A/N: Unbelievable. I hate myself. One week of trying to churn out something readable and this stupid thing comes out. Yes, as you can tell, I'm rather pissed right now.

Broken

Edward

I was unable to feel. I stayed still in the cold bed, inhaling the scent of antiseptic and wishing the endless suffering would end. Or perhaps I tossed and turned in the bed. I wasn't sure. Maybe I was just mad, and somewhere Mother and Father were crying as they watched me live an imaginary life. Did a madman know his delusions weren't real?

My body was covered with a thin layer of sweat. Every once in a while, a nurse would come in to wipe me with cold towels. The coldness felt good against my clammy skin. I wasn't at the stage where I was completely unaware of my surroundings yet. I could still feel, and at the moment, feeling was not so welcome.

I tried distracting myself; I immersed myself in memories of happier times. Father had been a successful lawyer-we were moderately wealthy, which I never took for granted. I knew that at any moment, something might happen and all the wealth would vanish. As for Mother, I believed her only worry was that I was only a year away from being drafted for the war. She didn't realize I was impatiently waiting for that moment to come. I was eager to serve my country. I never told Mother, though. She would have a cardiac arrest.

I felt a brief twang of pain as I wondered about the fate of my parents. I knew Mother was alive. She had frequently stumbled into my room at night, nursing me even when she herself was sick. She had stopped only recently, when she was bedridden. I derived my information from the nurses-Mother was located at a seperate room, since I had contracted the influenza after her.

Someone entered. I heard the door creak open and close through the sweaty haze I was in, and I vaguely heard a doctor's voice. At the moment my dreams felt more grounded than reality, but I struggled to hear him. He was speaking of Mother.

"...bad condition..."

I inhaled sharply. Either Mother or I was in bad condition, and I hoped it was me. I would rather I suffer than Mother. She didn't deserve this. Mother always loved unconditionally. It was unfair if she had to suffer through this sickening disease. If she had to pass, I wanted it to be a quick, painless death. She didn't deserve torture, neither emotionally nor physically.

The doctor had a calming voice. It was almost musical in a way, and I focused on the rise and fall of his voice as he spoke. I wondered briefly if I was dying. Perhaps I was.

"Doctor," I rasped, staring at nothing. "How is my mother?"

There was a pause. I saw a flash of yellow and white as he rubbed his face-in exhaustion, I presumed. "She's in bad condition," he finally answered. I strained to hear; I felt as though I was listening to him underwater. Something hard and cold pressed my legs firmly-it took me a moment to realise my limbs were thrashing around. How strange. I hadn't realised.

Another pause. The good doctor was frustrated, or perhaps even disappointed. At what I was unable to pinpoint. I couldn't blame him, or any other of the medical staff. They were doing their best. The current pandemic had swept everyone off their feet. I vaguely recalled Mother flittering over the house, wringing her hands desperately as Father watched her and chuckled. They seemed like memories from a different era now, a happier one.

Father...Father was most likely to have passed by now. He had been first to contract the illness. How ironic, considering Father had been the least worried of the family. He had been complacent, all of us were. Our little town in Chicago had seemed impenetrable with all the medical checks performed on any visitor.

I felt a spasm of cold heat squeeze my chest, and I realised it was sorrow. Sorrow and regret at the passing of so many. And of course, fear. A more selfish emotion. I was fearful for my life, knowing I could so easily leave this life as so many before me had.

The doctor pressed one hand to my forehead, and I started, surprised at the sudden coldness. "Forgive me, Edward," he murmured. I wanted to call out, ask why he was asking my forgiveness, but my throat constricted and barred me from speech.

I understood suddenly, as a sharp, scorching pain shot through my neck. He was seeking my forgiveness because he needed to kill me. Of course. I shut my eyes tightly and prayed for the pain to be over soon. I imagined I could see my dear grandfather Anthony Masen, who had earned a special place in my heart after his declaration that humans would be able to step on the moon one day. Father had said he was losing his sanity.

The pain cut into my ankles as well suddenly, making me gasp for breath as the fire traveled up my body and spread out. I felt the urge to writhe and scream, but Doctor Cullen was murmuring comforting words while holding my body still. I immediately realized this wasn't death. This was far worse than it.

It was neither the end nor the beginning.

Purgatory. Yes, that was the word. I was suspended in purgatory.

I couldn't wait for it to end.