Actions Speak Louder than Words
Disclaimer: Unfortunately, due to a horrid bidding experience, (I'm totally kidding, people. This is just better than saying, "I don't own the Twilight Series.) I do not own the Twilight Saga. Allll of this belongs to Stephenie Meyer, a.k.a. my hero.
Author's Note: I really wanted to showcase Edward's, well... "human-ness" in this story. I also wanted to display Edward's old-fashioned attitude (i.e., he, not once, calls her 'Bella.') As you read, please put yourself in his place and/or do some research on the Chicago outbreak of Spanish Influenza before you read. It just about broke my heart. If you have any questions about this story or any of my other ones, I'll try to find some way to answer them. Happy reading!
His voice was so musical. It resonated throughout my head ever after I gave in to the darkness conquering my senses.
"Sleep now, my Bella," he whispered, stroking my fingers.
I did what Edward told me. I curled up into his chest and fell fast into unconsciousness. Darkness was stirred all around me. It wrapped around my eyes until I could no longer see, and brushed against my arms until I was almost numb. I had no control over myself as I felt myself beginning to twist and fall.
Suddenly, I found myself in an elaborate, beautiful parlor. Dark wood paneling adorned the walls and the trim and the kick moulding was painted in a beautiful golden shade. Flowering houseplants stood vigilantly in the corners, and a huge stained-glass lamp hung in the center. An intricate red-hued rug was beneath my feet; it took up the whole room. Classy, luxurious crimson satin couches sat against two of the adjacent walls. Floor-length windows were wide open and were dispersed at usual intervals in the paneling.
I suddenly noticed that I was physically present in this room. My clothing was from a forsaken era-- a beige-colored dress with a skirt that tapered to a tiny opening at my ankles, and a tank-styled top that was modestly concealed underneath a beautifully made, waist-length summer jacket with four buttons. I wore lovely brown leather shoes that boasted a thin, 2-inch heel. I gasped in astonishment. Was this really me? Was I really here?
I ran my fingers through my espresso-colored hair-- or at least what was left of it. It was cut to my chin and curled with some unknown pomade. I also displayed a tiny velvet hat with a large feather that balanced precariously on my crown. My lips were colored bright, cherry red. Where was I?... or more likely, when was I?
I sighed softly and fingered the embossed vermilion satin of the chair I was seated in.
Suddenly, I heard soft footsteps coming from the doorway placed right in front of my current chair.
Whose house was I invading?
I suddenly knew where and when I was.
Edward Masen walked through the door distractedly, trying to button his shirt cuffs with little success.
"Here, let me do it," I murmured, skitting over to him in my high heels.
He smiled, his face turned down, and watched my fingers move quickly around the awkward buttons.
"Thank you, Isabella," he murmured, and quickly buttoned his suit's jacket. He looked down at me and grinned again, his complexion pinkish and healthy, which complemented a few stray freckles. His bronze hair was parted neatly . The lovely scent of aftershave lingered around him-- just back from the barber. "I'm actually ready to go now."
I gasped quietly when I looked into his eyes. They weren't the golden topaz I was used to; they were now gorgeously emerald green. "Where are we going, Edward?"
He stared at me, confused. "The hospital, of course. My mother and father want to see you with their ring. Oh, they're so happy for us, Isabella."
Taking his hand, I quickly glanced down at my left finger. Elizabeth Masen's ring graced it with a divine presence. Suddenly, I noticed that the now gangly Edward was about to walk into a large potted plant.
"Edward, watch out!"
He gasped and narrowly avoided tripping over the pot.
Laughing sheepishly, he squeezed my hand and apologized for being so uncoordinated. Edward Cullen, uncoordinated? Never. Edward Masen, maybe so. He grabbed a fedora and plopped it on his head. Underneath the hat, however, was what astounded me. White tie-on medical masks hung on the wooden peg. I frowned sadly as I remembered what took my beautiful fiancee's life... and his parents'. The Spanish influenza.
Sighing, he grabbed his mask and tied it around his ears and did the same with mine.
"Don't want to catch the flu, do you?" he murmured sadly, and shut the door behind us. We stepped down the stoop and strode onto the Chicago concrete. There was a sleek, black Ford Model-T in the driveway, but after I inquired him if we were to ride in it, he simply responded that he'd rather walk. He laced his fingers in mine and continued along the sidewalk.
"I hate having to wear these things," he spoke quietly. I assumed he meant the protective masks.
"I don't want you to get sick, Edward. It's better to be safe rather than sorry," I stated wisely. However, I knew what was to really happen to him. Did he?
He nodded. "You're correct, Isabella. This flu has taken too many lives, and I don't want it to steal anyone else's, especially yours." He leaned his forehead against mine, and I stared into his beautiful green eyes as we waited to cross a street.
"I love you," I murmured.
"I love you, too."
Outside of my beautiful reverie with Edward Masen, I noticed that old automobiles were angrily honking their horns-- it was our turn to cross.
"Oh!" he laughed, grasping my hand, holding his fedora, and jogging hurriedly across the street.
I noticed that we were at the "hospital"-- a simple, white brick building with a simple, large red cross painted above large, wooden double doors. It seemed that it must have once been a library or school.
"Here we are," he whispered, holding the door open for me. I thanked him and proceeded to the makeshift lobby with a few wooden benches and light pine floors.
I sat myself down and waited patiently while Edward asked the female receptionist (most likely an off-duty volunteer nurse), also shielded in a white half-mask, where the Masens were now located.
"Edward and Elizabeth, Anne and Joseph, or Maria and Michael, Mr. Masen?"
"Edward and Elizabeth, please."
"They are located in room 206A, Mr. Masen. Would you like a new mask?"
He turned back at me, smiled slightly, and responded quietly. "No, thank you, miss. We're alright."
Edward then walked away from the temporary reception area and gripped my hand shakily. I could feel blood pulsing quickly through his veins. He gulped.
We passed a crying couple, in the hallway at the bedside of a pale young boy, holding each other and weeping uncontrollably. He pulled me to his side and wrapped his long, lanky arm around my waist. I leaned my head on his shoulder.
"I hate this place," he murmured through his mask.
We sadly trudged down a hallway, up two staircases, and turned into a small hallway that shouldn't have been meant for patients. At least eight were crammed together; there was barely enough room to move around. Suddenly, I could hear Edward's breathing quicken dramatically and his pulse become wild as he gripped me even tighter.
His mother was laid in a tiny cot, her eyes glued to the ceiling and her familiar bronze, tousled hair spread out around her in a frenzy. An empty bed with a worn quilt was resting sadly on its mattress next to her.
Edward led me frantically to Elizabeth's bedside, where we both kneeled. A tiny smile on her face, she turned her gaze to meet ours. She was deathly pale, with large purple circles under her red, bloodshot eyes.
"My Edward," she whispered, feebly reaching for his hand. She gasped softly. "And Isabella. What a lovely surprise."
Edward, eyes wide, stroked her hand comfortingly. His voice was extremely shaky. "W-Where's F-Father? Where i-is h-he?"
Suddenly, Elizabeth's beautifully full lips began to tremble and tears leaked out of her sad gray eyes. "Edward, y-your..." she coughed incessantly. Drops of blood landed on her holey, worn quilt. "Yo-Your father." She began sobbing, weeping uncontrollably. For the first time all day, Edward let go of my hand and wrapped his arms around his mother's frail shoulders. Tears began to trickle from his eyes. The mask soaked them up as Elizabeth continued to weep.
He looked at her with tortured green eyes. "I-Is Father d-dead?"
Elizabeth took out a shaky hand and stroked Edward's cheek soothingly, tears still pouring like rain from the sullen sky. "Your f-father passed away this m-mor-morning, Edward. The flu stole him from us."
Suddenly, his breathing became ragged and tears welled up in his eyes as well as mine. He wildly studied his agonized mother's face. Edward suddenly got up and ran down the hallway. I could hear his leather boots clicking down the stairs.
"Edward Anthony!" she called meekly.
"I'll follow him, Elizabeth," I murmured as I kissed her forehead and did my best to sprint down the hallway in my heels. I finally made it to the front door, where I found Edward kneeled on the sidewalk, his head in his hands. Tears poured out of his eyes as he weeped uncontrollably while his fingers tensed and shook against the pavement, causing them to become bloody. His handsome black fedora fell, lopsided, next to his knee. People passed, staring in horrid white masks, which seemed to me to be the sign of death, an inevitable mark of devastation. Crying, I ran over to my Edward and held his face in my hands, frantically kissing his cheek, his forehead, his cotton-covered lips, his nose. He looked at me with a soaked face and bloodshot emerald eyes.
"Isabella, my father is dead," he kept murmuring through his terror. He held my wrists with stiff fingers and kissed me with salty lips.
I just weeped again and stroked his hair and whispered words of comfort into his ear. I felt like a mother consoling a small child. I held my arms around his chest and traced absent patterns on his back as he tangled his quavering fingers in my hair.
More people passed, again staring. Some children pointed, while women hid their faces from the tragic scene. Men watched with hard, solemn expressions while sounds of agony and grief escaped Edward's throat. He wailed with unbearable, inhumane trauma.
"I love you, Edward. I love you. I love you so much. You are the love of my life, Edward. I love you," I whispered to him again and again as he sobbed against my shoulder.
"Isabella, I am going to die."
I inhaled frantically. "No, you're not, Edward. You won't get sick. You won't get sick, Edward."
I heard the hospital doors slam shut. A beautiful, blonde doctor with the face of an angel strode over to us with extreme grace.
Carlisle.
"Mr. Masen, is everything alright?" he murmured in a smooth, strong voice.
Still shaky and crying, I turned to the angelic doctor. "His f-father just passed."
Carlisle's mouth turned down into a frown as he walked over to the trembling, sobbing Edward. He set down his clipboard as his large hands rubbed comforting circles on his shoulders, not disturbing mine and Edward's tragic embrace. Still weeping, my face soaked with tears, my arms now wrapped around his neck, I kissed his masked lips desperately. He still held his arms around my waist, his hands compressed into shaky fists placed at my back.
"Everything is going alright, Edward. You are going to be okay. You have your beautiful Isabella, and your father is in a wonderful place now. He's an angel, and he is in no more pain. He is happy..."
Suddenly, Carlisle's celestial voice began to fade away.
No. I needed to stay with Edward. He needed me. I needed to go back to the death-stricken Chicago. I needed to save Edward.
Carlisle's voice was replaced with one just as beautiful and familiar.
"Bella. Bella, wake up. Bella, you're having a nightmare."
I suddenly snapped my eyes open, which I found were wet with tears. Edward was kneeled next to me on his bed, his arms on either side of my shoulders. His worried eyes were now golden, and his skin was extremely pale.
Edward, now sitting cross-legged, sat me up and placed me in his lap. I began to cry again at the sight of his beautiful face.
His mouth turned down into a worried expression. Edward gave me a kiss and rested his cheek on my head.
"Bella, what's wrong? What happened?"
I continued to cry, like a small child who had lost a favorite toy, and wrapped my arms around his waist and buried my face in his chest. "I'm so sorry, Edward."
His eyes were terrified. "What could you possibly be sorry for?"
I sniffled and stroked his cheek. "You and I were back in Chicago. In 1918 Chicago."
Edward Cullen gulped as his entire body tensed. His eyes smoldered like golden fire.
"We went to the hospital to announce our engagement to your mother and f-father."
He sighed shakily and surveyed my knees, trying to hide his expression from me.
"Edward, I dreamt that I was there when your father passed away."
I looked up at him. His lips trembled slightly and his fingers shook as they stroked my face.
"I couldn't imagine going through that again," he whispered sullenly.
I snatched his hand and, silent tears trickling down my face, placed kisses all over it. "That's why I'm sorry, Edward."
He smiled slightly. "That was ninety years ago, but the pain hasn't dulled."
I reached up to his neck and pulled myself to his lips. He kissed me sadly, sullenly, with a different kind of energy.
This kiss was powered by tragedy, not happiness or even lust.
Edward gently pulled away. He didn't say anything, he just clutched me tighter as tearless sobs escaped his throat.
Maybe actions do speak louder than words.