Disclaimer: I don't own any of the characters of twilight, or anything like that, that all belongs to Stephenie Meyer
Mother was coughing yet again. Her fits getting more violent and deep every time. I could hear her nurse maids gathering her belongs for the only hospital in Chicago. It hadn't been two days previous that Dr. Cullen had come by the house, it reporting the devastating news of my father's death after only weeks in the medical units. Nothing working. I still idly in my small closet, knees wrapped up under my chin. Just taking in what these last days have brought on.
A cough wracks my own body with a violence that equals that of what my mother suffers. Nothing I would admit. I do my best to muffle it. The last thing I wanted was for mother's maids to be packing my belongings for the hospital. Worse yet, having Dr. Cullen have to make another trip to the house. An hour drive from the hospital because mother was not brought in quickly enough. The blood that comes up with my cough symbolizes my worst fear since the deaths began. But I couldn't distract them. I close my eyes slowly. Allowing a shallow sleep to over come me.
A pale figure stalks slowly through a small meadow. Strangely red eyes fixed upon a young mountain lion. An animal that most only witness through the imagination. The figure slowly approaches the animal. Bent into a predatory stance. Preparing to spring. The lion swerves to face the hunter with a panicked snarl. As though he was able to sense that his death was nearing. It wasn't until this moment, the moment that the lion turned that I realized who the figure was: me. "Edward!" A high, woman's voice rang clearly up the stair well. Tearing me from my tortured dreams. "Come boy!" She yelled. Her weathered voice cracking slightly with effort and irritation. I struggled out of my slightly crouched position, leaned against the close wall on which I had fallen asleep. Opening the heavy wooden door carefully, I stumble out. Making valiant attempt to wipe the sleep from my eyes and face. Opening the only exit there was to my small room, I walk slowly down over the stairs. To be surprised to see my mother leaning for support on the shoulder of Miriam, her maid. Several bags surrounding their feet. Three of them labeled 'Elizabeth Masen', the other four. I was shocked to find my own name. 'Edward Masen Jr.' printed carefully on the face of the bags. It was now apparent that my attempt at muffling my coughing and illness had been in vain.
I stopped at the base of our stairwell unsure of what my next move was expected to be. Breathing heavy, I meet the eyes of my mother. Her emerald green eyes concerned. I knew that the concern was not for herself. Miriam sniffed. Patting my mother's back was she lifted the bags off the ground, gesturing for me to follow them out into the entry way, and out the door. Not that I knew this at that point, but it would be the last time that I ever walked through these doors.
We had not been the richest of the families in our well off neighborhood in the outer skirts of Chicago, but father had, had a well paying enough job to earn what was needed to own certain lucsuries, such as a car. In only the winter of 1918, only my seventeenth year, only around four of our fellows that were left alive owned one as well. A 1900 model T, as father had called it on the occasions that I had seen him and gotten up the courage to speak with him enough to actually get something useful out of it.
We piled in carefully. Mother having been set carefully in the back seat were I was usually bade to. I gripped the roof of the black car carefully, minding my slight off balance as I stepped in after her. My stalky frame having a bit more trouble than her thin, fragile one had. Miriam watched the two of us carefully. Her thin lips pursed as she waited for us to settle. Closing the door closely behind me. I sat carefully down next to my mother. Head lolling slightly from the hurried entrance. Mother looked up slowly. Her bronze hair, which was pulled carefully up into a tight bun, already falling out and matted with sweat. Her frail, chapped lips opening slightly into what looked like a pained smile. Enthasizing the dark, burse like sleepless night marker, as I thought of them as under both of her eyes. Lifting her sickly pale hand slowly from her side, she ran it through my own, troused bronze hair. "My boy." She whispered. Her high voice raspy, cracking involuntarily. To the point in which I came close to pleading her to silence. In fear that she would pass in just the effort exerted in speaking. "My beautiful bronze boy." She whispered. Her tone almost apologetic. I smiled shyly under her weak touch. My worry and love for her sharing equal parts in my mind.
With the slam of a trunk, my mother's hand dropped back to her side, and Miriam entered the car. Grasping the steering wheel in almost a panic stricken way. "Are we ready?" She grunted in her usual uninterested tone. "Yes." I murmured weakly. The slight pressure that was building quite rapidly in my head making it almost impossible to keep my eyes open. I glance slowly over to my mother. Whom was already slumped over in her seat. Asleep.
Allowing my eyes to close slowly, I was yet again taken by the blackness that took the world around us away for a period to short. Some where that all could be free of their troubles. For a time.
"Edward?" For the second time today, I wake to the sounding of my name. This time, the voice was smooth, almost velvet like. "Edward, can you open your eyes for me please?" The man's voice asked pleasantly. Patiently. I opened my green eyes slowly. Fluttering them several times to make an attempt at adjusting to the brightly lit room. I recognized the young man that loomed over me instantly. His blond hair, and golden eyes. Dr. Cullen. The man that was only several years older than I smiled. Clicking on a small light and speaking to me. Not that I heard him this time. His face, the scents, lighting, just the feel of the room brought back the moments just weeks previous. When my father was here alive. but barely.
I met the doctor's gaze obediently. Knowing exactly what he expected of me. Without his even asking of me. A talent that had always impressed most. The man look surprised, but did not object when I tilted my head back slowly, knowing just from regular appointments all through childhood that this made it easiest to detect anything within the eyes, nostrils, or mouth. Not having the slightest idea of the actual distraction and pain that I had just caused the young doctor unintentionally.
The young man lifted the light to my eye. Flashing it's uncomfortable brightness into it. Seeming unhappy with the results. He pulled away. turning toward the young woman that stood behind him. Prosumably a nurse. "Give the boy a cot next to Mrs. Masen. I think that would make her the happiest. and get both of them the supplies that patients need for long term stay. Elizabeth already has the Influenza thoroughly. I thas taken into her system. Her system is still fighting it. But not with many wins. The trip here did wonders for the virus. The boy, her son has developed the secondary signs that the virus gives. The same stage in which his father was at when he was brought in." The man glanced over his shoulder to look at me once more. Shaking his pale head. "Poor child." He whispered. Walking abruptly out of the room.
The young nurse lead me quickly to a small cot. Positioned next to my mother's. She lay asleep. Twitching and sweat ridden. I lay down next to her. Turning so that my back was facing the blan white wall. Allowing worry, dread, and over all sickness to flow through me. My fight to hide what I had been since I realized what I had caught from my mother, just as quickly as she had over. The stage in which his father was in when he was brought in. Something about Dr. Cullen's words stuck with me, and bothered my there.
I glanced at the nurse from my cot. Not bothering to move far. Wanting not to catch her attention. Apparently I was not sucsessful. She turned slowly. Her dark face turned up in thin smile. "Oh, your awake Mr. Cullen." She whispered almost uncomfortably. Shifting her weight between her feet as she continued working with the papers that she had been shuffling before she noticed me. I smiled graciously. Bowing my head. "Thank you." I whispered, to be shocked by the raspiness and cracking that made it up. Maybe giving in on hiding it meant more than I thought that it did. Was the thought that ran through my mind.
These next couple of weeks progressed exactly like this, Marilu, the nurse, whose name I quickly learned through Dr. Cullen asking her things. Would come in daily, check mother and I's vitals, and ask us how we were when we awoke when she was there. Which was much more of an occurance with me than with my mother. Though she would be up and about when awake, helping the nurse with anything there was to be done with me. Who, in giving up, had began to sink deeply, and quickly into the depths of the illness. I knew, just from a simple glace at my mother whenever she was up and about she shouldn't be. Her buises that started out light and relatively harmless, something that anyone would have, when not covered. To deep trenches in which her paling eyes had sunk into. Deep shadows surrounding them.
I held my tongue in telling her to stop. Knowing my own stubornness, and knowing that hers was mine, only magnified, and she would do nothing that she was ordered. Making her,to most, a less than ideal wife.
I knew exactly when they gave up on us. All but Dr. Cullen at least. He worked vigorously to do whatever he could to save us. No less than ninety percent of the time that he was in the hospital, he was either at my side, or my mother's. It was only two weeks into us being there, and the hospital had already given out on us. Most where here for up to two months before anyone began giving out on them. Not the best of signs. Mother was getting up less and less as the days went on. Breathing becoming more and more labored even with just standing for just a few moments, with help. something that would have done nothing but tire her slightly. Even in the midst of this all, of her closeness to death. The only thing that she cared for was me. Concerned with my well fare. The days for me just folded together one day just like the other. The same rutine, the same cot. The only thing that changed was my worsening syntoms.