Disclaimer: I don't own Twilight or any of the characters.
Preface
As a vampire mimicking a human and working as a doctor, the fight to overcome my bloodlust was a daily one. It put me in conflict with my very nature to resist the spilt blood that called to me from every patient that entered by ward. However, for each day that I fought and prevailed, the subsiquent battle became marginaly easier. But it could never truely be won.
Chapter 1
After all these years, I should be used to that smell by now. That coppery, metallic tang. That cloying, heavy scent, almost tangible against the near constant cloud of disinfectant that hung in the air. That delicious, intoxicating aroma. It both repelled and consumed me. I wanted to flee from it and submerge myself in it. It promised me life and yet threatened the destruction of all I had fought to preserve.
Another patient had entered my ward - the eighteenth today - this one with a nasty flesh wound. She sat glacing nrevously around the room with a queezy, ashen face as I consulted the file which I had been handed. I discovered it was yet another classroom accident, a stray backpack strap protruding from under a desk and a heavy fall against the sharp edge of a work desk. I smiled reassuringly at the girl as I quickly examined the cut to check it was properly cleaned and concluded that it was ready for stiching.
I made small talk which she gave short, shaky replies to as I collected the surgical needle and thread and carefully dabbed the edges of the wound with an anesthetic wipe. She seemed almost as affected by her own blood as I was, although in a entirely different way, of course. Her current impulse was most likely to faint, vomit or both. I, on the other hand, longed to sink my teeth into her soft, warm flesh and drain the life from her viens.
As I waited for the arm to numb, I took a quick glance at the girl's face. She was older than I had though, seventeen or eighteen prehaps, and around 5'4" tall. Her thick, brown hair fell in heavy waves past her shoulders, a pair of deep, chocolate eyes glancing at me nervously from behind the dense curtain the ripples created. Quickly realising that she was most likely taking my intense appraisal of her as a negative sign regarding her condition, I smiled and busied myself preparing the tools.
As I approached her with the needle, her face drained to an even sicklier shade of grey.
"Don't wory, it's not going to hurt", I assured her, "you're arm's been numbed so you won't feel anything. Just don't look at it, look right at me and it'll be all over".
I felt her eyes lift slowly to meet my face and I gave a comforting smile before turning my attention to the job at hand and gently began to stitch closed the raw, bloody gash stretching down her forearm. The wound required 10 stitches yet it took me mere minutes to complete them, neatly securing the end of the thread and setting aside the tools.
As I moved over to the units in the corner to remove my latex gloves and clean my hands, I felt my patient's eyes follow me, still focused on my face. Angling my head to face her, I observed that her skin was slowly regaining a regular shade, a faint pink hue painting her cheeks. In fact, her cheeks were growing surprisingly red for a person so pale. I casually observed serveral more changes in her: an irregular pulse that my attentive ears noted was quickening, the pupils of her round, soft eyes slowly dilating. Even with my ignorance regarding dating, women and all that went along with that, I was still aware of what these signs meant. Now that her attention was distracted from her injuries, she'd noticed something else, or someone else. Great.
Although I am by no means vain, I am also not naive. By human standards, I'm attractive. Really attractive. My collar-length blond hair contrasts my pale complextion, exhibiting my sharp cheekbones and golden eyes. Adding to this my 6'2" of height and well-built, muscular frame, I'm no stranger to gaining female interest. In fact, much to my amusment, I had been approached on several occasions by agents representing modelling agencies, expressing an interest in recruiting me. I had declined them all, of course. I was much more content putting my surgical skills to good use, to aid others. Perhaps if I could continue to save lives, it could somehow counteract those ended by others of my kind.
Returning my attention to my patient, I swiftly observed that she was no longer in danger of passing out and was in a suitable condition to go home.
"That wasn't too bad, was it?" I asked gently.
"No..em...thank you, Doctor Cullen" she hurried, a slight stammer entering her words, "it didn't hurt at all, just like you promised". She gave a shy smile and failed to meet me in the eye, her deeply coloured cheeks still betraying her thoughts.
"Well I think you're ok to go home now, just take it easy with that arm and try to avoid any activities that may harm it or affect your stitches. If you need anything, just give me a call. If I'm not on duty I'm always available for house calls, so whenever you need me, it's fine".
"Thank you, Doctor Cullen", she replied, giving another brief smile.
"Please, call me Carlisle" I added. I hadn't planned on saying this, which was worrying. Self control was a trait I would normally pride myself on.
"Well then thank you...Carlisle". She barely whispered the words before turning and leaving the room, but my sensitive hearing caught the words as though she had been saying them in his ear.
Checking the clock I confirmed what I already knew: it was the end of my shift. Quickly gathering my posessions - the jacket, of course, was unecessary for my warmth but vital for appearances sake - I made my way to the door, swiped my card to make my withdrawl official and headed to the staff car park.
As I reached my Mercedes S55 AMG and swung open its sleek door, my attention was taken by a new car pulling into the patient car park. A light blue car with bold lettering across its side, red and blue lights decorating its roof. A police cruiser. Even from this distance I could clearly make out the figure of Chief Swan behind its wheel, his prominant mustache betraying his identity.
As I watched, a girl crossed the tarmac and slipped into the passenger seat of the police car. It was her. My patient. Of course! Her paperwork should have told me instantly who she was, it was unlikely that two families with the name 'Swan' could reside in a place as small as Forks. I had just treated Charlie Swan's daughter: Isabella Swan.