Carlisle
He was clad in his white lab coat at Forks Hospital, wearing a blue dress shirt and a silk tie Alice had proudly presented him with one father's day. He was sure that the tiny scrap of fabric had cost her at least ten times it's worth, with her expensive tastes, but he was nonetheless more than happy to wear it. Despite his usual frugality, the gift made him feel proud. It was a visible sign that Alice thought of him as her father, that she loved and respected him the way he so desperately craved from his adoptive children.
Still, his attention on the vestment was quickly drawn away by two of the four paramedics that lived in Forks rushing though the hospital's front doors with a writhing man on a gurney. Carlisle was quick to notice two things. The first being that the man had been shot and was bleeding profusely from his shoulder, and the second being that he was handcuffed to the gurney on both sides. The suspicions he drew from what he saw were immediately proven right as Chief Swan followed behind the gurney by only a few steps.
"He might be violent." Bella's father warned tersely. He looked like he probably wanted to say more, but it was obvious that the words were against his better judgement. Instead, he pressed his lips tightly together and shook his head. "Make sure you keep the restraints on."
"Of course." He answered smoothly, before following the gurney into the trauma room at a jog.
It wasn't every day that a bullet wound appeared at Forks Hospital, and the few times he had seen them, they had exclusively been hunting accidents. This was something different entirely. It called into question all the things that doctors never wanted to ask themselves. Was every life equal? Was it his responsibility to heal someone who was considered so dangerous by the authorities that he had been shot, and even then, kept restrained? Did helping a criminal make you part of the solution, or part of the problem? Of course, the Hippocratic Oath was supposed to have answered all those questions. He was a healer. It was his duty to help those in need when he had the ability. Still—he couldn't help but ask himself—was he truly doing the right thing?
It shouldn't have even been a question. He should have already begun removing the bullet from the man's shoulder as the paramedics were urging him to do. He knew the procedure by heart. He would have to give him something for the pain, then he would remove the offending object carefully with forceps before fastidiously cleaning and closing the wound. It was far enough away from all the major arteries that he wouldn't have had to worry about putting him under. Even if he had struggled, it would have only increased his chances of scarring. The man should have lived, without a doubt.
He didn't. Carlisle did the one thing he had sworn he would never do—he had done more harm than good. It was the man's blood that had first distracted him. He had taken the smallest of breaths, trying to clear his mind… And it had affected him. His control had been concrete, absolute, unquestionable for centuries, and only now had he failed. And he wasn't even sure if this man was guilty. His memories of Edward's time feeding on the scum of society came to mind and he visibly cringed. He had fallen into the same trap as his son. He was a hypocrite, and worse, his distraction caused him to make a mistake he never should have made, and the man before him slumped into unconsciousness. In his distraction, he had overdosed him on painkillers.
The paramedics didn't realize what had happened at first, they had simply walked away and wished him luck. They left him alone, behind closed doors, with a dying man. There were still things he could do. Charcoal was so effective at absorbing overdoses of similar substances, but he didn't even try. He allowed the man to die. It was like some sort of warped dream. He broke. He gave into his desire to feed, drinking deeply from the man's neck until he was really and truly dead. The drugs in his system should have dulled the taste, but it was so warm, so rich.
He didn't even notice, at first, when the door opened again. There stood Alice, her expression one of disbelief as she watched him stand up straight, human blood on his lips. He realized distantly that she must have seen his decision, she must have been coming to stop him. But, even with the certainty her gift afforded her, she seemed reluctant to accept what she had seen—what she was seeing.
"You—You were trying to save him, weren't you?" She pressed, and he could say nothing in his own defense. "You must have… That's the only reason that you could… Just say something! Tell me what happened, Dad, please."
The temptation to lie was there like it never had been before, but just as quickly as the thought had passed thought his mind, Edward was standing beside Alice, looking even more betrayed than he had when Carlisle had chosen Bella's side against him and agreed to turn her. Carlisle knew that his children looked up to him, that they drew strength from his own.
Please, son. He thought desperately. Allow me to explain. We have all of us made mistakes—
"This wasn't a mistake!" Edward bit out, catching Alice's attention. "You did this on purpose! You let it happen! Everything… Everything you ever taught us has been a lie!"
When they stormed away, he couldn't even find the strength to follow them. Edward wasn't wrong. This was a betrayal unparalleled by any other, and he wasn't sure his family would ever forgive him for it, though he was already silently praying that they would, that they would understand.
Perhaps, there can be a lesson here. He thought, solemnly, as he covered the corpse with a sheet. That none of us can expect perfection from ourselves.
He returned home as soon as he had disposed of the body, forging the necessary documents to explain the man's death and have him cremated in the Hospital morgue. It had only taken about an hour, but the house he had built for his family was abandoned when he returned, absent of most of his family member's belongings. There was no explanation, no note, but he understood all the same. His family had left him behind. He was alone, again.