A/N: I was looking back at the previous chapters and noticed that the tenses are all messed up! When this fic is complete I'll edit. Perhaps I'll do it a little at a time!


CHAPTER 9


EDWARD

Everyone else has gone hunting.

I have been alone with Isabella in her makeshift hospital room for three hours and I have yet to shut my eyes to blink. I want to absorb every second of her ever-changing presence in front of me

Under the artificial light, her skin glows translucent. The blood-venom mixture running through her veins is now a pale pink. Carlisle has vials of her blood taken at several "stages" in her transformation lined up on the desk in his office. They're a marvel to look at and a terrifying indicator of the speed at which the circulatory system is affected. Next comes the lungs, the digestive system, then finally the brain. The venom is a mere catalyst, a virus like intruder and a super-charged enhancer of already present biological components. That's the most we've managed to understand.

She has been fairly quiet since the latter third of her transition kicked in. Most fall into a state of deep contemplation, set on a pain-induced high. Others, like myself, become comatose, forced to pass out because of the immense pain. Isabella is no different. She is very much in pain, and even though she's unconscious, her body writhes periodically as yet another system is deadened and completed.

They've left me the task of keeping her company. And drawing her blood.

I'm reminded of my early medic days with Carlisle serving during the second world war. We flew to England immediately after the call to war, our British passports getting us sent over the front as a newly minted doctor and a seasoned surgeon. I'm reminded of the quiet hours, when both sides have stopped to count the dead and treat the wounded.

In the middle of the night we'd leave to our solitary barracks and travers the pock-marked grounds to the enemy and do what we can to help their dying. We'd speak to the dying men, Carlisle and I. Talk to them in soft words, listening to their stories, the horrors. This silence is similar.

"When I first saw you in Alice's head, she saw you as one of us. She had no idea that you'd mean anything more than a casual ally. When I left class that day, she still saw you as one of us, except this time you were human."

She's colder now that the change is almost fully complete, but her warmth, her pulse, everything that made her human is still recognizable in her. Her skin shines with perspiration, her forehead still scratched and scabbed. I touch the bruises healing yellow on her forearm, feeling for a vein I can use. I tap through the skin with difficulty and fill the rubber-capped test-tube, completing Carlisle's collection.

"You're quite remarkable for a human. I admire that in you. I know just about everything there is about you, factually of course, and all by hearsay. Decent grades, no trouble with the law until you met that prick James…

"There's a vigil happening in town tonight. Your father's there, your mother, classmates and teachers. Funny — not a single day went by with you on their minds. Suddenly they're all gathering to say a few words, to write cards, deliver flowers. It's sweet, but…but I don't really get it, the mourning."

I graze the spot at her inner elbow with my forefinger and bring the droplet to my lips. Her blood has further lost its appeal. It's become unremarkable — I guess I have the capacity to mourn what has…gone to waste.

"But still, I'm glad they haven't given up hope. Maybe one day you can tell your parents. I owe you that at least."

I return to my spot at the side of her bed and listen into the night. There are very few threads to pick up on. The ones immediately present are passengers in a car, they drive by quickly and their voices are lost again. For the most part, it's silent. a few hours pass and Isabella even stops moving.

When the others arrive, Carlisle hands me a canteen of fresh moose blood and I sip gingerly. Nothing, not even human blood, would ever be appealing again. Sure, the desire to quench my thirst is there, the hunger, the primal urge to feed, but without the prospect of ever tasting her unique divinity again, I am at a loss as to how to fill the secondary burn— the want. I am filling a need whose sole filler for all eternity will be flour water.

And it bothers me. More than I should.

Emmett is the only other one besides myself who has met their singer. He drained her in an instant when we weren't keeping tabs on him and drank his fill. He finished her, completely satiated. Besides Carlisle, he's the most able to withstand human blood because nothing else could ever compare to his poor, sweet, singer. Oddly, and this has plagued my mind since my first hunt after the incident, Emmett doesn't seem to feel the same. His "thirst", which is supposed to be forever longing for the woman he had long since drank, is never a burden. He has since forgotten how to long for his singer and only remembers the euphoria — and he accepts its passing.

I am obsessed with Isabella's blood.

My desire to have her for all eternity, at this moment, is at odds with the desire to taste her blood again. Moose blood has not changed for the past fifty years. Today, it tastes vulgar. Like a profanity that's too hard to swallow because it's that disgusting. I peer at Isabella while I drink, hoping to mimic the sensation of satisfaction, but I am at a loss.

A total loss.

"Son, how do you feel?" Carlisle asks while examining the test-tube. He's wondering if my feelings for Isabella have developed yet. He doesn't bother hiding his intention of digging through my emotional state.

"Uncertain."

"About?"

"Her. The bloodlust. Lust in general. I mean I see her, I like her, I think — but I don't feel like I need her. I pity her for going through this, but I don't feel bad because it will be easier for all of us if she's like this. I can't see her mind, I can't smell her… and If she's my mate, why don't I feel more strongly for her? I hardly love her."

I put her hand in mine and go through the instances of emotion I felt towards her thus far. Jealousy for sure, in the case of Carlisle getting to be with her when she wakes up, confusion on whether or not it's right for me to desire another man's intended, attraction — which has and had more to do with blood and less to do with arousal, and irritation because I can never have her blood again nor can I read her. I know that when we first locked eyes I felt more than just a twinge of emotional calamity.

"I feel the air between us far more forcibly than I want to," I admit. "That's about the only thing I can sense with my eyes closed."

"You remember what happened when I met Esme? And when Rosalie met Emmett?"

"How can I not? I've been comparing your feelings for each other. I most certainly don't feel that way for Isabella."

"Well, she hasn't woken up."

"But Rose fell in love with Emmett when he wasn't even awake. He was torn to shreds when she saw him the first time."

"Maybe it's different because she's your singer."

"That's what I've been thinking. I can't stop thinking about it Carlisle."

He shrugs. I can't help you there. Sorry son.


BELLA

When you die, you relive every second of your life. Then your soul goes to heaven or hell, depending on how good a life you've lived.

As I Lay Dying was one of my favourite books growing up. It's about what a woman's family goes through as she dies, and when she dies they bring her back to her home town to bury her. Every chapter is a little monologue written in stream of consciousness from the perspective of each character. I thought that was a nice way to go, being submerged in your own memories.

As I lay dying, I feel immense pain. I don't have the capacity to remember anything. All I know in this moment is how awful I must have been. I am burning in hell. I am repenting for my sins in the most excruciating way. My soul is being ripped from my body. Every thread of my life, every little cell in my body burns for my sins.

I cannot even beg for death.

This is death.

I empty my mind.