Disclaimer: Stephenie Meyer owns everything recognizable in the land of Twilight. The words in bold are taken directly from "Eclipse" (Ch 7; pgs. 160-161). No copyright infringement is meant. Warning: sensitive material. Please take notice when reading this chapter.

Strips Our Illusions

"But time strips our illusions of their hue, and one by one in turn, some grand mistake casts off its bright skin yearly like the snake." -Lord Byron

.~~.

Time passes, but it seems irrelevant. They thought I was dead. Why hasn't it come yet? Does death also leave me alone, abandoned? Does no one want to claim, soiled, broken Rosalie Hale? I seem to be left in limbo, nothing but unrelenting pain to keep me company; that, and this unceasing cold.

I want only for this unbearable and excruciating pain to relent. It makes my toes want to curl, but even that is impossible. I am too broken to move anything but my eyelids. And even that is awfully excruciating.

I wonder if I'm frozen to the ground as cold snow covers my body like a mocking pure blanket.

How am I so lucid? Shouldn't I at least be granted a reprieve? Aren't I allowed to be utterly mad with grief and beyond reach? I can't fathom what I've done so wrong in my young life.

I want to be released from this life, this pain, this coherency.

All I wanted was children, I hear myself brokenly think. Too much to wish for?

Children? Wistful.

Will I be able to have them after my brutal assault after brutal assault?

This time, instead of imagining them with my invader's fair-hair, and my now tainted golden-red tangles, I picture them with bronze tresses. They should have his beautifully unsullied hair. They should also have his pale skin. But even with my tainted skin and bruised body, they still have my violet eyes. They should always have my purple eyes.

Tears painfully fall from my battered eyes. It is all for naught, alas. I lay here, aching, hurting, trespassed against, brutalized. Innocence running ruby-red down my torn inner-thighs.

I won't be able to have children now. The way they crushed me, trampled between my untouched womanhood has sealed that fate. I can feel it throbbing, as I focus on my womb and the corrupted region. Why should a pure babe even have to reside in my desecrated womb?

It doesn't matter anyhow, I remind my wandering mind. I'm left here like rubbish. Used and discarded waste. Rosalie Hale–no one can compete with her beauty-is now no better off than a distasteful, dirty, sadly forgotten vagrant.

Why won't the beyond take me in? Surely I cannot be that terrible. I want only to slip from this life: close my heavy eyelids and release myself from this frail existence.

I want for the cold to stop bombarding me. I want for my eyes to stop weeping for things now lost. I want for my sad body to stop throbbing in agony. I want for my last breath to occur and my last heart beat to sound. I want the release.

Yet, it seems the things I want aren't forthcoming. I'm a ruined image of my former self, left with my silly wants that won't be granted.

I close my eyes and will for anything or anyone to take me to heaven. Certainly, I must be going there. Royce and his brutal friends have seen to that.

The snow continues to fall softly on my forgotten person.

.

Firm fingers seem to be probing my body. I feel them as they seem to touch every part of my ravished skin. They cannot be back for more, I think hauntingly.

They thought I was dead.

With what little strength I have left, I open my puffy eyes and see golden hair disarrayed under an expensive hat. Though the image is terribly blurry, I know the hat is expensive. It is a fine hat, indeed.

Perhaps this is my final walk across the grand stage of life. The man under this expensive hat with the somewhat gentle probing fingers is come to take me away.

The wince leaving my bloody lips tells me otherwise. Surely passing from this existence shouldn't be dreadfully painful. It should have all ended by now. Fate should have released me from my fall from grace.

Golden eyes, a little darker than golden hair, comes into my limited sight. His irises are dark, but kind. I can see the concern and heartbreak written so tenderly in the beautiful irises. If possible he would take this atrocity from me.

Eyes . . . so kind. The color so reminds me of . . .

NO!

Surely no . . .

Dr. Cullen has somehow found me and is trying to save my fading life. His healing, gentle, probing hands tell me so.

I want to fight off the kind deed, but cannot. My body is too broken to move. I want to tell him to stop, but my mouth is too frozen and swollen. Why can't he allow me to be?

His beautiful face swims in and out of my fuzzy vision. I simply want him to look at me, to truly look into my eyes and see my defeat. He must allow me to leave. I don't want to exist any longer. This life holds no more dreams or wishes I could possibly obtain.

The doctor becomes more frantic in his search of my person. I know he's trying to save me, but it's a terribly fruitless endeavor. He should allow me to slip into the next life with dignity, with solitude. I only want for the last, great sleep.

So beautiful, I think. He and Edward were always entirely too beautiful. I first resented their glamorous presence in my society. Men shouldn't have been more appealing than myself.

But as time passed and they became more accepted, I came to stomach them. At least until Esme knocked me over with her sincere kindness and pretty compliments. I was lost after Esme endearing kindness. I defy anyone to stand against such a barrage.

Enchantingly beautiful she was, under the gentle light of the chandelier. And Carlisle Cullen was her counterpart in every way. He shined even more brightly than her.

But even they . . . yes, even they paled in comparison to Edward. His looks and visage were untouchable. It was easy to hate him, but goodness . . . I couldn't. My fall for him was quick and irredeemable.

It was, and still seems to be wholly unfair.

'Stop,' I want to command of Dr. Carlisle Cullen. I can feel my ire rise. I want to be left alone.

Only sad gurgling noises leave my swollen lips. It burns my throat exceedingly.

Unable to understand my anger, commands, or simple last wishes, the doctor covers me in what can only be his cashmere-wool coat and pulls me painfully into his arms.

This time, the burn in my throat is accompanied with pitiful whimpers.

Everything hurts. Please, it should have stopped hurting.

Air sounds too loudly in my ears. How can it be gushing by so quickly? Though I am wrapped tightly and my blood must surely be mingling with the expensive material, I can still feel the extreme cold on my face. It passes over me at an alarming rate.

Could this be the blessed and deprived end? I question my mind. No answer is forthcoming, but I am flying. It is the only plausible explanation to this queer situation. Is the doctor taking me to meet the beyond?

"Hold on," I hear spoken aloud. Dr. Cullen's voice–though filled with terrible worry and anxiety–is quite smooth. I imagine silky water flowing between my fingers; the feel is indescribable. "Hold on, dear."

It sounds like a prayer leaving his lips, and one I don't intend to fulfill. I want nothing but to depart. I no longer want for this life. Without doubt. . . without doubt, he must know and accept that.

I let my eyes fall closed. Too much work it takes to keep them open.

.

Warm . . . wonderfully warm, I feel caressing my skin.

This is the first thing I notice as my eyes weakly open. Things are still blurry, but the bright light causes me to wince terribly. I wondered who ordered the sun to rise directly in my eyes.

At least it's warm. This must be it . . .

I can't explain why else it would be so enticingly warm. My breaths become shallower as I try and force a smile to my lips. I don't want to leave this world with frowning, puffy lips. My grand entrance into the next existence should be greeted with a glorious smile, despite the rest of my battered appearance.

I also can't help but notice how the pain has receded. There is still a blunt ache, but it's almost a slow burn. The embers dying in a bright, magnificent fire. And so was my life.

I can now sigh and know the end is near. One last wish to me granted, though my greatest denied.

But wait . . . this cannot be right.

Why is something cutting into my neck, something awful and painful?

I thought my anguish over with. Why does the afterlife still reject me?

I grimace as the piercing pain spreads next to my wrists and ankles. This cutting pain makes no sense to me.

As something starts to spread in my veins, I finally feel the dreadful scream leave my puncture neck.

Surely it wasn't the reason I was brought here. Surely, Dr. Cullen wouldn't hurt me further. But the now burning under my skin tells me otherwise.

The constant fire now searing my body feels even worse than my horrendous attack. I thought the pain couldn't get worse. I thought Royce had given me the greatest pain my life would ever know. Having him violate the trust I placed in him had ripped the foundation out from under me, made the pain all the more gruesome. But this burning, as if I'm in an actual inferno, breaks the mould.

The plea falls from my lips before I can even think to formulate the words.

Between my grisly screams and arching back, I beg him. All pride is forgotten as the tears of agony stream down my burning flesh.

"Kill me, Dr. Cullen! Please!" I implore for all I'm worth. I want none of this. Nothing could ever be worth this fire from hell eating at my body.

My pleas go unanswered, and my useless tears continue. It is terribly unfortunate they can't help the unbearable scorch.

My screams seem never-ending. Even Dr. Cullen's hand in mine does nothing to sooth. Not even his sincere apologies and soft pleas of for me to simply hang on. I only want to be released from this eternal hell.

I know nothing else but my want for another existence.

I only ever wanted . . .

.

.

Author's Notes: I know, pretty short, but it accomplished everything I set out to write: Rosalie was left to die; the all-caring Dr. Cullen took her away, "saved" her, bit her; Rosalie wants nothing but to leave this frail existence. A lot of heavy material for such a short, little chapter, yeah?

Anyhow, the next (last chapter) will be long. And there will be a slight surprise. It should be posted in a few days. I've written the majority of it. All that's really left is filling and major editing. Easy, right? (*laughs self-mockingly*).

Hope all is well with everyone. And above all, I hope to you see for the last chapter. Please, if you haven't reviewed yet or for a while, do so now. I'd love some feedback. Much love, dear readers. Especially those in Massachusetts and Texas. My most profound prayers are with you. Boston Strong! and Texas too! We stand united!

Updated: Sunday, 21 April 2013