Chapter Text
As Rosalie lays there, in her blood and shame, listening to the man she’d trusted walk away with his friends, all of them sure she won’t make it through the night, she wonders: what did she do to end up in such a situation? Maybe her vanity was her downfall, the belief that simply being beautiful enough would protect her from the horrors she’d seen other women-those society had deemed less desirable- go through. As she lay there, she chided herself for her naivety. Of course beauty wasn’t the key to protection, to a safe life in a world where men took what they when they wanted. Beauty didn’t give you agency, autonomy, the freedom to speak against your husband when he made you uncomfortable. Beauty just made you a bigger prize, the shiniest car in the lot, and meant you could take your pick. Rosalie wished she’d learned this lesson earlier, but beauty had been her comfort, something she’d been so effortlessly good at-praised for- that it simply never occurred to her that there was little besides what was on the surface that beauty accounted for. What she’d seen as respect and adoration from men was nothing more than a competition between them to see who could break the surface of Rosalie’s icy heart. Maybe it was this iciness that had put her where she was now, men driven so wild by their inability to capture her heart that they felt they had to take it by force. She gives a weak chuckle then. Even on the brink of death, in such a humiliating position, vanity still reared its head; her final worldly comfort.
***
From the time she was born Rosalie had been considered beautiful. From the moment she opened her eyes, nurses were cooing over her, marvelling at the big brown eyes set into such a cherubic face. As she’d grown older, her skin had set into a beautiful brown colour, her hair growing in thick black coils, something her mother would marvel over as she brushed her hair every morning, looking over Rosalie’s shoulder as she did. Mornings always went like this, her mother brushing her hair out, watching the thick black curls spring as they were pulled and twisted into two braids going down Rosalie’s back, all the while praising her.
‘Look at you, my pretty darling, the healthiest head of hair in Rochester’. It was no wonder that by the time Rosalie was ten, she’d already become a little self-centred. Between her mother’s constant praise of her hair, to the way the other girls would marvel over her smooth brown skin, free from the blemishes that other girls were afflicted with. By the time she was twelve Rosalie was maybe the vainest girl on their side of the city. Her mother had already had her two younger brothers by then, and as such had no time to lavish praises on Rosalie, but Rosalie didn’t need her to do that anymore. Every morning she’d look in the mirror, as she sectioned and detangled her hair, making sure she could run a comb through it before braiding it up. She’d take in her appearance, the deep brown eyes set into an expanse of smooth skin, the full lips she’d inherited from her mother. She’d turn, and check her profile, admire the slope of her nose (straight as her father’s), and the way her jaw seemed just right. By fourteen she’d decided that the inherited beauty wasn’t enough, that she had to make sure she acted as beautiful as she felt. She always had the best clothes, sweet talked from a father who couldn’t say no to his dear baby girl. She surrounded herself with the prettiest girls - girls with the most beautiful smiles, the most vibrant eyes. Girls who could send boys into fits of stammering and blushing, and other girls into fields of envy. But she always made sure she was the most beautiful of all, the one who was hardest to please. Of course she would be; why should she, Rosalie Hale, settle for a bunch of flowers picked hastily on a morning stroll, not even tied up with ribbons the way other girls did? As she’d grown, her pride in her looks, and unwillingness to settle had led up to her having her sights set on one man: Royce King II. He was a smooth talker, all slicked back hair and crisp suits, saying and doing the right things; loved by all, from adoring girls hoping for even a glance from him, to their parents. Of course her sights were set on him, the most talked about man for the most talked about girl. In Rosalie’s mind, they made a perfect match, never mind that she knew next to nothing about him. So that day, when her mother sent her to the bank to deliver her father’s forgotten lunch, Rosalie made sure to saunter past him, throwing him a flirty look (but not too flirty, she couldn’t come off as one of the simpering girls that tripped over their feet for his attention) as she introduced herself, asking oh so coyly where she might find her father’s office to deliver his lunch. She felt his eyes on her as she walked away, not sparing him a glance to let him know that even he couldn’t just kiss her hand and win a smile. After all, her mom had always told her that the key to truly holding men’s affection was to never make yourself too available: men loved the chase.
Rosalie had begun to doubt the truth of her mother’s words, when one day, then two, then three went by with no word from Royce, no indication that he even thought about her. Then on the morning of the fourth day, her doorbell rang, and who would be standing there other than Royce, in his hands a bouquet of fresh picked roses, all red, tied with a red ribbon. He’d smiled that smooth smile, and much to her surprise her heart had skipped a beat. The flowers began to show up every day, roses at first, then violets when he’d learnt they were her favourite. After the flowers, an invitation to a date, which Rosalie had accepted - after keeping him waiting of course. After three dates, a proposal; a public affair at a dinner party all their friends and family had been attending, exactly what Rosalie had thought to have been the perfect show of love: loud, boastful, something that tinged all the other girls green with envy.
***
As she lay here now, in the flickering light of the streetlamp, she wished she hadn’t been so foolish, so easily carried away by grand gestures. She wished she’d paid more attention to the way his eyes wandered when other girls were around, the way he spoke of her, like she was a trophy to be hung on his wall. She wished she’d seen his grand gestures for what they were: empty promises meant to fool her into thinking he loved her, when really he loved the idea of being the Man Who Won Rosalie Hale. She almost wants to chuckle, all that pride and for what? To end up lying on the side of the street at the age of 17, life cut short at the whim of a violent man and his friends. Rage welled up inside of her, replaced by fear as she heard footsteps, replaced by shame as she realised that more than anything, right now, she didn’t want anyone to see her like this. Not in a town like this, where rumours spread fast. It would ruin her family.
“Hello? Miss Hale?”
She instantly wants to die, right then on the spot. She recognises the voice, the handsome doctor who moved into town a few months ago. Carlisle, if she remembers correctly. Her shame increases tenfold, it’s a disgrace for anyone to see her like this, but especially so for this man, with his golden eyes and impossibly smooth skin, to witness her in such a state.
“Miss Hale,” he says again, kneeling down beside her.
“Go…” she rasps, trying to shoo him. His hands are cold, which doesn’t make sense; it is the middle of spring after all.
“Miss Hale, I’m going to help you okay. I’m here to help,” he prods around moving the hair out of the way of her neck.
She can barely get the words out to tell him to go away, when she feels a sharp pain in her neck.
Did he just bite her?
Trust a man as handsome as him to be a complete degenerate, biting half dead girls in the middle of the street.
Rage begins to build in her again, but just as quickly as it, begins, it subsides, replaced by a wave of searing pain, like her bones are being shattered all at once. She wants to scream, but he clamps a hand over her mouth, lifting her up and taking her away. Before she knows it she’s in a house, she doesn’t know where. The pain is never-ending, coming in waves and waves and waves, each more debilitating than the last.
“Carlisle what are you doing,” she hears someone ask. She assumes it’s the boy he’s always with. The one she’s seen in passing on the rare occasion he’s out.
“I couldn’t leave her there…” Carlisle’s voice fades, Rosalie unable to concentrate as the pain spreads to her chest. If Rosalie felt like her bones were being broken, it feels like her heart is being squeezed, and just when she feels like it can’t be squeezed anymore, the pressure increases. She wants to claw her way out of her body to escape this pain. She wants to die, disappear, just evaporate into thin air. Anything to escape the confines of this body, set alight over and over again, each fire burning fiercer than the last. She wants to scream, but even that is painstaking, her throat tightening whenever she tries. She doesn’t know how long the pain lasts, all she knows is that it’s there until it’s not, and she doesn’t have time to revel in it, blacking out as soon as it’s over.