Disclaimer: Stephenie Meyer owns everything recognizable in the land of Twilight. The words in bold are taken directly from "Eclipse" (Ch 7; pgs. 161-162). No copyright infringement is meant.
But You Learn
Experience is a brutal teacher, but you learn. My God, do you learn.
― C.S. Lewis
.~~.
Edward's POV – April, 1933
Repetition.
It appears to be a lackluster concept, but is nothing of the sort. If anything, repetitious patterns are what keep me sane; kept me consistent.
For a while (after ending my acquaintance with Rose) my iterance revolved around family and the peaceful escape they provided. Never had they failed in filling my disturbing void – except when I rebelled. Nothing could touch the darkness in me then. But as it receded and the rational part of my nature evened out, I found my solace in Carlisle (my creator) and Esme. The isolation hadn't felt so suffocating.
But after hearing the news of Rose becoming betrothed and soon to be married, I knew I was no longer meant for Rochester. I couldn't tolerate seeing her married off to someone so undeserving; starting a life and eventually carrying his heirs. Every inch of me screamed to carry her far away from this impending madness, but my sense of right and wrong, my obligation to my human morals wouldn't allow such a selfish action.
And my time with her had already passed. Our infinitesimal moment in the shades dwindled as the clouds finally broke, allowing the sun to finally breath clarity into me. She was meant for light, love . . . motherhood. I was meant for blood, eternal shadows . . . sterility. There was no way to correlate, to unite the two. Our existences were as different as hot and cold; the only common denominator being extremes of a similar spectrum.
So I left.
After being with Rose for a few hours the night of her engagement, finally bowing down to the utter madness and ache coursing through my limbs, finally confessing to her the unfulfilling truths of my soul, I left. The only thing I could leave her with had been my ineffectual love.
My feet had carried me far from her, but the madness remained within. Nothing could absolve the agony I put upon myself, and I didn't deserve such relief from my consequences.
Perhaps I was simply a masochist, bringing more pain into my life for some twisted pleasure. But even at the core of my self-gratification (my most selfish desires), I knew my heart loved her. There was no doubt, and my mind refused my request for such fabrications. I would be punished for my inexcusable actions. Edward Mason Cullen had played with fire and eventually got burned. Simply because the burning wasn't physically visible, didn't preclude my un-beating heart from feeling the agonized torture.
Oh, for it was exquisitely heartrending.
After weeks away, and constant solitude, the only thing which brought comfort was repetitive actions. It gave my mind focus, and a simple goal.
Need to hunt . . . need to hunt. Need to wash the blood off . . . need to wash the blood off . . . need to run . . . need to run . . . need to be still . . . need to be still . . . need to hear other's thoughts – distraction . . . need to hear other's thoughts – distraction . . . need to make replenishing musical pieces . . . need to let the music fill every unattended crevice.
It was a constant monologue set to repeat constantly in my mind. I filled every space in my mind and refused to think on anything else. Even when I talked with my family, I refused to hear anything about her. It was the only way for me to survive, to continue on.
I should have stayed away from Rose to begin with, but I was always glutton for self-punishment. The things I denied myself the most were the greatest things which became my vices. Child that I was – and still am – I didn't like being told no. One simply had to ask Carlisle and look to my past rebellion to see my track record of being denied.
But Rose hadn't been a simple rebellion, and Carlisle hadn't told me no. She had been above the fray and so overwhelmingly different then I could have imagined. I had no frame of reference for her, and she would have defied every expectation anyhow. Unknowingly she refused to be settled into any mould.
But even with my time away, and my predicable patterns, I found I needed Carlisle and Esme. I came to rely on their guidance, love and company too much to be without. And like the privileged and coddled vampire that I am, they accepted my situation and decided to move. It was never easy for us to acclimate to a new town and new people (humans are leery of our involvement), but Carlisle and Esme would suffer the upheaval.
They tendered their resignations to their obligations, told their acquaintances of their future plans and started the process of packing up the house. Though they liked Rochester, and finally felt as if they fit, they would leave. There was nothing they wouldn't try to do for me.
It is now how I find myself at home and hunting with Esme. After literally opening the front door (after being away with what felt like months), putting my meager travel bag down and being accosted with Esme's hugs, she requested a hunt. Carlisle was at the hospital, working a late shift and Esme hadn't wanted to go alone. How could I refuse her after every sacrifice they made for me?
So I shook off my reluctance (the overwhelming need for my piano room and the music filling my soul) and accompanied her. It was probably better this way; rather being in a place which reminded me so vividly of her.
The ache is still tremendous. Why did I agree to come home this weekend, knowing what would happen later this very week? Glutton for punishment. Oh yes . . . I am.
Now that my hunt is complete and I feel the blood sloshing within me, I feel more stable. The only downside is the unfilled time. It gives me too much margin for error. I think on things best left forgotten, pushed from the very recesses of my thoughts.
Well, life isn't always accommodating.
Life – as I know it and exist – hasn't been the most swell. It is a situation of my own making, I know; but it still doesn't mitigate the pain and the constant usurping I feel in wanting to be near her. To somehow be in her life. Especially being so close to her. I can all but taste her scent tingeing the air.
But all is finished, and time will continue . . . eternally.
I release the unneeded oxygen from my seldom used lungs and look up to the sky. It is a glorious night, one in which I'm actually thankful for my enhanced senses. The firmament painted above could never look as celestial with frail human eyesight. It so pales in comparison.
The stars shine like a billion pinpoints of lights in the inky darkness.
When my hunting companion finally finds me, she pulls me from my wistful thoughts. We set off towards the house.
Esme's gentle footfalls traveling with me are a welcome reprieve. Though she knows the strains I am enduring, she doesn't press the issue vocally. She lends to me her support and unfailing strength simply with her presence. With my life being ruled with death and blood on a never-ending continuance, she is a god-sent. She and Carlisle both.
We are creatures born outside the womb, cultivated and produced to be beings of the night which prey on humans. It is what we do, it is how we survive and feed.
But not Carlisle. Never Carlisle. He is different. Always has been and probably always will be. My eternal respect for him cannot falter. My love for Esme can never diminish. We are a family of vampires, not just some band or coven of individuals co-existing together.
Their presence in my life is something which is solid and unchanging; just as my constant thirst. I never question their love and commitment to me; even when I generate mistakes while pulling them along into my barely floundering survival.
I can feel the pain even now, the loud thundering in my ears and the aching stillness of my heart. It all mixes horrendously together, creating painful sensations of longing. Hunting seems to be the only activity which takes the sting off my own-made torture. It aches even more than my unquenchable thirst. Something I never thought possible.
Again, a situation of my own making, I'm swift to remind myself.
But she was undeniable.
From the first, Miss. Rosalie Hale captured my attention and seldom-felt interest.
Most humans I overlook, ignoring their obtuse lives and redundant thoughts. Yes, my silent heart sometimes twinges for starving children and harrowing mothers, but they have no bearing on my existence. Their hardships seldom touch my life. My nature is above their tribulations.
Vain I am, unyielding I can be, but adoration I feel for my family and little else. My nature demands little else from me. To some it would be a sorry excuse, but it is the only way for me to exist.
Humans purely fell short. However, in that vacant library where dust happily found a home, hearing her weak whimpers of help and off-tune humming did something intrinsic within me.
Getting the door of the broken elevator open became my priority. It didn't matter how much I wanted to escape from her frightful and debilitating fear. Something refused me. Perhaps my masochistic nature. I was in need of something entertaining amongst the mundane.
No plausible explanation came to my mind, and still refuses to surface. The reason seems to mock my very gift while laughing in my unchanging face. Some things Edward isn't meant to know, it ridicules me.
Oh, but Miss. Hale . . . she had woken something innate inside of me, something I had no idea lay dormant. How could I raise a resistance to something foreign?
I shake my head and refuse to think on such lapses of my judgment. I already feel heavy and terribly burdened by my transgressions toward . . . her . . .
Even now as I run towards home, without even having to close my eyes or bring the memory to recall, I still can smell her aroma. It must cling to every surface, every blade of dead grass surrounding our property.
I wonder if she came earlier, frolicked spitefully around – just to torment me into hell. A punishment I well deserve.
Among the chaos of my mind and wandering senses, I somehow hear Esme come to a complete stop. I can't explain how I know, it just is. And before my eyes even take her in, the churning inside me increases. The thirst I abated earlier roars red-hot in my throat as the venom all but burns my rigor-mortised veins.
Without thought, I turn to Esme. I watch as her beautifully calm face transforms into one of deepest distress. Her fingers start to claw at her hair as I catch drifts of the last moments of her life: the courage she had to simply jump and the emptiness she felt in her womb and heart. The wind blew heartlessly at her solitaire figure up-top the cliff.
No reason to exist . . . my baby gone . . . jump . . . pain finally end.
I don't want to relive these memories with her. I had already endured them when she screamed with her beloved's venom flowing freely in her veins.
Some things are never better the second time around or with age.
Before I can think to make my way over to her, her hands fall, her thoughts of the past clear and she comes back to the present.
However, watching her is no less painful. With each shallow breath she brings into her lungs, another, more painful shard of pain courses through her body. I'm amazed she is still standing.
Her eyes become focused on me as her hands are placed over her unbeaten heart.
Isn't he able to hear it? she questions. Her compassion all but washes over me. No time . . . my poor Edward, my son.
Slowly, as if I'm some rabid animal, Esme walks towards me. Her hands are outstretched, as if I'll keel over at any given moment.
Does she mean to catch me?
With everything swirling around me and with something deep inside me trying to tear its way to the forefront of my mind, my mother's actions only bring more confusion to me.
Her queer behavior sends sparks through my venom. I am at attention.
Shaking my head and moving slowly away from Esme, I all but trip as the first scream shatters over me. The pain and the terror of the scream all but render me immovable. I am a slave to my instincts and baser nature in the next moment.
The growls of protection leaving my mouth cannot be stopped. I recognize those cries, and the exquisite anguish. They seem as familiar as my own. They are sounds I've caused myself.
There is no need to say or think her name. Esme's thoughts do it so eloquently, so unwelcomingly for me.
Rosalie . . . Beautiful, strong, enduring. Simply cannot be . . . No!
The tears which will never fall gather in Esme's eyes, causing me to utterly break.
All of my personal hell ruptures loose and my worst day-terrors are brought to life. What I tried to save and back away from slaps me harshly, sardonically in the face. All of my recent pain and self-sustaining are for naught.
I cannot even comprehend the purpose, the very cruel irony of this situation.
Rose is screaming – the girl to which I had no shield for, no self-preservation in regards to is enduring a burn where these is no cure. Only fickle time.
Her screams and pleas of release speak too heartfelt to be anything else.
It is all for naught, my mind reminds my own pain viciously. The monster within me is rejoicing at what I tirelessly denied myself. Horrifyingly satirical.
My feet and my soul refuse to wait for Esme to reach me. I can't help to do anything but run. My soul-shaking need to see what my mind has already confirmed overtakes me entirely.
Esme's voice is drowned out by my weighty footfalls. Yard after yard my feet eat up at the space separating Rosalie and myself. Speed has never been a worry for me, but now it feels as if I'm the slowest vampire created.
Her screams for death are the sinister melodic backdrop for my rush. I want to tune everything out, pretend as if everything is fine and Carlisle is playing some mean-spirited hoax on me. I would gladly forgive him his abhorrent tease. He only needs to jump out at me and declare, "Got you, son."
However, the closer I get the more the situation becomes reality. There is nothing else to it. Rosalie, the one I had once envisioned to be so much more, is screaming herself hoarse, asking brokenly for death, shattering me more thoroughly than anything I had ever thought possible.
Every rip from her throat is involuntarily. She doesn't even know of my presence near her. The only thing she can think on is her brutal attack, the only thing she can see is the faces of those who taunted and defiled her every orifice repeatedly.
Sickness comes to my throat, burning a vicious path. It isn't conceivable what she endured.
The anger coursing through me is like nothing I have ever experienced. It rips and claws at all coherent contemplation. It takes away my freewill and replaces it with a deep-seeded need for blood and carnage. This unknown hunger all but debilitates me from any other recourse.
My fingers all but yearn to tear skin from muscle, crush bones to insignificant dust. The want and need is much deeper than any blood lust I've lived through. My irises must be blaring red from the physical struggle taking place within my body. My internal monster roars the loudest for blood, but my heart and soul call out to be near Rose.
I find she wins out. Easily.
With trepidation flooding my veins and hate burning my tongue and throat, I come to a near stop.
Everything is real, nothing is contrived. This isn't some night-terror I shall suddenly arise from. Reality has never seemed more groundless, more irrational. Everything is mad and my footing is slipping from veracity.
"Forgive me, Rosalie Hale. Too young you were." Carlisle's pleas are almost drowned out by his latest creation's cries.
With nothing left and everything fallen to the wayside, I all but rip the front door from its hinges and follow her wrenching voice.
My body finds little respite as I fall to my knees. I'm not even sure if I can encroach on her, if I can get any closer.
The horror which greets me is worse than my most vivid imagination. Rose is truly here. She's burning from within.
I want to laugh spitefully; Carlisle doesn't even have the courage, the gumption to meet my eyes.
Logically I know he isn't to blame; he wasn't the cause of Rose's massive internal injuries, the defilement of her closely guarded innocence. Royce and his damned fiends did it – enjoyed it – all on their lonesome.
My wrath concerning them consumes me almost wholly. My concern for Rose, however, wins out. And I stay.
Please, allow me to die. I no longer want for this life. Let me slip into sleep.
Her pleas are only fuel to my internal burning inferno. I cringe myself as my fingers dig inconsiderately into Esme's polished floors. It is either the floor or Royce's face. I think Esme would forgive my thoughtless folly.
Somehow, and with reserved strength I don't know I possess, I find the courage to pathetically crawl over towards her . . . my c-changing, wilting Rose. Well, depending on one's point of view. The Volturi would call our curse a gift, eternal life lived happily.
So many things are rushing through me. I can not fathom how I can delineate between up and down, north and south. My feelings of inadequacy compared to hers. Everything is tied in a messy knot, with no hope of ever being unwound.
My harried breath catches painfully as I take in every inch of her glorious face. Rosalie had always been beautiful. No one could ever dispute fact, at least those who didn't despise her out of jealously.
But now, as my immaculate eyes takes in every contour, every crevice of her face, I'm caught speechless. Her beauty is beyond astounding. Never have I seen someone surpassing her beauty.
So glorious. Blood and all. How long has she been burning?
Where her hair was prettily golden, it is now angelically flaxen. Colors the human eye hasn't even observed are interwoven perfectly. The skin outlining her bone structure is flawless. Any diamond would be in envy of perfection.
My eyes trace over her neck and blood-splattered clothes. My long-forgotten gag reflex picks the most importune time to make a reappearance.
Unfortunately I catch Rose's thoughts and watch as that damn monster of a fiancé ripped her clothes, how he smacked her across the face so hard droplets of blood splattered on her dress. Repeatedly.
I watch as tears fell helplessly down her bruised face. All the while, she couldn't figure out what she had done wrong. What she had done wrong . . .
Her memory is beyond agony for me, and ten times more so for her. She remembers every brutal detail with perfect clarity.
From the progress of her skin, to the flawless perfection of her face, to the barely seen bruising around her neck, I could tell she was well into the change. How long had Esme and I been gone?
Pitiful whimpers leave her frayed throat. She must realize screaming is for naught. It changes nothing, not even advancing the wretched, scorching time.
My arms beseech me to encircle her – to never allow any harm to befall her again. My lips beg to heal every inch of her beaten flesh. My venom behooves me, "inject into her"– to stop the senseless human pain.
But what she suffers and now endures is beyond the healing prowess of the venom. Nothing could take away the horrifying violence she had to endure. The mental violation is beyond repair.
Time passes as I study her. I block out all the noise, Carlisle's pleas and apologizes, Esme's cooing, endearments and errant sobs. I block it all out and focus on her. It can't come too soon, as once again her antagonized screams start.
If possible, her screams would feel like all the leeches sucking at my stolen blood, turning me cold and useless.
My lips tremble as my stone heart cracks straight down the center. If possible, I'd take her pain; I'd take everything for the chance of her remaining human, untouched, with nothing but the gentle wish of being a mother touching her. Her fondest wish.
If possible, I'd crush the swine Royce King with my bare hands. I'd take his skull between my palms and squeeze until every bone was crushed, every drop of blood drained, every brain coil smashed into mush. The only remorse which would flow through me was it happening too swiftly.
Oh, yes I crave his demise, his last breath.
Rose's screams keep me grounded, nonetheless.
Even though she doesn't know I can read her thoughts, doesn't mean I'll leave her to witness it again, relive it again by her lonesome.
If I possessed the ability to see into the future, my every move would have been centered on Rosalie. Her very safety would have been my utmost priority. Every step she took would have been shadowed by me. Every breath she breathed would have been protected. It didn't matter if she knew or not (approved or not) I wouldn't have allowed any harm to befall her.
Yet, I cannot see into the future and my leaving her is another sin I shall have to bear. I don't even think Clarence would have been able to stop the five men who caused Rose the greatest breach of trust, love and life.
There had been whisperings about Royce King, suspicions of why he had returned home early from University. I heard . . . I heard them in the town people's thoughts, the speculation. Yet, I did nothing. I left her unarmed, prey to those very monsters in human form.
I escaped from Rochester because I had to escape her presence. I wouldn't have been strong enough to stay away. My freewill was nil in regards to Rosalie Hale. I knew no resistance when it came to her beauty within.
My selfishness knows no bounds.
.
I go to reach out, to touch her cooling skin, but quickly pull back. I shouldn't have the right. She is in this burning, prone position because of me.
If I hadn't left her . . . if I hadn't said goodbye . . . if I hadn't interfered when she was stuck scared in an elevator . . . when I crushed her spirit and self-esteem . . . when she wouldn't have been desperate for validation from another man . . . if I hadn't said goodbye . . .
Everything is speculation with the actual consequences having already been etched into stone. Not even my strength is able to un-etch the outcome.
As Rose begs Carlisle to end her suffering, I silently beg any deity to turn back time, to release her from this burden she will now carry; to simply allow her the chance of being a mother.
In a tedious social circle where people only thought of more wealth and more beauty, she simply wanted to love her little ones. Not that she didn't enjoy the status her position in society held. We are all beholden to the flesh.
But as time passes and Esme's grandfather clock ticks mockingly in my ear, I know it won't come to fruition. With the notion of freedom come consequences.
This knowledge makes me angry. I know it is nonsensical of me to be angry, but a fabled God makes an easy scapegoat. However, even He isn't enough to satisfy the fury I seem to harbor in every cell of my body, every inch of my hardened flesh.
The only recourse is to let the rage seep from my body. If it stays within, I fear I may surely combust. I cannot comprehend how my body is able to sustain such rampant emotion, such unchecked anger.
I want to shred everything in my sight. I want to break and set fire to my entire existence. I simply want to ruin everything in my path and line of sight. Nothing would survive the mass carnage.
So I start to place blame.
It's all Royce's fault. The bastard should have been destroyed at birth. I refuse to believe he was innocent at birth. Such evil cannot just appear within a person. Something must go wrong. If the power existed, I would go back in time and drown the swine. Truly no remorse would pass through my body. I'd kill his little band of violators along with him. People of such a depraved nature never deserve to breathe. My vigilante ways burn brightly within me still.
.
It is Esme's fault. From the moment we moved to Rochester and she laid eyes on Rosalie, visions of grandeur entered her mind. She saw in Rosalie everything she tried to hide. She saw her innocence, her love to her family, her unfortunate respect to her mother, her displeasure of always having to put on a front. Esme saw what others didn't. What I had missed and disregarded as Miss. Hale's vanity.
And what Esme didn't miss, she started to match.
When I had refused to see Miss. Hale and put her from my mind, Esme had encouraged me to reach beyond what I knew was right.
"She's terribly lovely, Edward, darling. There is no harm in befriending her. She can benefit from your friendship as you can hers." I went to argue, but she wouldn't have it. "Let's hear no arguments, darling. There is always a contrived reason not to do something. Push it away, Edward. Come what may in this situation."
I had ignored Esme advice, weeks passed and I stood strong. But there is only so long I can stand the silent treatment from her. I defy any man to stand against the woman they love dearly. Even Adam fell to Eve as she fell to the serpent.
Like she knew, I fell, relenting to her advice and the secret place inside of me that wanted to befriend Rosalie Hale. Vain she was, but under the veneer there was more. She was this mystery waiting to be solved, uncovered even.
Where many saw her public persona, she allowed me beyond her mask . . . beyond her comfort level. We both discovered something so deeply beautiful inside her. How could one shun such a selfless gift? Even when I withheld myself from her, I was wholly taken with her.
Oh yes, Rose was quite the departure from Rosalie Hale. I know she credited the cultivation to me, but Rose was terribly blinded where I'm concerned. She didn't see my monster or flinch from my chilled skin. Rosalie cultivated Rose on her very own; she took a newly formed bud and allowed it to flourish spectacularly.
But even Rosalie was beautiful in her own right. Ah, she was vain and self-assured. She sparkled resplendently in the limelight, but she was also strong. Rosalie Hale gave beauty to a world bleak and desolate with poverty, hunger and sharp distinctions in social classes.
She didn't realize the gift she gave. When people witnessed her beauty and smiled but for a moment, they saw beyond the misery of their existence to something magnificent. Surely not everything is touched by the depression, they would think. Their troubles were forgotten, even if it was momentarily.
And they were right. She went beyond the fray.
When I got beyond my own insecurities I placed at her feet unfairly, and got beyond my inane jealousy of Lawrence Andrews, I could see it all.
Graciously she forgave my unfairness and took me in as a confidant, a trusted friend. Like me, she was lacking in the department.
The more I came to know every part of Rose the more I felt it had been too long. It was scary, unhealthy and should have been firstly forbidden, but I couldn't let it be.
I selfishly wanted her in my existence, her smiles in my eyesight, her soft confessions whispered in my ear. And Esme encouraged.
I still can't help but smile when I think of her drunken misconstrued request for me to change her.
Embarrassingly and weakly I became hot and bothered by her warm breath on my cheek, her squirming body in my arms. I was taught even I wasn't above my wanton flesh, no matter what I thought.
"You have permission to change me, Edward," she had drunkenly whispered to me. I couldn't help but become stone. The thought had occurred to me, even if it was in the darkest, selfish recesses of my mind. The request spoken aloud almost dropped me. Rose's trusting weight in my arms kept my knees locked.
She thought me nervous in seeing her unmentionables. She was the "silly" one. I had seen her multiple times in every gentlemen's sinful imagination. She inspired more fantasies than even she could know. Helen of Troy would have crawled on her belly before Rose's beauty.
Little by little I could feel myself falling for her that night. It started the moment her tear-filled eyes thanked me for saving her. But that night, goodness, it inspired something in me undiscovered.
Every moment after that which wasn't spent in her presence was torture. I wanted in turn to invoke everything in her she had invoked in me. She awoke a need inside me, one only she could fill. It made me angry at times, but I knew it to be unintentional. And Esme encouraged.
We both had so little control over our growing friendship . . . relationship?
Even having to socialize in public and eat revolting human food didn't discourage me from being near her. Regurgitating my human food was terribly unwelcomed, but seeing her jealous of other girls paying me attention was a bonus. It fed a part of my vanity I didn't know starved.
Having her wipe the sick from my mouth and caress my sad face brought me to my knees even further. Her mothering me, her caring for me, her concern and love for me was a fight I couldn't stand against. I was done from the moment she knelt beside me and stroked my sickly skin.
Esme and Carlisle encouraged me in my friendship with her. They saw no harm in our relationship and only my happiness. What care was it that she was a frail human? Such limitations were overcome.
I had my moments of self-doubt, brooding and fear, but I somehow overcame them. They seemed like surmountable hurdles, easily jumped over.
I, instead, chose to bask warmly in her presence, in her undivided attention. It still pained me a little to see her in public, to have to have such tight control, but she performed beautifully.
What probably troubled me the most, however, was not being able to read her thoughts. Never had I not been able to read someone's surface thoughts. But her control was so tight, so precise I saw nothing but her vainness, her perfect cultivated persona. She was masterful. I fell even more.
Following her to New York City had been an easy decision. I knew the rubbish which littered the streets, the type of people which preyed on beauty like hers. I needed to know she was safe.
So like a tail I followed her. I didn't care if it was considered depraved behavior. I needed for her to be safe, and I sought out to make sure she was. No one could protect her like I.
But like the most well-conceived plans, it fell about my feet. It was actually humorous her aunt had been the one to spot me, even if it was fortuitous on her part.
Ms. Jacqueline Hale was a force to be reckoned with. She was loud, uncaring of what others thought of her and loved her brother's children more than herself. She would gladly give of her life for them.
I couldn't help but respect Ms. Hale after such knowledge. She gave to a cause bigger than herself. She put so many other shallow humans to shame, and put me in mind so much of her beloved niece.
The evening at her home had been enlightening, to say the least. It was the first taste I got of Rose's most ardent dream in action. As she cradled Benjamin and spoke so lovingly to him, I could for the first time feel a real separating of myself. My selfish disregard.
For it was easy to forget my nature and my unbeaten heart when in Rose's presence. Many would think me a liar at such a notion, but they couldn't see into my silent heart, into the beautiful warmth she provided to it.
With her I was simply her dear friend Edward. I had no other identity, nor did I require one. We both gave something exquisitely needful to the other. There was no need to see beyond our walls, to see any failing. Not that it stopped me from trying.
But that night cruelly afforded me the biggest failing of all, one of the many missing pieces to my person. Something I would never be able to give Rose. Even in my most untamed, fervent dreams.
I realized there was something she cared for more than me, and though it hurt deeply – to think there was something unique I couldn't provide to her – it was the most beautiful, unselfish part of her.
The two parts couldn't converge in my mind. There was no making me into something I wasn't . . . a real man with the ability to have children. My heart was still, my seed sterile.
I was knocked flat. But I was also enthralled with the love, devotion and commitment she gave to her younger brothers.
Rose's thoughts all but rendered me immovable. They were so free for me to read.
As the week progressed, and I was graciously allowed time with her family, I knew my decision had to be made. Resolute. Although it has already been made. I had to leave our young relationship, our soft interlude.
Taking Henry and Benjamin to the Yankee's game had been a treat even to myself. I got to see the childlike excitement by way of their eyes and thoughts. The gift was priceless. But the trust Benjamin had given to me was beyond redemption.
The last gift I had given to myself, so very greedily, that New York City evening is still written on my very mislaid soul. Every touch, every stroke, every breath, every sweep of lips, every shared moment will forever be remembered. One moment suspended in perfection it had been.
I didn't know if she could feel the goodbye in my kiss or the reluctance I felt in ending it, but my decision had been made. A perfect kiss under the city lights couldn't change my nature or her intrinsic need for a child. Rose had been created to be a mother. It was a beautiful concept which needed to be realized, even if it cost me the love I felt for her.
What was unattainable love compared to her deepest wish?
Oh, I loved her so helplessly in that moment and before.
But there are decisions which take something, all but demand payment from one's person. Deciding to leave for her own good, did that to me. Being selfless wasn't in my nature as a vampire, and so it cost me. I willingly gave so she could gain.
Loving her so helplessly didn't cauterize the bleeding or pain I felt in saying goodbye to her, in watching her walk from me. Nothing has ever caused me as much pain as watching her disappear from my sightline.
It was another situation which tore a piece of my fragmented heart. The unbeaten organ felt as if it was held together with soft paste. Funny, considering my heart is stone held together by nothing stronger than dirty mud.
"It is my right and prerogative to leave first," she firmly explained. "I have to survive, Edward! It is my only way forward."
Unfairly I was proud of her. So many times I had written humans off as weak and so insignificant. She beautifully proved me wrong, in her case. As with everything she did.
Those words played hurtfully in my heart and mind. Again, I had no reason to be hurtful or angry at her . . . it was a situation of my own making.
"I do too, you know . . . love?" I had answered her unasked, retreating figure. The words refused to be left inside, regardless of how unmerited it was. The "love" had conveyed more than she could ever know.
When word came of her engagement, I unrepentantly killed a man and drained him. I was too distraught to be remorseful. My scarlet eyes had remained for several weeks, and were a constant reminder to her imminent nuptial. I refused to dilute the color with animal blood. But I also refused to think on it.
If not for Esme's tearful pleas and Carlisle's promise to vacate as soon as he could see to it, I wouldn't have returned to Rochester. I would have waited until they settled in the new house, new town, new (well-worn) routine. It was for my own survival, my own sanity of mind that we needed to move. Not to mention my selfishness. No bounds . . . no bounds.
Isolation hadn't work well for me, and my temporary lapse in killing the vagabond-rapist reminded me of such. Though repetition helped, it couldn't surpass family. Esme was my stability and Carlisle my conscience; my sense of right and wrong. I needed them enormously.
My stipulation to coming home for the weekend had been clear: I forbid Carlisle and Esme from reporting anything about Rose.
Anything regarding my past love was displaced from my notice, except every moment we spent seeping into my traitorous mind.
Carlisle still had to work and retain a presence in town. It was demanded of his station at the hospital. Their social circle was full of entertaining, no matter the Depression.
Carlisle and Esme had a role to play and social obligations to fulfill. Doing anything less would have caused and brought on problems and suspicion. So they continued to interact, and play the role our family cultivated. All the while, ignoring any Hale.
A week before her nuptials, a week before my love's sweet and innocent dreams of being a mother are fulfilled, she lies here, burning and turning into the very creature I refused for her! I had left for! It is wholly unfair and so very cruel of fate!
So I put blame at Esme's feet. Right or wrong she encouraged my association with her.
What would have been if I never entered Rose's life? What dreams may have actually been realized for her?
As Rose's screams of terror penetrate my visit to the past, my anger becomes directed at Carlisle. How could he turn her? I want to demand.
Hurts . . . want to leave . . . please, just end. Dr. Cullen . . . Sweet Esme? And on her thoughts continue.
.
Carlisle knew of my disdain for her becoming like us. He knew of the agony and misery it cost me to walk from her life. He saw my unshed tears and heard my pitiful excuses in needing to leave. How could he inject his venom into her, making her a vampire?
But I know already the answers to my imprudent questions.
Regardless of placing blame or taking it onto oneself, it doesn't change her state of screaming, her state of skin hardening . . . her state of becoming a vampire. It is unchangeable, as indestructible as her body will become.
Everything is endlessly heart-wrenching.
As if my mind finds an eerie way to cope, I fall back to a moment, though sad, is not to be misplaced.
.
Early morning of the first day of the New Year, 1933
There have been times where I question my ethics, my motives in ambiguously grey situations. One can't play the role of quasi-vigilante and not.
No right to be here, but I cannot explain my presence, my mind explains my rational.
My mind interrogates each movement my feet make, each moment I come closer. My entrance into her room is bordering on fanatic, but no amount of pleading with my mind can remove me. My heart overrules each rational resolution.
Hearing her call out my name vetoes any sane notion lingering in my head. I am disgusted with myself, with my intrusive actions, but it is nil in the grand scheme of my actions. I have a higher purpose in being here, my selfishness croons in delight.
Her memories – her happiness – all but hold me prisoner.
Exquisitely my mind touches her, and I find myself at peace. I sigh tenderly. When inside her mind, when I'm even able to read her thoughts, I find myself at peace. Beauty abounds in more than her flesh. The images she is able to dream up, to conceive are astounding. Surely, I could reach out and touch their soft exterior. I float brilliantly.
She dreams of her childhood, something which enraptures me. Not many people relive such vivid memories of their past. I watch the scenes pass quickly. They are merely vignettes of childhood pastimes: of playing with her younger siblings, of being a terrible daddy's girl. The love she gives to them . . . so pure and deeply felt by myself.
I'm not surprised when her tender envisages pass onto her future children. Rosalie is beautiful, there is no arguing fact, but as she sees her children, they even surpass her splendor. My eyes want to hurt at their brilliant beauty. And though this is a dream, I know they shall be lovely, especially if they take after their mother even a little bit.
I want to answer her enquiry about her fiancé. Already I know he could never truly appreciate Rose. She surpasses him in every respect. It's quite hilarious thinking he could see the most intimate details of her heart. Royce King hardly sees beyond anything shiny and reflecting his visage; not that I've met him. Whisperings around town of his character are undecided. But Rosalie truly loves him.
The thing which enraptures me unsuspectingly, painfully, is her mumbling of my name. There is nothing which could prepare me for hearing my name echoing from her full lips and inside her gorgeous mind.
Sobs break within my chest, causing me to stumble. Although my skin is cold, I feel as if shards of ice are ripping my inseams. They claw and tear until everything is left in tatters. Yet my body still stays undamaged.
She knows of my adoration for her, of my knowing her fondest wish. Even before she vocally intimated them to me that misty day on the wet grass, I knew of her deep want in being a mother. It made her beyond description in my estimation.
Her heart beats in painful rhythms, but there is a quiet joy underneath. Her beautiful lips upturn as she remembers her affection for me, my being her first love. First fall.
Even though I left her, she will always take me where she resides. For I am a part of her soul. My image is somewhat tarnished, but my overall affect on her life is regarded with deep fondness . . . adoration.
But even these happy thoughts of hers can't stop the ache. It is a situation of my own making, I remind myself.
Ready to let me go, she is.
You wound me so very deeply. So unknowingly . . .
My heart slices endlessly at her rightful rational. How could you expect otherwise?
It doesn't matter that my heart is shattering; my mind crying continuously, everything is as it should be. Rose is right in letting me finally dissipate from her heart. But my egocentricity knows no bounds.
Sadly, with little deliberation, I make my way over to her. I question my motives, my right in being so near to her, but it all goes dark, to the wayside. My arms have their own prerogative.
Royce will have her until death, but I only have tonight.
My arms shake intolerably as I easily climb into bed next to her. My wariness in crossing unknown boundaries is forgotten as she blends so effortlessly into my embrace.
I pull her closer, making sure to keep her warm blankets wrapped tightly around her. I do not wish for her to become cold from my body. I am astounded, that though she is not awake she somehow knows I'm here. Her conscience can feel me near her. My disbelief in souls is severely thrown into question.
She allows herself to melt into me. Soft sighs escape our parted lips.
And now that I am touching her, encircling her, I can feel my desperation coming to the surface. It seeps from my skin into hers. Everything viable of me wants to live inside her. I try to persuade myself it is unattainable, without solution, but my stone, threadbare heart refuses.
"Love you endlessly, love," I tell her brokenly. My heart is scrambling to be removed from my chest. But I am indestructible. One's heart knows no bounds. And my unbeaten one is trapped forever in the stone of my chest.
My unrealized sobs continue painfully as I hold her this last time. If possible, I would tear off my arms and offer them to her. She would always have a part of me attainable. But the thought is morbid and most likely sickeningly frightful to her.
"Never forget me, love," I plead achingly. I need the reassurance I shall live forever inside her. Many things I am, and many things I will experience without her, but the thought of me clinging to her warms me.
It is unfair of me to ask such a boon, but like always when she regards me, Rose relents. I am wholly unfair to her, but she graciously looks beyond my terrible mistakes and abandonment.
"Never, my darling," she consents.
I feel a vibrancy within her. It is as if her desperation is matching my own, and she needs me urgently to know of her love for me, her unforgotten affection. I willingly and selfishly absorb it all. I cannot help but soak in everything she willingly offers.
Glutton for punishment . . . Situation of my own making . . .
As the short night turns to morn, and the moon keeps watch over our embraced forms, we give everything to one another. I am her Edward and she is my Rose. Mine endlessly. She makes her last Grand stand.
"Love you endlessly," I repeatedly whisper to her until the weak light of dawn chases away the nighttime shadows, and I along with it.
And I along with it.
My lips are still splendidly warmed from lovingly gracing her cheek.
First Fall.
.
Never had I expected Rose to be like this. Never in my deepest machinations would Rose (in reality) become a vampire. She was meant for the light. She was to be radiant . . . wonderfully human.
But now, as her screams have turned into whimpers again and Carlisle explains the nature of her new life, a fluttering of hope passes through me.
I cannot ward off the selfishness which starts to encompass my heart.
Her fate is sealed, the venom un-retractable. A vampire she is to be.
Nothing can be undone. And I started to hope.
Could Rosalie really work in this life, this cyclical existence of eternity? Could we actually have a chance to explore what I selfishly walked away from? Would she even consider me as a suitor? Could she think beyond her attack to even want such a relationship? I couldn't fault her if she declined whole-heartedly.
After all, is there a tentative future to be had between us?
Reality settles on my self-interest. Agonized pleas of death filter into my anticipation. Rosalie bursts the bubble on my ephemeral narrative.
I feel the terrible dread and emptiness start to infiltrate. I want for nothing but to return to the jovial aspiration. But one doesn't always receive what one wants. I only need to listen to Rosalie's now returned screams.
It is all but a lost cause. Edward had his chance – or what there really was of it – and decided to walk away, my mind viciously taunts.
Anger starts to build unhealthily within. I want to lash out again. I want only for this night-terror to be over. I want for this unthinkable situation to be finished.
Quickly the anger rises, soon to overtake my thoughts.
Did it really matter if I made the unilateral decision for her not to become vampire? Almost, certainly not.
However, I took responsibility and the consequences for my decision. Unending and unrelenting pain I felt acutely so she could live, so she could carry a child in her womb, so she could know what it felt like to love something so endlessly of her own creation.
I had suffered so she could live.
For it is all in vain.
And now she asks for death, asks for her existence to end for good. My sacrifice seems now ludicrous to me, wholly unwanted. Evident it is that I'm placing unfair blame on her, but my anger doesn't care to whom it's relegated at.
Any release from this insanity is welcome.
Rosalie now pleads for me to release her. She pleads for me to end her. How did she even know I am here?
I lose my last shred of coherency.
When Carlisle apologizes again and again to her pleas of death, my ire rises. As he strokes her hand and it has no effect, I want to lash out.
Fury overtakes my rational thought and replaces it with inequity.
She is soon to be done. I can no longer keep at bay the question. The words unhappily tumble from my angered lips. It is the culmination of everything I feel, every betrayal I feel from my father.
I can't help but cruelly ask, "What were you thinking, Carlisle?" My father flinches at my tone. Esme looks forlorn.
Hurt blossoms so very deeply within her. She can feel my displeasure and (for once) I'm selfishly happy she feels the denunciation. It is but a trifle of what I feel in her asking me to end her. To all but kill her. I could no sooner hurt her brothers.
"Rosalie Hale?" I say her full name, knowing it will cut deeply. So very rare it ever was I called her Rosalie Hale. It was known between us, Rosalie Hale was the public persona. Rose was mine.
Something wrong with me . . . she thinks.
I feel a minutia of guilt in hurting her, but do not relent.
"I couldn't just let her die," my father quietly, graciously implores. "It was too much – too horrible, too much waste."
I think of Royce and the utter piece of shit he is. Images of her brutal attack run through my mind as they do hers. I want nothing but for my hands to ring around his neck, to rip the useless skin from his puny bones. The bastard deserves to die. "I know." My tone is cold, unforgiving in regards to him.
Uncaring . . . dismissive of me. She couldn't be more wrong in her assumptions. I care endlessly for her. It is my displaced anger she hears.
"It was too much waste. I couldn't leave her." Carlisle's murmurs of guilt continue to bleed into me. Why isn't this nightmare over? Are we truly enduring this hellish reality?
"Of course you couldn't," Esme absolves her beloved. I silently agree, but my anger is still too rampant for me to voice. Rosalie still wants to be away from this existence. Not that I can blame her. But I do.
It hurts to hear her wanting so far away. I want to shake her, to plead myself for her to never leave me. But what good would any of it be?
Want her by me endlessly . . . she wants to selfishly die.
"People die all the time," I callously deadpan to Carlisle. I want to lash out harshly. She doesn't want my love, my pity.
Too harsh, I hear Esme's silent reproof. I nod my head in regret. She is right, of course.
The adverse aspect of everything is Rosalie believes me. Believes the terrible things I spew.
"Don't you think she's just a little recognizable, though?" Once again, I hit below what is fair and throw her vanity in her face; what she thought to be her saving grace in society.
Esme gives me the most disappointed look.
Beyond deplorable. But I don't stop. Nothing seems to dam up my harmful mouth.
"The Kings will have to put up a huge search – not that anyone suspects the fiend," I cannot help but growl the last part of my callous statement. Even contemplating that bastard is enough to scorch my venom. It happily fills my mouth.
Carlisle or Esme don't answer; they watch her more intently. It is now only a matter of time.
I know I'm a selfish creature, but the depths of my self-involvement, my hurtfulness surprise even me. Perhaps it is I who needs to depart from this existence. But I fear my masochistic side would prevail.
I shake my head from myself and focus on her.
My Rose.
The one I envisioned to be only happy is about to finish hardening. Her heart is beating fiercely and this time my presence has no bearing on the increased pounding. The pain must be receding quickly.
She is to be one of us. My sobs are controlled within. I refuse to show any weakness. It does not matter how much I am dying inside as she is given eternity.
"What are we going to do with her?" I ask aloud, for no apparent reason and with no malice. It is the question my heart wants to beat over and over. What am I to do with her . . . what is she to do with herself . . .? The unforthcoming answers alarm me greatly. Does she want me to do anything with her?
My father sighs anxiously.
Too much waste. Will she forgive me? I couldn't leave her. The thoughts run as if on loop in my mentor's restless mind.
"That's up to her, of course. She may want to go her own way."
As if on the same wavelength, the four of us occupying the room have the same thought, No!
Esme sees her already as a daughter, a female companion. She loved Rose from the first.
Carlisle sees her as a member of his family. She brought something to me no one else could accomplish. Romantic affection. Love.
Rose thinks of her fear. She can't fathom being alone. She was always a creature of society. Like I had envisioned, she was meant for the spotlight.
I want to take that fear from her, but unluckily lack the talent. I want her by my side always, but fear she won't reciprocate. I want to love her, to eventually worship her body in love, but I fear she will reject me. But even with all my misgivings, I don't want her to leave. It is improbable.
For the next little while, no one speaks, no one breathes. All but Rose.
The room is still, not even her past whimpers disturb the air. It's as if everything waits with anticipated, metaphorical breaths. All but Rose.
The only thing to disturb the anticipation is her anxious heartbeats waiting to stop for perpetuity.
My eyes start to fill with unshed tears. The venom viciously stings my orbs, but I'm uncaring. She's on the cusp of unwanted eternity.
My hands shake, my lungs feel burdened, my venom scorches my hardened veins, my throat lumps painfully, my mind whirls for anything to grasp, my heart (the long-since-silenced, all-but-forgotten organ) excoriates my callousness: the pain I caused her to feel.
I close my overburdened eyes, and take in the evermore beautiful music of her heart's beat. Never has a more glorious sound been heard. I take in every pulse, every cadence, every ebb and flow of her exquisite muscle. I sear it all into memory.
My breathing is horridly uneven.
Imagines of her . . . of our time together run resplendently though my mindscape. I remember it all.
Miss. Hale in terror, crying lethargically for anyone to help her.
Miss. Hale's tear-stained eyes first taking me in.
Miss. Hale thanking me profusely, beautifully red-rimmed eyes, golden curls adorably mussed.
Miss. Hale giving me permission to refer to her as my Rose. Feeling something foreign, never felt before in regards to a human.
Timeless talks which never had enough time. Dusty libraries.
Getting to know someone unknown, hidden; only waiting to be discovered. Rose . . .
Walks in a greenhouse. Holding fingers under floating grey clouds. Coming to a realization of being friends with a human. No . . . with a Rose.
Watching unfairly a different side to the one I pigeonholed. Very different from my Rose. Feeling foreign emotions as men think unscrupulously wrong of her. Wanting to tear them all to shreds. Jealously.
Taking my anger, jealously and resentment out on her. She lied to me. Unknowingly. But an omission is still a lie. Watching her fall listlessly to the ground. Begging me to be real with her, to see the real her. Calling out for me.
Wanting to apologize to the forlorn Rose. Watching from afar as she crumbled into herself. People thought her weak, but she wasn't. She had a right to mourn. I had done her wrong. She was above them all.
Staging something which was worthy of her and her forgiveness. Hoping like mad she'd forgive me. Composing a piece that spoke of the true beauty which lay inside Rosalie Hale. Even hidden or overlooked by her.
Playing for her that which only music could convey.
Smiling happily as she unselfishly forgave me. She didn't have to, yet had. Kneeling before her and being absolutely astounded by her beauty. There was nothing like it.
Showing her the most intimate room to me: the place where my soul spoke in music. Watching as she understood and appreciated it as I hoped she would. I made the right decision to show her. She was my beloved friend. On the cusp of more . . .
Writing missives to her of the understated beauty of her countenance. My Rose, regardless if she knew, didn't know her worth, didn't know how deeply and unchangingly she affected me.
Helplessly laughing at her drunken state. She had been a cute sight to behold. Never had I been more entertained, stunned, hotly bothered and wanted. She loved me as I loved her. Our relationship ran deep.
Sitting under a tree, listening to her truths as I intimate my own. She was believing and accepting, when she should have turned from me. But she didn't. She saw beyond my blunders and shortcomings. She was falling.
Realizing how much I had fallen myself for her inside a bathroom with the sickening smell of my bile tingeing the air. She selflessly wiped the sick from my face.
Spending a glorious time in New York City with not only her, but the rest of the Hale's. It is unsurpassed. It is the happiest I ever was with Rose, still knowing I had to say goodbye. For once I allowed my heart and body to live in the present.
Kissing the one I had come to beautifully love. Her lips forever imprinted on mine. Her taste endlessly sampled in my mind. Every moment endlessly lived over again.
Saying goodbye to the one I had fallen for. No one there to catch me, only my want in her to live happily. She wanted me to stay, to love her, but I couldn't. She was meant to be a mother and not my eternal, unchanging Rose. She was meant for better things. Words failed me terribly, but my love for her endured. I would gladly hurt so she could love another, love her unborn children.
Being happy she had found her forgotten friendship in Vera. Being inconsolable after she became engaged to that bastard Royce. Thus killing a faceless man I still feel no regret for. I was beyond recognizable.
Watching as her once healthy skin becomes hard. Hoping still it is all but a bad dream and one deep pinch will awake me. Knowing that though she was beautiful before, it pales in comparison to what she is now. I become exquisitely breathless with her beauty.
Always . . . Always being overwhelmed as she put me first, above even herself, her own feeling. Some people thought her weak, different. But I knew differently. It takes an amazingly beautiful person to be so selfless towards me. She was above them all. Even myself.
Everything about her I remember, deeply embedding every detail. It is all I have left in my weakening grasp. I don't know what she will want with me after the beating of her heart stops completely.
Some unknown maestro seems to hear my thoughts, my inner musings, because before I can even think the next contemplation; her weak heart gives out its last sound.
She is finished. My Rose forever frozen in Vampire Rosalie. Everything is unknown to me, something which is beyond foreign. My ability to read minds has no bearing on this situation. We all now wait. All those present.
The heart beats stop for the magnificent grand finale. All is silent. My tears refuse to fall. Her eyelids beautifully flutter open. Ruby-red orbs meet my gaze. Our hands somehow clasp.
Love her without end.
She wakes up forevermore as Rosalie Lillian Hale (Cullen?): the most dazzlingly of us all. Truly, no one can compete with her beauty.
No imperfections physically visible.
.
.
Final Author's Notes: Wow! What a ride it has been for me. Even I didn't contemplate all the things these characters would take me through. Love or hate it, the process of writing this story was amazing for me. What started off as something I intended as a one-shot became so much more. I simply wanted to explore the enigmatic character which was Rosalie Hale – thus giving her an actual fair shake. She was never a simple, vapid secondary character to me, but much more. How fun it was to bring those hidden qualities to a more dimensional character. Simply put, she over-whelmed me (hehe).
I want to thank all those who came along for the ride and even moreso those who gave me their invaluable opinions. I didn't always respond (because I'm a lazy, horrid procrastinator) but I terribly appreciate every opinion. You are what make a writer flourish and continue to the end. From the bottom of my writer's heart – simply thank you, loves!
To those who may be looking for a sequel, what do you think? Should I continue or leave it up to your unsurpassed imaginations? It seemed interest waned towards the end of this story, and I wouldn't want to put more time in if it doesn't create the same interest as the beginning and middle. So if you want, please let me know your opinions or if you have any questions in regards to this one.
Thanks again! I hope all is well with everyone. And hopefully – whether it be in continuance of this story, or a new Rose/Edward story – I'll post in this ship again. Much love to everyone!
― SunnyOrange
Finished: Friday, 24 May 2013