Fic: Sundays
Title: Sundays
Author: fadedpresence
Fandom: Twilight
Characters/Pairing: Rosalie Hale
Prompt: Sundays
Rating: G
Word Count: 287 words
Notes: A request for simply-strange ♥
Sundays were always deliciously vacant.
The sun always shone a little brighter, a little warmer, and a little more gold through her bedroom window. The pressing warmth was stubborn, tickled her eyelids and cast small shadows behind her eyelashes until she finally opened her eyes and saw the world for the first time again.
Everything was where she’d left it the night before. Sometimes she half expected to wake and find her room empty: the fine china and porcelain figures on her mantelpiece would be stolen or crunched beneath a trespasser’s boot, destroyed while she slept on soft laced pillows and breathed in crisp night air. She’d always been a heavy sleeper, she remembers this much.
And she’d always slept on her right side. Sometimes she’d wake to discover an imprint of her pillow’s lace trimming, reddish and proud against her right cheek. Rosalie would scowl while surveying herself in a mirror, plucking the reddish marks with fingers to rid the little indents.
She would take breakfast around nine, a late start for her, and clear a spot on the small booth by the window. People making visits and house calls would walk by the Hale home, some oblivious and some entirely too curious of the pretty blond who posed behind the plate glass. It was her favorite game to play, poised with a good Jane Austen.
The sun holds no warmth for her anymore. The sun is not meant for those with chalk white skin, with stolen lifeblood curing parched veins. Like friends-turned-enemies, the sun and Rosalie pretend they never met.
Sundays still meet with Rosalie Hale, knocking on her door and reminding her of days passed, but now they feel just like any other day.
Author: fadedpresence
Fandom: Twilight
Characters/Pairing: Rosalie Hale
Prompt: Sundays
Rating: G
Word Count: 287 words
Notes: A request for simply-strange ♥
Sundays were always deliciously vacant.
The sun always shone a little brighter, a little warmer, and a little more gold through her bedroom window. The pressing warmth was stubborn, tickled her eyelids and cast small shadows behind her eyelashes until she finally opened her eyes and saw the world for the first time again.
Everything was where she’d left it the night before. Sometimes she half expected to wake and find her room empty: the fine china and porcelain figures on her mantelpiece would be stolen or crunched beneath a trespasser’s boot, destroyed while she slept on soft laced pillows and breathed in crisp night air. She’d always been a heavy sleeper, she remembers this much.
And she’d always slept on her right side. Sometimes she’d wake to discover an imprint of her pillow’s lace trimming, reddish and proud against her right cheek. Rosalie would scowl while surveying herself in a mirror, plucking the reddish marks with fingers to rid the little indents.
She would take breakfast around nine, a late start for her, and clear a spot on the small booth by the window. People making visits and house calls would walk by the Hale home, some oblivious and some entirely too curious of the pretty blond who posed behind the plate glass. It was her favorite game to play, poised with a good Jane Austen.
The sun holds no warmth for her anymore. The sun is not meant for those with chalk white skin, with stolen lifeblood curing parched veins. Like friends-turned-enemies, the sun and Rosalie pretend they never met.
Sundays still meet with Rosalie Hale, knocking on her door and reminding her of days passed, but now they feel just like any other day.