Chapter 1 - An Ending, and a Beginning
There was an amazing amount of … thought, in the air. It was … suffocating. I felt like I couldn't hear myself … think, if that was possible. Although, obviously, I was the only one that I could hear thinking, I couldn't help but get this feeling, that I knew the thoughts of others as well. It was like my mind was subconsciously analyzing every little detail of a person's expression, gestures, and reactions, and thereby gathering a sort of idea as to exactly what that person was thinking at that given time. Of course, I could never prove this, but I was confident, that had I been given a chance to ask, I wouldn't have been proven wrong. It was a confusing concept, but that was the way it had always been. Other thoughts. That was what dominated my life constantly. It was as if I couldn't get away from them, even if I wanted to. And right now, the thoughts weren't exactly content or pleasing thoughts. They were violent and tormented and scared and fiery. It was the atmosphere of war. I could smell the adrenaline running through men's veins, hear the fear beating in women's, and listen to the confusion rolling off of children's minds. It was all very overwhelming.
And yet, all I wanted was to become a part of it. A part of it all. I wanted to be brave and honored. I wanted to fight for my country. I wanted to come home victorious, with possibly a purple heart and a special congratulations from President Woodrow Wilson for my bravery, my stellar service to the country. Not that I had ever taken a keen liking to Wilson; there was something in his face … At any rate, this … feeling of mine, was by no means some superstitious act. I genuinely knew the minds of others. For example, on the subject of war. I knew mother did not agree with me. Even though she never voiced her thoughts, she failed to see how war could be appealing. She wanted me to live. She thought I deserved to live. Life. How quickly life was slipping through people's fingers. So many soldiers lost, fighting for our country, so many innocent taken, by the misfortune of a plague. My family, we were all we had left. All the distant as well as close relatives had died off by one way or another. The economy was strong, but the living conditions were harsh. Child labor sickened my heart, and blackened the money my father earned. We were lucky, I was lucky. To be born into such a well-to-do family in such times was a blessing. And yet, I wanted nothing more than to be poor, so that I could be allowed to go to war with the excuse that I needed the money.
I took in a deep breath of air. It was so refreshing out here, on the navy pier. The smell of the sea calmed me somehow, got rid of all the confusion. I felt at ease here. As if I could become one with the breeze and flow calmly over the waters below for eternity. Calming and peaceful, just like mother. Mother, I should go back to her. She will be wondering where I am. I turned away from the gently rolling waves of the lake and started down the road. I wanted to see mother, she was an essentiality to my life, as I was to her.
***
Something was very wrong. Very wrong. The atmosphere felt too tense, too strained. I was almost afraid to enter my house. But I had to, it was essential to find out the dreaded. I stepped forward, closer to the front door. My palm rested against the cool wood of the frame. I calmed myself: It was alright, maybe I was misinterpreting things. It was very quiet to be sure, but maybe father wasn't home yet, and mother was sleeping. Or … something. It was alright, there was no need to panic. Nothing was wrong, nothing was … I braced myself and pushed the door open. Again, the abnormal stillness greeted me. It was unnatural, not at all like our usual lively household. Still, I tried to convince myself and pushed the door open. Again, the abnormal stillness greeted me. It was unnatural, not at all like our usual lively household. Still, I tried to convince myself. I had no confirmation yet, nothing was wrong. Everything was going to be alright. And then I was aware of a murmuring, coming from my parents' room. I started, everything had seemed so still before, that I had not considered the possibility of noise. But strangely, the realization that it was not so still as I had thought before did not calm me. There was something off, very off.
Automatically, I took the steps to reach my parents' bedroom door. But again, I stopped. Should I not disturb them? My father's voice drifted toward me, more clearly now.
"Elizabeth, Elizabeth, Elizabeth …"
There was a certain craze in his voice, like he was barely keeping his emotions under control I was surprised by this, my father being crazed. It was unlike him to not be composed. It was one of his amazing qualities that I attempted to take from him, inherit from him. No one did every compliment me on my restraint as they did my father. Then again, people always wanted to get on the good side of father.
"Elizabeth, Elizabeth, breathe. Please breathe, open you eyes, love. I need you."
Breathe? What did he mean … breathe? My mother wasn't … breathing? The door was open before I consciously registered the fact that it had been my hands that had pushed it open. And finally, comprehension dawned on me, as I took in the scene before me. There my mother lay, on my parents' bed, looking utterly … weak. She had a hand clutched at her chest like it hurt to have that part of her exist. Like she couldn't' endure the pain. As I stood there frozen, she coughed. And the cough … it was not small and passing. It was a wheezing, dying cough. The cough of the dead. I took a step forward, an overwhelming dread forming within me. Yes, something was wrong. Something was very, very wrong. It was then that my father acknowledged my presence. He shifted his position on a wooden chair beside the bed, to look at me. His light brown hair was mussed and unkempt. It was not in the usual carefree way, but in a malnutrition, crazed way. His lightly unshaven chin suddenly seemed hard and cold. there were deep black circles under his eyes, and all his wrinkles seemed more pronounced. And his eyes. His eyes were that of a madman. In those eyes, I saw into the depths of a soul that was almost not my father. There was a pure and overwhelming despair that pervaded his every thought, his every cell, his every being. He was in pain, because his beloved wife was … dying. My mother, of all people, had become a victim of the influenza pandemic. My eyes were locked with my father's. I got the distinct impression that if he did not have to keep himself composed in front of mother, he would be screaming. Screaming and thrashing and wailing, and that burning look just smoldering beneath his eyes would have taken on a fiery blaze. My father was roasting alive, burning at the stake.
I did not need to ask unnecessary questions and torment father with questions. There was nothing I need to know, to say. My mother had quite a high possibility of … death. There was nothing to discuss, there was only dread. I pulled up a chair next to my radiant beauty of a mother, now lying helpless and broken on the bed … and prayed.
***
I watched over mother until my eyelids were the weight of the sky on my shoulders of Atlas. And I let them fall over my eyes as sleep took me. I did not dream. There was nothing but a white expanse of nothingness that surrounded me in my sleep, and I was out for hours. When I awoke, it was not triggered by the sun shining through the window, or the birds chirping in the trees outside, or any of the sounds of life that surrounded me. I awoke to my mother's screaming. My head was pushed violently to the side as my mother thrashed about violently on the bed. Father was trying to restrain her, but he needed my help. For someone so sick, she was impossibly strong. Worse. Yes, my mother was worse. A thick layer of sweat covered every square centimeter of her skin, and she was drenching her clothes and the bed sheets with it. She was so pale, like the light of the moon shining on white pavement or marble. Her skin was tighter against her cheek bones today. The screaming quieted. Not because the pain went away, or even because she became too tired. But because the burn in her chest choked it out of her throat.
"Son … leave us."
"… But, father."
"Play your mother some music, you know how she loves to hear you play."
I gave up on arguing with him. He wanted to be with mother alone. They had a bond I was yet too young to understand. The bond of love that I did not know. The bond of destiny. It was different than the bond between a parent and child. Different than the bond between siblings. Different than the bond between man and God. The bond of absolute mutual caring adoration for one another. Something I felt it'd take decades, maybe even centuries to learn. Something normal people never even found. Mother and father were lucky in that. The fact that they had each other.
My foot rested lightly over the right-most pedal at the foot of the black Steinway upright piano. It was the best up and coming piano of the year. Very classy, very expensive, and very beautiful. And the touch of one key made music all that much more lovely to listen to. If I had my way, I'd spend the majority of my time sitting here on this bench, playing on this piano. I lifted my left hand and placed them on two keys, one black and one white. Gently, I pressed them down in the sweetest manner possible. The clash of the two notes brought out the beginning of the song, and I followed them slowly with two more notes in time, this time with the right hand. This song was slow and sweet, it wove an amazing story of love into my mind. When I played this, I felt like I could finally get a glimpse into depth of my mother and father's love. "Very French" was what my father always described it as. And it should be, it's written by a Frenchman: Debussy. Clair de Lune. By the Light of the Moon. It doesn't sound as captivating in English, but then again, everything sounds hypnotizing in French. That's the beauty of the language. And I suppose that's why I put up with the outrageous complexity of its grammar and learn it. The pace picks up quickly, and the notes don't seem soft and slow now. They're flowing like the sparkling water in a small stream, smoothly gliding. My wide hands reach the octaves easily as I fly through the notes. I'm going a little faster than I should be, but I want to let go a little.
I spend all day there, just playing music. I kept to the songs with light tones, so as not to bother mother and father. But if I'd had my way, I'd be pounding the keys with maximum force right now. How can this happen to my family? Are we being punished for our wealth? Are we being punished for our popularity. Are we being punished just to be punished? I may not have my father's control, but I am his son. I kept my feelings under the surface, I suppressed my needs for the needs of others. I cooked dinner: fettuccine alfredo and a caesar salad. Perhaps I should have made something simpler, gone for something easy to digest rather than for elegant. But there's only so much I can cook, and all I've ever learned are complex dishes. I suppose I do everything backwards that way, from hard to easy. It's my nature. Mother didn't each very much, and it hurt me to see how weak she really was. She was no better than from late this morning, and as sad I was to think it, I hadn't expected her to be.
"Thank you son." Father turned his head to the side to cough. "I haven't even been thinking about food." He coughed again. I was too far focused on mother to notice. I should have realized it at the time. I would have if I had not been tired from lack of sleep, sore from hours of playing. I see now that I should have seen it. My father was sick as well.
"It's … the least I can do." I replied tonelessly. I trudged out the door, and collapsed on the cough in the living room, not able to keep my eyes open for another second.
***
"NO!" I shouted vehemently. "No! She'll die faster there. So many sick and dying, she won't have a chance!"
"What do you expect me to do, Edward? She needs medical care. Medicine will do her far better than anything I could ever do for her." He was interrupted twice by a cough, and they weren't light coughs.
"Then get a doctor to come here! Do anything but send her there. It's a death sentence." But of course, it was too much for me to hope that this easy solution had just slipped from father's mind. He looked at me, the fire smoldering deep within. At first I couldn't understand his expression, but then I realized. It wasn't he expression of pity. He was looking at me like there was something obvious that I was forgetting.
"Edward," he began. "No one in their right minds would risk their lives for just on person. All the doctors willing to help are in that hospital, and we're going there whether you like it or not. Now please, stop hindering us, time is of essence. We should have gone earlier."
My hands fell to my sides, and my feet moved my body aside from my father to open the door so he could carry mother out. I was dazed as the despair hit me again. Father stopped halfway to the coach waiting, reigned up with horses, and pulled a handkerchief from his pocket. He coughed into it, then quickly hid it away. But not fast enough, for I saw the few specks of glistening red blood freshly on the white cloth, before it was gone. I followed like dead man, the only points of light in my world crumbling before my eyes.
***
The hospital was death. It looked like death, reeked of death, and harbored death. And it was bringing me and my parents down with it. Hundreds of dying and half-dead were crammed together in a large, open space. Sometimes it seemed that all the doctors had time to do was roll in the dying and roll out the dead. Mother and father were squeezed together on two separate cots at the corner where the sickening white walls met. I spent my days caring for them, making my up for what the doctors and nurses were too busy to do. Father had fallen sick quite quickly, even faster than mother had. Mother was using every ounce of her energy to stay alive, for us. But father, he didn't seem to have the will in him anymore. To him, mother was the world. And no matter how much he loved me, his son, without mother everything would go black for him. So he took the sickness with almost a happy resignation. He wasn't fighting, he didn't want to. Things had gone from bad to worse in such a short time.
And then there was me. Of course, I was sick as well. But I managed to hide it from everyone. It wasn' too hard fooling mother and father of my sickness because they were halfway gone most of the time. The pain was insufferable to them. The doctors weren't much harder to convince, because frankly, none of them had time to notice anything in detail any longer. There were just too many patients. And too many of those patients had much more blatant symptoms than I did. I was almost invisible. But that didn't mean I wasn't sick. I'd have to go out to the faucet and wash out my handkerchief at least 5 times a day. Because it was drenched with so much blood that I couldn't use it anymore after several hours. By the third day, I'd given up. This was how my life was going to end, and I was in no position to do anything about it. I wasn't even sure that I particularly wanted to do anything about it. Because I'd had a lot of time to think these past few days. And I realized that I didn't have a passion for anything. If I did love anything at all, it would be my family. And that was it. And they were going to go somewhere that I knew almost nothing about. So what was I going to do without them? Waste away. And I certainly didn't want that. Yes, I was happy that I was going to die as well.
So, by the third day at the hospital, I gave up. And by gave up, I mean that I stopped trying to hide my sickness. I crawled into bed with my mother, and curled into her side, pretending I was her little Edward once again. Pretending that she could protect me from anything. Pretending that I had nothing to worry about, because she was with me. Pretending that everything was completely wonderful. Pretending I wasn't going to die. And more importantly, pretending that she wasn't going to die as well. I only hoped that I did not have wait long to follow her. After a few hours, a cool touch pulled me from my agonized half-dream state. I opened my eyes to find a doctor gazing over me. His expression was so protective, and caring. His touch was so light that I barely felt it, and his eyes seemed to bore into mine. But none of these things were what made me stare so hard. I thought that I'd seen my fair share of beauty in my lifetime. Sure I hadn't lived that long, but how many beautiful women could one meet during a lifetime? But I never thought that the most beautiful of women would be bested by a mere man. And this man was beautiful. Handsome would not have done him justice. He was extraordinary in his beauty, and I couldn't take my eyes off of him. I was going crazy. It wasn't physically possible to be this beautiful. It wasn't physically possible for someone like this man to exist. But here he was, staring into me like he wanted to save me. So maybe he was Jesus. Or maybe I was crazy.
The doctor's face was white and smooth, I couldn't find single wrinkle or frown line anywhere. His smooth blonde hair was brushed into a perfect wavy actor-style fashion. He had thick eyelashes framed deep-set eyes that were a surprisingly light color of brown. It almost reminded me of honey, until I noticed the little specks of gold scattered here and there within his pupils. His eyes seemed to shine, like there was some different lubricating his pupils that was not water. My gaze lingered on his somehow perfect nose, and mouth. His neck trailed down to what must have been perfectly toned body that just hinted at its perfection under the white coat that he wore. There was an elegant script sewn into his left-hand chest pocket that read "Dr. Cullen." He waited for me to come to my senses completely before speaking.
"You've fallen ill as well." The sadness in his voice was overwhelming. Most people would not have cared so much whether I was sick or not. I got lost in his beauty again, unable to speak. I started to worry myself, maybe I was becoming a homosexual. Not that it mattered, because I was going to die soon. The thought brought me back to reality and I attempted to make a response.
"How … how did you know that?"
There was a sudden gush of wind near my arm, although there couldn't have been any cause for it. It had the distinct impression that the doctor had moved, even though I had been staring at him the entire time, and he could not have moved at all without me noticing it. But somehow, his arm was not stretched out to me in the same manner as before, and in his palm was my blood soaked handkerchief. I understand immediately, this was an explanation. My handkerchief was proof of my illness.
"Oh," I said. But even as I spoke, my eyebrows furrowed into a frown. My handkerchief had been in my pocket. There was no way that he could have seen it, or even extracted it without my knowing. Had I been so far gone in my sleep to not notice someone's touch? Was there something wrong with me? No, I was thinking it through too much. Of course there was something wrong with me. I was dying. My senses would not be as acute as they would have been under normal circumstances.
"Here, I've prepared a fresh cot for you. You can rest a little more comfortably." I looked to my side to see that there was indeed a new cot beside my mother's. I obeyed sluggishly, my body didn't seem to be able to react as quickly as before.
"Thank you," I murmured. And then I fell into the world of dreams again.
When I awoke, it was to the feel of a wet cloth over my forehead. Someone was wiping away the sweat that had accumulated there. It felt nice. Then the next thing I noticed was that nothing else felt even remotely nice. I felt like I was suffocating. There was a huge pain in my chest, and I felt like my heart was straining to beat. Like it was holding on for dear life. My limbs were all very numb, I couldn't feel them to tell them to move. I couldn't seem to feel anything properly. I tried to open my eyes, but my lids were entirely too heavy. It was like trying to find my way up to the surface while I was under water, but suddenly not being able to detect gravity and find which way was up. I was being smothered. I cough rocked through my body, and I felt sticky substance come out of me in large quantities. Blood. I could smell the salty taste of it, making me sick. Someone wiped away the liquid and whispered.
"Edward…" The voice was speaking, but I could not make out the voice. It was a voice I knew, but I could not remember. I could not remember my name, or where I lived, or who I was. I couldn't seem to think too clearly at all. The voice came louder this time.
"Edward …" It was a familiar voice, a very familiar voice. But it sounded so far away. Who was it?
"EDWARD!" Mother. Oh, mother. Wait, mother? Mother! She was better now, she was taking care of me! My eyes fluttered open in pure shock, she was better. And then my vision focused on her face as the blackness faded away, and I knew that she was not better. She was worse, very much worse. The sense of happiness flooded out of me immediately, and my soul fell to rock bottom again. She was not better. But why was she here then? Why was she taking care of me? She should lie down, she should save herself. I didn't need to live. I needed her to live. She was much more important than I could ever be. I tried to push her away, but my arms didn't seem to want to move. I couldn't push her away, the pain in my chest was too great. It pushed on me with a thousand times more force than I pushed on it. And after a while, I stopped tying. It felt nice to have her take care of me. She was protecting me again. I let my eyelids fall back over my vision, and I fell into a stupor again.
The next time I was conscious of anything, I only had the luxury of one of my senses: hearing. There were two voices speaking somewhere near me. To my right? To my left? I couldn't tell. I wasn't in any state to be differentiating position.
"Save him!" My mother, begging for father's life.
"I'll do everything in my power." A male voice responded. The tone was so like velvet and alluring that I instantly recognized it, even though I'd only heard it once before: the doctor. Doctor Cullen. There was a small sound as some physical interaction occurred. Did he place his palm on her forehead? Did he check her pulse? Did he take her hands in his? I couldn't tell. I listened for more.
"You must," my mother insisted. I couldn't believe that she had the strength to talk. She had been the first to fall ill. How could she have to strength to be begging for father's life? She was so strong, my mother. Ever the person I would look up to. "You must do everything in your power. What others cannot do, that is what you must do for my Edward." Stubborn. My mother was stubborn. The doctor could only do so much. But then I realized something. She had said "my Edward." She never called father "mine." It was a term that she reserved for me … because I was hers. Because she had created me. But she had not made father, she only loved him. So she insisted on calling him, love or dear. But never "my Edward." That was for me. And so I understood that she was begging for my life. And that brought on another realization. That mother had been leaning over me and caring for me the last time I was awake. Mother was telling the doctor to save my life, not fathers. And that could only mean one thing: that father was not here to save. Because I knew mother and father. And I knew that no matter how much they loved me, they came before me. And if father were alive, she would have been begging for his life, and not mine. So she must want to save the only thing she had left: me.
No. Father. I hadn't even had a chance to tell him goodbye. Well, that wouldn't be a problem for long now. I could feel it, life was draining out of me. Soon, I would be with father again. And mother would come along with me. It was for the best, our family could not be separated. There wasn't a sound of retreating feet. But I knew that the doctor had gone. I could feel the absence of his presence. A wave of pain washed over me then, and I couldn't think about anything anymore. The last thing I heard was my mother's voice whispering over my silent screams of pain.
"It will be alright now my Edward. He will save you. I know he will."
And through the pain, I registered the loss of my mother's life as well.
***
Wind was rushing past me at alarming speed. I must be riding on something very fast. But what could possibly go this fast? A horse? No, there was no bumping at all. I wouldn't have known I was moving if not for the wind. And I could feel strong arms holding me. It was someone. But how was that possible? It wasn't logical for me to be going this fast. So … I must be dying. Is this what it felt like to die? It was certainly exhilarating. The wind. Was an angel carrying me to the heavens to be with mother and father? Would I finally get to see them again? I relaxed into the arms as I had this thought. The pain was finally going to be over soon. I was finally going to die.
But then, I stopped. What was wrong? Was I being denied entrance into heaven? What had I done? I tried to recall the worst sin I had committed, tried to ask for forgiveness before the angel decided to drop me into the depths of hell. I was a good person. Couldn't I be forgiven? All I wanted was to be with my family, was that too much to ask for? And then there was that voice.
"I'm … so sorry, Edward." The voice of the doctor. He was my angel? Had he been waiting to take us away when we died? It would explain his outstanding beauty. And then suddenly, I felt something hard at my neck, and I couldn't think anymore. Because I was burning alive, in hell.
***
Flames licked all over my body. I had never been burned before. So I wasn't prepared for this at all. I had not idea how much pain could be caused by the flames of hell. And just the thought that this would go on for eternity … If I could have shuddered I would have. And this hell was so many times worse than the one I'd imagined. I couldn't open my eyes. It was completely pitch dark. It was like I didn't have a body at all, just a brain to receive messages of intense pain. The strangest part about the pain was that it covered all of my body. No just my extremities, or my abdomen, or my legs. But all of me. And that included the most sensitive parts of me. Like my eyes, and my lips, and my brain, and my private areas. And, it wasn't just my skin that was burning. It was every single part of me, inside and out. my heart, my stomach, my veins, my blood. All of it was burning. And there was nothing, absolutely nothing I could do to stop it. There were times when I found my voice, and I would cry out.
"I'M SORRY, I'M SORRY, I'M SORRY! PLEASE SAVE ME! OH GOD! AHHHHHHH …" But I never got a response. And I couldn't figure out what it was that I had done so wrong. But I didn't have much time to think on the subject before I was screaming in agony or on lockdown again. And then there were other times when my body took a mind of its own and began thrashing all over the place. Hell was killing me, and not killing me at the same time. Eternity burning. That was all I could think about. I didn't think even eternity would help me get used to this excruciating burning.
Did I do the right thing?
What? What was that? That wasn't me talking. Someone is talking. Someone is there? Can they help get me out, or at least help me open my eyes. I want to be able to see again…
Yes, he would have died like his parents. And Elizabeth begged me … no ordered me to …
Mother? What about mother? What did mother say?
His life would have been lost. Surely this existence is better than death. Unless of course he were to have gone to heaven. There isn't a place imaginable better than heaven. So maybe I have damned him to an eternity of living hell. What can I do now? Nothing. Nothing at all…
I couldn't understand what was being said. Was the person talking about me? He said a "living hell." What did that mean? Was I somehow still alive? And then I couldn't think anymore because the pain was so overwhelming again. I was surprised that there was anything left of my body to burn. But I supposed this was some sick phenomenon of hell. Maybe my body grew back the moment I was burned so that I could feel all the pain. Or maybe just my nerves grew back. So maybe it was better that I couldn't open my eyes. Because I wasn't sure I wanted to see what I looked like right now.
It shouldn't be too long now.
There was that voice again. Help me. Please help me. But I couldn't find my voice. My vocal chords were probably charred by now. God what sins have I made for you to torture me so? God …
Eons of time passed while I burned away. There were periods of blackness now where I couldn't not feel the pain at all. I supposed these were rewards for my endurance or something of the sort. I welcomed these times of blackness with open arms. They were so much better than the endless burning. This was the kind of blackness that those who take their own lives would have prayed for. It was a quiet, emotionless blackness that overwhelmed the mind. When I was in those states, I wasn't even sure that I existed. It was only when I was pulled out of these periods of time back to the red fire that I acknowledged my existence. And for what it was worth, I wished that I didn't exist so that I wouldn't have to feel the pain.
Then suddenly, my fingertips weren't on fire anymore. The shock of this sunk into me as I contemplated the reason. And then I realized something else: I could feel something beneath the pads of my fingers. Was it sheets? Was I on a bed? Maybe I'm not dead. Living hell … hmmmm. And a while later, I was aware of something else: less pain. I could feel the burn leaving more and more of my fingers now. And did the fire just leave my toes? Thank God. He must be relenting just this much for me. Thank God. My entire hand was free of fire now. Completely free of it. My feet were the next to go. Slowly, but surely, the fire went from my legs and arms as well. But then the fire began to grow within my heart. I didn't know that I could feel more scorching pain that I had while burning. But this pain was intensified. I almost wished that my condition had remained the same. The burning grew in my heart as it pumped harder and faster. I couldn't register the pain leaving the rest of my body, because all of my senses were focused on my heart now. It was beating like mad, thundering. Faster, louder, harder. And then suddenly. Everything stopped. The silence was almost painful. I heard nothing but a strange ringing in my ears. Then I became aware of other things. There was a soft breeze blowing across my face. There was a soft texture underneath me. And there was the command of my body again. Finally, I drew open the curtains to my eyes, and stared above me into the bright light of day.