Disclaimer: Quite obviously I do not own Twilight. But if I did, I WOULD FINISH MIDNIGHT SUN!
A/N: Hey, guys I'm back. Here's Chapter Two, where the drama begins! Sorry for the blah of Chapter One, but hey, you got to start somewhere. So, I'm keeping good to my promise, shorter Author's Note, so enjoy!
After relaxing myself at the piano, I got dressed up for the ball tonight; a tuxedo, fancy shoes. Not my usual attire. I then decided to try to add a smile to the mix. Might as well try to have fun.
As I did earlier this morning, I walked downstairs to see my mother and father waltzing gracefully. My mother was sporting a stunning dark blue gown, adorned on ears and neck with sparkling diamonds. My father, like myself, was clad in a black tuxedo. I felt like joining in somewhat. I made my way to the piano once more and began playing "The Blue Danube" by Johann Strauss, Sr.
When the notes begin to play, they turned to the source. Obviously they did not see me come down. Too preoccupied with each other most likely.
The notes continued to play, and once more I felt myself getting lost in the beauty of it, once more reaching something greater than myself.
About half an hour later, my mother and father stopped dancing and turned to me, smiles still gracing their faces.
"Thank you Edward, that was lovely," my mother said. She came up to me and tried to tame my messy hair, a look of determination on her face. No such luck. In fact, it seemed to be in an even greater state of disarray when she finished. My did a sort of half chuckle/half cough thing, which at the time I took to mean that he was trying to mask his laugh.
"Ready to go, Edward?" he asked.
"Yes," I replied.
We counted ourselves as one of the lucky families to own a car, a Ford Model T. We soon were driving down the streets of Chicago, bound for the Golden Dome.
The Golden Dome was a hell of a place. It was decorated to the nines inside. Outside, it reminded me very much of a beehive. It was a circular building made from bricks and wood, with three entrances, one about every 120 degrees. Atop this was a structure resembling a honeycomb of sorts. It was huge and sat perched upon the building like some bulbous tumor or other uncontrolled growth.
The Charity Ball was an annual event, supporting various different charities and good causes each year. My father was a huge benefactor, so we attended every year, since I was about five. Other members from his law firm also were in attendance. This year's proceeds would benefit the local hospital. What stuck up, rich girl my parents would encourage me to dance with tonight remained unforetold.
We entered through the glass doors, my parents very excited. I tried to put a smile on.
I walked over to a chair in the corner.
It wasn't long before a bimbo made her way over to me.
She was tall and extremely skinny. She was pretty, I suppose you could say, but honestly nothing stood out. She made her way towards me with the strut that I'm sure was supposed to be seductive, but well, it appeared more like she was constipated. Lovely. Plastered all over her face was a look of sheer conceitedness. People are not hard to read. In her eyes was a kind of desire. For me. I repeat: Lovely.
I put on my best fake smile, and she obviously took it as encouragement, which believe me, she did not need. She finished her saunter over to me and her cocky look mixed with one anticipating something.
My father looked over at me and seemed to say, Eeww, I'm sorry. Then a small snicker came out morphed with a cough. I gave him a look of pure petulance. We were quite good at these silent conversations. He returned to talking with my mother, but then another cough made its way out of his mouth. He bent over for a second and my mother got a concerned look. He got up from his hunch and waved her worries away with a smile.
The girl batted her eyelashes at me and so, as not to be rude, I asked her to dance. She seized the opportunity.
We waltzed a little and I could tell that she was trying to impress me with her skills. She tried to take the lead. I tried to follow along, but frankly, it wasn't working.
Every once in a while she would step on my feet and then giggle and bat those longer than natural eyelashes some more. Finally she started to relax, her form getting better and no longer leading as forcefully.
I tried to take this opportunity to resume the man's lead, but at that she quickly took this as a sign of interest and again began incessantly batting those eyelashes at me for the third time this night and trying once more to take the lead.
I tried to be a gentleman, but when she began to rest her head upon my shoulder and put her full weight on me, I had reached my limit.
I was practically holding her in my arms. Every once in a while she would put her feet down right in front of where mine where supposed to go, almost like she was purposely trying to trip me. I apologized and then excused myself in favor for the bathroom. The song was almost over anyway.
For sake of keeping up the act, I actually went into the restroom. Washing his hands was a tall, muscular but lean man, who couldn't be older than 25. I usually don't notice beauty in men, but this man was the rare exception.
He turned around. He had golden locks, perfectly styled. His eyes were warm, but very odd. They were a rich ocher color, very near golden. They drew me in, like metal to a magnet.
His face was perfectly symmetrical and not a single blemish to mar its perfection. His chin and nose were those of a model's, perfectly straight. His chin was a neat cleft. Even fully clothed, I could tell that this man was built. He was a perfect image of Narcissus, a living god, and I'm not even sure that did him justice.
The man peered at me with a rather curious expression; he was examining me, gauging my thoughts, my reaction to his bizarre superhuman presence. I suddenly felt transparent, like I was made of cellophane. Although I met his stare as best as I could, I eventually began to have some strange feeling resonating in the back of my mind. I walked out of the bathroom.
I spotted the girl again; I didn't even know her name, and I ran for cover, for lack of a better phrase. I joined my father and my mother, who were engaged in conversation. I tried to join in. My father was talking to some of his fellow lawyers about one of their cases.
At that moment the man from the restroom strolled over to my dad, hands in pockets.
"Edward, son, I would like to introduce you to Dr. Carlisle Cullen. Dr. Cullen, his is my son Edward. Dr. Cullen is the leading physician at Northwestern Memorial Hospital, where, as you know is the receiver of this ball's proceeds," my father said.
I took Dr. Cullen's hand in mine and gave it a firm shake. His hand was surprisingly cold, probably from just finishing washing his hands. Dr. Cullen smiled a warm smile at me. His eyes spoke compassion.
We then made small talk; he asked me about school, what I wanted to do in the future.
I answered him earnestly; told him about my life's ambition to be a musician, told him about my current situation at my high school.
I, in return, asked him about his life, how long he had been a doctor, where he was from and sorts.
At these questions he had the slightest hesitation answering. I don't think anyone else noticed but I always had a way of picking up minute details. Or maybe my observation could just be attributed to the fact that I already was hypersensitive to this man.
Dr. Cullen was originally from London, but he had studied in the United States, which accounted for his lack of an accent. He had been a doctor for nearly 5 years now, and had attended Dartmouth. At this I immediately became interested. Dartmouth had a rigorous academic program, but more importantly, a renowned music school.
Conversation with the doctor flowed naturally, and I found myself taking an almost immediate liking to him. He had almost no family, and the family he did have was back in London.
Hearing this, my mother said, "Well, then you certainly must join us for dinner!"
My father added, "Yes, and Elizabeth is a simply marvelous cook."
"Well, I am usually at the hospital until ten o'clock every night," Dr. Cullen explained. "Especially with the flu virus going around, there are seemingly infinite patients to care for. But thank you so much for the offer Elizabeth, maybe some other time. Speaking of which, I actually must get back to the hospital in about half an hour, so if you will excuse me. Edward, it was very nice to meet you."
He gazed once more at me, searching for something. Perhaps I had something on my face.
And with that he walked away after shaking everyone's hands once again and thanking my father's firm for their contributions.
My mother and father were disappointed, I could tell, but said nothing. My mother hated it when she was denied a dinner guest, but she certainly understood the situation. In fact, she had bounced back and now seemed as if she was planning another way to entertain the good doctor.
A couple of dances with other various girls, their eyes glazed over with lust, we prepared to depart from the Golden Dome.
My father was giddy. Apparently they had raised nearly twice as much money as last year.
He grabbed my mother's hands and we walked out of the Golden Dome. It would have been a lie to say I was sad to go.
On the way to the car, another cough erupted from him and seemed to shake his body in palpitations.
"Dear, are you alright?" my mother asked with sincerity and loved deeply sown into her words.
I rushed over to him and put a hand on his shoulder. "Dad, Dr. Cullen mentioned the flu, it might not be a bad idea to go to the hospital to see him. I mean, just to be safe."
He was quick to try to allay our fears. "Nonsense. I have hardly been sick ever. It's just a small cold."
My mother though, was not swayed. For the next few minutes in our ride home in the Model T, she tried to convince him to go see the doctor.
"Elizabeth," he said. "Dr. Cullen has much sicker patients to worry about; he doesn't need me as well. Not to mention, we could all catch something at the hospital. Then where would we be?"
"So you admit that you are sick?" she countered.
"I didn't say th-," he was cut off by my mother.
"You said much sicker patients to worry about. Implying more so than you."
My mother had just about won. My father gave her a look. "Not tonight, Elizabeth, it's far too late."
"Fine, but if you are coughing or have any other symptoms of any malady in the morning, I will take you to the airport whether you like it or not," She said.
"And Edward will help me drag you there if need be," she added, satisfied with a small smirk playing across her face.
"Sometimes, I think you should be the lawyer," my father said shaking his head at his wife.
My mother sometimes greatly overreacted to things, but that is what mothers are supposed to do. Once I had had a paper cut on my index finger, which hurt quite a bit, but it really wasn't anything. She took my hand, and after rubbing it thoroughly with alcohol, bandaged the whole hand and told me not to mess with paper for the rest of the day.
Later with a smile she added, "It's probably nothing, honey, but I want to make sure."
That was how our conversation went in the car, one of our last.
Thanks for reading! You are the best! And if you or another author has a story that you would like me to comment on/read tell me! Please review if you think I should continue. If that be the case, expect the next chapter on probably Friday, January 9th, probably Staurday night at the latest.
;) Clairabella Cullen