Prologue: Reflection
Dr. Carlisle Cullen was seated in his private library at his handsome mahogany desk. His fingers gently leafing through the written thoughts; ancient pages containing the missives of his human father. In the corner of the room a Gramophone was playing O soave fanciulla from La Bohème in the background. Briefly, he contemplates the opera's story, wishing he could feel that kind of pull—that intense type of love for another... Outside the window behind him, snow was gently falling to the ground.
Every ten years or so, Carlisle set aside a few days to do a sort of self review upon his life, and update his journals. He felt this activity served as a reminder of his human past; it helped him reminisce. It kept him grounded into being a man—a human, albeit immortal— first and a vampire second. He held tightly to his humanity, compassion and beliefs.
He now had twenty three such tomes in this library, all containing accountings of his life's personal thoughts and experiences. He began this practice when he was still human, a young teenaged boy, in fact. It was one of the things in which his father had guided him. "To be able to reflect upon your past and learn from the mistakes is a valuable gift, one that should be always recorded for later introspection. Use your past as a guide to your future," the Parson had said. Carlisle had also kept his father's journals, many of which held detailed accounts of Carlisle's human life. They helped him remember that life. When he couldn't recall a particular event, his father's writings painted a scene in which he could more readily extrapolate the events in his mind. He allowed himself this exercise whenever he contemplated his history.
As a vampire, Carlisle's memory was infallible. But he found that writing down his life's experiences was cathartic to his mind and soul, particularly during his early years as a newborn vampire. Back then, writing was quite helpful in solidifying his humanitarian dogma.
Carlisle also felt a responsibility of sorts to record history as it unfolded around him. Not that anyone would ever read these observances; rather that the written word is somehow more plausible as events in life unfold. It is World War One now, November of 1917. When he was a boy society proper would never have imagined war on such a grand scale, especially with the tools of war humans now possessed and unabashedly used.
He'd made his way to Chicago in 1914 and secured a position in the nearby community hospital. It seemed that the longer he lived, the more difficult it became to maintain this façade. For the most part Carlisle had always lived the life of a recluse, keeping to himself. He was happy to provide his knowledge, wisdom, experience and talent to the human world; he aided the sick, injured and downtrodden, but always kept them at arm's length. He spoke with the humans, interacted with them, and even maintained a few friendships in the past. But never could they know what he truly was; never could he allow anyone access to full knowledge of his life, and this saddened him. There were only a handful of his own kind that knew of his strange way of life.
The Vampiric Royal Triad known as the Volturi labeled him Stregoni Benefici—they mocked him with that title, but he rather liked it. "Helpful witch doctor" is what it meant. He chose to disregard the 'witch' part. He was no witch. He drank the blood of animals instead of people; in the judgmental crimsoned eyes of the others, he strayed far from the norm. Carlisle likened it to atoning for the existence of his kind. Rumors and myths about him had been woven into the tales humans told each other about vampires. To them, Stregoni Benefici was a benefactor, a kind vampire who was a fervent enemy of evil vampires. In some small manner, Carlisle devoted himself to making up for the pain and loss wreaked upon humankind by the vampiric way of life. As a doctor, a surgeon even, he was dedicated to his principles. He never imbibed blood from a human, and he was steadfast in his resolve to obtain sustenance solely from animals. But Carlisle was alone in this way of thinking, and lonely in his heart. He felt empty in this existence, and it bothered him greatly.
Carlisle had given notice to his fellow colleagues the week prior, informing them of his impending absence. He wanted no distractions or interruptions, and there really wasn't anything major going on in the health of the community that would require his undivided attention. Occasionally he would be needed in surgery, but he had cleared his schedule to have two days off for the purpose of this period of introspection...