Edward sat alone in the hospital bed, breathing in deeply as he tried to get enough oxygen to travel to his lungs to keep his heart going. They wheeled his mother off only ten minutes ago to be looked at by another doctor, she being the one to volunteer on the new vaccine as opposed to her one and only son. She said that there was still a fighting chance for him, that he could live through this horrid influenza; she said that it was too late for her and it was only a matter of time before she went off and joined his father at the gates of heaven.
Sweat drizzled down his face from the hellish fever that he had to endure, the salted water going along his jaw and dripping down onto the dirty gown he was dressed in. Edward's strange bronze hair that matched his mother's was crusted in dried sweat and dirt, the hospital hardly ever giving him a bath. Edward coughed loudly into the air… trying to get the irritating itch gone. He could feel his own blood boiling under his fever, and he wished desperately for it all to just go away.
"Mr. Mason, your mother is back." One of the many doctors spoke to Edward, but he looked as if he was turning a vibrant shade of fuchsia… his skin seemed to glow under the low lights of the hospital that he and his mother were forced to be treated in… the same hospital that his father—Edward Mason Sr.—had died in just eight months ago. At sixteen, Edward was fatherless and his mother at thirty-six was widowed.
Several nurse dressed in their gowns rolled in Elizabeth, her breathing ragged as she fought her fever harshly. Her green eyes turned to her son, and she smiled faintly, trying to reassure the young boy who was nearly a man that she was fine. Edward didn't buy it. Elizabeth let out a sudden whimper and cowered within herself to find comfort, her son not being able to help and her husband being gone. Her bronze curls were matted in knot, grease staining her yellowing gowns that she bared, and sweat crusting every inch of her body.
Edward looked at the man with the glowing skin harshly, they hurt his mother. "What did you do to my mother?" He demanded, his voice turning horse from his harsh coughing and the influenza getting worse by the day.
"It's fine, E-E-Edward." Elizabeth panted beside him, her now pale hand thrusting outward towards her son for his one form of comfort these days. "I-I just had a small vaccine… n-nothing to wo-worry about, darling." She smiled and her once dull white teeth were a sickening yellow. But Edward did not flinch away from her hand, only held it tighter.
He nodded and let go, returning to his own bed and sighing in slight discomfort. His ribs ached beyond believe from his constant coughing and wheezing of the death infested air he breathes. Edward looked at the doctor standing in the doorway one last time, and opened his mouth to speak. "I believe that my mother and I would like a glass pf water please." He requested, his voice getting even more course as he spoke. His throat felt like it had been burning from the blood that he was coughing up day and night, it was a wonder that he was able to sleep at all.
The man nodded and motioned for one of the nurses to get right on that, and before he passed by the thin white sheet that was hung for their privacy, he told Elizabeth to rest and they will see if her symptoms have gone down. She nodded and closed her eyes, her head lulling to the side as she willed her body to sleep.
Edward achingly lifted his chest to reached under the grease covered and no doubt germ infested pillow to pull out a leather bound book. His name was carved into the front right corner in gold, the last gift that his father had given him. The paged were slightly yellow, but it was only due to the grease that poured from his head as he slept and the sweat that occasionally soaked his pillow. Edward unwound the binding on the book and opened the pages to the first empty one. He reached over and snatch the ball point pen he kept by his bedside and began to write furiously at the page, but his calligraphy was as neat and graceful as ever.
Dear Diary,
It has now been six weeks from today that Mother and I have been in this horrid place they call a hospital. I can taste death when I breath in from the air, and can feel those dying around me; including Mother. She believes that her time will be up soon and that there will be nothing left but me to look after, alas she still fights the influenza like a soldier.
Mother has faith that I will live through this hell. . . that I will live on the name of my father and continue with a wife of my own and may we be blessed with many children. I do not think that is what is going to happen, though, Dear Diary. I am now seventeen, and still I have yet to find one young female in the least spot attracted to as Father is to Mother. I do not see beauty in those that powder their faces thick and bathe twice a month, or in those that must wear their satin gloved everywhere they walk and their feather covered hats too even in the most scorching of days. I do not want a wife with the smallest waist out of my friends and collogues, I want one that I can love and cherish. . . one that loves me and knows I for who I am. I long to feel the gentle touch a of a woman, yes; but not if it shall mean that I have to lie to her and tell her I adore her and love her. A lady deserves to be treated with nothing but the truth. . . and a real gentleman—or any man—would treat one as such.
Now I begin to wonder if there is one out there made far me; Father and Mother have always said that there is one who is made for you, and you will know when you meet her. Now I wonder has God made a bride for Edward Mason? Has He taken the time to make on that is truly my other half Dear Diary?
If I could name my bride I would like her to have a name that was equally as beautiful as she is… a name that at the sound you would think of an angel, one that you knew just had to be a breath taxingly gorgeous and witty woman. If I could choose such a name I would have to choose. . .
Edward paused in his writings. He never thought of this until now. Yes, he had met glorious women who's names were a great composition but he wanted something that appealed to him… one that he would know it was his one and only. Edward began to list several names through his mind, trying to find the one he found the best. Evangeline, Rose, Lillian, Esmeralda, Elizabeth, Isabella, Maryse, Clarissa, Victoria… none of them seemed right to him in the slightest. Isabella seemed to hit closest to his heart strings, but it wasn't the reaction that his father described to him whenever he heard his mother's name. Isabelle… that name could easily flow into turning into Isabella.
Suddenly, Edward's heart rate seemed to pick up at the thought of the name. His pulse was already thudding loudly in his ears, but this time it felt different.
I could have to choose, he continued on with his writing, Isabella to be the name of my bride. Yes, Isabella and Edward Mason. Mrs. Isabella Mason. Several different titles she would bear Diary, but to me each one sounds more like a symphony than the last. She would be a bride like no other… I see when I think of the name a woman or average height, and her curves being nice and subtle, not too large and hourglass-like as Catherine is, or too thin like Jennifer is. . . but more like my mother. Her skin would be a lovely shade of pink. . . she would have the reddest cheeks from blushing all the time from her being a modest woman; so red that he cheeks could be mistaken for apples or cherries. She would laugh and smile and my world would light up when I know that I am the one to do that to her. She would glow when she is round with our child, one that we created while making sweet and passionate love in our bed where I shall worship her body for what it is. She would smile at me when it is born, and when she holds our children in her arms each time, she will whisper their name like a sacred God, close her eyes, let one tear fall down the gentle curve of her cheek, and then she will look up at me smiling brightly. When we go to galas and balls all the eyes of every person in the room will be on her as she walks across the floor with her arms linked to mine and we will dance in the center of the floor. Her dress will be the only one that I find lovely, her face is the only one that I will love for its raw beauty, and her love is the one that I shall hold close to my heart always.
I will love this Isabella, whomever and wherever she may be. . . and I only hope, Dear Diary, that she dreams of me as I do of her. That every night before she closes her eyes and falls into the deep sleep that I know she will love and cherish, she will think of me and when we shall meet. She will whisper my name on her lips as her eyes flutter closed and she will dream happy things. . . and when she opens her eyes in the morning, she will think of the future that she will be waking up with Edward Mason and that she will be happy.
Edward paused, only to cough into his hand to pull away and find dots of blood aligning his skin. Some had slipped past his hand and landed on the paper his entry was on, staining the white pages with a bright red. Edward frowned deeply and wiped the red away, not wanting his Diary to be cursed with the infectious disease that he was dying from.
But, alas Diary, I cannot meet this wonderful woman. I am dying; although Mother may not wish for me to say, I know that I will die and soon. I know that I will never find the one that I will wish to spend the rest of my life with, and I will not meet my darling Isabella. I will not be able to make her feel beautiful on our wedding night, make sweet love to her in the darkness of the night and have her know that she is the only one to love me as so. I will not see her walk down the isle with her father on her arm and meet me to say our vows and pledge eternity to one another, she will not carry my child. And most of all, my dearest Isabella—whom I have never met—will never know me; she will never touch my cheek when I am weeping, she will never be in my arms as I whisper in her ear of my love, and she will not grace her lips upon my own in a sweet kiss that would be sinful to have just to one man, she will never where the ring that I have given her on her finger and flaunt it to others in pride of me, she will never meet my mother or see the house that we will share as husband and wife, and she will never stay up at the late hours of the night with me rocking our child to sleep—hoping that he or she will just stop their crying and sleep if only for a moment of out time. . . . That my Dear Diary is the worst pain . . . even more than watching my own mother wash to nothing and see her die painfully, it is more painful then never seeing the light of day again. . . it is more painful then this horrid sickness. I will never know of a greater pain then knowing that I will never meet my Isabella. . . he love of my life.
I bid you goodnight, my darling Isabella, and I wish that you dream happy things of your children and the husband that you shall know. But, know this, I—Edward Anthony Mason—love you, even though I have never met you. Goodnight, my love, and may you're life be more fulfilling than my own.
Sincerely,
Edward Anthony Mason Jr.
Edward sighed at his own writing, cursing himself for allowing such a wonderful woman of his imagination to suffer the way she will be from her never meeting him. She would surely weep at the thought that there could be something better than what she had… a child and a husband like him perhaps?
Edward stuffed the dairy under his pillow and closed his eyes, willing himself to sleep through the pain of his through and the blistering fever…
Someday, he thought right before his conscience slipped away into the darkness, I will find Isabella in heaven and tell her I love her… I will not leave her. And with that being his last thought, Edward slipped into unconsciousness…. Sleeping past the pain right before Dr. Carlisle Cullen walked in to check on the tow.
The vampire smiled at the mother and son, although they could not see and stood next to their beds, observing their states. He had befriended the Masons and wished that either of them were not suffering this terrible fate. Carlisle knew of Edward's dream to run off and fight in the war… to help our troops fighting against the Germans.
Elizabeth sat with her hands folded daintily in her lap, almost as if she weren't in a serious condition. Her eyes were closed and a smile graced her lips as she slept in the filth ridden Chicago hospital. She's dreaming of Edward and her husband. Carlisle thought, knowing that was the only time Elizabeth smiled, when she was trying to look tough for her son, or dreaming about joining her husband. Her bronze hair looked like it was ridden with lice and fleas and Carlisle could think of nothing else other than how it was hazardous for her hair to be in that condition when her body already had enough to fight. A sheet of sweat glinted across her forehead, but the doctor knew that is was all over her body. She complained to the doctor in private of how she wished that he son would have better treatment then she, but Dr. Cullen couldn't do anything to help the poor widow.
Her son lay next to her, his arm stuffed under his yellowed pillow, holding onto something tightly, like he was scared to let it go. His hair was just about to turn to a brown color from the amount of dirt and grime that had migrated its way to his lush hair. His face was pale and his eyes fluttered around behind his lids, signaling that he was suffering from a nightmare—Carlisle knew that it was from the influenza. A ballpoint pen set on the small bedside table, and some of the ink on the wood was fresh, like Edward had just finished writing.
Curiosity got the best of the doctor as he reached under the pilled to find a leather book, the book that Edward was gripping tightly. Carlisle swiped the book with one of his own, on that he kept on him to list his notes of what was going on and what vaccines worked and what vaccines had killed. Edward grumbled quietly as he rolled over on his other side facing his mother as he slept again. Carlisle smiled to himself as he opened the diary and skimmed over each entry about Edward's pain and his suffering. He flipped to tonight's writing and frowned. He longed for a companion, as had Edward apparently and Carlisle saw had Edward wished to hold the one that he loved closely or have someone to talk with about this, as he had written in some of his past entries…
Carlisle shook his head and set the book back in Edward's hands, as he grabbed his own stuffing it into the pocket of his whit lab coat. Carlisle loosened his shirt color slightly out from discomfort. He checked each of their temperatures and made his way around to check on the other patients; all the while thinking of how nice it would be to have someone to talk to…
Tell me what you think and if you think that this story is going to go anywhere... I thought that this was a really great idea and I thought that I would give it a shot. Originally in my Word Ducument, the diary entry was written in Edward's hand writing from the book that I downloaded from bellaandedward (dot) com... and yes you can downloak Bella's, Alice's, Charlie's, Jacob's, Aro's and I think that's it... but, since Fanfiction doesn't do that... I have to make do with italics.
So Review and tell me what you think!!!!!!!!