A/N: This idea wasn't originally mine. It's from an author called "Philadelphic", look them up, they've written some amazing stuff. Philadelphic wrote a one shot about the exactly the same thing and it was such a wonderful idea I had to steal it, sorry.
When I first moved to Forks I had trouble making friends, other than my "doting swains" as Edward likes to call them I had few people I spoke to and none I confided in. It was like I just didn't fit, I was a slow melodic piece of classical music and they were short and jumpy pop tunes that just didn't go together with an orchestra of feelings.
I wouldn't say I was miserable, just content with my life. I had a father- Charlie- that loved me, a safe home and I was getting good grades. Many people have much worse lives than I do, you hear about it in the papers every day. Unfortunate people with no one that cares for them. But still I found myself staring into the dark forest every night thinking that there must be something more out there, something I was missing out on.
Ever since I was a little child I had known I wanted to work with elderly people. My mother used to take my to visit my grandma, Marie Swan in her old peoples home. I forget the name of it now, it was somewhere in phoenix, it always smelt of the last meal that had been served and the sun bleached paper on the walls was peeling. It wasn't a nice place but it was all my mother could afford on a kindergarten teachers salary.
I hated the way it smelt as a child, I remember my Gran always used to tease my about how my nose wrinkled. "Careful, or the wind will change and you'll be stuck like that" she would warn in her crinkly voice.
I spent hours on the rare windy days In Phoenix checking to see if this was actually true, when I found it wasn't the next time we visited Gran I met her with an accusing glare.
My mother would often just leave there for the day I could sit there for hours listening to the stories she had to tell, even the boring ones about everyday things sounded magical to me. When Gran fell asleep I would wander around the care home looking for someone willing to tell me stories. The nurses grew to recognise me and often snuck me food, s I never got hungry.
The war stories were the best, the was one man, John that was in the second world war, I would sit on his lap and listen to him speak for ages about the ghastly trenches and the noise of the guns and how terrified he was. But it always made me smile because he used to tell me stories about his childhood sweetheart as well. They had met at school and were engaged to be married when the war started of course he signed up with all his friends. There wedding was a rushed affair, she wore a gown of cream silk bought on the black market. I loved that story.
Of course the thing is about the aged is that they die. Too many times my mother would comfort me when one of my friends passed on and when I went to visit them all that would be in there room would be a freshly made bed.
Until my early teens I visited, I collected there stories like they were precious gold and needed to be preserved. But when Grandma Marie died I could never bring myself to set foot in there again. I said my goodbye to everyone at the funeral; they understood they had seen to much loss in their lives as well.
Although I want to work with elderly people when I'm out of school I never want to be old. It sound morbid and selfish but I hope I die young. I've seen firsthand the pain and suffering some of them go through I don't want that. Nor do I want to outlive all the people whom I care about. A long parade to the grave yard does not seem like a pleasant prospect to me.