Disclaimer: Stephenie Meyer owns everything recognizable in the land of Twilight. The letters in bold are taken directly from "Eclipse" (Ch 7; pgs 157-160). No copyright infringement is meant. Warning: sensitive material. Please take notice when reading this chapter. Violence. Slight non-con.

But a Whimper

"Simplicity is the ultimate sophistication." – Leonardo da Vinci

.~~.

April, 1933 - Rosalie's POV

Little Henry's coos pulls me from my conversation with his mother and onto his beautifully innocent face. His cheeks are a healthy pink and quite pudgy. His dark hair curls slightly near his folded neck as his playful dimples appear. He is everything a gorgeous baby should be. I find myself powerlessly in love with him.

My friendship with his mother is not as I remember. In some ways it seems easier. We can talk more candidly; have more meaningful conversations, without the innocents of youth. With Vera being terribly content and really wanting for nothing, there is no jealousy on her behalf.

I can remember the looks in her eyes from when we were all but children. She thought I couldn't see, but it was her disadvantageous. I saw everything . . . mother made sure of that. Mother wanted me to glory in my beauty, to see the envy others held against me. I didn't understand at the time how much thrill it gave to the Madam. It gives me the shudders even contemplating it now.

But it clears from my mind quickly, especially having baby Henry in my arms. His sweet babblings are like music. I wonder what he is thinking and how his mind processes things at such a tender age. Yes, it is easy to see why Vera is terribly content.

"Aren't you the most precious darling," I fuss at him. His pudgy, little arms flail about in excitement, his eyes bright with awareness excitement. I can feel my eyes tingle at such exquisite simplicity in my arms.

It is funny how life changes and emotions can reverse so quickly. I want to laugh at the irony, but hold it in.

As I talk to the tiny man-in-waiting, I think about the last few months and all that has transpired. The wedding plans have come together quite splendidly. Even though we plan to wed at the end of April and Royce and I have only been engaged for several months, our lives and social obligations seem to have melded.

Without sounding too love-struck, I can't help but think there's some invisible hand leading my life, leading me down a clear and unsullied path. Things are almost too perfect. I know how ungrateful I sound in my mind, but after my experience of first love and having things fall apart with Edward, it is smart to be somewhat cautious.

I'm often caught up in my life, enjoying the endless parties, having one fancy dress after another, seeing deep envy in people's gazes, drinking one fizzy glass of champagne after another, and knowing no one is as beautiful or glamorous as me. Yes, Rosalie Hale has come roaring back.

After the glamour has faded and the lights are extinguished for the night and the creaking of my house settles around me, it is then when my mind plays with my happy, insulated existence.

I've come to dread these moonless nights. I see images in my head I'd rather not think on. Yes, I've been endlessly happy and spoiled by Royce, but I realize how much time we spend apart. I can't fault him, being awfully busy overseeing his father's many business ventures.

When we are together, he is quite attentive, always having to touch some part of my skin, staring at me so intently. We talk of our friends, acquaintances, obligations after we are married, and expectations of our standing in society.

He constantly regales me with compliments of my outer beauty.

I wonder if he knows that while I want these shared aspirations and appreciate the admiration, I also want children. They are most important to me.

When I catch him look intently at me, all but devouring me, I imagine he is picturing our life, our expectant children and the blissful life we'll share. And when we are old and grey, hanging onto life by harried breaths, our children will surround us, filling in any available space with their enduring love.

Such a terribly glorious dream it is to me.

But even among all the glittering dreams of my heart, there is a little awful chill, something which seems off. It is on these moonless, cold nights when I feel the emptiness. I can't explain the discrepancy, so I chalk it up to my wild unbound imagination. I'm simply looking for problems, trying to prepare myself for a possible fall.

Is that so, I can hear my mind taunt. Why does he stare at you so intently? What faults does he see within you? Is he able to see beyond your astounding beauty, Rosalie? Why are his kisses all but possessive . . . somewhat vacant.

Think what you will, I respond illogically, trying to put my mind on brighter paths. Royce loves me devoutly. It's only natural for his affections to be shown in his amorous kisses.

More often than not, I can dispel these tired notions. They are shadows manifesting from my badly ended relationship with Edward. Nothing more, nothing less . .

I look down at the squirming baby in my hands and lean into his cherubim cheeks. I kiss them warmly.

"Yes, they are, darling," I coo to him. "Made-up manifestations on my part. A girl has to have some fright the week before her wedding. Even to someone as wonderful, busy and socially connected as Mr. King. Where much is given, a great deal is required. I know this lesson very well." I unbury my face from little Henry's neck, but keep his pure scent with me.

Slowly, but surely his eyelids start to droop. I can only imagine the heaviness in them. They flutter helplessly as he fights to keep them from closing. I like to believe he doesn't want to lose me from his vision, but even my vainness knows limits. He's simply a tired little lad.

We both startle as his mother stumbles into the room. Her cheeks are flushed and I can see regret lingering in her eyes.

"I'm so sorry, Rosalie. I didn't realize the time," she immediately starts to apologize. Before I can dispel her worry, her little son starts to wail. It breaks my heart for several reasons.

Even his young ears can make out his mother's voice, and now he wants her above all else. He craves her presence and most likely her breast milk.

I tremble a little as I reluctantly hand him over. He no longer requires me and has eyes only for his mama.

She sits in a frayed chair by the fire and settles her little one to her breast. She puts a tattered blanket over her exposure and watches her son for a while. Her happiness and contentment all but drowns the room. I can feel each and every emotion running beneath her too pale skin. But even with all the good surrounding me, I can still taste my own feelings, and topping the list is envy.

It is such a heady emotion to me, something so profoundly unknown. I've been the envy of my peers, the pinnacle of everything they want. Sadly it made me happy and smug. But as I now taste this vile emotion, I want nothing to do with it.

I can't even explain it. Yes, Vera has her beautiful son and he loves her unconditionally. But it shouldn't be enough to warrant such deplorable feelings inside me. Soon, I shall have my own little ones.

As I try to work out the puzzle, the frenzy I feel fluttering in my heart, her voice pulls me from my inner-musings.

"Are you ready to be married soon?" Her soft voice is for her son, but I can hear the happiness in it for me. The girl is blissfully content. "You must be so excited, Rosalie." Her eyes are bright with love and fire from the flames warming the room.

"I am, Vera." And it's the truth. Plans have come together so seamlessly, and in such a short time. Even I am surprised by Royce's quickness in popping the question. "There isn't a reason to wait, Rosalie," he explained soundly, evenly. "I'm a man who knows what he desires, and you are the most desirable, my dear."

I shivered.

"Royce will make a splendid husband, and I know we shall be very happy together."

The little mother bends over and kisses her little bundle. His suckling noises have now stopped. I wonder what it will feel like to feed my own child the milk I'll produce for him or her. The experience will be like nothing else . . . incomparable.

"I wish you all the happiness, my friend." She looks away from Henry and serenely smiles at me. The truthfulness of her words is written on her plain yet satisfied face. She's beyond sincere.

"One week left, then? You must be bouncing from the walls," she giggles between her knowing statement. "I remember it all too well."

"And then some," I admit. Though all my dreams are about to be realized, it doesn't stop my stomach from knotting and twisting painfully.

One week left . . . too much time . . . I never knew myself to be so pessimistic.

"But everything is happening according to plan. Mrs. King and mother are the embodiment of efficient. The Wedding coordinator may feel the need to retire after this affair," I jest. She has been run quite ragged, especially by the ever-demanding Madam.

"I'm awfully happy for you, Rosalie. I just want you to know it." My head tilts to the side as I study my newly reacquainted friend. My left hand falls over my chest in exquisite tenderness, that which only a female friend can rouse. I feel as if my hand is the only thing holding my wildly beating heart in my chest.

"And I you, Vera."

Our knowing stare is broken by the opening of her front door.

She quickly adverts her eyes from mine and to her front door. That happy, contented smile takes over her face again as she studies her beloved who's just returned from work.

Mark, quite an ordinary name which matches his looks, is exceedingly dirty from his employment. He is in every way imaginable average. However, when he takes in his wife nursing his son, average is replaced with wonderful. It is terribly clear to me his reasons for existing is exhibited in his immediate eyesight: Home, hearth, wife, son . . . life.

The exquisitely tender picture before me becomes blurry as something sharp digs into my heart. It must be that pesky envy again. No other emotion can come close to making me physically ill. I'm not disgusted by his dirty state or the lower-income home they reside in, but something wholly deeper, more intrinsic.

I can all but hear mother's pitiful laugh in the back of my mind, scolding me for such paltry envy of squalor and for being in their presence. She would find nothing endearing in Vera's life or situation. If it mattered even a little bit, I would feel sorry for mother.

Before me is the picture of happiness personified. It doesn't matter their station in life, the paltry wealth they retain, what each one can bring to their marriage, how they match each other in personality and looks.

As Mark enters their modest home, he doesn't even notice me. It chaffs my ego somewhat, but I cannot fault him. My eyes always seek out little Henry's presence when I visit Vera.

When he reaches his little family, he bends down and places his lips, first, on his slumbering son and then on his waiting beloved's. If I were writing some prose, words would escape me in describing the picturesque vision before me. How can one put love and enchantment into words? It's all but an impossibility. Well, to my meager vernacular at least.

As I study the little family, I take in the way Mark stares. And finally . . . finally, I'm able to pin what sends prickly aches to my heart. Devouring isn't the term I'd pen when writing of his affection for Vera, but unadulterated adoration. Anything she would wish and he could obtain for her, he would. Mark's intentions are clear and innocent. He only wishes for his family to be happy, safe and so loved.

The parallel I make with my relationship leaves me desirous and falling short. When Royce gazes endlessly at me, I can see some affection he holds for me. But is it this wholesome desire to want to love me endlessly? I cannot answer. Sadly it's unanswerable. I can't help but shiver.

I shake my head as husband and wife now greet each other with softly spoken words over their child. These questions and qualms are only an anticipation of my upcoming nuptials. I hear it only natural to have these fears. Getting married, no matter how happy, is a tremendous undertaking.

No two marriages are the same. While Vera and Mark may be endlessly happy, and in love, they are still poverty-stricken. There will be limits to their family and what they can provide for their children. They most certainly won't rise above their meager station.

Royce and I won't have such boundaries. Our future is secure and our expectant children will have the world at their newborn feet. Wealth shouldn't be such a precursor, but it is indeed. Especially in our dreadful economy.

I'll always have people envious of me and everything I have. My looks will only mature and ripen with age, being splendidly ageless.

Whatever the differences, I know things will be fine. I'm to be married in a week and nothing will subdue my sublime beauty. I shall sparkle brighter than all. Everyone present will be witness.

"Rosalie?" I hear spoken a little worriedly. I break from my wonderings and look to my friend. She may have been calling my name for several seconds.

"Sorry, I must have been far away," I explain. She gives me an understanding grin. Mark has already left the room and Vera is placing the sleeping babe into his wooden cradle. An antique I have recently gifted her with.

"I wanted to know if you'd join us for dinner. I've become distracted and meant to have dinner on the table by now." She grins down as she rearranges the blankets around little Henry.

I can't even imagine what it would be like to prepare dinner for my man. Surely, Royce will employ a fulltime cook. My culinary skills are nil.

My feet balance as I stand and chase the unseemly wrinkles from my skirt. I can see mother's brows creasing in disapproval. One day, I know her expressions will be far from my conscious.

"That's quite generous, Vera. But I've already overstayed my welcome."

A worried frown creases her forehead.
"Oh never, Rosalie," she mplores thoughtfully. I feel terrible for making her feel this way. "You are always welcome here. Friends of our history and caliber are difficult to come by." I can only nod emphatically at her statement. For she is beyond correct. My life is filled with superficiality and those who pretend to be my friend.

"All right," I say smiling softly, lost in my affection for this generous woman. "You've twisted my arm."

Our smiles continue as we head into her kitchen and I help her put dinner on. It's only fair, seeing as I monopolized her time. I only hope my contribution is edible.

. .

After dinner is finished, and our pleasant, light-hearted conversation has subsided, I thank her once again for being such an amazing friend and confidante. It must have been fate which brought Vera back into my life.

I help to put her meager kitchen back to right and allow Mark time deserved with his son. I'm only glad to take his place for the evening in helping his wife.

When things are scrubbed clean and the lights dimmed, we head back into the main room of the house. A smile overtakes my face as I watch her little Henry sitting up, giggling deeply at his father's antics. The scene playing before me is warm and heart-endearing.

"You'll keep him up all night, Mark," Vera pretends to scold her husband. The effects of her words are lost through her own mirth.

"No such thing, dear. I'm only tiring the little lad out," he defends as Henry lets out another peal of laughter. He captures everyone's heart in the small room.

The tight squeezing in my heart only reminds me how much I'm intruding, and it's past my time to vacate their home.

"Well, I should be heading home," I tell Vera, pulling her attention from her family onto me. "It's quite late. Mother will soon be going mad. She insists I get as much rest as possible this week. 'Beauty must be respected and retained, Rosalie,'" I mock the Madam.

Both Vera and I laugh. She knows mother all too well and her hefty demands.

As I start to gather my expensive things and look out her window, I see night has fallen and the street lamps have been lit. It will be quite chilly out. However, it isn't anything I can't handle.

Mark cuddles Henry in his arms as he stands up and makes his way towards us. He quickly passes the reaching boy over to his mother. It seems that not even Mark's affection for his son can compete with his mother's arms. Little Henry loves his mama above all, as it should be.

As I turn to put on my overcoat, I see Vera's husband place a loving kiss to her cheek.

I feel my heart start to beat even more rapidly. The action is terribly sweet and touching. I wonder what such easy love and affection would be like. Even with . . . him . . . Edward, it was more intense and wholly captivating than this. Perhaps I only inspire intensity in men. Never a simple, easy love.

When I'm finished bundling up, I turn back around and see a lovely little family. Henry is happily in his mother's safe arms and his father is standing protectively over them both. Mark's arm is securely around Vera's waist. Such a united front they present, I think sadly, yet happy for her.

"Don't be a stranger, now," Mark jests as he opens the door like a gentleman for me.

"I'll try my hardest to otherwise," I jest back, leaning in and hugging his muscular frame. I am grateful, though, he's taken a bath. Some of my fussiness will never abate, I'm afraid. Too deeply-rooted.

I turn my affections to mother and child. I encircle them both in my arms and place loving kisses on dimpled cheeks. It's quite clear where little Henry inherited his dimples. He is all smiles as Vera picks up his hand and pretends to wave.

She softly leans into me as her warm breath wafts over my ear. "Good luck, Rosalie. You'll be the most stunning bride there ever was."

I know her words are all sincerity, thus bringing a tear to my itching eyes. I will the tears away as I pull away and study her guileless face.

I place my gloved hand on her cheek and sweep under the curve of her bone.

"Thank you, Vera. For everything," I enunciate. My words fall inadequately short.

"Always, sister." I nod my head slowly while swallowing the lump in my throat.

I leave my most beautiful smile on her door step as I walk away into the waning night. Mark's affectionate kiss to his wife's brow as he closes the door leaves my heart feeling a little heavy.

. .

This is the way the world ends; Not with a bang but a whimper.

– T.S. Eliot

The clicking of my shoes keeps me company as I make my way home. It's a shame Clar is sick and out of commission. It is frightfully cold, unseasonably cold. The moon–my longtime friend–is obscured by clouds. They look heavy, ominous.

I pull my fur coat further around my body as I make the short trek home. Though Vera lives in a poor section of town, it isn't terribly far from my home in the Corn Hill District. It's peculiar how such two dichotomies of lifestyles can be so closely related in geography.

My mind plays over the weather and how much it can be a hindrance for my upcoming wedding ceremony. I surely don't want to move it indoors. Spring is such a lovely time of year–not to mention my favorite. It would be the perfect backdrop to my walk down the aisle. As new life begins in Spring season, so does my new foray into marriage.

Boisterous, muddled laughter starts to ring in my ears, replacing the clicking of my shoes on the pavement. I sharply look to my right and see a group of men under a broken streetlamp.

Wary shivers–which have nothing to do with the coldness of weather–race down my spine.

I watch as one all but trips over his inept feet. Drunk. The word instantly comes to the forefront of my mind. One hasn't gone to as many parties as myself and not seen such boorish behavior on display.

I forget all lessons in posture and etiquette as I hunch my shoulders. I know it's futile, but I try and make my person invisible, all but unseen as I sink into myself.

I think of my father and how I could use his presence as of now. I can't understand why I didn't think to place a call to him.

Their inebriated laughter becomes more riotous; I cringle terribly. I wish helplessly I would have phoned father.

A little ways further, I consol myself. A little ways further.

It stands to reason when one doesn't want any attention paid to them, it will be quite the opposite.

Many things gush through me, but my abbreviated name falling from his lips stops me cold. "Rose!"

Mistake one.

Iciness and lasting dread seem to fill every fiber of my cold being.

Please no, I plead to no one in particular. All is silent and deserted, except for Royce and his drunken friends.

Like any other night, Mr. King is dressed to perfection. Being drunk and disorderly must not have a specific dress code. His tailored suit and overcoat are a little wrinkled, but they're still the best money can purchase. His terribly handsome face looks a little wild and too bright under a broken streetlamp.

I take my eyes from him and study his group. I recognize some of them, being in my social circle and all. They are the sons of prominent business men in our fair community. They are just as impeccably dressed as Royce, if not as handsome.

They all look a little too wild . . .

Slowly but surely Royce makes his way over to me. Something inside of me is pleading, all but sending my heart fleeting from my chest, but my feet are frozen. There is nowhere to go.

They continue to laugh and hoot, as if my fiancé calling out my name is hysterical.

My mind races with so many things. I think of Royce and witnessing him drunk. I don't understand how he can even be.

At all the parties we've attended and all the dinners we've hosted, I've seldom seen him partake of alcohol. He claimed not to have even liked champagne.

"Why do you not drink when we are at gatherings?" I inquired after my fiancé. He had just given a toast but refrained from drinking. It seemed to defeat a purpose to me.

"I detest the drink, Rosalie. Why else would you see me not partaking?" he asked a little callously.

As I now see him a little unbalanced, it is funny I never thought to ask him about hard liquor. Since it seems his choice of drink, and far from distasteful to him.

Rough hands grab at my shoulders and pull me closer. I can now smell–as well as see–the affects of Royce's drinking party. I cringe a little from the smell, but whimper more from the pain of his fingers burrowing into my skin. Even through my coats.

Tears automatically come to my eyes as I try to back away from him.

I don't understand his rakish behavior or why he's treating me as such.

His sickly breath wafts over my face as he leans in closer to me. I valiantly hold back the sickness which threatens to leave my mouth.

"Here's my Rose!" my husband-to-be bellows to his unruly bunch.

They sicken me to my very core. I fight the hard chills coursing through my veins, but it's for naught. I'm not his Rose.

Everyone is laughing around me, causing more confusion and revulsion to surface. I simply want to be away from here.

"You're late. We're cold."

So am I, my heart cries painfully, sacredly, heavily.

"You've kept us waiting so long."

I didn't realize we had a appointment, I think unsteadily. And if we had, I'd had never ventured near you in such a state. This is beyond ludicrous. Please

I'm now caught in a world of fright. I don't know what to think, feel, or where to even look. I want to yell out, scream for help, but something tells me it would be unsuccessful, ineffectual. The night around us is too still. The tears start to fall innocently from my eyes. I can do nothing else.

I'm terribly helpless and even my beauty won't remove me from this sinking situation. It will condemn me.

My whimpers become louder as I moan from pain. Royce's fingers slide from my shoulders down to my arms. His clutch on me becomes punishing. Bruises must be already blooming on my fair skin. It's always been sensitive, I plead silently. I feel so very stupid.

"What did I tell you, John," Royce boasts. His fingers are unrelenting on my arms. I start to silently beg anything, and anyone, to get him to let up. The pain is much. His breath is atrocious as is drifts disgustingly over my face.

I don't even recognize this John . . . another common name . . .

"Isn't she lovelier than all your Georgia peaches?" Royce thinks of my beauty to the very last.

It is no wonder he stared at me so consuming. And I thought him above it. Rosalie Hale, silly indeed. Naïve to her core.

The anonymous John comes from the shadows and peers over Royce's shoulder. Unlike Royce, however, he doesn't look as drunk, but just as wild. His gaze sends my heart to the very soles of my feet and my skin sweating (despite the freezing cold). My fate seems all but sealed. His hungry, zealous eyes vividly tell me so.

Tears fall over my lashes. Please.

Every detail about him pierces my hysterical thoughts. His hair seems too dark and his skin too suntanned. Even with such minimal light, I can recognize all these minute details. It's interesting what the mind picks up in such terrifying moments . . . in such hysteria.

As his mad eyes rack over every inch of my skin–clothed and unadorned–I feel as if I'm being evaluated. Soon to be sold at auction.

"It's hard to tell," this unknown John drawls slowly. His unhurried southern accent causes my hands to sweat through my gloves. I can feel his eyes, his words, as if they're branding my unexposed skin like cattle. "She's all covered up."

And my fate is sealed.

It is this statement more than anything which allows me to know what will happen. I now cry incessantly. I'm scared beyond measure with no way out of this most heinous situation. How is it to be born?

Dirty, chilling laughter scorches the air around my surrounded being. Completely surrounded. I see nothing but an impenetrable wall of men and a broken streetlamp.

My painful breath clogs in my throat as my skin trembles aguishly.

The barrage starts . . . my under jacket is torn from my frame along with my fur, and from my promised fiancé, no less.

This was something you purchased for me, I think erratically, helplessly. I don't know what else to think. Surely this must be the most bloodcurdling dream imaginable.

The brass buttons pop off loudly and echo in my ears as they clatter to the street.

Buttons are expensive in this economic downturn, you fool, my mind underscores. I've completely lost my train of thought. My sane thinking has deserted me, along with any other saving grace.

Royce's hands finally leave my arms, but it gives me a momentary reprieve, a false hope. They quickly reattach to me. Horrendous pain encases my head as my beautiful hat is pulled from my hair.

I now scream.

"Show him what you look like, Rose!" His voice sounds light, but I can hear the feral undertone to it. He is depraved and unrelenting.

I never knew hair sounded so brittle when pulled from the root of one's head.

The pins securing my hat are yanked out and scattered among my fallen buttons. My hair is beyond ruined and hangs limply around my face. The tangled curls intermix with the salty water falling unceasingly from my eyes. It looks dim and frail in the weak light. Almost grimy.

He laughs; his drinking friends' laughs.

Why are they laughing? . . . laughing? . . . laughing? My pain, my degradation, my obloquy downfall are all fodder for their laughter. Their enjoyment.

The sound of my pain . . .

. . . .

I know nothing but excruciating agony. Merciless cold. It's unyielding. How can a battered and terribly trampled body experience such pain?

They took turns. They laughed. They hurt. They ravished. They ruined. They kicked. They pulled. They thrashed unrelentingly . . . in . . . to . . . me.

They leave me in the street.

I always thought laughter to be joyful, and yes, mocking . . . but never derived from someone's physical torture and depravity.

Yet their ruthless, unsympathetic, cruel laughter rings in my ears as they leave me terribly broken.

It is simply mind-boggling how I can still hear them clearly. My body is broken, my beauty chased away, my skin ripped open and bleeding, my bones cracked and lying at awkward angles, my golden-red curls torn from my scalp in clumps, but unfairly I can still hear their slicing words. It is wholly and terribly unfair. How can fate be so cruel?

"You'll now have to find a new bride, Royce. Hopefully as delicious as the last." More cold soaks my carved skin.

My vile fiancé laughs. "I'll have to learn some patience first."

Finally alone. Irreparable. Terminal.

They thought I was dead.

Unhurried, white, pure flakes of snow fall from the clouds above and onto my stationary body.

. . . I am . . . dead.

.

.

Author's Note: I ended writing this chapter with a whimper. I always knew it wasn't going to be easy, and it wasn't. Hopefully, the content wasn't too horrid to read. I wanted Rosalie's unspeakable fear to show, but not write the act invoking said fear. Hope it was written alright.

Anyhow, thanks for the feedback. Please, if you have the time, review! I'd love to know your thoughts! Hope everyone got my replies for last chapter. My computer has been messing up terribly.

I hope all is well with everyone. Much love.

Updated: Saturday, 16 March 2013