Rosalie goes to La Push as a favor for Edward, but will she get what she came for? ...Or something more...?
I originally wrote this for the non-cannon contest, but I couldn't stop writing! Hope you enjoy this as much as I do.
4. Chapter 4
Rating 5/5 Word Count 1283 Review this Chapter
“All truths are easy to understand once they are discovered; the point is to discover them.”
“Do you know what you’re doing to me?” her father, Maxwell Hale, was saying. It was December. I remember that. It was Christmas Eve. He was speaking to my mother, Julia. I can still see her in my head perfectly. She was absolutely beautiful. It was from her that I got my famous blonde hair. She had the palest complexion lined with deep red lipstick and blonde curls. She was wearing the most ridiculous outfit- the one she had bought that afternoon in fact. A long silver gown with ties at the shoulders that must have been worth $50. $50! Even though we were almost homeless, had no furniture, no income, and no plan for getting back all of our valuables, she bought herself a $50 dress. But it was beautiful. And the fact that it was on her made it even more impressive. That was always my attitude towards Julia. Annoyed, yet amazed at the same time. She was the mother I never had, and the best friend I always wanted. She was… everything. That’s how my father would always describe her. “My everything!” he would exclaim with open arms. He loved her, no doubt. The real question was if she really loved him or just his money. And even at the age of 18, I guessed that that was about to be discovered.
“Do you know what you’re doing to me?” He sat slumped in his chair by the fire, one of the few things we had left. His hair was beginning to gray, I had noticed that about a month ago. My mother, the ever glorious, stood above him, her hands on her hips.
“Is that a yes or a no? Are you coming to the party or not?” she asked impatiently. My father slowly shook his head and sighed in resignation.
“It’s a no,” he whispered. Julia turned on her heels leaving me sitting on the floor and my father in his chair. I didn’t know if she had money for a cab or if she was going to do something practical for once and walk. Nor did I care, really. I had other things to care about. Like Maxwell. He was silent, as he usually was when these kind of things happened. I felt the need to make him smile or laugh, but I was never really good at that. That was mother’s area. She was so charming, she could have made the grumpiest of old misers break into a smile for a whole evening. Funny how she could make my father cry or laugh at the drop of a hat, depending on her mood. I searched my mind for something, anything, funny in this situation. Nothing. Nothing was funny. Nothing deserved a smile. My father got up slowly and climbed the stairs to his room. I sat alone by the marble fireplace, feeling the cold of the floor and the warmth of the fire at the same time.
It wasn’t the first time I had felt absolutely worthless and useless. Not by far. Ever since I was about ten years old, when they first realized I wasn’t like my mother. Oh sure, they tried to teach me. My mother dressed me up in the most expensive clothes and taught me the names of designers. I enjoyed that. I suppose that was one thing I was always good at- fashion. But I didn’t laugh like my mother or find things to smile at. I was always the serious one. So they got bored with me. I was no longer invited to parties by my mother- she had nothing to show off anymore. I couldn’t sing or dance or make jokes. I was plain. I sat there at the fireplace, as I had done so many times before, remembering when we used to have money to buy books and I could read all I wanted. I remember learning to sew and buying every kind of fabric I wanted. Before the stock-market crash. Before I no longer had any friends. They abandoned me as soon as we lost our money- as if poor was a disease that could be caught if one stood too close. Of course, within the year they lost all their money too, but they never came back. And so there I was, sitting by the fire and missing everything I used to have. My friends, my fabrics, my sewing machine, my family…
And the anger returned, as it always did about this time. That’s the way me emotions worked. First sadness, then anger, and then once it all was internalized, I was bitter on the inside and quiet on the outside. But that night- that fateful night- the anger didn’t internalize. It grew and grew until it seemed the room couldn’t contain it. I seethed and burned inside, mirroring the fervor of the fire beside me, and the cold hardness of the marble floor. Just like someone else I knew. Someone who had all the fire of the world inside of her, but when it came to me, she was as hard as stone.
I repeated the name in my head, growing louder and angrier each time.
Julia. Julia. Julia. Julia.
Until I could take it no more.
Slowly, I rose off the floor, as if in a trance and headed out into the street, without thinking to grab a coat- not that I had one anyway. I walked down the deserted city street and headed for the party I knew Julia was at. I didn’t know what I would say to her, but I would surely let her know of what she had done to me. After eighteen years, it was time for her to know that she had made me into the spiteful, bitter, creature I was. The road stretched ahead of me, but I could see the lights of the party. It wouldn’t be long now. I could feel my heart beating faster and faster, preparing me for the release of a lifetime. I was nearly running now. I couldn’t wait any longer. And then suddenly I was no longer running. I was, in fact, stopped on my heels in the middle of the road with a hand on my mouth and a knife at my throat.
I was dragged backwards towards an alley and I heard male voices. Adrenaline pulsed through my veins as the realization of danger slowly set in. I didn’t know how many men there were, or what their intentions were, but it was obvious they weren’t good ones. I didn’t know if they wanted my life, my body, or just my money, but whatever they wanted, I was determined not to let them have it. The spirit of the night had not yet waned off, so I was prepared to fight. I kicked and flailed and tried to shout, but it was no use. They were stronger, and worse, they had a weapon. But they made one mistake. The man with his hand over my mouth, moved it temporarily to catch my hand flying towards his head. And in that moment, I took the opportunity to scream.
And I felt my body fall hard on the ground.
And then I felt the knife in my stomach.
Hence, the end of my human life, and the beginning of the horror that was never-ending.
Why had I tried so hard to live? Living now was more terrifying than death.