Sorry I took so long for the update. Especially for those who enjoy this story.
Rose
(The neurotic silence prompts an epiphany about him. He is startled, be it from the meditative pain he perceives in the blonde's entirety, or rather the torturous shackles that cast an invisibility cloak around Rosalie's dead orbs. She meekly checks him with a quiet rumination in her soul, and there is a destructive behavior about her thoughts. The revelation ruins him somehow. And he meekly stares dubiously; eyeing the discordant pair in a stunned and feverish fashion. A blonde that upon first peer built to rule an empire, and an oblivious human on the brink of a betraying enlightenment.)
They're settled in a silence, marvelous in its own brevity, yet beautifully unversed in the way it is shattered—only it is plentiful in length. A bitter and protracted timeframe in which the devoted manner her mate observes Edward with and the viciousness of his still evident love for Bella, has her virtues corrupted. The sensation is not so much as jealousy as it is the simplicity of fear. A bleak ambience worked about him. It was evident in his tousled locks, fared even worse in his slumped shoulders, and far more lethal in devastated eyes—that watched her, observed her with contempt and envy. He, dare she vilely admit, seemed to be the worst victim from her inequitable choice. Rosalie couldn't bear to stare into him anymore.
Yet it is apparent that the enkindled frustration in the depths of her stomach is very much so provoked by the gentle scowl prominent on Edward's countenance.
It does not vanish, as she cannot quit decipher the familiar look. Only once his stare, a studious stare, becomes well acquainted with the scene of her own arm swathing Bella in a protective embrace, does his façade falter. A moment is all that is needed. And in a split second he becomes oddly frail.
"I hurt everyone by leaving," His darkened eyes flick upwards to meet her own. "But now I understand that I can't handle this pain on my own anymore."
His internal comments that have thrived into an external existence aren't laced with entitlement, yet the plain words somehow has humbled him. And for that, well, Rosalie let's her hand fall from its place on Bella's hip. Her heart mourns for him, yet her hands ache to end a war with him.
(Bella watches the pair in devastation because she can feel it. This sharp repentance and she can feel it. That elusive secret that's been at the forefront of the blonde vampires saddened irises. It's bleak, vital and her blood runs thin as the air becomes too thin).
"What did Rosalie tell you before you left?" Bella sticks the heavy question into their space.
And it ravishes them both wholly and as equally so.
"Bella, I don't think—"
"You don't get to decide what's good for me anymore!" A shout.
Edward nods. "I'm sorry."
And her defensive stance slackens. He is ravaged by his own words, but she can feel it—metaphorically touch it. The singe of betrayal that leaks from the very depths of his lost soul. He has become a devastation; only now can she truly perceive as it entirely scowls at her in such an innocent manner. That he had hoped (desperately believed) that she had been truthful to Bella, the true conveyer of all it all.
"Bella," Rosalie breaths, solemnly, viciously even. "You have questions, and I'm ready to answer them. But everyone deserves to see Edward. And he owes them that."
(And he blinks and blinks, and Rosalie believes he erupts.)
…
They arrive at the luxurious home that loomed over nightfall like an ominous entity. Rosalie hears the low voices of her family inside before they even step foot onto the driveway, and to her those low hushes seem to be as loud as ever. It had taken them much too long to get to the home, however Bella had spoken 'I'll meet you there," as though Rosalie had not one inch to argue, so instead the vampire decided to hitch a ride in the back of the grumbling truck. Edward had gone ahead, and Rosalie could still hear the despondency in his timbre as he speaks to Esme.
They move to the back of the home silently, the human persuaded to walk with more determination than usual. Rosalie hadn't the opportunity to witness the vehemence of Bella's ire—the keen and wintry stare that accompanies the creased brow stunts her. It put her own fury to shame. As they settle, they pass the threshold onto the patio, her shoulders slacken, and she is overcome with weary. Bella veers on the balls of her feet while an expression Rosalie has never seen.
(Her celestial palace will cease to exist due in part to her vanity and dispositioned silence).
The delicate and warm radiance of the porch light bounces off of the human beautifully, and Rosalie believes that she'd love to embed this particular instance into her memory forever. 'Before the inevitable mortification of her betrayal settles into the chilly, and heavy air between them'. Bella worries her bottom lip superficially as Rosalie comprehends the habit as more of a means of confoundment.
"You'll hate me more than you're capable," Rosalie wistfully admits. "I haven't made the best decisions Bella. And in my entire lifetime I believe this to be my worst."
Bella remains motionless. A quietness occurs around them, but much more present in the Bella's reticent stare. Separated from this moment and the implications that the words provide—lost, detached and somehow studious was her peer.
"I didn't know how I would feel about him once he'd come back. I haven't even thought about him in so long. And you and I…maybe even your entire family has known why that is," Bella blinks. "You've let me in on so much of your life. Of whom you are. I just need a little more transparency."
'A secret starts to rust.'
Weary, scorned, and dishonesty—her time has come to rue her decisions, and she has never been more at ease for the heartache she has known for what will have come.
"There was never a coincidence that we came back to forks," Rosalie stares her ruination head on. "A mate was the reason we happened to come by fate. Only it was mine, and not his. And I've made a horrible choice that's started this all."
It occurs to her while Bella falters at her revelation. Falters and then viciously stumbles away from her, heartache in every step. And there's a resemblance between Bella's footfalls and the heavy are hard tune of the piano whenever Rosalie had a particularly tiresome day.
Bella stares in a variance of emotions: perplexity, recognition, an aching torture that wills to not become oppressed by a cruel betrayal, and one peculiar enough that it has wills to be even sadistic. Rosalie recoils at the confounded consciousness Bella peers at her with; as if she is the stranger, an alienated existence. She does not have to conceptualize the pensive contemplation that overcomes Bella's mien, because the brunette may be a victim to her own emotional obliviousness, but even a dullard could perceive the acidic accusation Edwards stare displays.
"Rosalie," Her name is uttered anew, freshly bitter. "Wha—what have you done." Not a question.
A vexation induces a tremor in Bella, and she meekly stares at the pure fury outlining the recrimination.
The 'what' outshone the reluctance for the inquiry to expel from Bella's quivering lips. The 'do' partook in an intricate tale that leads the blonde vampire to dolefully drift away from her perplexed mate. She manages a flat three steps before her intentions are severed with a woefully heavy breath from Bella.
She could not even stare into the eyes of her mate. Rosalie doesn't dare move in on Bella's space as the human recoils further away.
"I was dumb and indignant." She admits.
A criminal that had stolen the lives of those who had been foolish enough to embark on a tale that wasn't theirs to travel. The tears arrive well before the lump in the human's throat has the ability to clump. The pain, a suffocation creeps in—the humane ability to breath was trivial, and senseless, however Rosalie desired more than ever to have the capability to breath easier. She had no blood left in her veins, the warm liquid evaporated the day she had been turned; 'how much more blood could she bleed.' An eternity has passed before she tasted the forbidden and she fell into the allure of untouched happiness, and she has polluted the one individual who has given her the contentment she has thirsted for.
Silence. Her absolution has become her damnation, and Bella silently scowls at her; disquieted and infuriated.
"I'm your…" Bella turns towards the forest. Shoulders taut, a vicious rumble near eruption as she trembles severely.
(A blonde so feral emotionally, and a brunette despondent and so very cultivated in his own endeavor to find his actuality: both exasperated within the clutches of a mere memory; a previous existence they've deemed innocent—pure.) Bella's features crinkle into a fine disappointment.
They were so distinct from one another, the similarities evilly lurking about, traits deviating from the other seamlessly. One defiant in his love, the other tainted upon happenstance. Both innocently venturing to sustain her content. Only then maybe that was where they all proved defective.
(She intends to condemn one; be it she, he, or they. Bella fathoms thatall three deserve the damn.)
"All this time. We've been…How could you let this happen Rosalie?"
"I wanted to—I hadn't expected it to happen. By the time I had known for sure you two were already infatuated with one another and I couldn't. I wanted you to have a choice to be able to choose—"
Bella's laughter wafts into the night it resonates, sticks, and peels the rest of the air from her empty and shattered body. So bitter, cold, painful, and strict; Rosalie refuses to stumble upon that laughter for the rest of her eternity.
"It wouldn't have mattered!"
The volcanic eruption. A pure vexation, well rounded, and intricate overcomes the blonde. Settled within. Pain, be it simple, or vibrant pummels into her so quick. Betrayal. Contrition, and reproach; she is ridden with sorrow, and her eyes hurtle open. Rosalie merely watches the irate human battle her inner turmoil. Bella rounds on the blonde fac painted pink, wholly troubled by both her mind, emotions and past. She halts with more space between them so that the rifts of misery dances happily in the unoccupied area.
"This wasn't your decision to make Rosalie!" Bella blinks past the wave of tears. "At least not alone. You're completely selfish! This isn't something that I get to choose Rosalie. Because there was never a choice. Him or you doesn't even make sense because in the end it will always be you. It will always be you Rose."
And Rosalie starts to break, the façade of composure ruptures as hysteria slithers in briskly. Her mind flites to the trepidation she had felt that sunless and calamitous night. Her inability to overcome a predetermined fate.
"I didn't have a choice, Bella!" Rosalie scrambles closer to the silent human. "Royce was handpicked for me. And that night he and those men defiled me in every way that an individual with power could."
Bella bristles, her body slackens, and she's left windswept by the storm of this emotional moment.
(A stealthy wind shifts into the air slips into the slits of her clothes trickles into her bones, and her body reacts with a tentative shiver). The implications of the outburst fine and palpable.
Bella smiles wearily. Low, sheepishly saddened, and tired.
"We've all made a mess of things huh," Rosalie blinks at the forlorn smile. "I want to put the blame on you alone, but I know that you've suffered the most out."
Rosalie inclines her head mutely, words dead on her lips as Bella sidles past her. The human remains at the sliding doors for a few heartbeats.
"I wouldn't have ever wanted to choose Rose. Mate or not—if I ever have the chance, it will always be you I want."
The footsteps depart leisurely; tune melancholic and lonely.
One aimless, and the other wholly acceptant of her fate.
I surrender to all that she is. My heart cannot take the denial anymore, and I believe that I have seen the woman for whom she is. Loneliness calls to her as a siren hums a serene and enticing melody. Her name is Rosalie and I have the privilege to utter Rose; a beautiful calamity that binds me by her voice alone. I have come to find that her beauty is a burden that she cannot welcome as this sorrow and heartache is hidden beneath her vanity and composure. I surrender to the idea that I am helplessly in love with the 'cold, vain, and prickly' vampire. A beautiful creature that happens to have placed her woes within the deepest parts of my soul. I feel as she does, and I understand now that we've all misunderstood a beautiful Rose. Whose petals have withered decades ago. Whose found a home in the silence she's cradled since the day she's been forfeited to live with every painful memory for an eternity. I have surrendered myself to none other than this lovely, lovely rose. Her white petals stained by the crimson that will always torment her. I feel as though I have loved her since the moment, I had the entitlement to see all that she is. Her thrones are stripped, and I do hope that one day I may love her with a sunny rise and a bated breath that eventually warms her loneliness and pain.
As I love a vampire that embodies all the memories of her pain, and her name is none other than Rosalie.
- Bella
I have always said I intend to finish this story...