Disclaimer: I don't own Twilight, none of it ... sadly. Stephenie Meyer owns the story, the characters, and the world at this point, probably my life too. I'm an indentured servant and I didn't even know it.

I'm hella nervous to post this and I have NO idea why ... I'm not looking to become an author or anything of the sort. I started writing this a few years ago and finished ... and haven't done anything with it since (you'll know why). This is simply a story. That's it. I don't really care if this is reviewed/critiqued. Just enjoy it, aside from other ... English speaking things. And, this is taken from the film, not the book. I know they're completely different but I just took this from the film so readers and non-readers will know a reference point. Now, if you want to see the scene I referred to in the hospital, you can check my profile. It'll be there. And ... yeah, I'm SingTFU now.

Some tunes to set the mood (these links will be on my profile):
Heartbeat to a Gunshot - Angelo Badalamenti
Hit Girl Drives Home - John Murphy
Kayla - Harry-Gregson Williams
Lie to Me (Denial) - Red
Name Above All Names - City of the Fallen
Praetorian Guards - Position Music

Yeah, okay now. Enjoy! ... if you can o.O

September 1918

The sounds finally came, my bleeding ears picking up the noise through the suffocating liquid. There were dreadful, terrible screams and cries, echoing madness throughout the ever busy hallways. Surprisingly, it still scared me a bit. An undulating rhythm pumped through my clogged eardrums, the deep galumphing of my dying heart mocking me; but I had accepted this, my consciousness knowing what was going to happen soon enough. I didn't mind the end result of this sickness, only the process to achieve such a position though … it was painful.

As I grew more aware of the immense yet claustrophobic area my chest tightened against the heavy phlegm surrounding the lining inside of my lungs, my stomach muscles constricting to rid myself of this fatal infection. My hand flew up to my mouth instinctively, a loud whooping cough interrupting the calmness of my seemingly dead body. I bent over the side of the achingly uncomfortable bed, my rib cage heaving with each desperate punch of fight against the Influenza, my head nearly exploding in massive pressure.

"Vivian, get me some Codeine. Quick."

The male doctor's words were barely heard, the killing coughs deafening any outside interference.

I opened my eyes then as my lungs threw spatters of satin red across my gray complexion; my blood shot eyes catching the detail. It still wouldn't stop coming.

Suddenly, a doctor's and nurse's hands lifted me back up to a sitting position, different hands behind my back while others lifted my chin, my back arching and jerking with each violent cough. A liquid was draining fast down my throat, choking me and silently cutting off the necessary oxygen to my brain. Everything began to lose its sharp definition.

A hand hit my back a few times, hitting the mucus pool in my chest to try to expel it. I only gasped for more air.

Liquid salt escaped my eyes, cooling my overheated shell. Trembling rocked my frame as my hands lost their strength and fell into a sagging lay at my sides. The sickness was winning.

"Where is that medication?" the doctor's consistently calm voice snapped.

Not only had the shapes faded but the light was fading, my eyes rolling in the back of my head as my brain lost its necessary amount of oxygen. I didn't mind it. It gifted me painless unconsciousness for awhile.

"Ed … ward …" a slow voice penetrated my deep compressing coughs. But I was gone.

I shut my eyes for the last time before my body's absent strength rendered me powerless.

...

I was lying on my side, my arms and legs curled into myself as I grew more aware of my surroundings. The room was covered in a gloomy blue, the rain outside pounding against the window above my bed. I was alone in this room although there were beds lining each of my sides, all of them empty except mine. I didn't bother to try and remember who was in those beds.

My wheezing breath kept repeating, never slowing down or speeding up. I only stared at the beds, one by one, wondering why I was still alive. I had nothing here anymore. Why was I still here?

The creaking door caught my attention, my physical state too weak to lean up and look at who it was. Physical weakness or missing curiosity ... it was debatable. I waited for them to come towards me instead.

I couldn't hear their footsteps although I heard the squealing chair against the floor less than a second later. Or maybe it was a few seconds. My mind didn't work like it used to.

"Mr. Masen?"

Against the physical exhaustion, I slowly shifted myself to my back, my legs straightening and stretching in one of the most wonderful feelings. Through the fog and endless pain of the stygian brightness, I saw his face. I had seen this doctor before, his features unforgettable compared to the average nurses flitting across the stained tile floors. The women all fawned over him and I could see why. I, being a man, knew what women were after. He clearly had the physique and face of what was expected - and much more.

I wheezed while the cold sweat on my face stung my eyes, "Yes?"

He reached his hand towards mine, knowing that I could barely keep my eyes open let alone being capable of lifting my hand to his, and shook it. The freezing temperature of his hand shocked me, literally. I wanted to pull my hand away but held it in place out of respect.

"I'm Doctor Carlisle Cullen," he smiled warmly. "I'm your physician."

I tried to smile but nothing moved on my face except my jaw. "I know. It's nice to meet you, Doctor Cullen."

His lips pulled up into a small smile. "Please, call me Carlisle." His warm smile faded. "I'm glad you're finally conscious. The past two days have held much anxiety and I can personally say I am very happy you're still alive."

This time, I did grin. Only very slightly though. "I am too mister - "

He smiled, "Carlisle, please."

"Carlisle."

I took his hand once again, the strength in his seemingly massive despite the discomfort of the temperature. I knew why it was that way. My temperature was ridiculously high and I couldn't walk if my life depended on it - which it did at this point. I knew it was pathetic.

After a few moments and releasing his hand, sadly, I asked, "Did you talk to my mother or father before they … before they died?" I selfishly wanted to know their last wishes.

His expression softened. "I apologize. I wasn't there when your father passed. It was in his sleep, peacefully. But your mother, Elizabeth, she did say something."

Despite the drainage of thick mucus down my throat, I asked harshly, "What was it?"

Carlisle put on his stethoscope and opened the hospital robes over my prodding ribbed chest. He listened carefully, his eyes holding still on my throat. I couldn't hear my heart.

He removed the device from my sternum and carefully said, "She said she wanted you to fight this off." His icy hands rubbed the glands in my throat, the rubbing of them causing me to wince. "That she wanted you to move on and create a wonderful family with a lovely woman." He grabbed my shoulder and sat me up in a sitting position, the cold face of the instrument pressing against my back, "Take a couple deep breaths for me."

I did as he said as best as I could.

The small smooth surface went to the other side of my spine. "And again …" he pressed.

I did it again. I could literally hear the air circling in and out of my lungs through my parted dry mouth.

He continued but his tone was different, marred by memories. "And she also said that she was sorry for not being able to stay to watch you grow, to watch you learn and become the extraordinary young man she knew you will turn out to be." He smiled out of politeness.

I didn't realize what was happening until the stinging of my chapped lips caught my attention. Salty tears were escaping my raw eyes, the texture of my face not able to pick up the betraying emotions.

Carlisle held my weight but lowered me and pushed my chest down into the same lying position. I stared at the blank ceiling, loss and depression overtaking me.

"I am sorry to be the bearer of bad news. I truly am. Your mother fought valiantly; her strength was one I will never forget."

I tried my hardest to make my drawling voice level. "No, I'm glad to hear of it, Mister Cullen. I'm glad she had a friendly voice to speak to."

He whispered, "Please, call me Carlisle."

I nodded, the tears running relentlessly. I didn't care of what he thought anymore. Thinking to myself, I was selfishly irritated that he was the last to speak to her. There were many things I didn't say - things that I will never say. Well, I could but she would never hear them, neither would my father. They were locked into another world, another dimension that withheld them into silence and nonreciprocated attention. There was a small comforting thought to think that they had each other now, only their love, but it infuriated me to know that Carlisle held her hand, said words of peace and comfort, while I solemnly slept unaware in another room, as she passed.

"You know, Edward …"

I glanced up at him, my eyes unfocused but still remaining on his blurry outline. His hands rested on the sheets, his fingers knitted together.

"The nurses have informed me that you refuse to accept anymore medication -"

I cut him off. "I can fight this … I don't need synthetic medicines to get healthy again." I was briefly surprised at the lingering anger in my voice.

His suspicious look of trepidation created a wavering flaw in my cover.

I never put too much thought into the afterlife or heaven and hell. At this point, I didn't truly care. Maybe I'd be regretting this medicinal decision once I got to wherever I will be going in the afterlife. Was I going to join deceased relatives? Would I slip into the fathom of unrelenting purgatory? Every day, nearly every minute, my sole thoughts only focused on the days and seconds it would take for my life's line to end. What was the point of dragging out the inevitable when there's nothing left to truly live for? I'd become a burden - if I wasn't one already.

Merely, he sat. For minutes. I expected him to at least glance about the room and begin to think of another conversation starter for the two of us, or at least give a signal of privacy towards me by leaving the room. All he did was stare at me, his eyes never leaving my stubborn expression. He could try to crack me down and demand that I take their mysterious miracles but I knew my place … he had to have known it too.

"Is there something else?" I asked, annoyed, as I stared directly up towards the ceiling.

He sounded … conversational. "What do you plan on doing once you are fully recovered?"

Now, this is something I can talk about. "Joining the army, to serve under President Woodrow Wilson."

He smiled. "There are other occupations to look into."

"What would you know of the army?" I lashed, and coughed, once. Loudly.

His suggestion chipped a crack in my shoulder. All young men were drawn towards battle, to protect their families, their society, and their country. I would gladly serve as a soldier, wounded or dead, it didn't matter. I was going to protect the United States of America, protect freedom and justice at other person's expenses, most likely, their death. I could fight for that. At least, that was my plan before.

Apparently, my exultation took him back. At first, his composure slid slightly. "I was not trying to degrade the militia services, Edward."

There was an emotion hidden under his façade, a small burst of remorse. I didn't think of the possibility but Carlisle could have been in the forces long before I was even beginning to plan of joining myself. I took a hit too soon.

His eyes continued to stare into mine, a darkness there that I found quite unsettling until he glanced down, stood up, and moved to the empty bed next to my own, sitting down again. I briefly wondered why he chose to do that.

"It's not wrong to want to serve your country. It is very noble: very brave to take that responsibility and I respect that to the highest caliber that I am physically able. However, I know of plenty of men that are spending days in offices, hospitals, and farm lands, and not in the battlefields across the world." He smiled softly. "Take me for example."

I was now starting to break. My cover was billowing away, against Carlisle's influence. Didn't he know that there wasn't a future for me? My life would dissipate into nothing as soon as the breath in my body stopped, knowing that the last breath was approaching. He was the doctor for Pete's sake! He had to know that it was all downhill from here.

Clearly, he caught on to my silence. He took a breath in, and said quietly, "Edward, your future is in your hands. No one else can take that from you. Another person's decision can affect your axis, tilting the path slightly, but it will not control your direction ultimately. Just like a wave on a beach. Regardless of a motion, the wave will still rise to the shore, just as planned."

I swallowed and glowered at my hands. I was sick of this talk of the future. "Only while I'm still alive."

He scolded me. "You will make it. I can promise you that. As long as you try to stay healthy."

I blinked once, ignoring his declaration. Now, I wanted to throw something, to scream in his face that he knew nothing about life or it's difficult processes. He stayed cooped up in this wretched hospital, away from life and away from challenges. What did he know about life that I didn't? I had experienced it, lived through it, and, now, I was giving up on it. Couldn't he see that?

After an uncomfortable silence, he continued, "I made a promise to your mother." His voice was so quiet; I had a hard time hearing over my loud heartbeat. "I will not let that promise go unnoticed."

Continuing on with my episode, I scoffed, "Promises are only words."

I'm not sure if I was supposed to hear him but I did catch, "Not to me." He stood up abruptly and stalked outside of the room. Obviously, he grabbed something from the nurse's cart in the hallway before coming back towards my bed because there was a new chart in his hands on a large piece of wood.

He didn't say anything, didn't look me in the eye as I glared at him doing his daily routines. He wrote something on the paper, taking more time than necessary. The silence was ringing in my ears.

Something inside of me sagged. Not physically; everything was diseased or dying already, but something spiritual maybe. I was degrading Carlisle and his profession. He was here to save me, to make me live longer, and I repay him with deceit and coercion? Perhaps I did deserve to die.

"Carlisle?" I mumbled softly.

"Yes?" he responded distantly as he wrote more information on the paper.

"Where is your family? Are you married yet?" I only asked to ease the silence, not out of curiosity.

Breaking through that intense crack, Carlisle smiled softly but not one of happiness. "I am not married, no children, and no family. I am on my own."

"I'm sorry to hear that." How strange that we were alike in more ways than one.

Carlisle set down the object he was writing on and his freezing hands touched my forehead once again. "Your temperature is still a bit high but I assume after twenty-four hours, if we're lucky, it will decrease more. But now you should get some much needed rest."

I nodded solemnly. In fact … "Can I get something to eat first?"

For an instant, his face was entirely confused. Then in another brief moment, he looked considerably angry. I'm sure my expression grew wary because after these intense and rapid emotions, he smiled down at me. "Of course. What would you like?"

I gargled, "Anything liquid."

He chuckled. "Coming right up. Is there anything else?"

I shook my head.

With a gracious smile, he left the room.

Fifteen minutes or so passed by until I heard the door creak open. I stole a glance, watching as a red-headed nurse was pushing a cart towards my bed. There was a steaming bowl of soup, along with an ice cold milk cup, and some crackers. God bless Carlisle.

The nurse helped me up, and sat down on the wooden chair next to the bed as I ate, reading a book I couldn't see the title of. I ate everything greedily, despite the churning in my stomach and the dry hurt in the back of my throat. I couldn't taste, couldn't smell, but I didn't care. It was good.

Afterwards, the nurse took the empty bowl, the half eaten crackers (a little too jagged) and the three quarters drank milk before wheeling the small metal cart out of the room. It was only then that I released I was still sitting up, fully upright. Great, she didn't help me back down.

I huffed a few times, trying to figure out how to make this the least amount of pain and the quickest way possible. Perhaps …

On impulse, I just let myself fall backwards fast, not taking the route for a slow and agonizing glacial pace. I just released my arms that were shaking from holding my upper body weight up and let myself fall. What a mistake.

I hit the mattress, bouncing slightly and biting the tip of my tongue. I didn't taste the salty rust but I could feel it. My head swam, my equilibrium swaying like water and oil trying to mix in a rocking bottle. The ceiling spun as I stared at it, my hands tingling and my back … I couldn't feel it. Maybe that was for the best.

I didn't realize I fell asleep until I woke back up, the room impenetrably dark. Night. My muscles were stiff as a board, not moving an inch since whenever I dozed off. I tried to swallow the disgusting taste in my mouth but it was so dry, I could only weave my tongue around, prying flesh off of my teeth.

With my eyes closed, I lied there awhile, thinking of the days when I was a child and my parents would be walking along the dirt streets of Chicago. My mother's dress would sway against the breeze of the cars loudly passing by, my father's top hat shining in the reflection of the sun. I remember Alex, named after Alexander the Great in Grecian history, our first greyhound level with my waist, running at my side. I could still hear my dad singing "Everybody Works but Father" by Lew Dockstader, the lyrics ringing over and over once he would lift me and swing me above his head, my laughter loud and high.

"Everybody works but father
And he sits around all day,
Feet in front of the fire –
Smoking his pipe of clay,
Mother takes in washing
So does sister Ann,
Everybody works at our house
But my old man."

I remember my father cheering loudly when the Chicago Cubs won the World Series in 1907 and, once again, in 1908. My mother, Elizabeth, crying once the big ship Titanic sank in the Atlantic Ocean and also when Woodrow Wilson took the next presidency in 1913, whether out of joy or despair I'll never know. The previous president Theodore Roosevelt paid a visit to Chicago in 1915. I think I was the most excited out of my family, especially since my mind was hovering towards serving him as a soldier despite his ending presidency. I didn't catch on until later. My sixteenth birthday brought my first piano, my aunt Cassandra's was given to us after her passing earlier that year although it was the only one I practiced on since before I could ride a horse at the age of six.

But out of everything in my mind, all of my memories and happy moments spent through my life, I can recall the most pleasing and happiest moment out of all. It was my seventeenth birthday, my parents saving enough money to take me to the Coca-Cola shop down the street. All three of us had never had the drink although the local scuttlebutt reserved a higher demand for it. The cold glass bottle shocked my hands although the straw topped off my ever changing interest. The bubbling fizz pooled in my mouth once I took a sip, the bitter yet sweet taste nearly knocking me over. It was revolting. But, I couldn't stop drinking it.

I opened my eyes to the hospital room, my memories playing like a motion picture. I looked over to my right. Memories ripped away, I jumped and gasped loudly, a painful shot ripping my lungs. Unexpectedly, someone was seated next to me, an occupied chair. The gasp I threw out of my throat knocked off my serenity and started a coughing fit. It felt like gunfire was shooting in my chest, explosions radiating throughout my deadened limbs. I coughed repetitiously, the exertion hurling me forward with each expel. Someone's hands pushed me upwards once more, each one of their hands resting on my chest and shoulder, holding me straight.

That bitter taste came in my mouth again, an acid that ate away at my already raw throat. I couldn't have stopped it.

I threw myself over to the side of the bed and I became violently sick, my stomach throwing out any evidence of health. My eyes clasped shut against the stinging tears while my hands became fists, clammy and sticky. I could no longer feel the person's touch.

After a small amount of time, I stopped gagging and spitting up any remains of the disturbing taste on my tongue. My frame rocked softly as I unsteadily pushed myself upright, a tremor passing more than once. A strange trickling sensation came from my nose and I hastily wiped it with the back of my hand. It cooled immediately again my skin. I barely squinted towards my feet, only seeing blurry shapes and distorted colors. I breathed out loudly once.

A sound I had never heard before brought my attention. It started out as a deep humming then became a snarl of a deranged animal. I thought I was hallucinating until I realized there was something next to me. Was it my stranger from the chair?

I drew my eyes from the sickening color of my bare feet towards the suspected noise, my ruptured veined eyes taking in a figure, white, standing towards me. Two objects were closer to me than the rest of it, my focus more clear. I leaned slowly towards them, seeing a spot of color. Maroon, no, maybe black.

Familiarity came, knowing they were hands. Hands belonged to a body. I glanced upwards towards a face, a pale face. It was Carlisle. But something was off. His face, usually so welcome and compassionate, was twisted into horror, an unrecognizable fury marking his usual serene features, his eyes unusually darker than I remembered them. I knew the catalyst of his reaction. His hand's color, once so smooth and clean was violated by a small pool of red, silky and overwhelming. His black eyes were directly deposited on my chest.

Through the stinging exhaustion in my eyes and the booming drums in my brain, I glanced down towards his directed scrutiny, my eyes already knowing what they were about to see. My life's greatest necessity coated my chest and shirt, the blood of my life dripped down from my nose to the clean white sheets; some even stained my own gray layer of skin into maroon from my jaw down to my sternum. Shocked and completely horrified, I stared at myself. How could I not be dead already?

As fear grew, I realized something. I was a burden to these kind people, I put them through grueling tasks because I wasn't dead yet. Carlisle shouldn't have to see this, nobody should. Ashamed, frustrated, and hopeless, reaping sobs slumped my frame.

He murmured, strained, "It is okay, Edward. I can fix it."

I sat, cries escaped as I pressured my hands to my drenching nose. I could still feel the blood seep in-between my fingers, dripping embarrassingly. He walked towards a sink, washing off my violation.

Coming back, his always freezing hands lowered the thin sheets into a pile at the end of the bed, my legs shaking and my overheated temperature immediately taking notice of the absence of that imaginary warmth.

My physique was equipped with a suitable amount of muscle but it seemed as useless as food did to nourish me. Carlisle walked back over towards me, a rag now in his hand.

"Edward," his voice sounded strangled. "I need you to press this into your nose. Hopefully, your blood will clot and stop." I took the rag from my now coated hand and pressured it. It was cold. And wet.

Carlisle's hands lowered towards the edge of my hospital wear. Strangely, Carlisle tore the gown with his hands instead of gently removing it. My fingers started to become numb. My stomach trembled violently, threatening another rush of disgust. Too fast that I didn't notice the fabric was gone. The cold air cascaded over me. My arms immediately cowered towards my midsection.

Naturally, acting off impulse, my knees drew up to my chest, my hands hooked into frozen glove mitts as my elbows were doubled up at my sides, my body curling in. I tried to hold the cloth there as best as I could but I could feel the warm red running over my lips again. The freezing air prickled at my bare skin, goose pimples lining every inch of my nearly naked flesh. Chattering teeth couldn't be controlled. I nearly convulsed.

"Vivian, a blanket please. Edward," his voice was softer, directed towards me, "you need to straighten your legs to stand up." Was I imagining the dark undertone in his polite voice?

"I-I-I-I c-c-can-can't-t-t." I wonder if he understood me between the cloth and my Tourette filled vocabulary.

"May I straighten - ?"

"Y-y-y-yes." Pathetic, whimpering sounds escaped me. Gasps and nearly broken off teeth did nothing to ease the freezing aftermath.

Relief so sudden warmed me, literally. A blanket draped over my shoulders, my hands clutching it like a lifeline as I buried my body in the material, quivers not decreasing. It felt so clean and -

"Edward, you're going to have to stand up."

I took a few unsteady breaths before twisting my back uncomfortably to swing my legs over the bed's edge. The iced tile repulsed me.

An arm wrapped tighteningly around my shoulder as more hands helped me up by the many blurred nurses. Carlisle's voice smooth murmured, "There you go. Take it easy."

My previous macabre clothes were taken away along with the stained sheets, envisioning the horror on the nurses faces once they took witness of my indescribable episode. I cringed.

"Are you feeling dizzy?"

I sighed. "No."

His arm gently pushed me back to the bare mattress, my one free hand clutching the borrowed blanket with my entire strength - pitiful, even. I sat on the edge, my face burrowing itself under the clean, black cover.

"I need another cloth and some boiled water in a bowl. Will you please get Mr. Masen just washed clothes as well?"

Echoing footsteps left until there was silence.

"Edward?"

I glanced up, only my eyes peeking out under the blanket's edge. I took notice that only Carlisle and I were left.

He pointed to the nauseating spot on my throat. "Mind if I wipe that off?"

I closed my eyes, a dry pain running along my skull. I shook my head slowly from side to side. Uneasily, I lowered the blanket to my stomach, revealing a savage mess. A wet cloth ran across my throat and jaw, wiping away evidence. The precious water leaked down to the center of my chest in a tear, my stomach muscles tightening.

"Are you feeling nauseas at all?"

Lie. "No," I croaked.

The nurse then came back in, holding a pile of white and fresh washrags, as another nurse followed, carrying something else. Carlisle softly thanked both and they graciously left the room.

"Any discomfort?" Carlisle took the now burgundy rag away and dipped the new white cloth into the bowl then turned back to me, heat engulfing my chest as he softly cleaned the remaining macabre mess. I was surprised that my waterfall was now done raging havoc.

"I'm cold."

He continued on. "That's normal." He sounded strained but I didn't pay much attention as he cleansed the area around the back of my neck. I felt nice there. "Your temperature is very high and if we raise it at any significant degree, it can overwork your organs and they will shut down."

I only whimpered. Why couldn't I control it?

"I'm …" he hesitated as I looked up, "I'm sorry if this is too strange or too uncomfortable but I'm going to have to have you remove the blanket, for hygiene purposes."

I tilted my head towards the door, making my point clear about any sudden visitors.

He clarified with a suiting simper. "No one will come in. I can promise you that."

I sighed but not in discomfort, only exhaustion. Simply, knowing it had to be done, I slowly, shakily, stood from the bed, ignoring the wheezing inhales and exhales of physical exertion, Carlisle's arms were helping me once again. My hands clutched the blanket for one last time, carrying out the last of the heat that was going to be missed for a few short minutes. I can do this, I chanted, I can do this. Determination springing, I released the blanket only to wrap my arms around myself, the coldness embracing me. The silent hush of the fabric on the floor was never heard.

Carlisle murmured, "I'll make it quick."

I closed my eyes, my jaw clenching then unclenching and my shaking nearly knocked me off my own feet but I stood strong, for the most part, as Carlisle wiped away any excess dirt, sweat, blood, and anything else, away from my body with the clean towel. As soon as it started, it was over. I felt the familiar surge of warmth, comfort sizzle my coldness away once the blanket was around my shoulders and in my grasp. The dampness from his wash was already gone.

"I hope it was bearable," he whispered, "I tried as fast as I was able."

I laughed but it sounded like a gargle. "Suitable."

He chuckled, a strange satisfaction hearing that sound. I ignored the nurse walking in with the newly dried hospital clothing, staring at the floor with my hollow eyes. I couldn't look at her. I couldn't look at anyone.

"Thank you," Carlisle said, "Edward, here are your clothes. Do you need help with these?"

I knew his intentions were strictly for my benefit and that somehow angered me. How could I have gotten to a place where I was completely incapable of dressing myself? When was it that I had to have someone bathe me with a piece of cloth? Couldn't I take care of myself? Did my independence dash right on out of that window? Where were my answers?

"Edward?" he questioned, his eyebrows rising. "Is -"

I shook my head, closing my eyes, clearing my panicked and frustrated thoughts. "I'm fine. I can handle this myself. Thank you."

He kept going. "Are you sure? I don't -"

I snapped. "I said I'm fine."

Silence sounded besides the rain outside, washing away the city's dirt and grime. Out of my peripheral vision, I saw Carlisle nod and gently nudge the nurse out of the room. The door closed with a small click.

After an uncomfortably long time, I briefly examined the clothing on the bedding. They gave me pants and a shirt this time, not the traditional gown with the two drawstrings on the back collar. Was there a purpose for changing clothes in a hospital …? Why was I caring?

Glancing through failing vision towards the door, disappointment crushing me, I let the blanket droop off of my frame, the chill enveloping me for the last time. I caved in for a few time consuming seconds, breathed through clenched teeth against the chill leaden temperature, and started to dress. I straightened my leg, a bit of pressure straining my joints. I carefully bent down with the waist band in my hands, stretching them over my feet to jaggedly slide them up my left leg. I did the same with my right. With a cringing scowl, I gripped the band and pulled upwards until the pants were a fit right above my hips. One half done, let's do the second.

I folded out the shirt with the back towards me, looping my arms into the right fitting holes until I lifted the feasible fabric above my head. A deep groan escaped me once I rolled my shoulders to bring down the shirt; the completely agonizing relief stretched my arms. It was pleasurable but not enough so to do it again.

The clothes straightened, I lifted up the newly made sheets on my bed - the nurse must have made them sometime when she was in here - to climb in. This time, I wasn't a fool and let myself receive the aftermath of vertigo. I slowly, painfully slowly, crawled like a three legged spider into the cotton covers. My joints cracked and my skin pulled uncomfortably in strange places but it all didn't matter once I was in the safety of the blankets. Relaxation crashed me as I wiped the back of my hand across my stuffy nose, still a bit of red lined across my hands as I did so, and lied on my side. Muscles relaxed, eyes drooping, warm tidal wave washing over me, perfection wasn't a suitable enough description.

But, lying there, comfortable and no utter interruption of the discouraging weather outside, sadness seeped. This was only temporary: all of this false comfort and uplifted thoughts. Soon enough, my own sickening reality would crash down again, crushing me in its directed and foreseeable future. In obviousness, my life would end, just like the children and brothers and sisters and fathers and mothers all did in these hallways. I wasn't a special patient here; I was only a decrepit child, not old enough to gain entire independence but old enough to know common sense in a situation such as this.

Now alone and somber, I cried. I had leaked a few tears here and there in front of other people which was entirely unacceptable; I had to stay strong. Their thoughts couldn't be worried or obsessing over my pathetic condition, physical or mental. Others were in need in situations much more critical than my own. But for once, I was feeling a little sorry for myself.

Carlisle was a kind man; he deserved to have his own family, his own children. Why did he burden himself with disgusting patients like me? Those who can't even clean themselves or feed themselves on a regular basis. And the nurses deserved a peaceful life as well, fulfilling to the last breaking day. No one should have to endure this ridiculous career. Not even the devil himself.

...

I woke again, this time … completely obliterated by my own filth and sickness. My eyes were swollen, so much so that my vision was even more blurry and out of proportion. My lungs were filled heavily, my breath constricted and unwilling to expand my diaphragm. My temperature was stifling hot but still a pale shade of chilled grey, my bones sticking out. I hurt to open my mouth. I took a short glance downwards, noticing I had kicked the blankets off. My chest felt painful, but not in the way I was used to. I ran my one of my skeletal hands over my eyes, feeling a very uncomfortable pressure there*.

There was a shortness of breath as a cold chill hooked itself into my spine, a billowing breeze noticeable on my upper abdomen. I deliberately - and painfully - lifted a hand up, smoothing along the skin above my sternum. I felt ripples, a stinging sensation running along my nerves. What -?

A female's voice hushed to me. "No, no, Mr. Masen. Don't touch those."

She lifted my hand away back to where it was previously, my eyes closing again as unnecessary water leaked out of my eyes. I sighed once.

I croaked, "What … happened?" I coughed once.

"You were having a bad dream and scratched at your chest. But it's over now. You can sleep." She lifted the quilt to my shoulders again, a heat engulfing me. I breathed out once, a high pitched squeal from the pressure up my nose. Please don't let me wake up again.

I didn't get my wish. I woke up a short time later, the blankets now around my waist, my arms unbearably freezing. My teeth started hitting each other, chattering repeatedly. A hollow hurt wove up my arm and into my chest when I tried to make a fist. My stomach twisted uncomfortably in hunger but the mere thought of simple food gagged me. I couldn't open my eyes anymore.

The same nurse spoke again in that quiet voice. "Oh no, you kicked off your blankets."

The nurse lifted the quilt to my chest, my fleshy case holding chills while the raging fever slowly roasted my insides. I tried to say a grateful 'thank you,' a small inclination of her routine affection but all that came out were incomprehensible moans. I cleared my throat, a scratch of dry strain on my esophagus. I whispered, "Thank … you." It was long and drawling.

I felt an object on my arm, warm on my shoulder. It stayed there for a moment until I heard, "Don't stop." I don't think I was supposed to hear.

Her footsteps were undetectable but I still caught the door opening and closing with a soft bang of wood on wood.

I twitched my eyes open then shut, not seeing a thing but gaining a near peace just in that simple motion. I was still alive. I inhaled loudly, taking in the non-existent scent of the air, breathing in the complex systems that sustained all life on Earth.

But I barely felt an action by my side, a curving of blankets that pressed into my outer thigh. Squinting, I saw an object pressing into the bed, something white. Glancing up further I saw Carlisle's familiar face.

I smirked softly, pain shooting across my thin face. "Carlisle …"

He smiled in return. "Hello, Edward. How are you feeling? You had a terrible nightmare a few hours ago. Do you remember anything?"

I sighed once, closing my eyes again. "Like death," I wheezed. "And no, I don't." Breathe in. "Will you stay in here with me," breathe in, "for awhile?"

He nodded once, resting a hand on my arm - it was freezing as usual. "I'd be honored to."

"Can I get some water?" Breathe in.

Faster than I knew, he was by my side, holding a glass of water above my waist. "Do you want me to lift you up?"

I slowly shook my head. "No … I'm fine."

Nearly convulsing, I retrieved the glass from his hand. Drawing steadily towards my lips I tilted the glass to my mouth. Water cascaded into my mouth softly, like a refreshing spring breeze. But it disappeared just as fast. My throat bobbed as I tried to swallow, my organ's systems panicking against the sudden rush of a useless substance. My arms jerked, causing the liquid to drain up my nose, choking me.

I coughed repetitiously and expected to hear the porcelain cup shatter on the floor. Carlisle was faster and rested it on the bedside table.

He instantly grabbed my arm, lifting it up and above my head. "Take it easy there. Cough it out."

I coughed two more times, a wheezing effect now rasping my voice. "Easy for you to say." And coughed deeply again in confirmation.

He chuckled once. I liked that sound. "Not necessarily. I have to endure the pain of knowing I can't force it out of you by will."

One final cough leaving me, I coughed the laugh.

He sat back down again in his designated chair as I breathed as regularly as I could through my stinging nose.

His voice was softer than before. "I'm not sure if there is anything else you might want after what just happened but is there something else I can get you?"

I jaggedly shook my head, my eyes closed. "No thank you, Carlisle." Breathe in.

"You haven't eaten for the past few days."

I breathed out once, not meeting his gaze. "I don't need it." It sounded like I was a ninety year old man that smoked cigarettes his entire life.

He sounded angry. "You need to eat, Edward. How do you expect to get better?"

I only closed my eyes, clenching my fists into loose grasps.

"So that's it then? You have given up."

I was frozen as useless tears streamed.

"Remember what I promised your mother? Remember …"

His voice trailed off, a strange light taking place behind my eyes. It seemed like I was deep somewhere, looking up above at a shining light towards my one last moment. I didn't try to go towards it, it was too beautiful. With a thought, it was like I was in the ocean sea, underwater, looking up at the sun.

"… Please, Edward, don't do this. You can get better ..."

I sighed once, the light dimming. "I already have." My voice was torn but completely opposite of my thoughts. Perhaps this was what dying was like.

"Edward, don't. There is so much more life for you to live!" His devastated demeanor didn't affect me as much as it should have. I was memorized.

The light grew stronger again, brightening the area into a glacial blue, nearing the surface. But an odd sensation crossed my path. I stopped wading the water; I stopped fighting the current because I realized I had been for so long. It was calming to let go of the duel.

My heart rate slowed in my ears as did my breathing speed. My muscles relaxed finally, the conflicting sickness gaining the advantage over my many weeks of survival. I let it overtake me. I opened my eyes one last time, blurring the details of Carlisle's face into focus and shapes, the stark contrast of the beautiful light and the dull reality shocking me. I turned my face towards his torn expression, opened my mouth once, my face grimacing as a painful shot of lightning scoured through my system. I tried again. "I want thank you." Breathe in. "Just … thank you." I breathed out once, my bloodshot eyes closing, at peace.

I was drowning, the water cascading into my throat as if I were slowly inhaling my ultimate death, growing calm with every passing second until my soul was no longer attached to reality, the world. This water was like the sea, blinding, extremely painful, but, ultimately, the most peaceful thing. When I would try to open my eyes, they would burn, reminding me that I had to let go, I had to drown to be taken away. And once my eyes would close, that pain faded … there was nothing in the end, no life, nothing left to live for. A tear leaked out of my eye, a one stream of emotion that was mixed invariably: relief, regret, fear, and, selfishly, happiness.

The end was drawing near, so near, I needed something to grasp onto, to let me know subconsciously that someone was there, someone was near while I passed to join my family. I held out my hand, the peace not yet complete without my savior's hand, whoever that may be.

I didn't honestly expect a feeling to apply a comforting pressure on my hand, my eyes opening in shock. I couldn't see though, it was all black, all gone. Perhaps this was heaven. Hopefully.

But another object was on my face, on my forehead as a small exhale escaped my lips. The temperature was cold … something I didn't want but didn't fight. I waited patiently for all of these obscure sensations fade towards death.

Something was said, perhaps a welcoming or damnation into heaven or hell, I didn't know. All I knew was that I nodded. This was it. I knew it. I was at peace, finally. I was ready.

But something happened that I didn't expect; something strange and confusing but nothing close to the Spanish's hold. That same comfort that was on my face forced my head to the side; the uncomfortable position forced my jaw to clench. Kill me now. Please.

A violent, jagged stabbing pierced the side of my neck, my eyes opening in alarm while my body recoiled from the vicious attack. I couldn't get away. I was too weak. The ripping tear held too much pain. I realized they were hands that were holding me in place, my hand, my face. That hand that was on my own was now clamped down on my chest as I tried to escape this painful death. I saw blonde in my right corner's eye view, a blonde person. An angel? A demon sucking away the years of my life that I will never meet? It must have been the latter, fire seethed in the cut. Hell it was after all for me.

The pain then grew infinitesimally stronger, a flame, a fire, a volcano igniting on the curve of my neck. A gagging choke escaped my blistered throat while my hands gripped the bed sheets beneath me, choking gasps doing nothing to ease the infliction. Shaking rocked my body, fear, anguish, and terror all froze my breathing.

Reality crashed back down. My sea slowly evaporated to the hospital room, my bloodshot eyes taking in the sheets, the ceiling, the agonizing hold on my throat. I pushed as hard as I could against the demonic entity but it didn't budge; coals heated in their hooked jaw. I thought before another crashing blow hit my nerves: was hell my last place of living? Was I to remain in this hospital room forever? Or was this my forever imprisoned purgatory?

They pulled away, but through rippling regret and flaming pain, recognition hit. It was Carlisle, the blonde that was on my neck, cutting me, eating me alive! His eyes cringed in an emotion I couldn't recognize. The relief of his torture was nothing, it only increased, choking my air supply and killing my conscious. My nerves fried, my veins melted, my eyes stung, my throat charred. What was he?

Against the agony and weakness, my back arched on the bed, my eyes clamping and my mouth releasing a cry that wasn't capable of full volume. It sounded strangled, deformed, and inhuman.

My wheezing breath couldn't catch up to my body's need of oxygen, the pain overruling any desire to listen to involuntary reactions. The searing acid dripped down into my throat, collarbone, and shoulder, so agonizingly slow that I couldn't primarily remember what was happening anymore. A draining system swished through my overheating blood, my body shaking and sweating profusely while the torture continued its directed path inside of me. Why was it taking so long for me to die?

With a howl, the same tearing pressure was on my wrist, my tear-filled eyes taking in pale yellow-white colors above my right hand. I tried to rip it away as hard as I could but it felt as immobile as stone. Something was forcing it there, holding it still, ripping off my skin.

I gasped loudly, the physical misery blinding any vision I had left. "LET GO!" I bawled.

Immediately, my wrist flung towards my body, my now overwhelming beat of strength whipping it towards my chest in a single moment. I held it to my chest as I rolled onto my side, the fire now starting just before my stiff joint.

I managed a small glance through my panicked gaze, my teeth clenched and my nerves contracting against the inflicting pain. Redness seeped lazily through a large gash covering half of the circumference on my wrist, flesh pierced and sagging. I screamed louder, hysterical.

Carlisle's voice was muffled, strained. "I'm sorry, so sorry."

I couldn't take in his words. My eyes, muscles, my soul throbbed in this epic bloody battle. My fingers hooked into claws, scratching and stabbing myself against the molten lava wafting in my body.

Stolen, my left wrist was gone from my body's protection. Another agonizingly strong gash punctured it, my disoriented mind knowing exactly what was to come.

"Please, forgive me, please, please …" he kept saying. His voice wouldn't stop, echoing forever into the empty delirium in my mind. I could take in every ashing inch of my humanity, the fire burning uninhibited through each and every single pore my epidermis possessed. I couldn't breathe.

Same as the others, torture sliced my ankle, overtaking nerves and small electric pulses into painful suffering. Raw cries, echoing sobbing pleads, shrieking bellows escaping me. "Please … stop …" Yet again, fire alighted on the opposite leg. I wailed louder, devastating throes of torment seeping lifelessly into my nearly dead corpse. How long did this last until I finally lost every aspect of consciousness?

I whipped any which way, my body flinging itself across the expanse of the bed. But I was too close to the edge. And so was the floor.

Escape now on my shock induced mind, I flailed my fire-laden arms to the small nightstand next to my now destroyed bed, the white water pitcher and the clean bedpan hit my hands, the smooth white porcelain flying off of the table's surface. My body's weight kept going towards the nightstand, my burning hands no longer capable of holding me up. I kept falling, falling towards the floor. I couldn't stop it.

With a deafening scream, I hit the coldness with a loud smack, my skull the first to hit a small slice of shattered porcelain. The immediate chill factor shocked my frame, my mouth opening in a silent moan while a warm wetness leaked across my scalp. I saw Carlisle's feet very close, the heels of his shoes facing me. He was leaning against the opposite bed, his hands clutching the perfectly made up bed's edge in tight fists. I didn't take the time to be polite.

"What in God's name did you DO TO ME?" I shouted as another agonizing flash of searing whiteness soared across my body. I curled into myself again, my stomach jolting while my fingernails dug into my sides, a deranged groan made its presence. Acid now singed the blisters at the back of my throat.

A cold object pressed itself onto my shoulder, my paroxysmal nervous system jolting continuously against the affliction. "It will end soon, I promise. It will all be over soon."

How much I wanted to believe him.

Not thoroughly feeling the sickening contraction of my stomach, I noticed the color red in front of my eyes suddenly, slowly seeping. I didn't feel the cold tile anymore either. The only accessible reflex my mind noticed was that it was scorching into a charred cocoon, alive.

Points of pressure were applied to the side of my ribcage and thighs. His hands picked up my form softly, laying me uncomfortably back on the bed. I wasn't about to comply.

"Kill me, kill me," I snarled through clenched teeth on repeat. Nothing came.

My body succussed violently, no one ever coming to save me despite my hollow pleas and cries. A heated anger drowned out my screaming while the inferno raged on. I threw up anything and everything my stomach could have possessed; I sweated out any hydrating fluids resting in my many layers. I didn't feel any outer source of touch; not the bed, not my fingernails breaking the layer of skin in the palms of my hands, I almost got so used to the burning that it became a vibration. But the tanking agony held me just above death's finalizing line. I couldn't see. Hell, I didn't know if I wanted to anymore. This sea of sorrow only dragged.

I heard a monotonous high pitch, no other sound overcoming my barrier of loud silence. My organs felt like they were full of crawling and carnivorous beetles, eating and devouring my insides from the top of my chest to the bottom of my abdomen and closing in on the center of my chest. A throbbing started forming in my brain, a strong thunderous boom sounding out every other second in my completely scorched mind. It was the drumming of my deteriorated heart against my brittle ribs.

Time didn't have an affect anymore. It didn't matter. This eternity held the everlasting torture for me. My soul deserved this for every wrong decision or degrading thought I'd ever had throughout my young seventeen years. I only slightly thought if everyone else felt this once dead before a lightning bolt of a thousand bees stung my veins.

But something happened that I wasn't expecting. A relief, barely hindering any physical pleasure, appeared on the tip of my toes. I felt a scratching ease on them like rough sandpaper, but it wasn't unbearable (not like the molten rock oozing through my diseased body). Then I also took the action of unclawing my hands from their talons. The same ease spread across my fingertips. It felt like they were being dipped in chilled water for the first time in over a month of being stuck in an oven full of fire.

Before I knew it, my hair follicles were rid of the massive pressure pulsating in the crown of my head. I could feel the curving of each strand of hair smoothing across my skin and whatever was underneath me. I wanted to reach up and feel around my surroundings, around myself, but my knees and elbows were seemingly unhinged. A numbing, malicious throe lit a raw shriek in my exposed and raw throat. My mouth compressed into a tight line once I heard my desperate plea for relaxation. It wasn't coming. There was no point in calling out for it.

There was a snap of ligaments in my legs, a depressing and startling screech leaving me despite my will to stop, to be silent. Immediately, my hinged joints were done with. They didn't hurt, didn't burst into a million pieces like I thought they would have. Only my upper thighs and biceps pulsed now, my hands clutching whatever was beneath me in tight fists. It sounded strange, like a tear, but I didn't feel anything rip under my hands.

Once I heard the familiar yet foreign sound of fabric shredding, I heard other things, things that were deaf before. I heard voices, seemingly thousands of them! Some were louder than others, more clear, but I didn't understand a word from any of them. So many piled up … I nearly lost the feeling of the fire once I concentrated on these voices. The clearest and most loud one vaguely ringed déjà vu.

It felt like someone punched me in the face. My thoughts and concentration broke once my jaw snapped shut in terror and agony. But, just as soon as it started, it ended. My face was free. I moaned something incomprehensible once I could willingly open my mouth for the first time. It felt nice. I wanted to speak but nothing came out.

I started to lay completely still, having an idea. It seemed like the more I didn't fight it, the faster and quicker this hell ended. I kept that in my mind against the cacophony of people in the room with me. I became as still as a corpse and as silent as the grave. There wasn't anymore thrashing or violence in my flaming torture besides the occasional clamping of my eyes and lips once another section of my anatomy was overcome with heated metal. It kindly died down to a simmer as I focused on the release of torture, crawling silently into the center of my chest and leaving behind a cool trail of tingles and relaxation. I uselessly hoped it was over, which seemed likely but so far away.

It didn't last long. My entire skeleton frame was nearly numb except the center of my pumping life: my heart. It still was beating, drumming on like the last soldier for the war over the decaying bodies. I beat regularly but fluctuated at random intervals. The heat grew stronger there, trying to take my lone soldier down. And it was winning.

At one point, the drumming of my heart increased, beating as much as African dancers around a raging ritualistic fire, building in intensity and speed in a short amount of time. I tried breathing but it held not one ounce of ease or serenity as I wanted. I couldn't help it. I gasped loudly as one of my hands at the last moment met the spot on my chest, clutching above my life pumping machine. A moment's passing, I noticed I didn't feel the prodding of my ribcage anymore. That moment was over.

In the next millisecond of time, a burst of wholly overwhelming, obliterating misery collided in my body and mind. It was like a ton of bricks fell, twenty knives stabbed, four cars drove over, two bullets shot, and one ripped out heart were taking place in my chest alone. I choked, I shook, I screamed so loud; loud enough to shut off the humming of language in my brain for a long moment. My eardrums didn't hear anything besides the continuous wail from the deepest depths of my body.

Instantaneously, it stopped. All of it. The voices were gone, the intense earthquake of agonizing waves were finally over; it was all silent. Water seemed beneath me, a floating sensation evoking the serene sigh from my lips. I held my breath and listened to the wondrous sounds like a creaking of floor above me, a stretch of rotten wood underneath someone's sole of shoe. I heard the rubbing of fabric against me, a loud clenching of strained stands of cotton and the forever going voices. I was ultimately dead - no heartbeat.

"I wonder …"

My eyes opened instantly, hearing the voice; it most clear out of everyone else's. I could tell the difference. This voice echoed in a space and the others did not. Someone was here with me.

I felt the weaving and instant panic in my muscles but I wasn't where I was supposed to be. One instant I was looking up at a very bright white, the sight blinding me. The next I was seeing everything, a room, no longer the whiteness.

It was drab. White yet stained walls, compacted dirt floors, metal posts and beams, and the faint scent of moldy water. I concluded that I was in a basement. I glanced around for a moment, taking in my surroundings to see if I recognized anything. I was against a wall, nothing on either side of me. In front of my position was a table, wooden, square, with one leg holding it up on each corner. To the left of the table was a brown sofa and by that brown couch was a broken chair. The back was missing. Behind the couch was a bookcase, filled with many novels that were different dialects. Opposite the wall with the bookcase was a porcelain sink and beside the sink was a black door that was shut.

But I saw more things. Things that weren't meant to be seen. I saw the lingering spider web hanging from the white light bulb, drifting in the invisible wind, very gracefully floating up and down with each wave of breeze. I saw each individual spot of rust on the metal posts holding up the first floor of the building, each insignificant little molecule of water connected to the orange chemical reaction.

I concluded I was safe ... somewhat. Perhaps I could escape! I took a small look at what I was wearing. A loose cotton long sleeved shirt hung on my frame, a few of the small buttons lining the front were all about ready to fall off. I also wore a strangely snug fabric as pants, one I've never seen before. Perfect, I was clothed.

Hearing was magnificent as well. I heard the flutter of a moth's wing in the northeast corner of where I was standing, the breathing and heartbeat of a mouse behind the filled wooden bookcase. The silent drip of water on the second floor of the building was echoing. I even heard a car puttering one block away.

I glanced about. Where in God's name was I?

I saw movement, something large, not miniscule. It was on the chair by the sofa now. There was a blonde man, watching me watch him. I instantly reacted.

"Who - who are you?" I roared. "Where am I?" I couldn't believe my voice could get that loud.

The man stood, his clothing loudly brushing against his skin once he made one steps towards me. There was red all over him.

"I'm Doctor Cullen. I was your physician at the hospital."

Slowly, every second passing in minute silence, I vaguely remembered his face. He was like a picture that had vanished and reappeared, cut and taped together then smudged with coal.

Then I realized I had been holding my breath. I took a deep inhale in -

Something so impenetrably fierce hit me, smacked my forefront. Hard. It wasn't anything physical, like a kick or punch, it was a smell, a scent. It was coming from the man.

Without a second thought, I tore through my defensive stance, dashing towards him in the shortest amount of time I had ever known and collided with him. The smell was on him, everywhere. My teeth snapped at it, I could see it! It was the red, the primary color that I couldn't reach! Something was holding me back. Arms. Someone's arms were holding me back, pushing me back. Words weren't found. I didn't want to talk, I didn't want to look at who - or what - was pushing me away. All I knew was that delicious and irresistible aroma and I needed it. It was all I could see, all I could smell, all I could taste!

"Edward, Edward! Stop!"

The words were weak, pushing gently on conscience. I kept reaching for that color, kept pushing myself a little closer … a little more … I was airborne. Something kicked my gut and sent me far away from the red. I weaved myself around and landed on the balls of my feet, just like a cat. I whipped around, my teeth hissing, and saw him.

He was facing me; the red I thought I saw now gone. I darted my head over one side of his body to the other, over and over, trying to see if that color would suddenly pop up behind him, peering at me like a scared child. It never did. Then I smelt something else, erasing the delectable aroma, something burning. I noticed the incinerator behind him, the door shut, flames licking and smoke rising … he threw it in there. It was gone.

Through my disappointment and anger, my throat burned more than the fabric in that fire. I squeezed my eyes shut, clamping my head with my hands, wanting that taste, needing that smell. A sound I never knew existed came out of my mouth. It sound like an animal hissing, a dog barking, and bees buzzing all at once. I opened my eyes then.

"I shouldn't have …" he started, my eyes instantly hitting his face. But it wasn't normal. His jaw or mouth didn't move.

I straightened up suddenly, confusion rising and logic failing. "What did you say?" My voice didn't sound like mine anymore. It was undeniably smooth and quick. Did it sound like that before the lava carved through my bones?

"That I was your doctor -"

"No, not that," I snapped. "I know who you are, Carlisle." A glare somehow managed to take hold of my expression.

"I didn't say anything besides -"

"Yes, you did. 'I shouldn't have done anything to him.' That's what you said."

No …what is he talking about? His lips never moved a centimeter. His copper eyes widened, his head slightly jerking to the left and then facing mine again.

"You just did it again. 'What is he talking about?'" I only then realized I hadn't blinked for a very long time. My eyes weren't stinging like they should. It felt like I didn't need to. I did it anyways.

I was taken aback when I noticed how fast my arm moved. My right arm was already uplifted, my finger pointing at him. I didn't ever remember wanting to lift it up in the first place let alone having it lifted in the amount of time I witnessed. I stared down at my arm like it was no longer functional, no longer attached to my own body. I brought my hand towards my eyes, closer, noticing things.

The skin on my palm was completely flawless. Not one scratch, scar, or any trace of wear or tear was present. I only saw a sheet of pale cream, think murky lines of blue and green underneath that solid and warm layer. Focusing differently, I saw the fine, miniscule spots of dust lingering there. I hastily brushed it off, overwhelmed by how fast I was moving.

A strange, foreign vibration started somewhere. I stopped my otherworldly inspection and glanced at the floor, all the time wondering where the obnoxious sound was coming from. That repetitious hum grew louder once I focused my eyes on Carlisle's face. He warily stared back.

"Are you all right?" he asked cautiously. "It's going to be okay, Edward. Just calm down."

That strange vibrating noise was coming from me, from my chest! The only reason it was so loud and overpowering was because it was right there, right in my lungs. I tore my wildly sensitive eyes from Carlisle down to my chest.

I hated to admit it but I looked different, even I could remember that. Staring beyond common dress, I was a one hundred and eighty degree turn. I hardly remembered I was thin, frail even, with an average amount of muscle, lanky and a little uncoordinated at time. Now, I was … beautiful.

My build, just like my hands, was perfect. There was definition, brawn, something that I had never had in my entire life. I slowly brought my hand to the skin there, poking at my stomach muscles. They were hard as stone. And the texture was smooth, so smooth that it reminded me of polished rock. I couldn't move. I only stared down, like the ground beneath me disappeared altogether and I was floating in midair. What … what happened to me?

I wonder if he knows.

"If I know what?" I gasped. If my body was different, my face was too.

There was a long pause. "What -?"

I brought my hands up to my face in lightning speed, not listening to his words, first feeling my lips with my fingertips. They were fuller, not chapped or dry but soft, like they were waxed into a round surface. My nose was sharper, the small bump on the bridge now gone. My cheekbones seemed more pronounced as did my jaw line. I needed a mirror.

I saw the couch, dirty and unclean, a black and white picture of a teenage girl with dark hair and a cast on her leg in a wooden frame on the table in front of it, a large brown wooden cross tucked behind the bookcase, resting on the wall, and a painting I didn't know the name of beside the bookcase. Where was a damn mirror?

What is he looking for?

A flash of reflective white caught my eye. The porcelain sink. Above that sink was a white streaked mirror, little droplets of splashed water dried on the surface.

I was in front of it just when I noticed it. I didn't take the time to contemplate how I had got there so fast. My reflection shocked any thoughts into paralysis.

I was correct in my theories much to my shock. It was all insignificant, unimportant. My mother's, Elizabeth's, green eyes, the emerald's I was accustomed to seeing … wasn't there. I couldn't believe it. They were red. A deep, savage, piercing burgundy: the same color that I was desperately after a few short minutes ago. It stole what my parents had given me, the one proof that they were my parents, that they loved me. God, I didn't even want to look at myself!

"It's all going to be okay," he whispered. "Look at me."

I did, alarmed.

What do I say now? Do I tell him?

"Tell me what? What is it?" I started yelling. "Tell me now!"

He seemed angered now. "Edward, I didn't say anything."

"Why do you keep saying that?" I interrupted, mad beyond sanity. "I can hear you speak, even when you don't!"

"I …" he face contorted, perhaps trying to figure out a difficult mathematical equation. "I think you have an ability."

I scoffed.

He tilted his head to the side, the light bulb on the ceiling catching his hair in a way that increased every color of the rainbow in each strand. I stared like a fool. How could I see this clearly?

I still watched his hair as he spoke. "I think you are capable of reading my mind, hearing my thoughts!" He sounded excited. I wanted to vomit.

I laughed, and strangely, it sounded like a wind chime, and hooked myself deep into his eyes, memorizing the flecks of gold in them. "That's not possible."

Isn't it? My smile vanished, his jaw didn't move, but I heard a voice; his voice. Was he truly …?

I shook my head. "This is a trick."

Carlisle chuckled. "No, it's not. What am I thinking right now?"

Going for one, one fifty, and there's one fifty, now two, two dollars, two dollars sir, and three dollars, going for three -

"I'm not doing this," I said it bit sourly. Even angry I sounded so fluid and quick, like a cobra ready to strike.

"Come on, Edward, let's see!"

Everybody works but father, and he sits around all day …

Clearly my exasperated expression was enough to cut him off. His eyebrows furrowed deep into his smooth forehead, a present worry.

"You're singing a song my father used to," I seethed, my gaze dropping as foggy memories crashed into me. My father was dead, my mother was dead, Carlisle told me they were dead. He was singing the song my father used to! He must've known how upset it would make me once he knew I remembered. How could he have done this? He must've killed me, that's what this was. I was dead. He must've killed them too. That's why I was here! In his sickened version of murderous purgatory! But how was it that everything was so visual? So clearly sensatory and real?

My thoughts waging war, Carlisle suddenly stepped closer to me, his step light and his smile nearly welcoming. A defensive trigger pulled in my brain, an eruption of rage and aggression struck my head. I threw myself backwards a few strides, my body hunching down and a scowl making its way onto my face. Carlisle didn't notice enough to stop or didn't care about the danger I was putting off.

"Wow! You can read my mind, Edward! That's - that's amazing! I can't believe it! I had no clue that this was even possible!" I wonder if he can hear others as well.

The surrounding hallways of voices confirmed his guess.

His entranced joy did not rub off. I didn't care about my "amazing" power, I didn't want it, I couldn't even quiet down his thoughts. I didn't care about my good looks as much as the next gentleman. I didn't want this!

"Am I dead?" I asked, my tone quiet yet shaking in hostility.

"Of course not!" he laughed. But then his expression slipped into a depressive grim expression. I could sense the fact that he was keeping something from me.

His breathing was relatively even. I then recalled that I didn't breathe anymore either. Why wasn't I breathing? I took a breath in again, hopefully safely now, but it didn't feel normal. I tried it again, and again, and yet, it didn't do anything. It didn't feel like I'd start to suffocate if I held my breath for a long time.

"Edward?" he spoke unsurely, like what he was saying was ridiculous. "I'm about to tell you something that is very, very important. You might not believe me but please, find it in your intelligent mind to hear what I am saying is honest."

Confused panic rose. I didn't need to breathe, I didn't need to blink. I could move at an immeasurable speed, too fast to even notice the thought to want to move, something that seemed impossible for any living being. I no longer looked how I used to; I was inhumanely beautiful and graceful. A deep, stinging sensation kept collapsing my own thought stream, a deep hunger that couldn't be soothed with breathing in cold stale air. I wanted that color red so badly, and it was blood! It could have been mine … it must have been my own! And something was off, something that always kept the living actually living! There was not a heartbeat to be detected.

I instantly had two of my fingers prodding at my wrist; feeling for that vein I knew would reveal the truth. I … I couldn't find it. I tried my neck, and again, it was a failure. Hand over my heart and still nothing, no thumping rhythm, no soldier left to fight. Nothing was … nothing was real! It couldn't have been!

I was desperate. "What am I? What's happened to me? How am I alive?"

He then stepped closer, no reflex to step back ever coming. He had the answer. He had to. I know he did.

"Edward …" he started. He sounded torn.

"What did you do?" Rage shackled against my spine, overtaking any limb in my body and locking my mind into his explanation. I knew it was him. Even in my last memories before the fire, he was the one I had seen. He was the one who did whatever it was to me! He had caused this transformation, he was the sole perpetrator. He turned me into this … this … thing!

He shook his head, his hand outstretching towards me. I cringed back with that strange ripping sound snarling out of my throat. It was a warning and he knew it. "Just listen to me -"

My emotions catapulted. I wanted to clamp my hand over his throat, demand him to tell me what exactly he put inside of my damned body. And it was different … I knew I could kill him, I knew I could crush his skull with the palm of my hand.

"What?" I snapped; I didn't hide the vehemence in my voice. "What did you do?"

I was supposed to be dead; I wasn't supposed to be here! But yet, here I was, living with no beating drum! I didn't want to be alive!

He stepped up directly in front of me, an impulse told me to stay put. So I did.

"You're …" His eyes lowered to the floor for a moment, taking in my clenched fists, then his gaze came back to mine, a newly revealed regret in his eyes. "Edward, please, I only did what I thought was best," he begged.

The air electrified further, my violence spiked. A startling sound escaped me, a growl. I still haven't received my answer.

"What did you do?" I yelled, the snarl still caught between my esophagus and tongue. The tension in my arms started to become painful. I wanted to kill something, rip something to shreds.

He started to cower. "Please, don't be angry with me. I promised her!"

I clamped my hand on his forearm, clutching his bone like it was a loaf of bread, squeezing. He cried out and started to give under the pressure I was putting on, crouching down to lessen my infliction. His thoughts flew to the point where I couldn't concentrate on just one. I only clenched harder.

I bent down to his terrorized face. "WHAT?" I roared. Menacing hisses escaped my clenched jaw, and it was then that I understood. I knew then that I was not human, not anymore.

He didn't pause through his pained voice. "A vampire, Edward. You are a newborn vampire."

THUR it 'tis! In all of it's complex *cough* glory. Again, reviews and critiques are welcome but I really don't give a fuck. I ain't even mad.

* - this is called Petechia. It's broken blood vessels under the skin. Edward was crying pretty damn hard, okay? Wouldn't you at that point? Google it and pull it up on MayoClinic for moar info. And, regards to historical events in this, I did research and apologies if any of it is wrong/misquoted/things of that sort. Feel free to correct me!

K. I'll stop pestering you with information none of you care to learn about so ... yeah! Thanks for reading if you got this far! *I sincerely congratulate you all!*