Chapter Summary: Dead. She called me dead ... spitefully. She's right. She's always right, even when she's so very wrong. Well, I had wanted this. I had wanted her to see the monster I am. And now, she does. I had wanted this.

I awoke to the morning light, my sweater in my arms, my face feeling freshly washed.

I looked up. Rosalie was there, sitting as before, the chair back between us. Her golden eyes watching me, her chest unmoving.

Wouldn't it get boring, just sitting there, watching somebody sleep?

"Good morning," I said cautiously, wondering what today would bring.

I didn't have to wonder long. She silently pointed toward the center of the cabin. I looked, seeing the still covered side of the triptych — thank God! — with the tub, toiletries, towels and two new pitchers, steam rising from them.

She had been out. She had been out and had left me the sweater. And it looked like she knew just when I'd be waking up. She had to know the future, right? That is, she had to know the future to be able to know just when I'd be waking up.

Was there anything she couldn't do, the sad-storytelling, the purring-to-sleep, mind-reading, soul-sucking, fortune-telling vampire?

Or was I over-analyzing this?

She helped me uncover myself, which annoyed me some — didn't she think I could handle that? — but which actually helped me more than it annoyed me, as the blankets wrapped me tightly, as usual, and then she retreated to the table, still not breathing.

I guess it would a bath every day now. Something to get used to with Miss Cleanliness-Godliness, I guess.

I took the sweater with me and placed it near the tub, in sight, as I first bathed myself and then washed my hair. The heat of the water for the bath today was a very welcome foil to yesterday's agonizingly cold water memory.

I wondered how Rosalie knew that my shampoo back home had the scent of strawberries like this one. Could she fortune-tell backwards in time, too?

When I finished rinsing my hair, I looked up to check on the sweater. It was still there, but next to it were a pair of blue jeans, panties, socks, a tee and a lightweight collared sweater.

Wow, clothes! I wondered what I had done for the special honor.

I didn't see a brassiere. I actually hadn't seen any at all in my inventory before my ill-fated trip to the outhouse, and I didn't see the outline of one against Rosalie's shirt when she slipped out of her sweater and my hands two nights ago. Was it two nights ago?

I guess Rosalie didn't need the support, although with her figure, I guess if she were human she certainly would. I wonder what Rosalie thought about this for me.

No, I actually didn't wonder … I knew. But I don't want to dwell on what she knew about my figure.

My lack of figure, that is.

Not dwelling on it.

I toweled off and got dressed. As I was pulling the collared sweater over my head I heard the sound of tearing. I put my hand on my sweater quickly, just as soon as the collared sweater was over my head. My sweater was still there. I picked it up, cradling it, and peeked around the edge of the triptych.

Rosalie was sitting by the stove, feeding it rags of what used to be my pillowcase. My PJ top lay underneath the remainder of those rags.

I walked over toward the stove, "You know, I really could wash …" and stopped. Rosalie was staring at me with black, black eyes.

I tried a different approach. It just seemed so wasteful destroying things like that.

"Are you ever going to stop ripping things up?"

She looked at me. "Yes."

That was helpful. I raised my eyebrow.

"I suppose I'll stop when you stop emitting all over these things," she explained coolly.

"Emitting?" I asked.

"Yes," she said. "Tears, for one."

Well, I guess she'd be ripping things up for a while then, but this last one was her fault. Telling me that sad, sad story like that. She wanted me to cry!

Wait a minute. "For one?" I asked.

"Yes," she answered, and glanced ever-so-quickly downward.

Oh, my God.

Now she had to take back the thing about me being smart, because I felt just so stupid and so embarrassed. Now I knew why she didn't say 'crying' instead of saying 'emitting tears,' because tears weren't the only thing that I had emitted and had soiled my clothes and bed linen.

I swallowed. Great! I was just on-the-ball this morning, wasn't I?

I blushed hard, trying to recover from this blunder. New topic. New topic, now. I looked over at the piles of clothes, thinking about the clothes I was wearing.

"You will be getting me over-clothes, right? A coat, boots, mitt-…"

"I remember the list," she stated coldly. "You don't need to reiterate it."

"Hat," I added, more than just a little ticked off at being interrupted.

She didn't look too happy either. Well, tough for her.

"So, you were going to be doing that soon, right?" I pressed her, as calmly as I could. "Like before I have to go off on my own again and …"

"Oh, no!" she interrupted me again, God damn it. "Because I just love finding you in the middle of nowhere more than a mile from the outhouse, in socks, nearly dead. But what really pleases me above all other things is to hold your limp form by the fire as you scream without cessation during your recovery. That is just simply a delight!"

Her sarcasm stunned me with its venom. It didn't stun me enough: I saw red. "Oh, really?" I shouted. "You get a real kick out of that, do ya? You really enjoy that, huh?"

"Oh! I'm just having the time of my life doing that!" she shouted right back.

My hands balled into fists and dropped to my side. I felt the sweater, my sweater, not hers, drop to the floor.

"HA!" I screamed. "HOW CAN YOU DO THAT! 'CAUSE YOU'RE NOT ALIVE! YOU'RE DEAD!"

I was panting in fury, my eyes squeezed tightly shut. C'mon, Rosalie, answer that, huh! Give it your best shot! You're not gonna walk all over me!

Silence.

Huh? What was wrong? I opened my eyes.

Rosalie was gone. Her body was there, but it sat there, frozen. Her unblinking coal black eyes emptied of all reason. It was if she were King Midas and had touched herself, turning herself into a diamond statue, sparkling in the sunlight filtered through the window.

I looked at her, but she didn't move.

"Rosalie?" I asked quietly.

I took a step toward her. I waved my hand in front of her eyes.

Nothing.

Oh, my God.

I had just killed her. She said I could've killed her before in the outhouse when I had called her kind, but she didn't say how. I had just found out how.

"Rosalie?" I asked desperately.

I staggered back a step, looking at the statue that used to be her.

"Rosalie, please!" I begged.

Nothing.

I sat down on the floor, hard, and started crying. I reached for her sweater and buried my face in it. It was washed clean, it smelled cleanly washed, soapy. But there was a hint, just a hint, of honeysuckle. I couldn't smell the Rose at all; it was gone. Because she was gone.

Because I had just killed her.

I was crying into the sweater, but then I heard something. I looked up to see Rosalie, still lifeless, still nothing in her eyes, but her hand was on her cheek, feeling it.

I couldn't breathe. I wanted to be sure of what I was seeing, but I didn't want to do or to say anything, because I didn't want to scare her away from her, so I just watched the lifeless statue's hand stroke its cheek.

Then Rosalie blinked, and something returned to her eyes.

She looked at me for a second, puzzled. Then realization seemed to dawn, and she seemed to come back. She swallowed and quickly turned toward the stove, away from me.

"So much to do," she whispered, sounding lost. Besides her quick movement turning away from me, she seemed to move lethargically. She picked up a rag, looking down at it, but put it back down on the pile and not into the stove.

Oh, God! I had really done it this time. I had really, really hurt her, … very badly.

"Rosa-…" I began my apology, but it never got off the ground.

She whipped around so quickly I could only see a sparkling column, a pillar of light, and when she stopped, she had her hand held out, facing me, stopping my words in my mouth.

The look on her face …

It wasn't Rosalie anymore. It definitely wasn't Rose, and it wasn't even cruel Rosalie. It was cold fury, just that, only that, and nothing else.

"Pardon me," it said politely in Rosalie's voice, "but I am reminded that I need to get some articles of clothes for someone. Would you be needing to go to the outhouse? I'll be gone for a few hours."

"Rosa-…" I tried again.

In vain.

"Yes or no?" the cold fury asked very tightly through clenched teeth.

It was my turn to swallow. All I could do was to nod my head in a helpless yes.

We were out the door before my head stopped moving. It usually took about fifteen seconds to get to the outhouse, but this time it either took fifteen hours or negative fifteen seconds, I don't know which one. She deposited me in the cold, dark outhouse and was gone.

I wondered idly if she would be leaving me here for a few hours.

She was back with the pail of embers. The outhouse was lit and steaming before I had my pants down. Rosalie was there, but she was gone.

I sat down and looked at her, that is, I looked at cold fury.

"Rosalie," I was shocked that she didn't stop me.

"I'm … I'm sorry. I'm so sorry." She looked down at me.

"Are you finished?" Cold. Impersonal. Nothing.

I shook my head. I hadn't even started yet. I did that. Started, that is, and then finished.

She washed me. The robot washed me, and handed me a towelette.

I dried and put on my panties and jeans.

"For what?" she asked. She asked like she didn't care, like it was a matter of form.

I looked at her, helplessly, unable to say anything.

"Are you sorry for what you said, or are you sorry for what it did to me?" she clarified.

What it did to her, she said. I had really hurt her, so badly that she told me.

Rosalie told me this, when she hardly ever told me anything. She told me this: I had hurt her.

I had to think now, clearly. She was testing me, she was letting me pick, and if I picked wrong …

I thought carefully, as carefully as I could. I was very sorry for what it did to her, but if I were Rosalie, she wouldn't care about that, right? She would care about what it meant, she would care about what I meant, about what I said. And I was very sorry for that, especially.

I took a deep breath and said cautiously, "For what I said, because …"

"The truth hurts, doesn't it?" she asked. I didn't know what she was saying; I didn't know where she was going with this. I wish I was smart, like she had claimed before, so I could know.

"What you said hurt me," Oh, God! I was right! "very much, because it was the truth. So, how can you be sorry for what you said when what you said is the truth?"

She looked at me expectantly for half-a-second. She knew I couldn't answer, because she just said I couldn't. I couldn't argue with 'the truth.' I felt trapped, not knowing what to say.

"I'm sorry for both, Rosalie," I blurted out, "I'm sorry for both! I'm sorry I hurted you," I was stumbling over words — 'Hurted'? Really smooth, cowgirl! — "and I'm sorry what I said was wrong, because …"

Rosalie just shook her head. The candle was out, lime in the can in the can, and we were flying through the forest, and I was sitting at the table before I even saw the cabin approach. A bowl of steaming oatmeal appeared before me, a can of evaporated milk clanged down beyond it, a steaming cup of tea next to it, a jar of honey right next to it.

"EAT YOUR BREAKFAST!" the cold fury screamed as she blew through the door. She was gone.

I sat there dazed, then the tears came, and they did not stop. The gasping turned to sobs, not helping at all. Not at all.

She had said, 'This will hurt,' yesterday morning. But she didn't say how it would hurt, and she didn't say who. I realized what my tears were. I had hurt her. I had hurt her so badly that I was crying her tears.

Chapter Postlude

My tears must have turned her around. I still had her sweater in my hands, and now I was crying into it without holding back. I heard her panting, barely containing her fury. I looked up to see her standing across the table from me, staring right at me.

She had come back. She had come back fighting mad.

"Don't you just love the irony of it?" she asked furiously. I stared at her mutely.

"Why is it that you get to hurt me, that you get to wound me to the core, and then you get to cry about it? Did you know I can't cry?" She wiped her hands across her opened eyes. She didn't even blink in reaction to her "skin" touching her "eyes."

I didn't know that, I just saw that she was too something, too tough or too mad or too proud or, I don't know, too something to cry.

"I didn't cry but twice in my human life, and now I cannot. I cannot for a year now. I didn't even miss it anymore. But then you!" She wasn't cold anymore, she was hot in her anger, shouting at me, "You hurt me and then you …" But then she stopped suddenly.

"But look at me," she said. I was looking at her; I couldn't look anywhere else as the tears snuck their way out of my eyes onto my cheeks. "Look at me," she repeated quietly to herself in disbelief, averting her eyes. "What would Miss Garrity say to me if she saw me now?"

It had to be a rhetorical question. I didn't know who she was talking about.

"I know exactly what she would say. She would say this." Rosalie answered her own question quietly. She raised her chin so that it was pointing at the ceiling and she looked down her nose at me.

"Miss Hale," her voice changed completely, taking on a British accent, and she didn't sound like her at all, she sounded like somebody else, somebody older, her voice deeper. "I cannot know how I have so utterly failed you! For certainly a lady such as yourself would nevah descend to such barbarism! It must be a failure on my part, so please do tell me how I may correct the error of my ways and instruct you bettah?"

Her chin dropped to its normal head held high position, and she looked at me with rueful eyes.

"I'm sorry," she said, and her words hit me with their sincerity, "I'm sorry for my unladylike behavior."

"Rosalie, you don't need to …" I started, but stopped when she held up her hand.

"I'm interrupting you, but, yes, I do need to apologize for my behavior." Well, at least she was being nice about interrupting me now.

"And you need to eat your breakfast. You've lost eleven percent of your body weight. Any more and you will kill yourself before I can." She shook her head.

"So, cry," she said quietly. "Cry for me, too, but don't cry too long, hm? Then," here she paused.

"Then, do chapter one of Algebra I — I'll check your work on the exercises when I return — and …" she walked over to the triptych, "mirror time." She unwrapped the mirrors, facing toward the stove, angled away from me, with one swift movement.

I swallowed, but before I could protest, she added: "Three seconds. Just three seconds this time. You've already done that; you can do that. You can do that again."

I started to shake my head, but she shook hers.

"No," she said, "you can do that. Now finish your cry, wash your face, then eat all of your breakfast, and do your chores. So much to do, and we have so little time."

She stated the last sentence so simply, as if she were just saying it, and if I had known her for less time than the forever that we've been together I would have just let it pass. Was it really only a week or so?

But I heard it. There was an edge of quiet determination to what she said, almost desperation. It was like she was on a mission. It was like she had to tell me some important things for me — or for her — before I died, that is, before she killed me. It was if somehow this was the most important thing for her in the world.

She gave me a what appeared to be a causal glance, picked up the tub full of water, and was gone.