Work Header

The End

Work Text:

Disclaimer : I do not own Twilight. The characters belong to Stephanie Meyer. 



Come on, come on, come on, I said
Save me! (Get me the hell out of here)
Save me! (Too young to die and, my dear)
You can't! (If you can hear me, just)
Save me! (Walk away)

Excerpt from The End by My Chemical Romance

The End by Rosaleah  



I stared at the cracked white ceiling.

13 days of coughing, suffering and barely breathing. Yesterday I heard a man choking on his blood. That was the moment I realised that yes, death is here. 

With great effort, I turned my head to my left and watched my mother, glistening with sweat, her green eyes covered in yellow stickiness.

Elizabeth Masen, a woman of power and poise, image of intelligence and beauty, destroyed by a virus.

 I did not want to accept this rotten faith. My mother was too strong to be killed by the sickness and I was too young to die. I had big dreams about traveling the world with my piano and enjoying my time in French cafes while I met likewise artists who understood the beauty of art. In the last months I imagined myself a soldier fighting for his country, driven by the idea of glory. 

But as days passed and I kept getting thinner and thinner and mother started becoming a frail and cold version of what she used to be, I finally accepted  that this really is the end. No fulfilled goals, no unforgettable experiences, no standing on the porch with a white haired spouse while reminiscing about decades of happiness.

Just the smell of sweat and blood. The sounds of  lemonade glasses clanging and jazz were replaced by people crying and groaning and the rushed footsteps of doctors and nurses trying to save as many patients  as they could. 

And as I realised that these really are my last days, I tried to take in everything around me. The rustling of harsh white sheets against my skin, the blue translucent veils that would cover the windows, the blinding yellow light bulbs and the people moving around in the miserable hospital. The floor design was a rather boring one, white squares with blue edges. In my measurements, I discovered that each square was approximately of side 14.5 cm.

In my neverending analysis, I noticed one particular face.

Carlisle Cullen was a doctor. Young, extremely handsome, short shiny blonde hair and immaculate pale skin. 

But what surprised me the most was his eyes. 

They were a liquid shade of golden. 

"What an anomaly" I thought with menace. I don't know if my snide comments were out of fear or envy.

Probably the second. 

Here we were, having our last breaths in these small uncomfortable beds while he was walking around, his health seemingly unaffected by the virus. Dr. Cullen looked like a bright light, a breath of fresh air between all of the dying people. His moves were precise, his back always straight, confident walk, vision clear, always focused on his tasks. 

A sensible man.

But maybe he wasn't as untouched as I deemed him to be, because everytime he would write something down in his notebook, he would get this small, small, barely there tremble. He would hold in his breath for an unusual amount of time. Once I could swear he didn't breathe for 3 minutes. I just wrote it off as the sickness getting to my head.

There was this solitude surrounding him, as if he was the last man on earth. Everyday, I could read his hopelessness. And that definitely softened my harsh perception of him. If there was one thing all of us  normal people and this oddly perfect doctor had in common that was powerlessness. Not even someone as exceptional as Carlisle Cullen could change our sentence



My sleep is disturbed by fast and heated whispers and I am hurting from the marrow of my bones.

"You have to save him" rushes a raspy feminine voice.

I fall back to sleep before hearing the answer. 


The next morning I was woken up by warm rays of sun. I smiled as I realised that it was the first sunny day in the past week. It was strange how in such times I could appreciate every little thing in my life, from the beautiful weather to the smile my mother would have after I would make a joke.


As I did each morning for the past 13 days, I turned my head and looked at the woman in the bed next to mine. She had long thin fingers, just like mine. It was something that helped both of us when playing the piano. I smiled as the bittersweet nostalgia hit me, remembering all the afternoons when mom would play and I would come, sit on the bench next to her, lay my head against her shoulder and listen to her playing. Reminiscing the memories I started humming the first song she teached me. "Clair de lune...Debussy", I remember her voice saying softly. 


Her fingers were matched with a big ostentatious engagement ring. I always had an aversion for it. I believed it was more a representation of my father, not my mother. Both of them were strong personalities and similar in lots of ways, however the differences have always separated them in my eyes since I was a young child. Mom was present and loving, while Edward Senior was cold and absent. I always saw him more like a provider than a father, so when the news of his death arrived I wasn't heartbroken, only shocked. 

However, I couldn't say the same about Elizabeth. Despite his absence, she loved him dearly and didn't take the news lightly. 

My train of thoughts halted abruptly as I took in the rest of her body.

It wasn't moving. 

I waited a few seconds, thinking there was something wrong with my eyes.

Then I realised that dead bodies don't move.

I started sobbing.



"Mom?", I whispered quietly in the harsh silence.

I can only describe the moment as being sucked  in a dark hole where only the two of us existed, my soft pleadings falling and disappearing in the bareness of desolation.

After a freezing second I understood that I was alone. That it was only me in this black soundless hole, expecting answers from a corpse. 



I slowly lifted my lids, the annoying sting telling me to go back to sleep. 

As much as I wanted that, sleep wouldn't come.

Not when the bed next to mine was empty and cold, nothing more than a reminder of everything that I had lost.

They had already changed the sheets, her existence completely erased from the hospital room. As if her groans of pain never even happened and her agony was nothing more than an illusion. Just another number.

The thought both angered and relieved me. I didn't know if I could survive the night seeing the rumpled sheets and bloodied pillow, that would only put emphasis on her absence. 

And as I stared I realized that the same would happen to me. I will be erased, just like her, our deaths nothing in the grand scheme of things. When people will pass these empty cold beds they will never think of the mother and son who wanted nothing more than to get out of this hospital and just live.

With immense effort, I pulled myself up and moved to her bed. Crashing disappointment filled me as I didn't feel anything. There wasn't even her smell to comfort me, to dull just an ounce of my suffering. It was as if she never existed.

The graceful movement of someone sitting on the bed woke me up from my grieving.

"I am sorry. I wish there could be something that I could have done."

I didn't say anything.

Why is he here? Why can't he just leave me alone in peace? Don't I at least deserve that? A moment of quiet in this loud madness?

Observing my questioning and frustrated stare he let out a sigh.

"I can't imagine what losing such an important person feels like. My mother died when I was too young to feel  grief over her loss."

Cullen took a deep shaky breath.

"However I do know loneliness too well. More than I would like to admit.’’

He gave me a shy glance, trying to gauge my reaction to his confession.

"And I do not wish that upon anybody" he whispered sadly, his dark gold eyes staring into my green ones.

 As I took in his kind odd eyes, I knew he understood. The cold moonlight was bathing his pale stone skin, making him look like an impeccable sculpture, which contrasted with his soft silver hair that looked like the finest silk. This surreal moment, this starry cold night was the only place where he truly belonged.

I couldn't speak so I just gave a short node. 

Giving me a sad smile, he got up and silently left.



That night I stayed in my mother's bed.

Right before falling asleep I had a beautiful but too short dream, a memory of Elizabeth Masen playing "Clair de Lune". I felt two trails of tears running down my face. 

"You left me" I said, my voice muffled,  my head resting against her shoulder.

She gave me a short and sad laugh while scratching my head. God, how I missed that!

"It was the time. But remember this, is not the end, Edward."

She started humming a piece, a lullaby.


And she was right, because what followed next was freezing teeth sinking in my neck, marking what I would later know as the quiet dark night that became my existence.