Author's Note: Hello everyone and thanks for clicking on my title. I'd ask that if you have opened this page you please read this story and leave a review. Constructive criticism is welcomed and appreciated. Reviews let me know whether or not to continue this story. I am well aware that this could stand as a one-shot and that's how I originally intended to leave it, but as I wrote a plot idea sprung into my head. So please, let me know if you'd like to read more of this. It would mean a lot. I also don't own Twilight – the marvellous Stephenie Meyer does.
EternityChapter One
I'm not an overtly religious boy. I have absolutely no problem with those who choose to worship a god or pray daily. I just prefer to live differently. Being unreligious helps to keep me indifferent. I am able to see things from a vast array of opinions. It's much freer than the confines of one strict set of beliefs. I would not consider myself an atheist. I'm all for the existence of a higher power, just so long as someone can prove to me its existence. Good luck to the poor soul who endeavours such a task. Especially now – as I lay in this dismal hospital bed, surrounded by death and despair – I have begun to completely doubt the existence of any god.
It was no more than a week ago that father had fallen ill. The influenza had become an epidemic throughout many cities in North America, Chicago included. Because the disease spread rapidly, mother and I both became infected within hours. We rushed to one of the many overcrowded hospitals, hopeful to not infect any others whose health was intact. As soon as I stepped inside, I could sense the atmosphere of constant death. Looking around, it was impossible to tell who was still breathing and who had already passed on. Everyone was so still – save for those who were screaming in agony as the influenza tore them apart from the inside. A strange sense of foreboding took me over as a tired looking nurse led us to three beds.
The hours passed in a blur, people running back and forth, wheeling fresh cadavers out to the morgue and nurses leading new patients to freshly emptied beds. I felt myself growing weaker and I knew that I was slowly dying. At first, I was afraid. My entire life had been spent denying the existence of the divine but I had never really contemplated what would happen to me after death. I had always assumed that I would simply turn to dust, but now – with a high fever raging war against my body – I was unsure of whether or not I should finally turn to a god and beg for forgiveness. Before I could consider the matter any further, sleep claimed me and I fell into the darkness of my own mind.
I was awoken in what seemed like no time by the sound of heart wrenching sobs coming from somewhere in the near vicinity. My eyes slowly opened and I instantly felt the pain of my disease again – the cold sweat that dripped down my body, the aches that coursed through every muscle. I turned to my left and saw a man leaning over my mother, who was the origin of the crying.
"Mother?"
My voice came out as barely more than a hoarse whisper. Both she and the man turned to look at me. The man, who wore the traditional uniform of the doctor, stood up and silently walked over to my bed, sitting by my side. He looked at me with pity, through eyes of the strangest topaz colour. He was undeniably handsome and his face radiated with a kind, sympathetic light.
"Edward," he spoke softly and I vaguely wondered how he knew my name, "I'm sorry, but your father has passed on." His eyes closed and I felt mine do the same. I fought to hold back the burning tears that were simply itching to get out. But I couldn't cry, not in front of mother. It would simply destroy her. I had to be strong, for mother. I felt the doctor place a strong hand on my forearm and felt a strange sensation of relief. His skin was so cold that it seemed to relieve my fever for just a split second. And then, just as quickly as the relief came, it was gone. I wrenched my eyes open and wiped the pent up tears away on my pillow. But before my vision could return, the doctor was gone. He was a few beds down, speaking to another patient. I turned to face my mother, who looked undeniably lost.
"I won't let anything happen to you Edward." Her voice was stronger than mine, with more resolve to fight off this dreadful illness, although there was a slight echo of disbelief and doubt ringing off her words. She moved to stand up, doubtlessly to come nurse me, but I shook my head feebly.
"Go back to sleep mother," I managed to say, "You need your rest."
I'm not sure how long it took, but eventually my mother's sobs died and her breathing grew soft, almost peaceful. I sighed heavily. The disease had claimed my father, the man who had raised me, whose name I hold. There is no god. No god would allow their beloved creations to suffer so terribly. If there was a god, there would be no flu. And I would still have father. And we would still be at home, playing catch in the yard while mother baked something delicious. A choked, almost animalistic sob escaped from my heaving chest. I noticed the handsome doctor looked up from the other side of the room, his features drawn in pity. Then he looked away, still cheerless.
Days passed and I had grown almost positive that mother had lost her mind, whether from the illness or the grief I could not have been certain. I felt myself growing weaker with each passing hour. The smell of death lingered strong in my nostrils, only fuelled by the passing corpses. The miserable atmosphere of the hospital did nothing to help my spirits and I felt as though happiness had vanished off the face of the earth entirely. Breathing was becoming challenging for me and I had a sneaking suspicion that I would soon join my father, wherever it is that he had gone. Mother seemed to think differently though. It was as though she was determined to not let me go. Much to my dismay, she would constantly leave her bed and venture to my side, singing to me and using her own damp facecloth to cool me off. It was quite literally killing her to see me in such agony. Many times, the handsome doctor came and placed my mother back in her own bed, handing her another facecloth, which would ultimately end up on me.
I am unsure of how many days this went on for, but eventually mother's condition took a turn for the worse. I could hear her harsh breathing from my bed, as though her very throat was closing. I couldn't bear to look at her and see her body shaking with the cold sweat that the fever caused. I was no longer afraid of death as I had been when first entering the hospital. Anger now plagued all my thoughts of death – anger at a nonexistent god who had done nothing to save my family. We would all die here in this musty old hospital room, watched by the handsome doctor, who would live on – even if for a short while – with the severe guilt of having not been able to save more lives. It was unfair. As I wallowed in my confusing thoughts, I heard mother rasping out my name. I looked at her and felt my heart shatter. Her skin was sallow and her eyes were bloodshot and full of anguish.
"Edward," she gasped out, "I'm going to heaven soon. There is a heaven and we'll meet there one day. I promise. We'll all meet there one day, because this…this is hell."
I could do nothing but begin to cry. My mother simply smiled softly and closed her eyes. I could hear her humming peaceful melodies to herself. The velvety sound lulled me into an uneasy sleep. I was in a state of wakeful sleeping, I suppose. I heard the sounds of the hospital around me as I dreamt of mother's smiling face as I grew up, older than seventeen, got married, and raised a family. Of course, I was well aware that it would only ever be a dream.
As I slept – if it could even be classified as such – I heard the most peculiar conversation. I recognized the voice of the handsome doctor conversing with my mother. She sounded desperate, begging him to save my life, to do what others could not do. The doctor's tone was incredulous but understanding. And then there was complete silence. I knew mother had died. But in my state of stupor, of complete lethargy I did not cry. I felt the end of my life ticking closer with each second. But I was no longer afraid, no longer angry, because I believed what mother had told me. She had seemed so entirely sure that heaven was a real place. Perhaps if I just gave in to the pain I would see her sooner. But she had told the doctor to save my life. Mother did not want me to die, not until I had grown up and fulfilled my dreams. My head was spinning with the dozens of thoughts when I heard my name.
"Edward?"
The voice was familiar and though I was barely conscience, I recognized that it belonged to the handsome doctor. He had certainly been trying his hardest to help my family. I felt his cool grasp on my arm and my eyes opened ever so slightly. I could barely make out the doctor's face, but I knew it was him.
"Edward," he whispered, his voice laced with relief at the realization that I was still alive, even though just. "Edward, I'm going to save your life, but you have to promise you'll forgive me."
I hazily wondered if I had lost my mind as well. Of course I wanted to live, but was that even possible at this point? And why would I ever need to forgive a man for saving my life? At any rate, I should forever be in his debt. I felt the doctor give my arm a little squeeze and I remembered that he had asked for my word.
"I promise," I whispered, so low I wondered if he heard me. Apparently he had, because I felt my bed being wheeled away from its original place. As I passed various patients I heard choruses of sickened groans and dying laments. It made my weakened heart cry for them. I could almost feel their suffering as it amplified mine. I inwardly wished that the doctor could save all these people, save them as he was going to save me. But something told me that was out of his power. He must have brought me outside then, because I felt a rush of cool air hit my body. I shivered as a chill rocketed down my spine.
"Just hold on a little while longer," I heard the doctor whisper. His voice was so melodic, so perfect. I wondered how he was going to keep me from death. And then, the oddest thing happened.
I felt myself being lifted from my bed – by whom, I had no idea. The doctor was the only one around, but he was young and looked rather slim. I doubted he could lift me alone. But sure enough, a pair of cold hands slung me onto a cold back and in moments I was flying. I barely remember it though, as the shock caused me to pass out.
The next sensation, after flying, that registers in my mind is the sensation of fiery pain. Surely, this was dying.
