Chapter 2: Whimsical Woes of 1877
It was 1877, and boy, things had taken a turn! I was officially seventeen now, an "adult," as they say, and the past nine years had zipped by in the blink of an eye. Susy had become my guiding light, teaching me the ropes of this crazy world and how to keep my head above water. I'd become an independent spirit, juggling part-time gigs at a local pub, where Susy and I whipped up culinary magic by tending to our garden and managing the chaos of household chores. Home was still with Susy, Jared, and the infamous Roger.
Speaking of which, a few things had also stirred the pot in their lives. The ageless blacksmith Jared had hit 34, while Roger, the strapping young lad, had finally graduated from Jared's blacksmith school and was now the boss man in charge. The dynamic duo was constantly on the run, shuttling back and forth between the bustling city during the week and our tranquil countryside abode during the weekends.
Now, here's where the fun begins. Lately, I'd noticed Roger shooting me smoldering, shall we say, "suggestive" glances, and it was making me squirm in my boots. The thing is, I didn't have the hots for Roger, no siree! I'd come to think of him like a brother, and any romantic entanglement was just plain weird. This guy was prime bachelor material; every lady in town was gunning for his heart. But nope, he politely tipped his hat and said, "No, thank you," leaving us all wondering what was going on in that brain of his.
One day, while I was elbow-deep in our herb garden, a searing pain struck my right side out of the blue. I staggered into the parlor, hoping the agony would magically disappear. But I barely made it to the couch before I passed out cold. When I groggily came to, a scream echoed in the room. Lo and behold, it was Roger trying to revive me with a water rescue mission. My head was drumming, my body was blazing hot, yet I felt oddly numb. Through the haze, I saw Susy bustling in with wet towels. Roger was trying to explain how he'd gotten off work early and had gone on a wild goose chase searching for me, only to find me sprawled out on the parlor floor. The hours felt like an eternity, but eventually, Roger managed to drag me back to bed while attempting to quell my fever, which was more stubborn than a mule.
Fast forward to the following evening, and Roger bundled me off to the nearest hospital like a white knight on a rescue mission. The nurses parked me in a cot in a room filled with what seemed like a cast of thousands. Roger grabbed a chair to camp out by my side. After what felt like an eternity, a dashing doctor named Dr. Cullen waltzed in. He was as charming as you'd expect from a dashing doctor of the late 19th century - blond hair, a tall, lean frame, and skin as pale as the driven snow. He did his rounds with the other patients before finally reaching my corner of the room. After quickly checking my charts, he sidled over to Roger, realizing my mind was still swaying in a haze. So, Roger became my official interpreter.
Dr. Cullen dropped a bombshell on Roger - I was seriously sick, possibly knocking on death's door. He suggested we try an experimental medication, but he wasn't sure how it would hit me. Given that I was hanging out on death's doorstep, I jumped at the chance. I mean, who wouldn't? What did I have to lose? Roger's reaction, though, was nothing short of distressing. He rushed out to the hallway, a man on the verge of tears. Dr. Cullen excused himself to have a heart-to-heart with Roger, who was technically my stand-in guardian.
As I later pieced together, Dr. Cullen spilled the beans to Roger - it was an autoimmune disease attacking my own body. Dr. Cullen doubted the medication, so he prepared Roger for the worst. Roger wasn't the type to wear his heart on his sleeve, but this time, he couldn't hold it in. He grabbed Dr. Cullen's coat and practically smushed him against the wall. Roger begged Dr. Cullen to pull out all the stops and save me, quoting my late parents' wishes as his driving force. Then came the bizarre part. Roger got up, shook Dr. Cullen's hand, and said with a cryptic smile, "I've delivered the message; the rest is up to you."
So there I was, watching a friend I'd regarded as a brother walk out without a goodbye. But honestly, I was still reeling from their conversation, which I sneakily observed through the window that provided a perfect view of the hospital hallway. I understood why Roger left. Dying on your watch wasn't exactly the best party trick. But one thing haunted me like a ghost in a spooky house - that menacing glare Roger shot at Dr. Cullen as he left. It sent shivers down my spine and raised more questions than answers. One burning question - what did he mean by "do whatever it takes to keep me alive?" Curious, right? If you're wondering how I knew what he said, it was one of those phrases you can lip-read, and Roger had his face plastered right in front of the hallway window when he said it. It boggled my mind and made me wonder if Roger knew something the rest of us didn't.
Dr. Cullen got one thing right - I was on my deathbed. My life started flashing before my eyes, and the hospital became my new address. The days were a blur of sleep, meager meals, and sporadic chats with Dr. Cullen. During this time, I finally learned a bit about him, too. He hailed from London, England, and looked far from ancient, which we both found amusing. He'd chosen the path of a doctor because he had this insatiable urge to help people, and his antics were about making people smile. I couldn't offer much in the way of smiles, but his presence was heartening, even though it meant we were playing an unpleasant game of beat-the-clock.
On the sixth day, my fever threw a temper tantrum. I was wracked with pain, shaking like a leaf, and too weak to do anything but breathe. Dr. Cullen kept up his nightly rounds but quickly realized something was seriously wrong when he reached me. I was too still, too quiet. He tried to ask me how I was, but I could only stare at him. Sadness and regret clouded his features when he understood that I only had an hour, give or take, to live. He glanced at the clock, then back at me. Something clicked in his eyes, and he announced that he'd wheel me down to the morgue in 30 minutes. "Stay alive for 30 more minutes," he urged.
My mind raced as those 30 minutes ticked away. My fever soared, and the world grew blurry. Breathing became a struggle, and I couldn't help but wonder what on Earth would happen in half an hour.
Each minute dragged on as my fever spiked and my surroundings grew increasingly hazy. I feared I might never uncover Dr. Cullen's grand plan. Then, like a whirlwind, those thirty minutes finally ticked away, and Dr. Cullen entered with a gurney. He gave me a straightforward command: "Play dead." It wasn't too challenging, considering I couldn't move a muscle. The nurses gathered around as Dr. Cullen declared me deceased and announced his intention to transport me to the morgue. But as we descended, another surge of pain coursed through me, and Dr. Cullen, quick on the uptake, scooped me up and dashed forward. Whispering in a hushed tone, he urged, "Hold on tight, Amillea. Keep your heart beating."
Dr. Cullen raced like a lightning bolt through the night, cradling me in his arms. He delivered me to a sprawling house on the outskirts of town and gently placed me on a bed. With an apology in his eyes, he said he was sorry, and it was then that I felt a sharp pang, followed by an all-consuming fire engulfing my body. I thought this might be the end; I couldn't endure any more agony.
Hours passed as the burning sensation continued to torment me. Dr. Cullen stayed at my side, explaining the transformation process. He divulged the secret that I was becoming a vampire, and the venom coursing through my veins would ensure my survival. And sure, I grasped his words, but boy, I could have done without the fiery sensation scorching my soul. Dr. Cullen's persistent apologies were lost on me, as I could not reassure him that I was okay.
But then came the unexpected twist - my body started to reject the venom, fighting it off with all its might. With a sense of urgency, Dr. Cullen observed the venom stopping in its tracks, ready to exit my system. Swiftly, he injected something into my body. The result was quite the spectacle. My immune system, already predisposed to rejecting any positives my body threw its way, responded most peculiarly. My body froze completely, rendering me unable to speak or move. An even more intense fire flared within me, searing through every fiber of my being down to the tiniest nerve. My body seemed to be regressing, and the torment reached its peak. And then, like magic, the pain ceased, plunging me into darkness. The last thing I whispered was, "I'll be okay." I often wondered if Dr. Cullen had heard me that fateful day.
Fast forward 123 years later...