"The last days of Edward's human life."
A man, a doctor perhaps, rushes to my aid. His eyes are a strange gold, much like honey. He grabs my clammy hand as I cough once more, hacking blood. He stiffens slightly. I must be a ghastly sight: sweat soaked clothes, skin—a sickly blue, all signs of the Spanish Influenza.
Instead of leaving me in pain as the others have done, he sits with me.
"What's your name?" he asks, pinching my wrist for a fading pulse.
"Edward Cullen," I whisper, trying not to move.
He lays a freshly dampened rag across my forehead. "Do you have a wife and family, Edward?"
I shake my head, happy that the answer is no. There will be no one left behind when I die—no one to weep for my passing.
"Will she suffer much longer?" I slowly drop my head toward my mother and wince.
"No—not much longer. I'm very sorry," he says. His voice is low and comforting. I nod.
The doctor sits and chats with me here and there. I answer when I can but at times, my lingering strength only allows me to nod yes or no. Finally I pass out, too exhausted with the raging heat of the flu to keep my eyes open.
At some point during my spiraling illness, there's a whisper tickling my ear. Maybe this is my angel of death, finally come to take me away from this awful pain.
"I will save you. Please forgive me, Edward," the angel says sadly.
With a sharp pinch to my neck, death has come. My eyes shoot open, grasping for the last image of this dear short life. My screaming mouth chokes a final breath of air. I collapse, lifeless, waiting to lift away, fly to the angels, but I don't. Instead, somehow, I sink into flames. They lick my soul with the depths of hell, raging and weaving an inferno within my veins, cracking and sizzling my insides over and over again.
"Think of a beautiful life," my angel offers. "Focus on love," he suggests.
At his bidding I fight the fire, looking to see the light of it. I look for love, for heaven, a soft place to rest m