon after that, Rose realized that taking the day off was an awful idea. She didn't know how to fulfill the emptiness that gnawed at her heart whenever she was away from her beloved patients. Thinking that maybe she could use the time to catch up on her reading, she opened the latest edition of National Nurse Magazine. Browsing through it, she found an article whose title had been circled many times.
Since she lived alone, Rose was puzzled as to who had vandalized her magazine. Shrugging, she decided to blame it on the distributor, or maybe the printer … it didn't really matter, her only concern was quieting down the voice inside her head whispering that there was much, much more to it than she was ready to accept.
The article was about psychiatric nursing, something she had never thought about, maybe because dealing with her Grandmother's illness had taken a toll on her. Or maybe because at the back of her mind she had the niggling suspicion that … As usual, the thought would go unfinished—denial had become a way of life for her.
But the fact remained that since she had started nursing school, Rose had known that her true calling was taking care of the terminally ill—their strength and courage had always awed her. She was a respected nurse and a loved colleague, but she had no friends—she couldn't afford the risk.
After a brief slumber, Rosalie woke up and, since she wasn't the bookish sort, it didn't come as a surprise that she was easily bored by the technical article she had been reading. Tormented by memories, she couldn't concentrate in anything but the events that had led to Jasper's demise—the planning, the control, the satisfaction … Yielding the power of a god had awakened the predator within and now it roared for attention.
Unlike most of her peers, Rosalie had no compunction about indulging her baser instincts in any way she pleased. Limits and laws didn't apply to her—she was above the code of conduct that guided average people. She considered herself to be one of the few truly free people in this world.
Squaring her shoulders, she decided that she wouldn't deny herself any pleasure, and so far nothing had been more satisfying than seeing the fear in the eyes of a man who knew that she had the power to let him live or take away his life. No more bravado, no more pretenses of dominance and self-possession—those fleeting moments preceding her grandfather's death had made everything real.
Somewhere inside, she felt a sweet natured kitty trying to claw her way out. Laughing at the wasted effort, Rosalie started to plan.
The call of blood must never be denied.
And thus began her career as an angel of death, a bringer of justice, a cold blooded murderer—the public's perception varied according to their sets of values, but the truth remained that all feared "the ghost killer". Truth be told, the ongoing investigation still hadn't managed to prove beyond any reasonable doubt that the deaths were a result of criminal activity. But there was a pattern that no one could ignore: the victims were all elderly males fighting terminal illnesses.
No camera ever recorded her and no one remembered seeing a person who wasn't supposed to be there. Blaming a staff member would have been easy, but the victims had been patients of different hospitals and the comparative analysis between the members of their respective staffs hadn't revealed any matches.
Nobody guessed the motivation for the crimes, even though some specialists had really intricate theories. The police seemed to always be a step behind, for she had mastered the fine art of going unnoticed—not an easy feat for someone whose appearance was hard to forget.
Thriving on her recently gained notoriety, Rosalie never missed the news, for she loved to hear the reports singing praises to her work. Every day she sat at the same table, in the same diner, and amused herself with the fact that none of her companions knew that she was a notorious serial killer.
She would go on like that for a long time, until one day things went off-track. The usual dose hadn't been enough to kill her current prey. Baffled, Rosalie watched while he spluttered and struggled—his agonized fight against an unavoidable fate. The desperation in his eyes captivated her, wrapping her in a deep sense of accomplishment. There was true beauty in watching the slow approach of death, the panic of those who weren't ready to depart. She then understood that her work had to evolve — what she had been doing was a coward's game.
Mourning her lack of foresight, Rosalie took a pillow from the bed and held it over her victim's face. Clean deaths, like the ones she had been witnessing, weren't anywhere near as satisfying as the ones she was planning inside her mind. As he suffocated, Rosalie lost herself to the fantasies of red, warm liquid dripping from her fingers.
When he finally quieted, Rosalie left the room with a spring on her step. Feeling especially animated, she went home and dressed provocatively—she was lusting for more than blood. Luring her chosen victim, the boy who once had belonged to her, proved to be boringly easy; therefore she quickly lost interest in having him on her bed.
However, her cunning mind turned to darker places. Maybe the man wasn't fit for slacking her sexual urges, but he would certainly make an interesting lab rat.
And she lost track of time as she learned the ways of inflicting pain upon flesh. The slashed figure of the bloodied man crying for mercy filled her heart with unparalleled contentment. A few tears of irrepressible joy trickled down her pretty face, for she had never experienced anything as perfect as that moment—bound to her bed and gagged with her panties, he was the picture of perfection.
Tentatively, she touched one of his deepest wounds, excitedly watching the gush of blood pouring out of it. On a whim, she dipped her finger into the red puddle and brought it to her mouth. The taste was revolting, but the act of drinking a man's blood gave her a rush of excitement.
Her nipples pebbled and her sex moistened—she wanted to feast on his blood while riding his hardened cock. Apparently, the sick bastard enjoyed the pain she was inflicting. Somehow, it didn't detract from her fun, for he couldn't know that he wouldn't leave her bed alive. Especially now, when the drunken haze had left her mind and recognition sweetened the interaction with the feeling of closure.
Seeing the desire in his eyes, she smiled bitterly: men were so easy manipulated. Lowering herself on his awaiting member, she took a knife and slashed his throat. Latching her delicate lips to his neck, she drank his life while he poured a new one inside her body.
In her frenzy, Rosalie had forgotten about using protection.
About a day or so later, Rose woke up to a raging headache. Her sheets felt damp under her and she wondered if she had wet her bed. It had been years since she had mastered her willful bladder — since the days following her father's death. But the liquid felt thick and sticky …
Forcing her eyes opened, she struggled to understand what she was seeing.
Blood covered her bed and her body; she could even taste it in her mouth. Panicked she searched her body for wounds that would justify the dismaying sight, even while she knew that only a gruesome death would explain so much blood. Since she was very much alive and unharmed, she searched her apartment for a body, but found none.
Nothing made sense, and her mind reeled with possibilities. However, survival instinct kicked in demanding that she hid the evidence of whatever had happened last night. But no amount of washing would do—she needed something more extreme … She didn't know what.
It was in times like these that she wanted to have the support of her cousin, but she didn't approve of his choices, so she kept her distance. The irony of a possible murderer preaching about moral standards wasn't lost on her.
Thoughts of her cousin, made her aware of a strange soreness between her legs. Inching her nightgown up her legs, Rose stared at her swollen sex. Trying to deny what her mind already knew, her fingers sought the physical evidence of her maidenly status. But it wasn't there; in its place she found the sticky mess of a night of debauchery.
Desperate, she tried to make sense of her bizarre predicament. Was she experiencing a mental breakdown? But why? Her life was boringly ordinary—she had never experienced extreme emotions or situations … nothing that could account for such a visceral reaction. However, her mind was obviously in desperate need of medical care.
Rose felt overwhelmed. She didn't know if she could afford a psychiatrist on her own and she feared her colleagues' prejudice if she contacted her health insurance. She had never been good with decisions—they made her exceedingly nervous and agitated, for she always doubted herself.
Succumbing to the urge to run, Rose felt her very essence diluting into small particles until she ceased to be.
And she never came back.
In her place, a wild beast arose bringing with her all the fury of a being forced to a half existence. Freed from the responsibility of being the protector, she relished the liberty to do as she pleased—life would be much more interesting now.
Remembering the previous night, Rosalie made plans for acquiring the morning-after pill. If that didn't work, there were always the abortion clinics—it wouldn't be the first time she had to resort to extreme measures.
But first things first: she had to get rid of the evidences of her other nightly activities. Looking over the mangled body of her one-time lover, Rosalie wondered if she should feel sorry for him. Shrugging away the uneasy feeling, she smiled in satisfaction when her mind worked out the perfect solution to the problem at hand.
Packing the few things she liked, Rosalie looked over the place that had been a sort of home to her. The drabness of the colors, the shabbiness of the furniture translated Rose's bland personality to perfection—boring, ordinary, repressed … No, Rosalie wouldn't miss this place.
A few hours later, she was on her usual spot at the diner when the television showed the crying faces of the few survivors of a fire that consumed an entire building.
Her former apartment building.
Every night she took her pleasure from faceless, nameless men. Some walked away from the experience unscathed, others fell prey to the black widow. The ecstasy of reducing a powerful man into a whimpering creature could only be compared to the appetizing scent of freshly spilled blood.
As any other predator on the planet, she refined her hunting techniques and became more discriminating in her tastes. She had a penchant for blond, oversized man who had a certain veneer of sophistication. She enjoyed seeing them stripped of their carefully cultivated facade.
Her hunting ground was hotels' bars where the bourgeois went for drinks after work. The unsuspecting men saw nothing but a stunning woman who desired their company. They never questioned her interest—men always thought that being the object of female interest was simply their due.
The fools never saw the glint of malice shinning in her eyes, or her barely constrained aggression: because she had the face of an angel they believed she had the temperament to match it. Her victims came to her willingly and eagerly: men who believed that she was the prey.
The men pleaded, bargained, threatened … but all of them cried in the end.
Selecting her prey for the night, she smiled sweetly as he guided her inside a hotel room. After taking her pleasure, as she licked away the salty tears of a pathetic dying man, Rosalie contemplated the beauty of his disemboweled body. The patterns his insides created were nothing short of an intricate work, so perfect and meaningful that her eyes were brimming with unshed tears.
Those maudlin thoughts unsettled her for she wasn't one to dwell on poetic conceptions of life and death. Puzzled she stopped tormenting her victim for a few seconds, just enough to give him the false hope that she was done with him.
Seeing the hope in his eyes, Rosalie chuckled darkly — the fool actually believed that he could survive their encounter. Sadistically, she allowed him to crawl out of bed and reach for the doorknob. His grunts of pain made her clit throb with desire and she lamented the fact that he was too debilitated to assuage her reawakened sexual needs.
Shrugging, she decided it was time to end their game — the time was growing late and she still had to hunt for a bed partner. Naked and bathed in blood, she danced around him like a pagan sorcerer, quietly chanting an old ballad.
His last cry of desperation was surprisingly loud, attracting the unwanted attention of the hotel manager.
It was a narrow escape, but the adrenaline only added to Rosalie's excitement. Her sex was dripping with the material proof of her wicked sexuality while her eyes sought the streets for an acceptable boy toy. However, her attentions weren't engaged by any of the males littering the sidewalk—her eyes stubbornly refused to move on from a pretty brunette who she knew all too well.
Seeing the brunette inconspicuously entering a well known girl-on-girl bar, Rosalie anticipated the taste of sweet retribution. The woman had suffered for her offense, but it was not enough to assuage Rosalie's recently rekindled wrath. The pain of her first love's betrayal still soured her heart with cries for blood.
Yes, she had made up her mind. She would sample the woman's blood just like she had done her second victim: the man who had dared to stray from her. At the time she had made an unconscious choice, for her mind was too blurred by the haze of alcohol. But not this time … this time she was fully aware of her surroundings and of her prey.
It would beautiful and poetic, magnificent in its meaning … almost like a life coming full circle.
Rosalie's quarry was obviously out of place. It didn't take a genius to realize that the silly woman was apparently out on a mission to "explore her sexuality" and "discover herself"—most likely experiencing the side effects of consulting a therapist. Laughing inwardly, Rosalie marveled at the other woman's unworldliness—she wouldn't be a challenge, at all. It almost made Rosalie give up on her, but almost is not enough, so she proceeded with her malevolent plans.
For hours, Rosalie studied her nemesis. She was quiet and shy, rebuffing the few brave who approached her. Though obviously interested in the female anatomy, the woman made no effort at flirting—she was overwhelmed by her surroundings, frightened by the aggressiveness of the other females. Her naïveté intrigued Rosalie and much to her chagrin she found herself sexually attracted to the woman she meant to obliterate.
Slightly confused by her body's reaction to the woman, Rosalie hesitated for a few seconds. Shaking herself from the sudden haze of self-doubt, she embraced her desire and promised herself a night's pleasure before the unavoidable end.
Plastering a bright fake smile on her beautiful, flawless face, Rosalie pushed her breasts forward and tapped on the woman's shoulder.
"Isabella, is that you?"
Deeply unsettled by the impromptu encounter, Bella blushed furiously while frantically searching for a plausible explanation for her presence at the club. Her deep seated need for approval had her mouth tripping over sentences designed to avoid Rosalie's judgment. However, the greater part of her soon took over, forcing her shoulders backward and her tongue silent — her life was no one's problem.
Surprisingly, Rosalie didn't offer any snide comment or cutting set down. She simply smiled sympathetically and made lighthearted conversation. The past went unmentioned, a fact for which Bella was especially thankful, since she wasn't sure how she felt about her former bully.
As the night progressed Bella found the answer to the question that had emerged in therapy. Before her stood a beautiful, charming, enchanting woman, but she didn't entice Bella's senses. One might argue that their shared past prevented Bella from seeing Rosalie in a favorable light. It might be true, if not for the fact that Bella was intelligent enough to isolate that factor.
Satisfied with the results she had obtained, Bella bid Rosalie goodnight. Bella knew that one day she would have to confront the other woman about the past, but she didn't think the time was right. First she had to face the man who had caused the bad blood between them.
Unbeknown to Bella, her rejection had increased Rosalie's wrath to an unbearable level.
However, Rosalie had other plans. After it was done, her body thrummed with the excitement of the filthy deeds she had inflicted upon her nemesis' body, while her soul basked in the glory of a complete and undisputed ascension to the status of a deity. She had finally become who she was meant to be — freed from the petty beliefs of inferior creatures, she shone like a supernova.
Rosalie was so full of herself, so sure of her own worth that she failed to notice the warnings of her own body. Caught off guard, she emptied the contents of her stomach over the body of the human sacrifice that afforded her the title of a goddess.
As she fell to her knees, weak and trembling, she finally acknowledged the symptoms she knew all too well. Twice she had dealt with the same kind of situation, both times with the same outcome. She hadn't felt any joy in the act: it had been merely about ridding herself of an unwanted child. But this time she perversely anticipated the procedure.
Would the child of a goddess refuse to meet its untimely demise? Would it try to fight fate? Would it have to die by her own hands?
However, Rosalie's days of running wild were coming to an end, for a scared child found the will to come out of hiding and take control.
Rosie warily looked around the filthy motel room shaking her head in dismay. The need to flee was almost overwhelming, but she was decided to stay for as long as she could. For a long time, she had sat back and watched how the others grew up into fractured women whose minds retained only portions of the truth. Only she could connect the dots and understand the whole picture, but unfortunately she was also the most submissive one, the one who preferred to hide.
Guilty by omission in more than one murder, she did the impossible: she grew up. Frozen in the early years of adolescence, she had been unable to stop the savagery. But knowing what the future held, she found the strength to overcome her fear and become a woman strong enough to defeat the egomaniac who planned to murder an innocent child once again.
The first time she understood, perhaps even wished for it. The second time, she simply told herself she didn't care. But this time the child was the fruit of her heart's desire and she would resort to any measures in order to protect it.
Gently caressing her still flat stomach, Rosie started to make plans.
Getting Rose's job back proved to be easier than she had anticipated. Making use of the tricks she had seen Rosalie play on men, Rosie made many unspoken promises to her eager boss, none of which she planned to fulfill.
Her living arrangements proved to be a bit more challenging: the too constricting apartment she used to rent wouldn't be able to accommodate the baby's needs. Finding an appropriate place on her budget proved to be a worthy challenge, but eventually she found a charming two bedroom apartment in a respectable neighborhood.
Then came the diapers, the cute clothes, the stuffed animals … for months she was too involved with baby preparations to dwell on the very real possibility that she might disappear before the baby was even born. However, reality came back with a vengeance in the form of the dreams that in the past had always chased her away.
The nightmares that tormented her weren't the product of an overactive imagination. They were the memories of a time when her father held her face down on the bed and violated her body with animal urgency. They were the reminder of the pain of knowing that her mother stood by watching but did nothing to stop him. They were the memoirs of a girl who got pregnant at thirteen by her own father.
Many nights she woke up sweating and panting in fear, but still she wasn't ready to concede defeat. However, when her eyes started blurring in the mornings and her thoughts turned hazy, she could no longer deny that Rosalie was very much alive and fighting for control. Afraid for her child, she felt that her only alternative was calling the only family member who would never fail her.
Dialing his number, she wasn't surprised by his nonplussed answer to her request, for she didn't need him to institutionalize her since she was willing. However, she needed more, much more from him. She needed him to have her declared incapable and for him to become her legal guardian. Then he would have the power to make her stay in the health care facility even if "she" changed her mind.
Explaining her predicament and Rosalie's past misdeeds, Rosie warily waited for her cousin's answer. She could understand his hesitation, for he was about to step into a messy situation with the potential to turn really ugly. She hoped for the best, but there was the very real possibility that Rosalie would find her way out. And then what would happen to her baby?
But as usual, her cousin came through for her, as she knew he would. After, all he had been the one to help her learn her lines for all of her high school plays, the one that took her to dances during the heat of the scandal that had befallen their family, the one to buy her gifts and make her giggle…the cousin who had so many times bore the brunt of her father's brutality in order to protect her.
Thus, the psychiatric clinic became her home for the next six months. She still suffered with the nightly reminders of the terrors she had endured, but so far Rosalie had made no real attempt at coming out. Her days were spent at the garden, basking in the sun and the sounds of nature – a peaceful life, even if slightly boring, but she preferred it that way.
Therapy was light, for the doctor had to take her pregnancy into consideration. Reviving the past wasn't easy, neither was the realization that she couldn't stay for good: in order to heal she would have to merge with the other women living inside her. But with that knowledge, so many questions arose … what of Rose? Would she be part of the mix? And Rosalie's sociopathic tendencies? Would they prevail? Would this new woman be a danger to the baby?
Rosie was so absorbed with the questions swirling in her mind that she slipped into unconsciousness without realizing it. She went peacefully, without giving any thought to the baby she wouldn't get to hold or the life she wouldn't get to live. It was the perfect end to a troubled life, a sort of compensation for all the pain she had endured.
And then there was only one.
It didn't take long for Rosalie to realize where she was. Beyond pissed, she couldn't think clearly, otherwise she would have realized that trying to climb over the wall while heavily pregnant was bound to attract the staff's attention. They caged her, but they didn't break her. She continued fighting, the only way she could. Her determination astounded even her jaded jailors, but eventually they had to do something about her decision.
"Let me go, you fucking asshole!"
The insult was met with serene patience and calm understanding. For all the fight that Rosalie was putting up, the doctor was well aware of the fear and uncertainty tormenting his young patient. She struggled against the straps bounding her to the bed, but both of them knew that it was a wasted effort.
Nevertheless, she struggled until her body was engulfed by fatigue brought by hours of relentless battle. Defeated by her weakened self, Rosalie had no other choice but to surrender. With a sneer marring her gaunt face she turned her eyes to the doctor expecting him to deliver a self-righteous speech just like the others had already done.
Her refusal to feed the thing growing inside of her had sparked the indignation of her captors—she was convinced that had it not been for the baby nobody would bother lecturing her on the need to eat ... She loved knowing that it was dying, starving, suffering … and there was nothing they could do about it. They thought they could control her fate by preventing her from having it surgically removed, but she had shown them. She was above them and soon …
Her line of thought was interrupted by the soothing voice of the man who was supposed to be her new doctor.
"Rosalie, dear, don't you remember me?"
That simple question brought on an onslaught of images Rosalie couldn't fully comprehend. They weren't the blurred renditions of the other women's ventures—they were clear pictures of herself in situations that eluded her memory. She would have dismissed them as nothing more as a stress related response to the doctors out of place question had it not been for the sensorial memories triggered by those thoughts. The recollection of smells and textures, feelings and ideas convinced her of the veracity of the unexpected flashback plaguing her mind's eye.
A part of herself rebelled against the newly acquired knowledge about the tricks her subconscious had played on her. Those lesser mortals couldn't grasp the magnitude of her deeds or the wonder of her mind—they had the audacity to insult her, restrain her … However, an ever growing fraction of her mind was returning to the desolate desert of sanity, making her want to accept the help that was being so freely offered.
Despite all the turmoil consuming her, Rosalie was lucid enough to know she had reached the point of no return: there would be no more half measures. All or nothing. Deity or humanity. The life she knew or the big unknown.
As she contemplated her options the little life growing inside her womb moved somewhat.
And she knew the answer.
The river of memory was firmly barred from flowing by an impenetrable dam of willpower and self-preservation. Rosalie wouldn't dwell on forgotten memories or on the gruesome acts of her recent past, for she had more pressing issues at hand. Plastering a besieging look on her bright blue eyes Rosalie tried to coax the good doctor into untying her. Any man would be tempted by the compensation promised by the slight quirk of her too full mouth, but he bravely resisted it.
The strangeness of being denied unsettled Rosalie—she couldn't fathom how to achieve her goal if not by manipulating the stocky old man.
"Rosalie, if you want something from me all you have to do is ask. As long as it's a reasonable request, I'll give it to you."
Fixing him with a glare, she tried to grasp the concept that she might be given something without offering herself in return. Puzzled by the doctor's candor, she decided to test the truth of his words.
"I want you to untie me."
"You were restrained because you broke into the kitchen, stole a knife and tried to cut your abdomen with it. Do you remember doing that?"
"Of course, nitwit. But what does it have to do with anything? I've changed my mind."
The sour memory of Rosalie's cunning intelligence made the doctor overly cautious when addressing his patient's remark. Watching her warily, he realized she would never respond to direct questioning—despite her recent acquiescence to plain conversation, Rosalie was too attached to her mind games to respond positively to any conventional treatment.
"I'm all ears."
"I want to eat."
"That's good. The entire staff was really concerned about your deteriorating health. But how can I know if it's not only a trick to get me to untie you?"
"You just gotta have faith doc."
Grinning mischievously, Rosalie winked at the doctor like a little child would do to a loving parent. Puzzled by her changing moods, the doctor looked deep into her eyes. They burned with intensity, amazingly not with the crazed emptiness of a confused mind, but with the purpose of a bursting heart.
Surprising him at every turn, she dropped all the pretenses and allowed him to have a glimpse of the real woman underneath. She seemed overwhelmed by concern, overly protective, filled with tenderness, ready to do anything and everything … She looked like a mother.
Taking a step back the doctor wondered about the meaning of his observations, but the pleading voice of his patience brought him out of his musings.
"Please, doctor. My baby may be dying right this minute."
Any other person would have asked "what baby?", but not the experienced Dr. Banner.
The next day, Rosalie was loath to admit that she had been feeling strange all morning. There was a weird pressure on her lower back and sharp stabs of pain in her abdomen. It took her a while, but she eventually realized it was time to bring her baby into the world. Retiring to her bedroom, she did her best to stay quiet, for she didn't want to alert the nurses to the impending delivery.
Dr. Banner had discussed the necessity of a c-section, but deep inside her heart Rosalie knew that she was strong enough to birth her child on her own. However, even mothers' hearts are wrong on occasion. She had been walking around the room in order to help move things along when a particularly strong contraction blurred her vision. She fell and hit her head, losing consciousness, but not before she could panic about her baby's destiny.
In the end, everything worked out for the best. The ever watchful Dr. Banner had suspected that she might try to pull something just like that. That's why he had arrived just in time to deliver her baby and save her life.
She woke up as a mom. And against all odds, she couldn't be happier about it.
As Dr. Banner watched his patient nursing her imaginary baby, he recalled the first time she had walked into his office. Stunningly beautiful, surprisingly shy it took him a while before he could coax her into admitting the reason for the consult. Back then her main concern was memory loss—she used to forget many hours of her day. The first diagnosis that came to his mind proved to be the correct one: dissociative identity disorder.
Back then, the dominant personality had been Rose, a shy, sweet girl who attended nursing school and believed herself a virgin. She was unaware of any other personality and remembered nothing of the traumatic past described by Rosie, a fearful thirteen year old who had been sexually abused by her father since she was four. Dr. Banner had been heartbroken by Rosie's revelations, especially by how the monster got her pregnant when she was thirteen.
That's when Rosalie had come along. She had been borne out of the necessity to get rid of the monster's spawn. Rosalie never volunteered much information; her story was hazy at best. All the doctor knew was that she had been the dominant one from age thirteen up until age eighteen and that she retained all of Rose's memories but was oblivious to Rosie's existence. As far as he could tell she knew nothing of the abuse.
He had had high hopes of integrating the personalities, therefore curing her, but one day she missed the appointment and he never heard from her again. His efforts in trying to locate her proved fruitless and he had given up. However destiny stepped in and now he had a second chance at helping the girl who had touched his heart.
She could feel Doctor Banner watching her, but Rosalie's mind was too frantic to dwell on that. She was well aware that soon they would take her baby away—the facility in which she was currently a patient wasn't an appropriate environment for an infant. Besides, it was only a matter of time before her crimes were discovered … then she would be banished from her baby's life for good. Yes, she was living in stolen time, but she would relish it until the very last second.
That's why she resented Dr. Banner's persistent chatter, when he finally decided to enter the room. To his credit, he refrained from bombarding her with impertinent questions, preferring to discuss inane subjects. But he was still detracting from her alone time with her baby and that wouldn't do. Whenever he came to see her, she tried to make him leave and he always proposed a bargain: for her to answer one question truthfully and he would go away. She never took the bait up until that afternoon when she was too tired of the baby's incessant demands to fight the doctor's prodding.
"Rosalie, why did you change your mind about keeping the baby? Because the hunger strike was about killing it, right?"
"I felt it move." Her answer was passionless, like someone saying the obvious.
"And why did it matter?"
"That's more than one question."
"You're intelligent enough to know that any clarification needed was implied."
"Fine. It's Edward's baby, ok? I realized that I was trying to kill the baby of the only man I've ever loved."
"And where is Edward?"
"Dead. I killed him."
For some unfathomable reason, Rosalie could no longer withhold the gory tale of the sins she had committed. Narrating every single perversity and act of sadism filled her with a sense of pride she had forgotten due to her recent delve into motherhood. Not that she regretted her choice, but she would miss the decadent pleasures of being the angel of lust and death.
Her megalomaniac delirium of deity was deaf to the pleas of her conscious mind, urging her to stop the confession, for she was dooming herself to a life behind bars, far away from her baby. If only she had kept her mouth shut, she could have left the hospital and gained custody of her baby. But now it was too late, and the voice of almost reason quieted forever.
So, she spent hours regaling the doctor with the beauty of death, the color of blood, the taste of fear. Surprisingly, he didn't show any outward signs of repulsion or reproach—he simply listened, much like he used to do on their previous therapy sessions … But they hadn't met before, right? She had never …
At that moment, the dam broke and the memories came back …
Disjointed.
Overwhelming.
Confusing.
Real.
Dr. Banner didn't know what to make of Rosalie's abrupt halt. She had been enthusiastically describing some of the most stomach churning scenes he had ever heard of when her eyes suddenly turned haunted, then emotionless.
"Rosalie. Rosalie, look at me. What's the problem?"
"My arms are empty." Her voice was passionless and her eyes flat while she looked at the doctor for confirmation.
"What do you mean?" Deciding that she had come to terms with reality on her own, the doctor tried not to reveal anything.
"There is no baby, is there?"
"No, honey, there isn't. I'm sorry."
Laughing humorlessly, Rosalie threw herself on a chair and stared out of the window for a couple of minutes. When she spoke her voice lacked any intonation—it was cold, robotic, inhumane.
"What really happened?"
"Rosalie, you know that's not how therapy works. I'm merely a guide: you have to figure out on your own."
"Fuck that! I need answers and I need them now! I have split personalities! I fucking imagined a pregnancy and a baby! I have killed dozens of people, have I not? How much crazier can someone get? I need to know! I need to understand!"
Dr. Banner didn't say a word, for there is a procedure that must be observed. Whenever a patient gets overly upset they must be sedated. So, Rosalie slept peacefully only to wake up for one last time.
A privately conducted investigation revealed that Rosalie's killing rampage had existed only inside her own mind, even her apartment sat untouched. She had spent part of her time sitting at a dinner, absently watching TV and ignoring her surroundings. The other part of her time was spent inside a fetid motel room where she was almost raped by a sleazy manager. During that time she only came in contact with three people: her first boyfriend, her former classmate—both alive and in good health; and the cousin who visited her every Friday, Emmett.
As Emmett watched her sleep, his heart constricted painfully within his chest. Abused as a child; raped as an adult; two abortions, being that both pregnancies were a result of forced sex; three personalities; a mental breakdown … What was left for a person that didn't even have herself?
He loved her dearly, but Emmett feared that he was losing all hope in Rosalie's recovery. He no longer believed she could live a happy fulfilling life. At times, he caught himself praying for her death, because only God could cure such a damaged soul. Yes, it was wrong of him, but he was only a man battling demons that were rapidly overpowering him.
She had just opened her eyes when the annoying doctor started bombarding her with his despicable little questions. Of course she wasn't okay. Yes, she remembered what had happened. No, she didn't need to sleep a bit more. What she needed was space. What she needed was to forget. What she needed was to turn back time and never see Bella on that damn street.
Rose was simply crossing the street when she got a glimpse of a woman sitting behind the wheel of an expensive car. Little fool that she was, she felt sorry for the woman because she seemed lonely. Rosalie was outraged and took control. Everything would have been fine had it not been for the reappearance of her grandfather … and all the painful memories he had brought to light.
"Rosalie, do you remember what we discussed last session?"
"Yes." All of her life she had tried to escape, had tried to fight … but it always caught up to her, didn't it?
"Do you remember telling me about murdering people? Dozens of them?" When she nodded, he proceeded "You never told me who your first victim was."
Her entire face contorted into a mask of pure, unadulterated hate. The azure blue eyes that usually beckoned were a pool of cool malice and unabashed anger. She looked like a devil ready to exact revenge on a daring offender.
"My grandfather." Yes, she would let it consume her, burn her …
"Why did kill him?"
"He killed my father." Came her cool, controlled response.
"But you had no affection for your father, then why … ?"
"Because my sweet old grandpa fucking killed my father in order to protect her. For years, the old hypocrite let me suffer at the hands of that monster and never did anything to stop him, but he touches that fucking bitch only once and voilá he is sentenced to death. Why is Bella better than me? Why did he defend her but not me? Why did Edward love her but not me? Why?"
For the first time in her life Rosalie surrendered to the urge to cry. She didn't understand why she was so lacking that nobody ever chose her. Why was it her destiny to be the outcast? The expendable one? Just once she would have liked to know how it felt like to be held above all others … but she wouldn't, because she had made a decision and she would stick by it.
She never stopped to question why Dr. Banner had a knife between his fingers. She just grabbed it and slashed her wrists open. Instead of running to her aid, the doctor simply loomed over her, a frown on his wrinkled face.
As she felt life slipping away her only thought was as to how unloved she truly was.
How unimportant.
How unwanted.
Then she closed her eyes and became forever lost inside the labyrinths of her own mind.
It happened on a Friday, so Banner had little to no time to prepare. Steeling himself he tried to be as professional as possible while volunteering all sorts of technical explanations for what had occurred–as preliminary as any diagnosis would be at that point, he did his best. The poor boy deserved better, but having to deliver bad news had always been the downside of the profession he adored – and he had never become proficient at it. Thankfully, it went smoother than he had any right to hope, so he was mercifully able to wrap it up quite fast.
"I can only conclude that she believed the pen to be a sharp object, like a knife, perhaps."
"So, in her mind, she is dead?"
"Yes."
The crestfallen expression on Emmett's face betrayed all the love he held for his cousin. After her last session, the police had exhumed her grandfather's body. He was Rosalie's first and only victim and she was indicted. Seeing that she was unfit to stand trial, the process would be pending indefinitely—until the day when she would either wake up or die. For reasons unknown, the rest of the family cut all ties with Rosalie.
"Will she ever wake up?"
"I don't know."
"Why did she break down like this?"
"I can't know for sure. My best guess is that she couldn't handle the fact that she had taken a life."
"Can I have a moment of privacy?"
Patting the younger man's shoulder, Dr. Banner left with a heavy heart. Carefully sitting himself on Rosalie's bed, Emmett started to brush her long hair. It would become a weekly ritual, the thoughtful act and the whispered litany with which he filled the long hours he spent in her company.
"You are loved. You are wanted. I love you. I'm sorry. I'm so sorry."