1918. The scene was set before him like a nightmare from God's own dreams. Dying, ailing people all around him, on the beds, in the rooms, on the ground beside the hospital while he stood, unaffected and spared, due to his immoral curse.
He sighed, the air passing between his full, pale lips, and he could taste the sweet scent of spilled blood on his tongue, and even though the thirst itched and burned his esophagus, he ignored it as he approached his patient. She was young, not obscenely so, but enough to make him regret the fact that the ailment had decided to rage against this woman, so pure, turned fragile and broken. He smelled the death that lingered on her sweat and in her blood, and knew her time was limited, feeling the imagined stinging in his eyes that came after the loss of a patient. Someone he couldn't save, no matter how hard he tried.
"Save him...my son...don't let him die." She had grasped his arm, eyes wide and desperate. Her voice was a mere croak but he caught every word. "Save Edward..." Her dying words. She slid down in the bed, her hand limp, her heartbeat gone. With her gaunt face and beautiful bronze curls that were tangled from lack of upkeep, she looked for all the world a fallen angel, cast away from the Heavens. Save him... Her piercing eyes, seeing through his layers that he so diligently built up. ...my son... It turned her mad but he realized it also turned her rational, and she see the Real Him. Save Edward.
"Dr. Cullen?" The nurse with her basket full of weak antibiotics. "Has she passed?"
"Oh yes, she has." He brushed a strand of blonde hair from his matching eyes. "I do hope you take care of this, Bethany? I have other patients that I must attend to at the moment."
"Of course, Dr. Cullen. Consider it done."
"Thank you."
With a nod and a stealthy glance at her medical sheet, he swiftly departed from the room, out into the dank hallway reeking of bodily fluids. Now, Mrs. Masen, where is your beloved Edward?
But he knew. Room sixteen, on the left, with a view of the tree planted beside the hospital as a memorial to a deceased doctor; apparently one of the bet in the field but he wasn't sure, for he hadn't known the doctor. He had just moved to Chicago when he had passed.
And of course, of course these thoughts were all there to distract him from the truth, as he opened the door to room sixteen, where a young man of precisely seventeen years of age lay, his bronze hair and flushed brow slick with sweat. Whether he felt his presence thee, he did not acknowledge it, simply laying there, gasping slightly, clutching the sheets. The doctor drew up a chair and sat, pressing his face into his hands, and he could see it as clearly as the day it happened.
"Dr. Cullen, room sixteen lays a new patient."
"Influenza victim?"
"So it would appear."
He nodded and made his way to the room, counting off the doors out of habit rather than necessity. Room sixteen, with the numbers painted in gold upon the bare wood door.
What rested beyond the door shocked the professional, leaving him standing in a doorway with a grip so tight the handle began to crack and break but he didn't seem to notice, or care.
Slender and young. Handsome in an almost immature way. Their eyes met and he nearly walked out of the room if only the boy hadn't looked so desperate and needy, his otherwise clear and intelligent eyes glazed from the illness. He calmly walked inside and shut the door, unclipping the medical information from the foot of the bed to glance at, to keep his eyes away from the young man laying in the bed before him.
"Well, Mr. Masen, I'll be your doctor. My name is Carlisle Cullen." He gave him a soft smile. He didn't get one in return, just a pained expression masked by indifference, at an attempt to appear much more courageous than he really felt. It might have fooled any other doctor, but Carlisle could see right through him. He could read his pain and fear and vulnerability.
He performed the basic procedures, writing his results on the paper. It was a silent affair, after comprehending the patients supposed hostility and assuming he would not wish to partake in meaningless chatter, like some of his patients enjoyed doing, perhaps in an attempt to gain some kind of normalcy, perhaps to deter themselves from the ugly truth; that they were condemned to die in this building of sickness.
"Dr. Cullen?"
He stopped all motions, casually peering over the paper. "Yes?"
"Your hands are so cold. May you press one upon my forehead? It's quite warm and I would appreciate it."
The doctor placed the papers on the stand beside the bed, resting on palm flat against the brow. He gasped out in contention, looking up at Carlisle with hazy eyes. "How are they so cold?"
He didn't have an answer for him. He couldn't have one.
Carlisle raised his head, seeing Edward before him, fragile, weak, and near death. With a trembling arm, he reached out to press the back of his hand against his bright pink cheek, watching him moan out and open his eyes, moving slightly in a way that indicated he could hardly get a focus on the blonde in front of him. "Dr. C...is that you?"
"Yes," was all he could murmur, ignoring the stinging. Ignoring the chants of his mother, pleading to save her child. Save Edward. Was he honestly lonely enough to even ponder the thought of condemning another innocent being to his horrific lifestyle and misery? He bit his lip, sighing slightly. Edward's cheek was still beneath his hand, the warmth pleasant on his otherwise frozen skin. Such a handsome boy, tainted by sickness, his otherwise beautiful skin turned bleak and his brilliant eyes dulled. His face, always so fraught with pain. Save Edward.
"I believe it's time for you to find out how my hands are so cold constantly, Edward..."