Edward jerked away, his neck snapping up instinctively as he gasped from his nightmare haunting his sleep for months now. His green eyes were lined with dark purple circles from his sleepless state, and the circles caused his deathly pale skin to look even paler in comparison. Edward moved slightly in his bed to look at his mother tossing and turning next to him, she herself sleepless but Edward was sure that his mother wasn't suffering from nightmares as horrible as his own. They had been haunting every moment that he had spent while unconscious and it was going to drive him to insanity. Edward heaved out a sigh from his discomfort and tried to ignore the spiking pain in his throat as he heaved the loud lungful of air.

The white sheet the surrounded his bed moved slightly and a dark silhouette could be seen against the moonlight, a man most defiantly. He stood at about six foot, maybe just over by a couple of inches, he couldn't be higher than six foot three or two… His body was built to the point where he held muscle, but it wasn't as over bearing on his body to the point where it dominated his overall form. The moonlight bleached out his already pale skin, and you could see that he was clearly a doctor.

"Edward?" The doctor questioned, coming towards the teenager lying in the bed, dying. His face came close to the candle that was flickering away at Edward's bedside; the face was one that Edward knew very well.

"Dr. Cullen?" Edward questioned in his horse voice. "What are you doing here?" By logic, Edward knew that it had to be somewhere in the early hours of morning, just past midnight maybe.

"I'm working. I heard you being restless and thought that I might come in and check up on you and your mother, Mr. Mason." Carlisle replied, sitting on the edge of Edward's bed and pulled up the face mask. Carlisle hated having to wear the dreadful thing, as he could not get infected by the illness, but he had to appear human. Carlisle brought one of his ice cold hands to Edward's forehead, trying to gauge the temperature of his skin. The skin seemed like it would nearly melt off his body it was running a fever so high, and Carlisle could estimate that his temperature was about 103.26°. Edward closed his eyes and let his mind go to the cold hand placed on his skin, reveling in the cold touch it brought and how it seemed to make his harsh fever go down.

"Well, your fever has yet to reduce in temperature, Mr. Mason." Carlisle replied, his tone a void of all emotion. He was not pleased to find out that the fever had gotten worse, and he knew that Edward would surely die soon.

Edward nodded mutely, not trusting his voice to project his feelings on the matter… but he did want to ask Carlisle of one more thing. "My mother… wi-will she live?" Edward asked, his eyes growing sad at the thought of his mother dying.

Carlisle looked at the woman lying next to Edward, her bronze hair sprayed out on the brown pillow and her face turned away from them. Her arms and legs twitched every now and then, causing a shot of pain the hit her son in the heart. Sweat pooled from her pores and spilled onto the sheet that wrapped in a vice around her body, and her eyebrows were furrowed from the nightmare playing out in her head. An involuntary whimper escaped through her tightly closed lips. Edward flinched when he heard the torturous sound, and tears pooled in his eyes. The doctor didn't know how to deliver the inevitable to her son, a boy who is practically an orphan at seventeen; his father never regaining consciousness after his first spell of the epidemic and now his mother… How could just one man that has never had a companion tell a young man that hi smother was surely going to die within the next two weeks?

"I… I think that it's best if we all hope for a miracle, Mr. Mason…" Carlisle sighed deeply before he rose from his seat on the bed and walked out, but not in time to drown out the painful sobs that Edward gave.

Once the words hope and miracle had come from the doctor's mouth, Edward knew that his beloved mother was going to die… How could God do this to one man? Take away his father, not have him meet the love of his life, and then take away his mother as well? Who would do such a thing to just one man?

Edward let the tears spill over his eyelids as he gazed lovingly at his mother's sleeping body. He let out a sob and placed his head in his hands, letting the tears come as freely as they wished. He was surely going to be an orphan now, and his parents had been only children and all of his grandparents dying when he was a young toddler.

How could God do that to just one man? Take away his father, and then have both him and his mother get infected with something and then have his mother die in the process? Why would just one man do that to just another, when the one being punished didn't even do anything to promote such a thing?

The teenager pulled his hands to his eyes a let his shoulders shake violently with the sobs and tears that rolled through his body. The tears rolled down his arms and splashed onto his lap, staining and running to his skin soaking it in the salt water. His strange hair was beginning to stick to his neck and his face was becoming drenched in sweat from his over bearing fever.

After ten minutes of weeping for his soon-to-be loss, Edward took the shot of glancing over at his mother and watching her chest rise and fall with each breath she took. He shook his head sharply, trying to get the iron hot images of this woman with death pale skin and her eyes looking off into nothing as her heart stopped and her lungs began to no longer produce carbon dioxide. The boy reached under his pillow and pulled out the worn leather journal that only he knew he kept hidden there; well, Edward and Carlisle that is.

Edward frantically reached for the burning oil lamp on his bedside and turned up the light just slightly as he snatched the black ball point ink pen from the wood. He opened to the next available page in the thick book. Soon, he began to scribble his writings on the blank page.

29th of May, 1918

Dear Diary,

Once again, I write to you about how I lay here helpless in this bed, dying of something that I didn't even know was happening until the local paper boy began to shout that the death toll in the state of Illinois had taken quite the dramatic drop. Even the war wasn't this bad; and now I can only imagine Mother thinking about how she wished that I was old enough to get drafted and then possibly I would have been more able to live through this time. Even if I did go off and fight in the mud ridden and filthy trenches I would have had a much better chance of living then this.

Dr. Cullen left just about five minute ago after he had told me that Mother was not going to be able to see the next new year; he claimed that it would take a miracle for her to live through this wretched infestation. Why, Diary, must it be my mother? The only one that I feel closest to at the moment when I am isolated in this building, only limited to the space that the doctors give me. Father is already gone at awaiting at the gates of heaven for mother to join him, and here I sit with a better chance at life then a woman who deserves much more than I.

These men are inconceivable when it comes to what good it will be that Mother just die now. . . Do they not know of what great good just one person can bring to the world? I may not be wide for my year, but I know of quite a few philosophies of life, Diary. I know that one person can do so much for others, like Queen Victoria of England (may the Majesty rest in peace). She came to the throne of her country at only the age of eighteen, only one more year of age than I, and she ruled her great country with an iron fist. When the great Queen died the loss even struck my own home when Father found out just what had happened; and so an era died with her and a new one began.

I believe that Mother should die in her home, from old age and to die peacefully without having to go through this pain and suffering. She deserves to be lying next to Father and his grave for the rest of time itself, and not withering away to nothing in this filthy and unhygienic building that people call a hospital.

Edward paused in his wirings, trying to ponder in his mind of what he could possibly write down next. Tears still rolled down his cheeks from his earlier weeping over his mother, the water rolled onto the pages lying open in his lap with the faintest of all noises. He was no longer sobbing loudly for his soon-to-be loss, but nonetheless his shoulders still shook somewhat and his mouth would open occasionally and take in a gasp of air to fuel his body. Edward ran his spare hand through his unruly hair and sighed deeply, wishing for something to just pop into his mind for once. He let his piercing green eyes train down onto the half written page sitting in his lap, the ink drying much quicker today.

Where will I be, dear Dairy, when I shall pass from this horrid illness? I overhear the doctors and nurses daily, how they whisper about one another as if I were deaf about how little room there is in the morgue and how sad it is. They whisper about how they have to place the corpses outside in the open or some spare rooms throughout the hospital. Will that be I, Diary? Will I be one of the dozens that lay piled in a random spare room with no one knowing where I am, or who I am? Will I be placed in a grave with the rest of my family for the rest of time? Where will I be, Diary, where…?

All that I can do, Diary, is hope that I will even get a burial at all once I pass; just as I can only hope that my Isabella will marry a man that can give her what she deserves from life. Perhaps, she will meet a college scholar, one who is exceptionally bright and can easily raise children with their constant questions and inquirizations ( No, by the by, I am not sure that is a word…. It just seems smart.) about the world. He will surely be a stable husband for my darling and give her every thing that she needs in the short life that we have.

A loud squeaking could be heard from the other side of the sheet of Edward's hospital bed, and the boy quickly stopped all writings as soon as the sound was within his hearing range. He reached over and dimmed the oil lamp down so the light seemed slightly less conspicuous.

Several foot falls came with the squeaking, most of them sounding light and click like… nurses in their heels with their gowns. Only one set was heavier and the soul of the shoe sounded as if it was solid and constant in its path to the heel of the foot.

A sigh was heaved from a woman's throat. "Another one… gone." The nurse choked off at the end of her statement, and quiet sobbing could be heard, muffled by the handkerchief that she was most likely holding.

No reply came to the nurse's obvious statement, only a male sighing as well and the sounds of footsteps walking away into a completely separate direction then the way that they came, to the south side of the hospital where the morgue was located.

Edward waited until he was positive that the doctors wouldn't be able to hear the ball point pen scratching vigorously against the rough paper that composed his deepest secrets and longings. The boy bent his head again and let his hand move along the paper and began to write again, continuing from where he left off before he was interrupted.

But, I still cannot help the feeling the I have deep down in my heart that it still won't be enough for my lovely and she will always be sitting out on her dream porch sighing and knowing that there could have been something better than what she has. Of course I will never expect for Isabella to speak out loud of her thoughts, knowing that she would find it ridiculous to be thinking such things and will not wish to hurt her husband's feelings, no matter how opinionated she might be.

I will never meet this lovely woman, but I feel as if I already know her deep down in my heart and I feel as if I already know her better than any man could know his own life or his lover. I know that even if we can't ever be together in an intimate way that she will be my lover, and it will last until the end of time itself. I love my Isabella and it nearly kills me knowing that I could be with her right now rather than sitting here in this bed dying for no reason or without a fight; my body has turned against me, Diary, and I don't know how to stop it from slowing its pace… Tell me, Diary, how can I feel such an emotion with a woman whom I have only seen or met in my dreams? Is such a thing possible for someone of my age, someone who has never once had any interest in the opposite sex until recently? Why must it be me who has to go through hell and back just so that I can live another day longer? Why must it feel as if the fiery pits of Satan's home be burning inside my skin and not let one thing relieve that scorching pain for just a single moment's worth of bliss? How can it hurt so much to move my arms in the simplest movement, and hardly be able to bend my neck on a string of days in a row? Why would one man create such a horrible disease for His children to live through and then die, when they feel as if a demon has kissed its way around our naked flesh and on the internal flesh as well? Why would God create such a thing for his children to die from, to feel as if they were blessed by the Devil himself, and if God's children do end up going to hell, will it be a relief from the fire that they were suffering in their mortal lifetime, or will it be much the same, Diary?

I fill my young mind with questions such as these on a daily occurrence, and I wish for them to go all away, Diary. I wish that I could stop the pain by just simply willing it all away from my mind and trying to seem like I'm not walking at the slowest pace through the pits of hell, and getting lost on the way.

I must have committed a sin of a sorts, to have this punishment and still be God's child? Impossible for one that is still the Lord's child. But what, my dear Diary, may I ask have I done to have this cruel sinning punishment inflicted not only on my body, but my mother's and father's along with several other people who I am sure, are a pure a cleansed as holy water.

I wish that my life could go back…

For the second time that night, Edward paused in his writings but for this time he wasn't stopping because he believed that he heard something coming in his direction; no it was much worse then getting caught writing.

Edward bit down on his lip hard, to keep his sudden groan from pain from escaping his thin lips. He set the open book along with the pen down on the thin white bed sheet and the boy rolled over onto his left side, his right hand clutching tightly at his side desperately. The green eyes stayed where they were, looking at the floor as a red haze seemed to surround the outer shell of Edward's vision. Am I going blind? The teenager thought desperately, his mind going into a panic about what could happen now.

The boy's stomach began to turn and twist into impossible knots inside the human being, making Edward wish that he could vocalize the intensity of the pain that he was feeling. Edward's head was somewhat dangling off the edge of his bed, he was making sure that his mouth stayed shut and that no sound came from his lips to disturb his sleeping mother.

A vile liquid began to rise in Edward's wind pipe, burning against the sensitive flesh that aligned his throat; the acid was spitting the blood filled blisters on the sides burst. Blood and acid made its slow escalate up Edward's throat, making his windpipe burn with a fire that seemed much worse then his hellish fever.

Edward's left hand fumbled for something for him to grab onto, something that could force him back up into his bed. The open book fell to the right side of his bed, sliding under the cot to the shadows where no one could see it; but the ball point pen that he was using clattered to the floor—the pen snapping in half when it hit the stone floor of the hospital. The black ink oozed out from the broken remains of the pen, making a dark puddle right in front of Edward's pained green eyes, the ink reminded the teenager of blood.

Edward held back the groan and cry of pain as the combination of acid and blood ran up his throat, and he strained his eyes to keep the red haze that was beginning to blur his vision.

It seemed such and impossible thing to go through, but when Edward could begin to feel the diluted liquid seep into his mouth, and spilling onto his tongue it was now impossible to hold onto such a thing. Edward groaned quietly, the sound was like a construction site to the boy. The liquid spilled from his mouth, a think stream going onto the floor and mixing with the black ink puddle. The liquid was tainted slightly pink, but it was enough to be identified as blood from his blistered the lined his throat. Edward had one of his hands fall limply to the floor, his fingers mixing the ink, blood and acid compound together.

The boy groaned in his pain loudly this time, hoping that someone will heat him, hoping that this burning can be relieved some how some way.

Elizabeth stirred slightly in her slumber, turning her body so that she was now facing her only son. The woman opened her eyes slightly, expecting to see the grand sight of her son sleeping soundly to where he still looked like just any other boy; you could hardly tell that he was dying when he slept. But, when Elizabeth opened her eyes enough to see Edward on his side, half of his body hanging off his bed and vomit spilling out of his mouth in large streams.

Elizabeth gasped loudly and began to cry.

"Help! My son, someone, please help my son!" She yelled, her green eyes going all over the place in search for a nurse or doctor to help her in someway. "My son, h—he's going to die!" She yelled, hot tear streaming down her face.

The white sheet was thrust back from its position against the death filled air and two young nurses walking in, both of them stopping when they saw Edward's condition of health. One shook her head violently as she watch the boy regurgitate all of the contents of his stomach, and the other one ran out in desperate search for help.

Three more nurses walked in, holding down Elizabeth as she tried to struggle out of bed to hold her sick son, and Dr. Cullen walked in a black bag in his hand. He walked over and bent next to Edward. His leather shoes were soaking in the vomit on the floor, as was his wool socks and his trousers, but the doctor could care less at the moment. The man touched Edward's back soothingly as the boy was sick and letting his body take its course of disposing of waste.

"Dr. Cullen, what are we to do with the mother?" One of the nurses asked, pushing against Elizabeth's bust to make sure that she stayed in bed and didn't go anywhere near her son.

"Get her out of here, if you don't soon there's going to be mass hysteria going on all throughout the hospital within a five minute time period." Carlisle ordered, not letting his gaze waver from Edward.

Edward's vomiting stopped momentarily, just enough time for him to cough and groan before the influenza took over once again.

Carlisle knew that something was going on in his body, the influenza was hitting him again; even worse than ever. Edward was one of the best patients when it came to his health with the influenza going around the world. Something had to have triggered his vomiting, anything could have done that.

Elizabeth cried loudly as the nurses wheeled her out of their private quarter, crying that she needed to be with her son. "Please, my son needs me! Please, help him." The woman begged loudly.

Carlisle looked up at the nurses, his face looking beyond his immortal years, looking as if he was an old man that had seen too much just for his life time. His young, pale face seemed to have gained wrinkles in just a short amount of time, and his black eyes were frozen solid, he was not taking the time to put things lightly for once in his long medical career. The nurses flinched when Carlisle took the time to sweep his eyes around the room.

One nurse was brave enough to even ask the doctor a question under his burning glare. "What do we do with the boy?" she asked, keeping her handkerchief close to her mouth at all times.

Carlisle sighed, and removed his glare from the innocent nurses and looked about at the boy who was still vomiting all over the floor. "All that we can do for now is hope that this will all stop; we just have to allow his body to let everything out." He muttered looking down at the sick Edward, his pale skin now covered in a light sheen of sweat.

An iron pale was place right in Edward's thick streams of vomit, catching all of it as it spilled out of his mouth. His groans echoed off the metal walls of the pale as his body continued to let its waste come out from his mouth.

***

"Good night, Dr. Cullen." Edward whispered through his dry and chapped lips. The thin skin was cracked and if he opened his mouth too much then blood will begin to leak out from the open cut.

Carlisle stood at the end of Edward's bed, look at the boy—trying to survey if he was truly alright to leave along again for the night. "Are you positive that you will be alright here alone?" Carlisle asked one last time to be sure of Edward's choice.

Edward nodded his head weakly, trying to ignore the horrible pain in his neck from moving his head too much. His mother was sleeping next to him once again, her eyes were closed lightly and her breathing lightly, her face impassive. Edward was happy that she was next to him again, so that if at any moments notice that he could help her in any way possible. Her bronze hair was splayed out along the mattress, her pillow was taken away per her request. Both of the living Mason's had taken a toll in their health for the worst. Elizabeth now could hardly even talk these days because of the blisters in her throat and her delirium was getting even worse with horrifying hallucinations. Edward could hardly move with the meningitis spreading quickly in his brain. His node bled so frequently now that and extra sheet was required to be draped over his lap at all times.

Carlisle left soon afterwards and Edward carefully reached under his blanket and—wincing slightly—he pulled out the worn leather dairy that he held dear and close to his heart. The edges of the book were tainted with dried blood, the black stains sometimes thick and other times thinner than others; dried blood from Edward's constant coughing. The leather was wrinkled like old skin and it seemed to have taken in dust between the delicate cracks. The book was only about a third of the way filled now, plenty of space still left over for Edward to write in.

Edward reached to the customary nightstand and snatched up his new ball point pen that Carlisle had brought him the night after his episode. The doctor only smiled and winked, setting the black pen on the nightstand and walked off as if he had never even given Edward the pen in the first place.

From the light of the flickering candle by his bed, Edward's elegant script was being inked permanently onto the page that was opened up in front of him. The pen moved elegantly against the page, never stopping and it seemed to flow as smoothly as a gentle flowing river. Edward's hand found the invisible lines easily, all of his words and sentences lined up perfectly. No break interrupted the dance that the pen was having with the paper, the steps were perfectly measured out as Edward continues to write on.

3rd of June, 1918

Dear Dairy…

That's the end of chapter two! I hope that you liked it, and I hope that I got some of the descriptions right. I can't wait to get some feedback so that I can get some ideas and trying harder to make everything better.