Chapter summary: What's the one thing that tells you you're alive? Breathing, right? So, the trick is to keep breathing. If I kept breathing, I could make it through this. But then I saw her, sitting there, waiting. And I knew I was dead, because breathing ...? What's that?

Breathing.

I concentrated on my breathing, because that was something I could control. I didn't want to listen to the thud-thud-thud of my heartbeat because that was something wildly out of control.

If I could focus on something I could do, maybe I'd get through this.

'This.'

I was gonna open up that door, walk inside, and ...

I could just draw a picture of it. Rosalie was going to ...

Rosalie was going to spank me like I was a little child. And worse, she was going to make me feel like a little child, and I could guess how, too. She'd belittle me, embarrass me, and, since I wasn't a little child — physically, anyway, and please don't make comments about mentally, I'm doing fine enough by myself in that department without your help — oh, and don't comment that I look like a child physically, too, I need to go in there not crying at the get go, okay? — she would hit me really, really hard, so that the pain would be so intense that I would howl like one. Probably even if I tried not to.

And I knew what I could do.

I could fight this. I could protest.

And I knew what that would do.

That would get me into more trouble, because that would just make her angry.

Angrier.

And we didn't need this. We needed her controlled so she didn't kill me, because she was this close to killing me, I could tell.

You tell Rosalie Hale 'fuck you,' and having her not kill you would be a miracle.

Now why somebody would tell her 'fuck you' in the first place ...

No. Don't dwell on things I did. I can't control that anymore. I can control my breathing. Focus on that.

And, when I went through that door, I knew one thing I would have to control if I was going to make it through this alive, maybe.

My tongue.

But the problem is, this tongue of mine just told Rosalie to go fuck herself. This tongue of mine is what got me into trouble in the first place.

I wonder ... was Rosalie going to rip it out, first thing, so she wouldn't have to put up with me and my stupid whining?

One way to find out.

And that was, to get up, to pick myself up off the ground, and go in there, back straight, and take what's coming to me.

Or, I could — what did Rosalie call it? — wallow for a bit more, and have her come out here and get me, and drag me back inside, pulling my arm out of my socket, or by my hair as I screamed as she pulled me across the floor. That would be just super.

I got up. That took a lot more effort than I thought it would. I did just so want to lie on the ground until Rosalie came and fetched me in. At least that way none of this would be because of me making it happen, right? She could force me at every step of the way, and she could do that, but I could say that I never played by her game.

I could do that, and keep my pride intact. She could do whatever she wanted to me, but I could say I never gave into her.

Just like a stubborn little child.

I sighed.

So, this is what I reduced to: I had to act like an adult and accept what I did, what I said, and cooperate with her, with the authorities, as it were, instead of being a little rebellious baby.

I had to be an adult, so I could accept my being punishment, spanked like a child, with any dignity.

Or I could whine and fight and cry and be dragged in there, just like a spoilt cry-baby, so I could be punished like a child.

Either way, everything goes exactly the way Rosalie says it will. She calls the shots, and the shots ... what? ... just do whatever she says?

Why does she get to just do whatever she wants and tell everybody else whatever she wants, and she gets it all? Why doesn't that work for me? Why hasn't anything ever gone my way, and instead of me telling everybody else what to do, everybody, EVERYBODY is always bossing me around, and all I can to is just follow along and put a smile on my face, and they don't even care, and the one time — the one time in my life! —I fight back, I'm the bad guy, and I get punished for it?

Why?

I had lost track of my breathing. I'm supposed to watch that, just that, and get through this.

And I can't even do that.

It's hard to watch your breathing, to control just that, when I can't even control anything in my life, because when I try, I screw everything up. I just try to help, and I just run right out there, and I say right to her face ...

Oh, God.

I'm not breathing anymore, I'm crying. And Rosalie hasn't even started in on me.

I looked out at the forest, rubbing my face with the back of my coat sleeve.

Or I could ...

A thought occurred to me.

I could just pick a direction and start running. Right into the forest. It was thick with trees. And how long would she wait for me to come in before she lost patience? A few minutes? A few minutes would give me a pretty good lead, wouldn't it? And if she didn't know which direction I went in ...

She might not find me.

I gasped.

She might go off in the wrong direction, hunting me down, blinded by fury, and I would just run and run and run, putting everything in me to get away. She'd be angry, and make stupid mistakes, right? and run off in the direction of the potty, because we always went that way, so maybe she'd think I needed to pee again and got lost and look around there for a while, a long while, and in the meantime, I'd keep putting distance between us, and she wouldn't have a clue which direction I went, North, South, East or West, and when she finally realized I hadn't gone to the potty, she'd really be angry, and head of in a random direction, looking for me, and it'd be the wrong direction, and soon day'd turn to night, and there'd be miles and miles between us, and she wouldn't be able to find me!

She wouldn't be able to find me at all!

And I'd be free. Free of her. Free of what I said. Like she said, nobody'd know if I didn't say anything about it. I wouldn't lie. I wouldn't have to. I just wouldn't say anything, and nobody'd know.

Except me.

And Rosalie, hunting for me, for ... how long? days and days?

... for years?

Looking for me? Scared to death that I fell down somewhere and was unconscious and then overcome by the elements?

And would she stop looking for me? Ever? Until she found my body in the snow?

Because...

Because, let's get real here. I could pick a direction. But what direction would I pick? I'd be picking a direction away from her, not toward safety, and that was a big no-no. You ran to safety, not from danger, because when you were running from something, you were always looking behind you, and not focusing on the next step in front of you, which almost always in these situations had more danger than what you were leaving: a cliff, a loose stone to break an ankle, a river to fall into when wolves were leaping at your throat.

Those kinds of things.

And there was that little fact that she was a hunter, and ... I was the hunted.

How good a hunter was she? I'd be willing to bet she was pretty damn good at it. A solid year hunting down all those animals that I saw in my dream — tracking, attacking, ... killing — and how good a ... well, 'hunted' was I?

Well, I was pretty good at being found by her, every single time. She just seemed to know exactly where I was, all the time, even when she went off to find this cabin and I wandered off in a random direction, she found me without even trying, and saved my life ... twice in a row: once from a pack of wolves ...

I thought about that. Rosalie took on a wolf pack and won. No, she didn't even break a sweat.

And then again, from freezing to death and drowning in a river. She just dived right in, and I guess pulled me out and dragged my frozen body to the cabin and started a fire and everything, while all I did during that whole time was not die.

I just saw me, running through the forest, but then, because I was — what did Rosalie say? — tired, weak, hungry, thirsty? Something like that, but the way she said it.

Anyway.

I saw me that, running, then getting tired, then slipping and falling, tripping over a root, then getting stabbed by a branch or hitting a rock, and trying to get up, and getting turns around, and then just wandering around for a while, bleeding out, then just sitting down, waiting for Rosalie to come by, eventually, and collect me, bringing me back to the cabin ...

... if she bothered, that is.

I felt my little heart skip a beat.

I mean, why would she bother? I had been assuming she would hunt me down, and she would find me, and she would bring me back, making sure I was alive and well, and nursing me back to health if I weren't.

But that was an assumption.

What if I were assuming wrong now?

I gulped, considering that.

I mean, I just told her ... I closed my eyes, remembering painfully what I told her.

What if I left, she looked outside, didn't see me, and ...

And said to herself: 'Huh. She's gone? Good riddance. "Fuck you" she says? Well, fuck her, that little cunt.'

And she'd just ... close the door behind her, and ... leave. Forever.

And I'd be out there, in the forest, sitting down, waiting for her to rescue me, and not knowing she wasn't coming, because she couldn't give a ...

Because she didn't give a fuck about me.

She said she didn't say that to me ... but that was to a person who didn't say 'fuck you' to her.

I wonder how many people ever said that to her.

Judging by the look on her face when I said that, I would have to say about zero. Maybe.

That is, until I said it.

If I were her, and I said that to her, would I bother to lift a finger to look for that little gi—...

That little ...

I started panting, hating myself more and more,

That fucking little CUNT WHO SAID THAT TO HER?

Would I? Would I? WOULD I? HUH?

Or would I just ... know she'd run off, and know exactly how long she'd last before the exposure to the elements overcame her, she being cold, tired and hungry already, or not even that, because all that needed to happen was that she'd make one little mistake, tripping, and falling, and not getting up again, because she couldn't, her leg broken.

And knowing that, just saying to myself...

Fuck her.

And leaving, never to return.

Yeah. Running off. Not knowing which direction to go. And waiting for Rosalie to rescue me, after I said that to her.

Good plan.

Great plan.

I wiped my face again with the back of my coat sleeve, that seemed somehow to be wet already.

Huh. I wonder how that happened.

God.

Pull yourself together. God damn it, pull yourself together, you're taking way, way too long now, and Rosalie must be getting really pissed off. So you either run, or get dragged in, or you face the music.

Your choice. Make it, and live with it.

I sighed, turned around, reached for the door, opened it, and stepped inside.

The first thing I saw — the only thing I saw — was Rosalie, seated impassively, imperially, in the center of the small cabin, her legs crossed, her right foot casually resting against her left knee, her right hand on her chin, her fingers lightly resting against her cheek, the perfect image of absolute power and stillness, ...

And my breath left me.

A/N: So, remember when you got into really big trouble? Ever beat yourself up beforehand? Remember how that felt, beating yourself up and then getting what-for? So, now that our heroine has thoroughly chastised herself, she should be good, right? All done, no worries, and the next chapter we'll just return to our regularly scheduled programming. Right? Right.

Sure. Yeah ... so, who's going to tell Rosalie that?