It was cold. That much he knew.

Of course, it barely affected him now much anymore. He was accustomed to all sorts of weather. Any sort of natural disaster or bizarre weather pattern, he had felt it. It wasn't anything new or exciting, but that wasn't why he didn't mind it. He didn't mind because he couldn't feel it. One of the more convenient aspects to vampirism. You never needed a coat on cold days, or light clothes on hot ones.

Carlisle Cullen wasn't thinking about the cold much right now, though. He wasn't worried about the mile-high snowbanks that were piling up all around the city. It wasn't any of his concern whether it was snowing, raining, hailing, or if there was a hurricane outside. All he was really focused on right now was Edward.

Edward, the seventeen-year-old boy in Carlisle's care, was suffering of the Spanish influenza that had been raging through Europe for what seemed like years. What made things ever worse was that Carlisle had just been the tending to another patient -- Edward's mother. She had died, but not before whispering her final words to him, her dying wish.

"I want you to take care of him."

It was what she wanted . . . She had wanted her son to live, to be saved by the kind doctor she had met.

But not like this.

The disease had raged through the boy's system. Within hours, he would be dead. He had till maybe sunrise, or early morning.

Carlisle had never felt so lonely. Never had he been with less companionship. He had been left for dead, and now he was going to do the same to this boy. He felt ashamed of himself. Here was Edward, dying of a horrible disease, and all Carlisle could think of was himself.

The boy was young and handsome -- he looked like he had been quite a man before he was infected. He could have been a lawyer, a doctor, like Carlisle himself. Edward could be anything he wanted to be. And here was he, Carlisle, standing before the boy and debating whether it was death by disease, or death by vampire venom. Carlisle was trapped in his own body, in his own corpse. He knew that a heart no longer beat beneath his own stone-hard flesh, not a single drop of crimson-red blood flared in his veins, and hadn't for decades and decades.

"I want you to save him."

To save him, care for him . . . Did she want her son to live the life of a killer . . . of a monster? Surely not. Surely no mother would wish that fate on her child, and certainly not the young, promising son of her family. Was simply existing more important than a real life? But the boy could have a real life . . . he could learn to control his thirst, just like he, Carlisle, had. He could learn to be civilized on Earth. He could go to school. He could get a job. He could fall in love, have a first kiss.

But it shouldn't be like this . . . Edward was young, and should be able to experience it all with time racing ever onward, forcing the adrenaline into him, forcing him to live life to the fullest before it was too late. But vampirism -- what was there? Time . . . time . . . and more time. No motivation. "I'll do that when I get to it . . . I have forever, don't I? I'll do that later."

You're a good person, and you were forced into this life . . . don't you deserve companionship?

It was such a selfish endeavor, though . . . to change someone, simply to have company? thought Carlisle. I can find company anywhere.

Then why haven't you?

I . . . . could.

You can't. You won't.

Carlisle could barely believe he was having this conversation with himself. There was no way he was going to change this boy, here and now. What would he tell the other doctors? Where would he take him to transform? If he could get him down to the morgue quick enough . . . maybe they'd think he was dead . . . he could put him to sleep temporarily --but would it even help? Would he still feel the pain? Would it dilute the venom?

"Please," murmered the boy.

Carlisle jumped a foot in the air. He'd thought Edward had been sleeping.

"What is it, son?" he asked, touching the boy's arm.

"Please . . . end the pain."

Carlisle swallowed, his lips pressing together painfully.

Do it.

He couldn't believe he was considering this, couldn't believe he was sentencing this boy to the end of his life.

"It will all be over soon, son."

"I don't want to die," whispered Edward.

Carlisle took an unecessary breath, and sighed it out.

"But . . . I just want to end it all. I'm so . . . tired."

Carlisle waited. "And if you weren't tired?" he asked.

Edward let out a small moan.

Carlisle leaned over the bed, resting his forearm above Edward's head so that he could stare the boy clear in the face.

"What if you had all the strength in the world? The power do whatever you wanted? Never having to sleep, eat . . . you'd have all the time in the world . . ."

Carlisle couldn't believe the words were coming out of his mouth. It was like he had been posessed. What was he saying?!

But Edward didn't even open his eyes. His cracked lips parted, and a groan issued from them. "I'd go home," he moaned. "I miss my mother. I miss the trees . . . I miss the beauty of the world."

Hear that? He misses the beauty of the world.

Carlisle tried to shake the voice from him, but he couldn't.

Imagine what little Edward would be like if he opened his eyes to see the world more beautiful than he'd ever imagined? Don't you remember?

Of course he remembered, he remembered it like it was yesterday. The world had never seemed so beautiful. He was sure that it was how God had intended life to be, but humans had tainted it and turned it into something it wasn't. Or maybe it was just him trying to convince himself that he wasn't damned to hell . . .

He looked behind him. No nurses, no doctors. It was nearly 1:30 in the morning. There was no moon . . . the smoky air outside blocked the stars. He was all alone, and he knew it. If he had Edward . . . if he had anyone, wouldn't he be so much happier? The nagging voice was back, but this time, whispering against it.

Slippery slope of slime and soap.

Of course -- if he changed Edward, what kind of a hypocrite would that make him?

That's different, said the other voice, now. That's to eat. That's for your own selfish, personal indulgence.

But was a companion--a friend -- the same as hunger? Surely not. Hunger could kill a man, but life without friendships could drive a man insane. A fate much worse than death. A fate that exemplified life and turned it every which way like a pancake left too long in the frying pan, until every inch of his being had been scorched and burned away. All that was left was a cinder of what used to be. A vaguely familiar, silhouetted outline of what he used to be.

He leaned forward. "Boy," he said softly. "I'm not going to hurt you." He felt the boy's wrist -- it was barely a beat a second, a beat every second and a half.

"Edward," he hissed, this time more frantic. "It's going to hurt," he admitted. "It's going to hurt like nothing you've ever even imagined of."

Edward moaned.

"But when it's over, you'll be a completely different person."

There was a long silence before Edward murmered, "Doctor Carlisle?"

"Yes?"

"What's heaven like?"

Carlisle stiffened. Yeah, like he hadn't ever thought of that. Of course he had thought about heaven, about God, about the future he had deserted when he transformed. He had cheated death, become inhuman. Jesus Christ came from heaven to save man . . . not in one place in the Bible did it mention God saving vampires. Carlisle was sure that he was damned to hell for eternity. He would never know the tunnel down which every soul flew, would never know the warm arms of God the Almighty wrapping around him and taking him into His mighty kingdom . . . Carlisle would never know. He could never know, not in a million years. And if he ever was to be ripped and burned . . . .well . . . he was going to hell... for sure. There was no heaven for Carlisle Cullen.

But there could be a heaven for Edward. There could be an end . . . life was not the end, life was not the only future. A future was an ending life, and a new beginning in God's Holy Land.

But Carlisle's loneliness was consuming him. Almost as much as his first thirst for human blood. He had never felt this empty since then. Never. His jaw set, his expression angry and determined.

One more vampire.

One more damned soul.

One more to perish in the fiery pits of Hell. Why shouldn't he at least have a companion?

"Edward," he hissed. "You're not going to die."

Edward said nothing. He had seemed to slump further into the pillows, seemed to have disinegrated further into the pits of death. But Carlisle would not allow it. He couldn't, and now was his moment.

"I swear," began Carlisle. "on the word of God Himself . . . it's all for good. I swear it." And then, before he could hesitate, he plunged his diamond-hard, razor-sharp teeth into the boy's neck.

Before Edward could register that teeth had been sank into his neck, before he could wail in pain or even open his eyes, the taste of warm, human blood was already gushing into Carlisle's mouth. It sprayed through his teeth, flowed over his tongue, torturing each taste bud meticulously. The flavor was almost too much -- but he knew the job was done. He felt a cold laser-like feeling spread through him . . . it was the venom. Coming out of his feeble, lonely system and pouring into Edward's. Carlisle flung himself back. The strength he had administered to get himself away from Edward was mixing with the pure animal instinct to stay and drain Edward of all he was, and the result sent Carlisle crashing violently into the small bedside table. Small medical instruments, and what was left of Edward's feeble supper toppled onto the floor. One fist to his mouth, Carlisle stumbled backwards into the nearest chair, sobbing tears he could no longer shed. He had done it . . . dear God . . . he had done it . . . It was over. Done with. Edward would be a vampire.

He couldn't believe it. He had turned into the monster he had sworn never to become. An active vampire on Earth. It didn't matter if he wasn't doing it to eat -- he had forced his wretched, damned existence on an innocent boy.

He'd be dead anyway. This was the closest thing to life you could give him.

Carlisle tried to block out the sounds of Edward gagging, flapping madly at his throat, feeling the double-crescent mark that Carlisle had left on his skin, but his hearing was too acute. It was designed to pick up things that were trying to be blocked out. It was no use. Carlisle heard every single moment of Edward's pain. Every movement was amplified . . . burned forever into Carlisle's memory.

He'd never forget it.

Carlisle was in a state of panic.

It had been four days, coming up on five now, and Edward still hadn't completed his transformation. Had he done it wrong? Carlisle was sure of it. He had never changed anyone before. Was it supposed to be like this? Carlisle couldn't remember his own transformation, and he hadn't had much contact with other vampires since then. Was he supposed to inject the venom elsewhere? Directly into Edward's heart, perhaps? Carlisle had been racking his brains for any possible way to explain Edward's prolonged transformation. The only conclusion he could come to was that he simply hadn't used enough venom. Only injected a few drops before pulling away, leaving Edward to suffer torturously for days, even weeks. Edward would be damned to a life of a half-vampire, if even that. Not close enough to be a true vampire, but too far gone to be considered human.

Volturi would say to each other in whispers the things that Carlisle was dreading. That only an idiot vampire could have transformed Edward, could have forced him to live a life like this.

No, thought Carlisle. He wouldn't let that happen. That couldn't possibly be the way it was to happen. He was going crazy, over-thinking the process, and torturing himself with the worst possible situation. Edward's entire existence was changing . . . it was bound to take time. And surely not every vampire was the same . . . were they? But other ideas of horror had traced through Carlisle's mind. What if Edward wasn't bound to be the best friend that Carlisle was expecting? What if they boy wanted to go out on his own -- what if he didn't share Carlisle's "vegetarian" view? What if all Carlisle had done was make the world more lethal, setting one more monster into the world to end more lives?

He looked over at Edward again with a pained expression. There was Edward, clawing at this chest and at the bedsheets next to him, letting out harsh, violent groans and moans of pain through gritted teeth. His eyes were bloodshot and unseeing, and his hands were white from the death grip he had on the bed. Or maybe it was just death's grip on him.

Carlisle had managed to sneak the boy out of the hospital, informing whatever nurses he passed that he was off to the insane asylum with the boy, saying he was beyond medical care -- then carrying him home. He had made a makeshift bed for the boy, laying out a small padded matress with blankets and a pillow. Within the first day, Edward had torn through the pillow, ripping it into oblivion from the pain. The blankets had been twisted and thrashed violently around his body until Carlisle had decided to do away with them completely. All that was left was Edward lying there, thrashing horribly on the mattress. But Carlisle couldn't bear watching the boy thrash around, so he had braced the boys neck to stop him from twisting it or snapping it in two . . . Carlisle had no idea what a person would be like halfway through their transformation, but he didn't want to test the theory.

Suddenly, there was a ringing silence. No sounds of Edward flailing, moaning, screaing, or thrashing. All the was left was the recurring silence. Carlisle could have turned around, quick as a flash, to see what had caused the silence, but only a small fraction of his being actually wanted to. As he slowly rotated his body, he looked over to see Edward lying there. He was completely and utterly unmoving.

Oh no.

Millions of thoughts were flying through Carlisle's head at a hundred miles a minute. Dear God, he had killed him. The pain had been too much. The boy had finally gone into shock, or died of the pain. Either way, the boy was gone, done for. He had ruined everything -- the only thing he had accomplished was giving this boy four more days of utter torture before he died, instead of letting him go peacefully in his sleep. There was a reason God did not allow immortals, and this was why.

"Edward," whispered Carlisle. "I'm so sorry . . ."

He could feel the small movement coming an eighteenth of a second before it happened, and yet it still scared Carlisle to death.

Edward's eyes flew open. They were crimson red, an eye color Carlisle had not seen since his own had glared up at him from mirrors and small pools he came across in the woods. The eyes of a newborn vampire.

"Edward," said Carlisle firmly, hurrying up to him and brushing locks of the boy's hair out of his eyes. "Edward, can you hear me?"

The boy didn't speak at first, his eyes flew around the room, before suddenly, with a great crash, he ripped the brace away from his neck, and tore across the room. He was bouncing off walls and crashing into tables and chairs, their contents flying away or breaking with crashes. Finally, he slithered a wall at the far corner of the room as fast as lightning, bracing himself up practically on air, stuck to the wall like a spider, already poised in his hunting crouch. His teeth were bared, and his newborn eyes gleamed scarlet.

"Edward," began Carlisle. "It's me, Doctor Carlisle Cullen. Do you remember me?"

Edward hissed quietly, but said nothing.

"You've just undergone a serious change," said Carlisle. "But everything's fine. Don't overreact to anything. Just be calm."

Carlisle had an instinct reaction to cover his ears, but didn't, as Edward let out a blood-curdling, animalistic screech that rang through the halls. Carlisle was in awe --what an amazing voice the boy had, even now.

"WHAT AM I?!" screamed Edward.

There was a ringing silence. Edward wasn't panting -- he had no need to. Carlisle didn't shift his gaze or blink or move -- he didn't have to. In that one room, at that one moment, Carlisle realized that he was no longer alone. There was a soul in this room more in more trouble than he was, and he had a duty to protect this boy at all costs. He had created him, and he would defend that duty with his life, his death, or his half-life. Whatever God decided to grant him.

"Edward Cullen," breathed Carlisle, and he couldn't help one corner of his mouth twisting up into a smile . . .

"You are a vampire."