A/N: I hope you guys like this. It's a story from Carlisle's point of view and is about when he first met Edward.
I couldn't help but stare as a new person was being wheeled into the room. It was a young boy, eighteen at the oldest. He already looked dead and it took me a few seconds to realize he was still alive. His forehead was drenched in sweat; his golden hair clung to it. As they tried to lift him off the gurney he let out a load moan.
"Mom?" he asked rolling in agony "I want my mother!" he began to scream and gripped the bed sheets with such fervor I could see his knuckles turning white.
I loved helping people, but I hated their pain. I hated walking into the hospital every morning and seeing the dead bodies that lined the halls. I hated watching as mothers held their tiny coughing children whose faces had begun turning blue with a lack of oxygen. I hated knowing I couldn't save them all.
"Please." I realized the boy I had been watching was talking to me "Please sir." He called again; this time I looked down. I could already tell he was dying. He was in the beginning phase but it was clear he would not survive. Be it minutes, hours, days or weeks, there was no denying the illness would take over him.
"Yes?" I asked as I took in his appearance. The boy was gorgeous, a true loss to the world. I could easily picture him standing at an altar, a porcelain princess holding his hands.
"Where are my mother and father?" I didn't know. So I told him what I told everyone.
"It depends if they're worse off than you. We place people in different wings; it all depends on how infected they are." The boy closed his eyes and I watched as a tear slowly worked its way down his smooth, adolescent face. "But let's not worry about them. How about we try to help you? Let's start with your name."
"Edward Anthony Masen." His answer didn't matter. We weren't even supposed to ask, the people we treated died within days, questions like their names and ages were trivial and didn't make a difference. Even so, I found myself unable to resist asking the boy.
"Date of birth?"
"June 20, 1901." he coughed and he cried out in pain. Seventeen, I knew he was young.
"Tell me when this all started." I had heard the story a plethora of times, but I wanted to hear it from him. I didn't understand why but I felt unusually close to the child, as if we had been best friends in a past life.
"I stayed home from school to look after my parents," I could see his face had already begun changing colors, a sure sign of his oncoming death, "they hadn't been feeling well the day before. I was making them lunch when I felt sick. I ran to the bathroom…" his voice trailed off. Even on his death bed the boy was shy and modest "…I lay on the ground for two hours. It hurt to move. I noticed that I had begun coughing and wheezing like my parents. Not too long before now our maid arrived to clean up and cook us dinner. She found us all and called an ambulance" His voice trailed off as he began to cough again.
I wasn't surprised when I found out I had a new patient who had arrived in critical care – Elizabeth Masen. It was ironic; I took care of two types of patience, those who had just acquired the illness and those who had hours to live.
"Did she come in with anyone?" I asked a nurse who was busy trying to hold a crying infant whose mother had just died.
"A son and her husband. The husband died before he was even inside the building." A sudden wave of emotion washed over me. I wondered how Edward would take the news, or if anyone would even tell him. With over a hundred deaths daily just at our hospital it wasn't uncommon for a death to go unnoticed or unannounced for a day or two. I considered just letting the disease overcome the boy, maybe he didn't have to know. For hours I contemplated if I should tell the him, finally I decided it was only fair
That evening, when I walked into the area Edward was being held, I could tell his condition had worsened severely. Every inch of his face was shaded blue and his eyes refused to stay open. As I glided to the boy's side I heard a patient scream out in pain; it wasn't uncommon for ribs to crack when people coughed while infected with the Spanish flu.
"Edward?" I called the boy's name placing my hand on his arm. He rolled over and tried to peak at me. "Can you hear me?" There was a faint and barely audible 'yes' that escaped from the boy's lips. If I wasn't what I was I didn't know if I would have been able to hear it.
"You father is dead Edward." The words stung him and I watched as tears snuck their way out of his closed eye lids. "You need to be strong. For him, for your mother." I had crossed a dangerous line. The boy had become more than just a patient to me. I loved him as one would love a child. There were other patients, many other patients, but I found myself only trying to comfort him.
"Where does it hurt the most?" I wanted to ease his pain as best I could. I wasn't ready for his answer.
"Everywhere" he managed to cough out before he was silent again. If I was not able to hear the slow tick of his heart beating I might have thought he had passed on.
"Does your head hurt?" he nodded.
"Does your throat hurt?" he nodded.
"Everywhere hurts" he said again. I couldn't imagine hurting…everywhere. I hardly ever remember getting sick and the idea of being completely susceptible to the disease frightened me for the child. As if to emphasize his point a small trickle of blood escaped his nose. Damn. There was no denying his condition was worsening by the second. His internal organs were hemorrhaging. He didn't have long now.
"Nurse!" I called and watched as a short woman ran over to see how she could aid. "Please bring Mr. Masen to my other wing." The boy was quickly wheeled out of the room. It took me a while to move. His bed was gone and he would be too in just a few hours. It was like he had never been here at all.
A/N: Let me know what you think. Should I continue this? : )