Chapter summary: You wake up from your worst nightmare, and ... no. Rosalie's gone, and the reality is worse than the nightmare. Worse. And the worst part about it is ... I don't know what to do now. I don't know. I just don't know.
I woke, a scream in the air.
Rosalie had screamed.
Or I had.
I didn't know which.
But I woke in a panic, terrified. Something had just happened!
My hands flew, one to the side of the the bed Rosalie had been laying on, one to my throat: it felt funny.
I felt two things simultaneously:
Rosalie wasn't there. Her side of the bed was cool.
You know how somebody's been somewhere, right? You feel the bed or the seat, and it's still warm.
For Rosalie, if something was cold, I mean, cold, ice-cold, then she had been there for a while or recently, or both.
Her side of the bed was cool, not cold.
She had only stayed with me a little bit, or she had left and had been gone a while.
I didn't know what to feel about that.
(Yes, I did. I just didn't want to ... judge. Harshly. Not right now, the fear was palpable in the little room that was our house.)
The other thing. The scream, was it ripped from my throat, or from hers?
My hand went to my throat, and ...
But it didn't touch my throat. It touched the ... the thing, the thing Rosalie gave me that she said was herself. The choker. It was warm, molded to my throat. It felt alive, and I felt it tighten around my throat, as if it were aware that I was now aware that it was there now, and still.
I didn't know what to feel about this, either. It was like I was scared to breathe, that it might notice, and choke my throat closed. It was like it were watching me, but not from the outside, but like it were watching what I was thinking and feeling, and ...
I didn't know what to think about that.
I really didn't.
I mean, really. Honestly.
Really.
Should I be scared? Should I be comforted? Rosalie wanted me to be comforted by ... by, well: it.
Should I be annoyed that she wanted me to be comforted by a thing she gave me to watch my every thought? And not be comforted by her? Was she trying to distance herself from me, from this, whatever 'this' was?
I didn't know what to think about this anymore.
I didn't know what to think about anything anymore!
Everything was always changing and always too fast! Just today ... just today, if anything more happened, I was scared my head would explode and my heart would just burst from all that was changing and happening around me and, well, frankly, to me.
But the dream.
I saw it so clearly. Rosalie was screaming, she was curled up into herself, outside, and she was smashing her head against a rock, over, and over again, and then she lifted up her head to the sky, and she screamed. She screamed in agony and in despair.
She screamed as if it were all over.
Oh, and she was covered, head to toe, in blood.
I felt it.
She had just murdered me. She had just ... she couldn't stop herself anymore, and she had killed me, and ...
And she hadn't wanted to. Or she had to, to keep her promise, but now ...
But now I was gone, and she ...
The rock had been this big boulder, and she had just smashed it to bits with her head, and still it did nothing for her, and when she screamed, it did nothing for her, and ... but ...
But when she got up, she looked so lost and so agonized, like she had been hit hard, and it hurt her to her bones, but ...
But when she got up, it looked like she knew what she was going to do now.
And that scared me.
I rolled out bed quickly.
"Rosalie!" I called.
I had to get to her. I had to stop her. I had to stop her from hurting herself or from hurting ...
How far was the nearest town? Bella Forks or whatever she called it? Five miles? How many people lived there? How much damage could she do before they called in the National Guard and started shelling the area, killing how many more than she killed?
She said she would never drink human blood, but that sure as hell didn't stop her from killing people, and she just tore through two off-duty cops with tommy-guns and a bank vault just to kill her fiancé, because she was motivated to do it.
In my dream, in the reality I saw, Rosalie didn't look 'motivated.'
No, she looked like a force. A force of nature.
So I leapt out of bed.
Or I tried to.
You know how you, like, hop out of bed, but, like, you're wearing a dress for, like, the first time in your life, almost, again, and your dress and the blankets get all entangled with each other?
Yeah. That.
"Ahhh!" I cried as the floor came up to meet me.
But it's okay. My head and my wrists broke my fall.
"Ow!" I cried. "Oh, shi-iii-" I stopped myself through my agony.
"Shoot!" I managed.
I hoped Rosalie appreciated my efforts not to curse.
She would if she were here still with me, God damn it!
I'm just saying.
Oh, and I meant to think, 'Gosh darn it!' Not the other thing.
My one free hand went up to my forehead where I bonked it, and felt it gently.
Soft. Great. Nothing like a big old bruise on your head to impress the folks back home.
I pushed myself back up onto the bed gingerly with my free hand that, itself, felt tender from the fall. Wonderful.
But I was back up on the bed and assessed my situation. Me, dress, sheets: pretzel. Great.
It only took thirty-five years to disentangle myself from the sheet's loving embrace. What is it with me and sheets? I mean, seriously!
That done, I sat up on the bed and then I put my feet under me onto the floor first, and made sure I was on solid ground.
Then I sprang up and ran for the door.
'Shoes?' you ask, 'Boots?'
My answer? What are they? Don't bother me with stupid stuff that doesn't matter! Rosalie was hurting! I just knew it. I didn't have time to waste on that.
I ran out the door, outside, shouting at the top of my lungs, "Rosa-...oof!"
Apparently, the snow is good at catching my feet under my dress and dragging them just so that my foot caught the hem of my skirt.
And Rosalie said I couldn't trip in this ridiculous get-up.
Shows what she knows, I thought spitefully to myself, angry at her, angry at myself, angry at everything. Why did she have to be screaming in the middle of the forest? Why did she have to have murder in her eye? Why did I have to trip over everything, trying to rescue her from this terrible, terrible dream?
"Oh, ... crap-and-darn!" I shouted angrily at myself and the dumb, stupid snow, then I threw my own head back and shouted at the top of my voice: "Rosaliiieeeeee!"
I sat myself up and waited, and listened.
Do you know that the snow-draped forest swallows all sound? I'm totally not joking.
I could hear my own panted breaths, it was that quiet.
Nothing.
I tried again. I hollered her name, loudly, "Rosalieee! Rosalie Hale!"
Somehow my shout sounded softer, fainter, hopeless.
Well, more hopeless.
"Rosalie," I whispered desperately, then, helplessly, "Rose?"
Nothing.
And I prayed, please, oh, please, don't be covered in blood, please don't be hurting because I'm dead, because I'm not.
No.
Wait.
Was I dead?
I was all alone.
I was all alone again, like in my dream, like my worse nightmare, and I was dead in that dream, but I just didn't realize it. Rosalie had said then that I was 'like her,' and she said she was dead.
Was I dead? I mean dead-dead, like separated from her, forever, like in my other dream that kept me away from her no matter which way I turned, and that's when the forest came to claim me.
I looked around myself suddenly, looking to the forest, seeing if there were the voice or moving tendrils of roots from the trees coming to claim me.
Nothing.
Nothing but stillness. Emptiness.
Like death.
I gulped and tried to take a deep, calming breath.
I tried to think reasonably about this.
Funny how nothing reasonable comes up when you're just maybe having a panic attack.
Think, Bella, think! I commanded myself.
Shit-o-fuck, my name's not Bella anymore!
I had always told myself to think when I was Nancy Drewing it, but I had always been Bella-Sheriff-Swan's daughter, not ...
Oh, shit! Did I think 'shit-o-fuck'? Shit, I'm not supposed to say that!
Oh, God, there was just no stopping myself!
Get a grip, Bel-...Lizzie, God damn it! Get a God-damn grip! You're Lizzie Hale! What would Rosalie want you to do? What would Rosalie want you to do?
I kept repeating that phrase to myself. If I didn't know what to do, I knew that Rosalie always would. She knew everything about everything, and she would know what she wanted for me to do in this particular case, as easy as thinking. The thing is, I knew exactly what Rosalie would want me to do. She had told me that herself: 'Stay in the God-damn fucking cabin! You want to help? What help of yours do I need? I'm Rosalie-fucking-Hale, so get the fuck back in there, you dumb shit!'
That's exactly what she had told me.
At least I think that's exactly what she told me. The details were kind of fuzzy then for me, as I was so hurt and angry.
But that was right before I had told her, 'Fuck you!'
This I know for sure that's exactly what I told her.
That memory would be burned into my mind for the rest of my life. The words just came right out, and I didn't even know who said them until I saw myself, in Rosalie's eyes, standing there, shocked, white-faced, more hurt by my words than her. I had hurt her, and I saw it.
And that hurt. That hurt really bad.
Badly.
Jesus-God, I'm even correcting myself like Rosalie now! She really is under my skin.
She said she didn't need my help, but this was different. I had wanted to help, to be useful, but now, I saw it, she had gone over the edge. She needed my help now.
But if I were dead and all alone in this Great Beyond, how could I help her?
I couldn't. I'd just be stuck here forever, trying to help, but not being able to.
A nightmare. Forever.
Well, if this were a nightmare, it sure as shooting was cold dripping down my face onto my ...
Well, onto my bodice, okay?
AND on my butt, let's not forget that.
And my feet.
Okay, do you feel freezing cold in nightmares?
I don't know.
I did know, however, that I was damn-cold for pulling this stupid stunt, and if this were a nightmare-death-forever-... thingie, there was nothing I could do about it, anyway.
And if this weren't that, then ...
Then I could do something about it. Like get up. And dry off. And put on socks and boots and a coat and go looking for Rosalie.
Would I find her?
Hm.
Probably not. 'Probably' as in like: no way.
But would she find me?
No, 'hm' there. Rosalie'd find me, and then, when she did, and had her shout-out finished, at least I could talk her down from whatever ledge she was ready to jump off of.
Banging her head against a rock? Really?
Somebody's got to talk some sense into this crazy-um...-phazy Easterner.
That's a word: 'phazy.' It means something like, 'really crazy.'
And if anyone had sense in this relationship, well then, that was me. And why? Because I said so, that's why!
Um.
I meant 'relationship,' like ...
Like ...
Um.
Yeah.
I pushed myself up out of the snow.
"Rosalie," I said softly. "Just ... I'm going to put on some boots, okay? And not do anything crazy, okay? So don't you ..." I paused, thinking carefully what I would say next, and how I would say it. Rosalie was nowhere near here, but she knew everything about me, what I thought, what I felt ... or she knew most of it. Hopefully not ... all of it. So, but, she would know what I said now, just as she knew what I said to her when she abandoned me in the cabin after that mirror-nightmare incident.
Just like now.
"So," I said, drawing a deep breath and letting it out slowly. "Don't you do anything crazy or stu-..." I stuttered. "Stupid, and you know what I mean, Rosalie Hale, or else I'll be so angry I'll ..."
"Um ..."
"Ah ..."
I didn't know what to say.
"Um, I'll be really mad at you, and you ... you'd better not ... want that, 'cause I'll be mad, and you'll just have to deal with that. So there!"
I sighed.
AND the award for the most compelling threat goes to me, Bel-... um, I mean Lizzie Hale!
And so well-delivered, too!
I rolled my eyes at myself, my terribly weak threats and then my own snide self-critique.
No wonder why Rosalie was always so pissed off at me. I thought Rosalie was a piece of work? I was a piece of work, and a half!
"You know what I mean, Rosalie Hale," I whispered quietly, firmly. "I'm going to come out for you now, so just ... hang in there, okay, you ... you perfect creature, you, 'cause you know you are!"
I just got irritated at her, just thinking that thought as I admitted it.
I turned back to the cabin and went back inside.
I never put on a pair of boots as fast as I did now.
I put them on so fast, I got impatient with myself, not loosening the laces, so they got stuck around my ankles, and when I got that sorted, I couldn't tie the laces back up fast enough. I kept making mistakes, and my little hands were big and clumsy and stupid as they fumbled with the laces.
I actually had to physically stop myself.
I took my hands away from the laces, from the boots, and sat up straight on the bed.
I drew in a deep, ragged breath, and let it out slowly.
"Rosalie's gonna be okay," I said to no one in the room.
The room frowned back at me.
I think it knew what a liar I was.
I breathed in again and let it all out. "Rosalie's gonna be okay. It was just a stupid, silly dream!"
I bent over to finish my task.
But if Rosalie was going to be okay, how come my hands were shaking so hard I could barely hold them still?
I gripped my hands together, willing them to be still.
They trembled together, fighting my harsh command to them.
I reached down to the laces of my boots, willing them to do as I told them, and tied my laces, slowly, carefully.
I got up from the bed. I had exerted so much pressure on myself, holding myself together, it felt like someone had just punched me in the stomach.
I checked myself, smoothed down my dress, an unconscious, nervous gesture, and made sure I was steady on my feet.
Then I ran.
I ran for the door, as fast as I could, and burst through it.
Pretty graceful, I thought, that is, as compared to my performance from before. I think Rosalie's be impressed, if she were here to see me.
That's when the slush ball came right out of nowhere and smacked me, hard, right in the face.
SMACK!
It hit me so hard, it knocked me right off me feet and knocked me back right into the snow.
And I had been so pleased that I had just been sprinting through the snow without getting sucked into the drift and tripping over my own feet, too!
I hadn't done that. I had been flying, full speed, right out the door and through the snow to rescue Rosalie.
"The fuck!"
It was an angry shout.
I realized that I hadn't said it.
No, I think what I said was something like, "Owww!"
I was aware that my face stung like nobody's business. It was really hot from the force of the slush ball hitting me and knocking me over, and now it was really cold as it slid off and melted from my face.
I moaned. I tried to move, but my body had just given up on me. Before it was so pumped up with fear, but now all my nervous energy was draining out with the shock. All I felt were little twitches going up and down my arms and legs, and my fingertips brushed the snow crust uselessly.
"Lizzie," It was Rosalie's angry, demanding voice, "what the f-..." She corrected herself quickly: "What the hell were you doing running out the door like that? What? Did you set the cabin on fire?"
I coughed.
I coughed again.
"I, uh, ..."
Okay, wait a minute!
"Um, Rosalie, ..." I said tentatively, although I felt myself getting really angry, too.
Rosalie not the only one on this planet who owns being angry.
"Why did you just hit me with a slush ball?" I finished my question carefully.
I didn't add, 'hard, Rosalie. Why did you hit me with it hard?'
I didn't add that.
But I really wanted to know that, too. Maybe I wanted to know that more.
"I wasn't aiming for you," Rosalie's voice whined with impatient annoyance.
I think this was the first time I had heard Rosalie's whiny-voice.
Surprisingly, it didn't sound angelic at all. It didn't even sound attractive. It just sounded whiny and petulant.
That would have been cute, hearing her whiny voice, and seeing her all pouty, if I just hadn't been smacked by her slush ball and was now lying, stunned, in the snow.
And if she weren't directing her anger at me. Anger I felt I didn't deserve at all.
"If I were aiming for you," she continued just as angrily, "I would've hit you!"
"Um, you actually did hit me, Rosalie," I said, and coughed again, spitting out some of the dirt and slush that had gone into my mouth.
"Oh, for God's sake!" she almost shrieked, "You know what I mean!"
Actually, I didn't know what she meant. Not at all.
But I knew what she sounded like: furious.
Furious and crazed.
"Uh," I said helplessly, "so ..."
I sighed, and tried to collect myself, lying down in the snow. Again.
Well, this time, at least, I had on socks and boots. Imagine if she had hit me with the slush ball when I was shoeless!
If she were to see me lying there in the snow, no shoes and getting her dress all snowy-messy-wet...
She'd really be ticked then, wouldn't she be?
That wasn't really a question.
The burning question on my mind was this one: "Rosalie, why did you throw a snow ball?"
I didn't add: 'at me' nor 'and hit me with it.'
Her voice answered me quietly. "I wanted to get your attention. I threw it ... I was throwing it at the door when out you popped all hell-bent and oblivious. Lizzie, ..."
Rosalie was quiet.
"... were you trying to run away?"
Her voice was everywhere, and it was nowhere. You know how a sound in the forest is dampened? You know how you have no idea where it's coming from, and it sounds like it's all around you.
That was Rosalie's voice.
"Huh?" I said, surprised by her question. Why would I want to run away? "No!" I said quickly, "I was trying to find you!"
I tested my arms. I lifted my upper body up off the snow and propped myself on my elbows.
"Oh."
Just that. Just that sound.
It was quiet, but it was surprised.
"So, you weren't running away?" she asked.
"Rosalie," I said, ignoring the already-answered question. "Why did you throw the snow ball to get my attention? What did you need from me? Why didn't you just come in and ask?"
My questions hung in the air, and so did my hurt. She hurt me, then she questions me, then she won't talk to me.
"Rosalie, why are you hiding?" Something was wrong. I could feel it.
She was silent.
"Please," I said quietly. "Please, come out."
"No."
Just that. Just ... 'no.'
"Why?" I said.
All I was doing was asking why-questions. I knew she hated that, hated when I did that. Hated me when I asked them.
I didn't know what else to ask, though, or how else to ask it.
Rosalie was quiet.
It was so, so still in the forest.
It was like ... she was alone, so alone now, talking to me, like I was in one world, and she was in another, and there was no crossing over, all she could do is see me, and that made her all the more forlorn, seeing me, but never being with me again.
My chest hurt, my heart wanting me to rip it out and throw it to her, that's how badly this was hurting me.
"I don't want you to see me," she said, so quietly the forest strained to hear her voice.
"You don't ..." I said, then swallowed, not understanding what she was saying, and why she was saying it.
"Not like this, Lizzie," Rosalie said, quiet still, but firmly. "Not like this."
Her voice was bitter, and filled with self-hatred.
I was up off my elbows and plunging into the woods, right toward the sound of her voice. I burst through a thicket, sure I had heard her voice there.
Nothing.
I looked around me.
"Rosalie," I snarled, "come out now!"
I was panting, a little bit, from the burst of speed I had put on to try to surprise her.
That had worked really well.
"Please?" I pleaded.
Silence.
Then.
"You have to promise me you won't turn around," she said.
Her voice came from everywhere. It was a normal-speaking voice, but it was exactly all around me, like it was inside me and outside me at the same time. It was like it was coming from exactly where I was standing.
"Oh," I retorted angrily, "I have to promise you!"
Rosalie was silent again.
I held onto my anger.
Nothing. Nothing from her. Nothing from the forest. Nothing.
"How come," I said sadly, "you get to not promise me anything, Rosalie Hale, and I have to promise everything to you all the time, huh? How come, Rosalie? How come?"
My voice sounded bitter now, too.
But her voice didn't sound like anything. She was as silent as the grave.
I drew in a ragged breath, and heaved out a huge sigh.
It almost sounded like a wail.
"I promise," I whispered in defeat.
Now she knew exactly what a wuss I was. I was so ... okay, so desperate to see her that I just caved, just like that, and promised her, right after I told her off.
What a ... what a sissy-mary-polly-anna I am!
I hated myself for being so weak. Rosalie never bent, Rosalie never gave in, Rosalie never broke, ... and that's all I ever did.
I sank down in the snow, landing on my butt, my legs crossed in front of me. I sunk, and I put my head down into my hands.
My head seemed really heavy, for some stupid reason.
Nothing changed. Absolutely nothing.
But I felt her. Behind me. And not right behind me, either, but behind me a bit. I felt the snow not take the impact of her landing on it, and not breaking through the thin crust, I felt the air not move in the utter stillness, the utter coldness of the forest.
But somehow, the air knew she was there.
Somehow, the cold air?
It got colder.
Not angrier.
Just colder.
And sadder.
Somehow, her being behind me.
The forest felt emptier, somehow, her being here now.
Because I knew she wanted to be anywhere but here.
"Hey," I said.
Nothing.
I smiled sadly into my hands.
Then.
"I..."
Her voice was utterly devoid of hope, but it wasn't despairing.
It was resigned.
Somehow promising her not to turn around made it nearly impossible for me to sit there and just hear her voice, and know she was there, even though she didn't tell me first, I just knew, and she didn't even acknowledge that or me, no, she was just gonna, ... what? Stand there forever while I sat there, not ever looking back at her because I promised not to?
I was furious now.
I go out to rescue her, because I know she was gonna be like this, and then she just refuses to be rescued.
This was so stupid.
"What?" I demanded angrily to the air in front of me. "We're just gonna sit here like this forever?"
"I'm not sitting," Rosalie said quietly.
I didn't even bother to answer that one. I just picked up a fistful of snow and threw it angrily at a tree in front of me.
I missed.
Great.
My hand hurt now, balling the snow, and the cold had seeped through to my butt, too, and that wasn't exactly comfy either.
"Rosalie," I sighed, "you come out but you don't want me to look at you? What's the game plan here, huh? 'cause I really want to know!"
"I don't know," she said.
Rosalie always knew. I was the one at a loss all the time with everything she threw at me, but even though everything was so chaotic from her, she always seemed to know what she was doing ... doing to me, but still.
I decided I hated today. I hated today more than anything in the world. The other days I just hated her because she had me under her thumb, and I hated that, being pushed around like a raggedy ann, but I found I hated this more. She had all the superpowers, so she was supposed to know what to do, all the time. She had told me I had the responsibility to breathe, or whatever, well, she had the responsibility to ... to know what the hell the game plan was, God damn it!
I pushed myself up off the snow and stood.
"Rose," I said, tasting the sweetness of her name, "this is so stupid. I'm gonna turn around now and ..."
"Don't, Lizzie, don't," Rosalie cut in quickly, then added reproachfully, "you promised."
I stopped.
I had promised.
My fingers danced out a nervous drumbeat on my leg.
"Yeah," I said, "I promised."
The tension in the air eased considerably.
"But here's the thing, Rose," I said.
The tension ... uneased.
"You have to keep your promise to me, don't you?" I said.
"Yes..."
It was a very careful yes Rosalie had said.
"Because of what you are, right?" I said.
Nothing.
I pushed through her silence. "You're like, okay, a v-vampire, and you're forever, so when you promise you have to keep it," I said, and I swallowed around the tightness in my throat.
For some reason, my stomach was tied up in knots.
I was so scared, being daring. Just this little thing, to turn around, and to see her, and I was so scared.
"But I'm not," I said. She made that very clear what she is, and what I'm not. "I can promise something, and I can break it, 'cause I'm human."
I had her there. People broke their promises all the time.
People lived their entire, sad lives on their broken promises, and on the broken promises of others. That was just a fact of life. That's just how life was.
I started to turn.
"Yes, Lizzie, you are human."
Rosalie's voice was strong and clear, and rooted me to the spot.
She was agreeing with me, but she was absolutely not agreeing with me.
"But there is one difference."
See?
"You are a Hale, and a Hale never breaks her promise."
Silence.
The forest was absolutely silent, except for the sound of my heart beating so loudly in my ears, and my steady, deep breaths.
"Never?" I asked quietly.
"Never," Rosalie said just as quietly, but with a certainty that could not be gainsaid.
I heard and saw my breaths in the air, and my body felt completely drained.
I swallowed and a single tear fell from my eye into the snow.
"Th-then, Rosalie," I said brokenly as I began to turn again, "I guess I-I'm not a ..."
"Stop," Rosalie shouted, "Don't do this, Lizzie."
"WHY?" I screamed. "Why, Rosalie, why?"
"Because you are your word, Lizzie," Rosalie said, "and ..."
She stopped. "And I don't want you to see me."
I knew which one was more important to Rosalie. Really. I am my word. Pfft! Like she cared.
I knew she did, but I knew she really didn't want me to see her.
"Rosalie Hale, I know exactly what you look like right now," I said.
"Oh?"
She had actually paused slightly before her sarcastic retort cut into me. It was like she was afraid I did know.
And that scared her.
"Yes," I said, "I do."
"Okay," she said, "what do I look like?"
Still sarcastic, but I heard a tinge of curiosity.
So I described her to her.
"White dress, cotton," I said, "long, flared at the bottom, with long, flared sleeves, too. Very conservative, actually, which after you said off the shoulder and above the knee surprised me, because this isn't that at all."
I thought quietly for a second. "You look pretty in it, actually."
"Do I now?" she said. Her voice was cruel and triumphant, as if she were saying, wrong, wrong, wrong, and totally wrong. She was anticipating shady-fruding me, or whatever she called it.
"Yeah," I said, "That is, if you weren't covered from head to toe in blood."
Everything changed right then.
I waited.
Nothing. No sarcastic retort from Rosalie. No correction.
"Can I turn around now?" I asked her quietly.
"How did you know that?" Rosalie asked back, quietly.
"I saw you," I said.
"Just now?"
"No."
"When?"
I hated talking to nothing. Not talking to her, but to the air. I hated not seeing her, not seeing her react, or seeing her not react, which was sometimes more telling.
Her voice was just so remote, emotionless, and, now, disemboweled. I had nothing to gauge her by except the sound of her voice, and she seemed to be able to do anything with her voice.
I hated this talking with her, but not connecting with her.
I tsked and waved impatiently. "I saw you in my dream. You were screaming, and you were so ... sad and ... I thought you were gonna do something... something bad, so I came out here and ..."
I shrugged.
"Can I turn around now, please?" I asked plaintively.
"No."
I stamped my foot. "Come on, Rosalie! Jeez!" I exclaimed, "I saw you already, so you're not hiding anything, and ..."
"You saw me in your dream," Rosalie stated.
"Yes!" I shouted.
"A dream and reality are two different things," she said.
"Oh, for God's sake, Ro-..." I exclaimed.
"And you promised," she chided.
I bit my lip.
Okay, now, really, I was considering what she could do with my promise, specifically: where she could put it.
My fingers resumed their nervous dance on my leg, because if I did say anything now, it would just ... be bad. I knew if I opened my mouth I was going to say something I'd regret later, or something she would regret right now.
But I stood there fuming, not knowing what to say, knowing what I could do to make this better right now, if only I could get it through her thick skull.
But I couldn't, so we were at an impasse.
And I don't like impasses. I don't even like out-passes. Whatever they are.
"How about ..." Rosalie offered, "if I come to you? Will that make things better?"
"Yes!" I tried not to shout.
I mostly succeeded. It's not like I wasn't asking that from the get-go!
But I guess some things had to come from her for them to make sense to her.
I filed that one away under my list. My ever-changing list of 'things about Rosalie that piss me off.'
But, in consideration to her, I wondered how big her list was of me.
Pretty big, I guess. Must be hard for perfection to deal with the mess that I am.
I shrugged angrily, shuddering with the cold.
"Okay, but, Lizzie," Rosalie said, "close your eyes."
"Uh, what?" I said.
"Close your eyes, Lizzie," Rosalie affirmed, "and keep them closed, okay?"
"And you'll come to me?" I demanded.
"Yes, and, sweetie," Rosalie added, "no peeking. I'll know."
"Okay, okay, whatever!" I said, and closed my eyes.
"Are your eyes closed?" Rosalie asked.
I glowered. "I thought you said you'd know."
"I do," she affirmed. "I want to hear you say it."
Of all the ... I thought angrily, and my eyes rolled so hard I felt them rolling through my nascent headache.
Rosalie Hale was a big-ole pain in the ... you-know-what ... that somehow magically transferred itself to a throbbing between the temples. It must be the stress of dealing with her ever-so-reasonable demands.
I felt her. Right behind me.
And then ... I drew in a sharp, shocked breath.
Rosalie had put her arms around me, encircling my waist and across my chest, her hand resting on my shoulder.
"No sudden movements, okay, sweetie?" Rosalie said sadly.
"'Kay," I said.
"Eyes closed," she ordered.
My eyes were closed.
We both sighed at the same time.
It was funny, in retrospect, if I had a retrospective, but now it was just sad, and a little bit sweet.
"Your dress is ruined," Rosalie mentioned, incidentally.
"Like yours," I said.
Rosalie was silent.
"Rosalie," I said plaintively. "How did I know you were wearing a long white dress?"
"Your eyes were open while you were sleeping," Rosalie said. "You do that sometimes."
She continued. "It makes it hard to know when you're asleep or when you're awake. You talk sometimes in your sleep, too. Answer questions. Ask questions. Call out to me."
She was quiet.
"Oh," I said. I didn't know what to say to that.
At the exact same time she said, "You're a lively little sleeper."
I squirmed in her arms, embarrassed.
Rosalie sometimes laughed at my embarrassment, but she wasn't laughing at me now. Now she was quiet.
"But how did I know you were covered in blood?" I pursued. "I mean, so, okay, you changed when I was sleeping, okay ..."
I blushed. Did she change in front of me while I was sleeping? And I saw that?
How come memory is selective?
I pressed forward, "... but you weren't covered in blood then, were you?"
Then I added, "Like you are now, right?"
Rosalie had started to answer my previous question: "Your ..."
But when I asked her 'like you are now,' she stopped.
Like she was waiting for me to continue.
She never did that. She always just cut me off or interrupted me whenever she was done listening to the stupid things I was saying.
I wondered what her stopping and waiting meant.
"Go ahead," I said at the same time she had said, "Ah..."
She didn't even get a word out when I spoke. Again.
I put my hand over her hand on my shoulder and held her arm at her waist. "I'll be quiet now, Rose" I said.
Rosalie was quiet now, too, though.
I felt in me the need to speak, to fill the silence. I wasn't good with silence. I felt ...
How did I feel about silence? Rosalie would want me to know why I didn't like it. She wouldn't be ... hm, ... she wouldn't be satisfied that I could just identify in myself that I liked this or that I didn't like that. She'd want me to know why I felt this way.
Okay. I didn't like the silence, because you could look at other people, and they could look at you. And they knew it. And you did, too.
In the silence, there was nowhere to hide.
And you could think. But you knew you were thinking.
In the silence, there was nowhere to hide from yourself. And some people can't stand that.
Not good enough.
Rosalie's pointed that out before to me. I'd always say, 'people say...' or 'what if somebody else...' and she'd always counter angrily with 'what people?' and 'who else?'
And then I'd have nothing to say.
I couldn't say 'in the silence there was nowhere to hide from yourself,' because who's the 'you' who's hiding from 'yourself'?
The 'you' was me. I hid from myself. Because I couldn't stand myself. I couldn't stand being quiet, and knowing it was just me and the silence, and who the hell was I to be here? What right did I have?
I didn't know what right I had to be here. But I also didn't know who the hell I was, either, nor why I couldn't stand myself. I mean ...
I mean ... I'm just me. That's all. Nothing, nobody, but that doesn't mean that I couldn't stand myself or that I had to hate myself.
I'm just little me. But in this silence ...
In this silence, with Rosalie holding me ...
That was okay.
It was okay, I mean. I mean, I was. Just little me. I was ... nothing, a nobody, but that was okay. The silence didn't mind, so why should I? And if I were just little me, why did I have to fill the silence with talk and talk and talk, and not listen, and be quiet, and just be.
Just be here in Rosalie's arms, and stop demanding this and that. I came out to save Rosalie, and ... I did.
Shouldn't that be enough? That's what I wanted, after all.
"It's the smell," Rosalie said.
"Uh, what?" I said quickly, lost and reacting.
I was expecting Rosalie to say something profound, like, ... I don't know, 'it's just you and me now.' Wouldn't that have been beautiful? And ... just so right?
But she didn't say that.
"You could smell the blood on me," she said, "that's how you knew."
"Oh," I said, surprised to be jerked back into what I had been talking about before, what had concerned me so much.
When it really didn't matter anymore. Rosalie was covered in blood. I knew it, somehow. It really was true.
None of that mattered. What mattered was the here and now. Me and her. Me in her arms.
But did I say that?
No. Of course not.
"Uh, no, I didn't, Rosalie," I said.
"Uh, yes, you did, Lizzie," she answered.
I had said my words factually, an assertion, but her words were biting and sarcastic.
Me reacting to her, and her reacting to me. It was just so stupid!
So not what I wanted to have happen.
"Um, no, Rosalie! I didn't!" I said angrily.
Why didn't I just stop? Why didn't I just tell her I was happy that she was okay?
Why didn't I just tell her I love her.
Wait.
Where did that come from?
Rosalie was quiet, probably fuming.
I was confused, shocked, and angry at myself. Why did I just think that? Where did that come from? I can't be thinking that, because if I think that, she'll know, and if she knows, she'll ask, and probe, and find out ...
It.
She'll find out it. That thought that I had, and if she finds it out, she'll proceed to tear it apart, tear it to shreds, and show me what a stupid thought that was, and what an idiot I am for thinking it, and then she'll leave me forever, or worse, she'll stay until I die, just looking at me for the idiot I am.
Rosalie sighed. "Lizzie," she explained patiently, "the sense of smell is most misunderstood and ignored thing in human physiology. But the nose has the most nerves associated with it, and the largest part of the brain is dedicated to processing smells."
"You smelled me, you just weren't aware of it, then you connected that smell to your vision and you saw it all together." Then she added quietly: "You are a very intuitive person, Lizzie."
I still held her, and she was ... still just reacting. She just got stuck, having to be right, having to correct me, so that I was right, or no longer so stupid, so she could stand to be around me. Or something.
"It ..." I breathed in a big gulp of air, and this time the smell did smack into me, the stench of blood, salty and fetid. "It doesn't matter anymore, Rose," I said quietly.
She was quiet.
"What does matter, anymore?" she asked quietly.
She asked it cautiously, like it really mattered for her to know this.
Did anything matter to her anymore? Did it matter to her what mattered to me?
Why?
"Rosalie," I said.
I pushed that aside. Why did I have to react to her? Reacting just got us both mad, and did nothing but make her lecture and make me sad.
"Rosalie," I said, "why were you crushing a rock with your head?"
Rosalie was quiet, and her grip didn't tighten around me.
When Rosalie didn't do things, when Rosalie didn't say things, that was ...
That meant something.
"You were beating your head against a rock, crushing it, and then you screamed." I said. "Why did you do that?"
Quiet.
"I didn't see that," I said. "I didn't smell that, Rosalie. But you did do that, didn't you? I know you did. Why?"
Then I realized my 'why' could mean, 'why did I know that?' but I didn't care about that.
So I clarified. "Why did you do that, Rosalie?"
Rosalie eventually sighed.
"You don't know what it is to be me," she said.
I bit my lip.
Yes, that was true ... but I knew a lot more about her than what she gave me credit for.
But I kept my mouth shut and tried to listen.
"I didn't want any of this," she continued. "I wanted ... the American Dream, our crushed American Dream, but I had it. It was right there in my mind, my doting husband, my three perfect children, a nice house, the comfort of a family. I so wanted that. Vera had that, even though she married down, but she married the man she loved, and I was so close to that. Or so I thought, but then ... pfft!" Rosalie blew out air angrily. "It was all gone: my dream was an illusion, and the illusion was a lie, but even then I tried. Okay, so I'm dead. Okay, so I have this new unlife, and even then I tried to make it work, but then Edward rejected me. Okay, fine, the bastard, but then ..."
She shrugged.
"But then me," I finished for her, and I grimaced.
But then me.
Rosalie sighed angrily, then she let me go, and I felt her upper body fall away from me, and I heard the thump of snow being displaced as Rosalie threw herself back into it.
"Yes," she said simply. "But even then," she added reflectively, "it was so simple. You broke the rule; you die. I saw the Cullens wouldn't do that, for their various reasons, so it fell to me. So simple."
"Except it wasn't," I said.
I wondered if even the little I was saying was too much. I mean, Rosalie was finally talking to me, finally opening up, and she wasn't screaming in my face doing it, either.
My eyes had to be closed, but she was opening up. Wasn't that important? Shouldn't I just shut up and listen? Even if all her problems seemed to be me?
I mean, I could fix that, couldn't I? One way or the other, right?
"Yes, it wasn't," she said.
Then she was silent again.
Was she done speaking and have no more to say? Or had my participation silenced her?
At least this time I wasn't only saying things she accused of being ignorant assumptions.
At least there was that.
"Um," I said, "okay, um, Rose ..."
I scooted a little bit back on my butt. "I'm gonna ..." I said.
Then I fell back, too, right next to Rosalie.
She didn't catch me when I fell.
Gee, thanks, Rose! I thought, miffed.
Falling into snow with a thin crust? It can hurt a bit.
Just so you know.
I ignored the ouch, and ignored that she didn't break my fall, and scooted my body into hers.
"So, okay," I said, now that I was against her body again.
Her arm snaked under mine and pulled me into her again.
I breathed a sigh of relief.
I just felt better, somehow, when she held me, even if we were lying down in the snow, and not on the bed this time. It was cold, but I was comforted, that she would still hold me.
Me, the source of all her problems.
"So, yeah," I continued, "all that. But ... okay, you've been dealing with this for a while now, and I thought you were okay with it all. I thought you were doing better, so why the scream?"
"Did you hear it?" she asked.
"I think it woke me up," I said ruefully.
She was quiet for a moment. "No," she said, "I thought I was far enough away so you wouldn't hear me."
"How far?" I asked out of curiosity.
"Three miles," she said.
"Oh," I said, taking that in. "So you went three miles to ..."
Then I stopped and realized something.
"Rosalie," I said, "you left me."
She was quiet at that.
"You said you wouldn't," I accused.
"No," she said, "I said I would be there when you fell asleep, and I'd be there when you woke up."
"But you weren't," I said, hurt.
"Lizzie," Rosalie sighed, "I didn't anticipate you waking up. You were sleeping so peacefully, and I really, ... really needed to hunt and ..."
And she stopped then.
"'And ...'?" I prompted.
Nothing from my silent partner.
"You could've woken me up, you know," I said.
"Maybe," she replied diplomatically. There was no force to her answer though.
"You could've left me a note," I pressed.
Silence. This time petulant.
"Rosalie, I was worried about you!" I said. "You looked hurt, okay?"
"I can't get hurt, Lizzie," Rosalie said. "So you don't have to worry about that."
But I do have to worry about you. And what you'll do. I thought.
"But I did," was all I answered.
"So why the scream, if I don't have to worry?" I said.
She was quiet. I had her there.
"Does it have something to do with the 'and'?" I said. "Rose, what is the 'and'?"
"Persistent little ..." Rosalie grumbled.
She didn't say little what I noticed.
"I'm learning from the best," I came right back, then snapped an angry: "Don't dodge the question."
Rosalie was so quiet.
Then she whispered: "I see things, too, Lizzie."
I waited for her to explain herself. I had offered too much already, I felt.
Anyway, I didn't know what she meant this time.
"Every time I get close to you, every time I loosen my death-strangle grip on my want ... you die. I see it. Every single time, you die, and ..."
Rosalie shifted her head, putting it back more firmly into the snow beneath her.
If my eyes weren't closed, I would've shut them with frustration.
She opens up a bit to me, she hold me, she invites me onto the bed, and then this?
It was enough to make a grown woman scream.
And I'm not talking about her.
"You're close to me now, Rosalie," I pointed out the obvious.
"Yes," she said.
"You're not killing me now." Again, obvious statement.
"You're wrong there," she said with certainty.
I sighed.
Then I tsked. "This isn't the whole, 'Look! I'm making a flower die,' that isn't dying, is it? Because, really, Rose? 'I'm killing you now'? How come I don't feel it, huh?"
I had had enough of her nonsense, particularly her nonsense that has her tearing off, leaving me, then screaming and shutting her off from me.
I had had enough of that kind of nonsense. This 'in-the-water/out-of-the-water' foolishness was really ... just so immature of her. She's going to pull me into the bed, fine, but she can't back away from it nor regret it. Not any more. She chose it, after all!
"And you're feelings are always so indicative of reality," she retorted sarcastically.
I glowered. "Sometimes they are!" Then I thought about it. "In fact, a lot of the times they are."
Now they are, I added angrily, but to myself.
"Uh, huh," she said, not agreeing.
That ticked me off, that she thought of me a certain way, and since it wasn't the way she was, then it was just wrong.
I chewed my lip for a bit, trying to work through my anger.
At least she wasn't angry. She was calm, and there was that, and she wasn't being patronizing.
Well, not super-patronizing.
At least we were talking.
Rosalie sighed.
I think...
I think I'm actually more than a match for her. She has to be right, and she pushes you until she finds your weakness, and when she finds one, that means she's right and you're wrong, and everything is as it should be, so she can just walk away, victorious.
But when she's wrong, she can't admit it. Not to you, anyway, so she has to find something about you to pick on, so you don't get to the real thing that's bugging her.
It's kind of mean of her, actually.
I think, anyway.
"So, ..." I said, "you left me, and you banged your head on a rock, covered in blood, because you were killing me?"
Rosalie was quiet, but I felt her stiffen.
"No," she said. "Wait..."
I waited.
"I wasn't ... Lizzie, I was going for a hunt, anyway. You had suggested it earlier, and I felt that to be a very good recommendation on your part, but I went to the clearing before I went on my hunt, sweetie. I wasn't covered in blood then."
She paused, amazed. "Lizzie, your dream was wrong."
"Okay ..." I said slowly.
It had been so clear to me, my dream, but this was all new to me, dreaming, and having them be so ... vivid and so scary and so real, and, well, none of them were particularly true-true, like the forest didn't bury me in itself, and she did tickle me, and it was a close thing, but she didn't ... I mean, she did put me on the floor by the table and taste my tear, but she didn't ...
You know ... lie on top of me, and ... you know.
I blushed, remembering my dream.
... And then she didn't kill me then.
I mean, it was a close thing, but she didn't kill me then.
But my dreams always told me something, and what they told me was something very real, even if it didn't exactly happen that way, what they told me was important.
So I didn't care, really, that the particulars were different. She did those things, she was covered in blood, there was something there.
"Okay," I said again, "so you screamed and banged on the rock because you hadn't actually killed me, nor actually anything at the time?"
"Actually, it was the other way around," she corrected.
"Yeah, whatever, so that." I said crossly. "Why."
That wasn't a question.
Miss Bossy needed to be bossed around, I'm thinking.
But Rosalie was silent again.
"Why do I have to keep my eyes closed, Rosalie?" I said.
My voice was small.
I hated that. I hated being small. I hated that I had to push her out of herself, but the instant I push, I worry that ... I'm pushing too far, and when she shuts down like that...
I feel little, and lost.
And I hate that.
"Do you know you are doing something that nobody in the world does?" Rosalie asked me back.
"Keeping my eyes closed?" I said confused.
"Keeping your word," she said.
I frowned. "You have a very low opinion of people, Rosalie Hale."
"No," she said evenly, "I have a very accurate opinion of them."
I sighed. She just saw people as bad.
Sure, she got the short end the stick but, ...
But, wait a minute.
"People don't keep their word," I challenged her.
"That's right."
Her voice was level.
"But you did," I said.
"Yes," her reply was certain this time.
"And you died for that," I said.
And I left it there, right on her plate, so to speak.
Rosalie was quiet for a moment.
"No," she said.
"No, I kept my word, and did what I said," she continued, "and the one time, the one time I gloated, victory in my grasp, my perfect life, that's what caused my fall. A lapse. My one lapse. Not keeping my word, but glorying in a victory that was not yet mine."
Then she paused again, "Pride proceedeth the fall."
I could have told her that.
"So, ..." I said slowly, "now your perfectly regulated again, and everything's under control."
"Yes," she said carefully.
And I thought to myself: liar!
But ...
But maybe she wanted everything to be perfectly regulated and under control. That was the lie she was living.
That was the lie that explained everything to her, didn't it? If she didn't slip up, she would have had her happily ever after. Didn't she said if she didn't manage everything, it all went to shit?
It did.
But the thing was, she was managing everything now. She could, and she did.
But it was all went-to-shit, and in a big way, too.
Wasn't that living, though? Doing your best, then life throws itself at you, gumming up the works, and nothing goes as planned, but you do what you can with what life throws you?
You can't ... order life, manage it ... it's just too big!
When you try to do that, it all goes to ... well, it all goes to shit.
Can't Rosalie see that?
I knew the answer to that.
Rosalie can't see that. She just keeps reverting to this ... angry, controlling, bitter person she is, always imposed upon by everything and everybody.
"Is that what matters to you, Rose?" I asked softly.
She was quiet.
"Earlier you asked me what matters to me," I said. "Is this what matters to you, that you have it all together no matter what?"
She wouldn't answer.
"Rose?" I said.
"Yes."
The word came out of her mouth and lingered in the air with a finality to it.
There was a bleakness to her voice.
That was all that mattered to her, and she saw that, and what an empty, meaningless, pointless existence that was, to have everything in its place, everything perfect!
But what's the point of that?
What's the point of that right now? She can't go back to her perfect world with her doting husband and wonderful kids. She'll never have that. So, why settle for this bleakness? Why choose it?
"I'm not like that, Rosalie," I said. "I'm not this person who can keep her word no matter what. I'm not better than everybody else. That's you; that's not me," I said.
"And ..." I said, "And ..."
I took a deep, ragged breath.
"And you lost everything, okay, but ... me, Rosalie."
I smiled sadly. "I've lost everything. My family, you have, too, but ... but I'm just human, that's all I am, and I need to eat and to sleep and to do ... other human things, and you can just push me and pull me wherever you want me to be and however you want me to be, and I can't lift a finger against it ... against you, and I can't lift a finger to help. You have to walk me to the bathroom, Rosalie Hale, and how embarrassing is that? How demeaning? But when I try myself, I end up in the middle of nowhere and you have to come and dig me out of the snow and be all angry at me about it, and how ... low can a person sink, Rosalie? You've got your pride and your right, and I've got ..."
My lips twitched upward. "I've got nothing left, not even the right to breathe, not without your say-so, and you're angry and bitter and screaming in the woods about it, but what can I do, but wear a pretty dress you gave me and ... and ..."
A tear fell from my eye, probably landing onto Rosalie's stained sleeve.
"And ... be happy about it?" I asked finally.
"And you're happy," Rosalie said.
Her voice was toneless. It could have swung either way, to the sarcastic or to the curious.
But it was toneless, her voice.
I didn't even know if it were a question or ... an accusation.
I wanted to say, "I'm trying to be," ...
But knowing her, I just knew she would just start in on me with that, and my 'trying to be.'
I knew 'trying' would just get her going.
But I was trying. Wasn't that good enough?
Sadly, I knew it wasn't for her.
I said nothing, but my breathing became labored, and two more cursed tears fell from my eyes.
I said nothing.
I so wanted to say, "Yes," not to show her up, but to show her that ... okay, life didn't go the way I expected, but I could deal with it, I could be happy with it.
Life didn't go the way Rosalie wanted, but she could deal with, be happy with it, if she just saw that I could.
But I couldn't. I couldn't deal with life right now, not at this moment.
It was just too much for me.
"I threw the snowball," Rosalie said, apparently dropping the topic my happiness, as if it were unimportant, "because I wanted to signal your attention. I wanted you to leave me a towel so I could wipe this ... excrement off me, as much as possible so I could take a proper bath without ..."
She was quiet.
"Without spoiling the soap and having the water run red. I wanted you to leave out a towel so I could grab it, and you wouldn't have to see this. I know how suggestible you are, Lizzie, so I wanted to spare you this."
"Oh," I said humbly.
"But then," she said at the same time, "but then you popped your head out the same time that I threw, and I thank God I didn't throw too hard, because I would have popped your head clean off, and then where would we be, hm?"
Her tone was light, but the reproach was there.
"Oh," I said.
I wondered if I should say, 'I'm sorry.'
I'm sorry for popping my head out of the cabin, because I was worried sick about you, and it turns out my worry was actually and frighteningly correct.
I'm sorry about that, Rosalie Hale.
Or would my apology just anger her, and then I'd have to apologize for apologizing.
'Think before you speak,' she had scolded me. But now I was thinking and thinking and thinking, and because of that she screamed at me to get out of my 'fucking head.'
Great.
I noticed she didn't apologize for smacking me upside the head with a snowball. In fact, she made it my fault that I got hit with the snowball she threw, and made me feel guilty about it.
Did you notice that? I noticed that.
"One thing confuses me," I said.
"It does?"
I couldn't read what she meant by that, so I pressed forward.
"You rescued me from the river, right?" I asked.
"Yes?" Cautious. She didn't know where I was going with this, and she doesn't like that: not knowing.
"Well, the river water didn't knock you out like it did me, right?" I said, then checked: "I mean, it's not cold for you, right?"
Rosalie paused. "No," she said, "I'm cold for it."
"So, ..." I said, "why didn't you just go for a swim, then? You would've been cleaned off, and you were probably going to get rid of your clothes, anyway, right? You could've just shucked them there, or, I don't know, bury them somewhere. Then you could have explained after, or ..." I hesitated. "Or, ... not explained afterwards, ... like you sometimes don't. Why didn't you just do that, instead of the whole snow-ball-and-don't-look thing?"
It was just a question. And I really wanted to know. I mean: it seemed so obvious to me, an outsider, a plain-old human being, so why didn't she do it that way?
Rosalie was quiet. Her breaths were even.
Then she let me go and lay back into the snow.
"I should have done that," she whispered to herself angrily. "Why didn't I think of that?"
"I was just wondering," I offered apologetically.
"Lizzie," Rosalie said.
She shifted slightly in the snow.
"I'm not ... right ... anymore," she said cautiously. "Things have been spinning out control, and I don't ..."
She paused carefully. "I don't trust myself anymore, nor the actions I take and ..."
Rosalie was silent.
I digested her words.
I had no idea what she was talking about. She was always so deliberate about everything, gentle when she was gentle, furious when she was angry, but every action she took had some end, as she saw it, even if I couldn't.
I might not know what she was about, but I knew she was about it with a will and a purpose.
Even now, in her hesitancy, she was deliberate. She was sharing something she didn't like sharing, something that she found distasteful to do, but she was doing her duty.
Like she always was.
So I had no idea what she was talking about.
"Okay," I said cautiously, myself. "But ..." then I brightened up, slightly, cautiously, "but isn't that we signed up for? That I could ... that I could help, Rosalie, that you could ... I don't know, not hold everything together all the time, and I could ... help? Didn't we say that, Rosalie?"
"Yes, ..." she said, "but no. It's not that simple now."
I felt my eyebrows crease. "From this morning?" I asked in disbelief.
"Yes, and from forever," she said regretfully. "I just don't ... trust myself, anymore."
"Now? Here? Or away from me or ... what, Rosalie?" I said, more and more confused.
"Yes," she said.
"Um, ..." I said helplessly. "Um ..."
I felt my shoulders drop, then the word just ripped itself out of my chest. "Why?"
We had been doing so badly, then we were doing so well, and she had held me, and she was holding me now, but ... but now, she was so distant holding me, and in bed it was so weird.
Why couldn't she just hold me? Just that? Why wasn't that okay?
"It's complicated," Rosalie said.
I breathed in and out, and I waited for her to explain that.
And no explanation came.
Or that was the explanation. And that was no explanation.
"Can I ..." I said, "can I help? I mean, can I help in any way, Rose, please?"
I didn't want my question to sound desperate, or like begging.
So how come that's what it sounded like?
Rosalie shifted in the snow again, and molded her body firmly into mine. Her hand came around me again, and she held me into her.
She held me so tightly that I thought I might just burst.
But it was a firm-tight, a controlled-tight.
It was Rosalie-tight, and I wanted it to be tighter, if that made it better, or if it made her feel better.
"What if you're the problem?" she asked softly in my ear. "Or ..." she paused. "No, what if I'm the problem, and there's nothing you can do about it, because it's my fault: it's what I am. And it's that you simply must live your life, and I just have to wait until ..."
She didn't finish.
She didn't have to.
I couldn't breathe; I couldn't speak.
And it wasn't because Rosalie was holding me too tightly, because she wasn't, even as tightly as she was holding me.
Her chin was on my shoulder, and her lips were right next to my neck, brushing against the little piece of her that she gave me. She wasn't nuzzling me, she was absolutely, utterly still, and lost in her thoughts, holding me into her.
There, but so, so far away from me.
I took a small sip of air.
"Rose," I said softly, "do I matter to you?"
Rosalie was quiet, then I felt her tighten up, her whole body.
"No," she said harshly.
I gasped, stung.
Then she unwrapped herself from me, and in so doing tossed me face down into the snow.
I could say that would've hurt, but I was reeling from what she just said to me, and my whole body was in shock, desensitized from the fact that I was pulled face-first into the snow, because that didn't matter, not so much as what she said to me.
I felt her rise, quickly, to get rid of me.
"Leave a towel out for me," she said, her words clipped, "that is, unless you want to see me naked when I return."
Her toe lashed out and touched my side. "Do you want to see me naked when I return?" she demanded.
"No," I said.
I would have been shocked and embarrassed at her question. I would have been blushing from shame.
But that was before.
Now I was just ... deflated, and my 'no' was listless.
"Thought not," she said coldly, then her voice became businesslike and impersonal: "Get changed into a clean dress, leave your soiled dress out, too, and I'll dispose of it."
I wondered, was that how she sounded like when she ordered her servants about at the Hale household Back East? Cold and distant?
Imperious?
"'Yes, Rosalie'?" she commanded.
"Yes, Rosalie," I said, looking down at the snow. I sniffled, and two tears fell.
This is how it was now.
What did I do to deserve this?
I didn't know. Everything always came from her, and what could I do about it?
How could I reach out to her ... when I didn't even matter to her?
And then I felt it.
She was gone.
No air moved. No sound. She was just ... gone.
I looked up.
Beside me was the imprint in the snow of a person lying in it.
A red imprint.
The snow had melted a bit from the blood that had dripped down onto it.
There had been a lot of blood, and some of it had crystalized, looking like candied snow-popsicles.
Blood-candied snow-popsicles.
I'm normally squeamish when it comes to blood. I'd make the worst nurse, because I fainted one time when Pa broke up a bar fight when two fellas got too drunk and broke their beer glasses to have a go at each other. I had fainted then, just at the sight of blood, a slight cut before Pa got between the two of them, but now I was just ... drained.
I looked up, there were footsteps in the snow. Bare feet, the steps were close together leading away from me, but then getting wider and wider and then impossibly far apart.
Rosalie had run from me; she had run like the wind.
She couldn't wait to get away from me.
I pulled myself up out of the snow and hung my head.
I walked back to the cabin, slowly, stumbling, barely seeing it.
There was something in my eyes.
I think it was the snow.
A/N: Happy Mothers' Day.
If you are a mother, Happy Mothers' Day. If you aren't, and even if you are, call your Mum!
I am sorry I can't offer you a sweet and yummy chapter of sweet and kind Rosalie on this Mothers' Day, but this is how Rosalie is, isn't she?
Or ... what does her 'no' mean? Your thoughts?
This chapter is posted at the very polite request of MADDY22. This may not be the chapter you wanted, but ...
No. No explanations. Rosalie Hale is Rosalie Hale, and she just did this.
Okay, one thought: your best friend in the whole world? Your sister. The person who can hurt you the worst? Your sister.
Or is it that at all?
This chapter was originally entitled "Losing it." Has Rosalie really lost it this time? And what if this 'it' she's lost is more than precious to her? How will she get it back?
... when she's standing right there, heartbroken, being so thoroughly rejected, like how Rosalie just rejected her.
'It,' I mean.
Her.