The Last Moments Before Forever

Entry for Twilight Novel Novice One Fine Summer Day challenge

Disclaimer: Of course, only the great Stephenie Meyer owns Twilight.

It was only nine in the morning, but already the air was stifling. I looked up and silently cursed the light gray clouds covering the sky as I walked quickly through narrow streets of London. These were the worst kind of clouds. No refreshing showers would pour from the sky today. Instead, these clouds functioned merely as a ceiling, trapping in the heat and the humidity. And the smells. The putrid, rank aroma of rotting food, animal and human excrement, and death were ever-present in the city, but were especially noticeable on days such as this.

I hurried through the cobblestone streets, stepping over pools of brown water left from yesterday's rainfall and weaving around piles of rubbish and horse manure. I'd promised Father that I would meet him at Widow Sanders' home by nine, and I was going to be at least ten minutes late. He would be furious.

The printer's shop around the corner from a home had a new book in its window this morning: The Sceptical Chymist by Robert Boyle. I only had a rudimentary knowledge of the sciences; my grammar school focused mainly on Latin, theology, and arithmetic. But lately, anything that inspired me to question the world around me was appealing. I was already short on time, but I couldn't resist stopping to look at the book. I held it gingerly, not wanting to stain the crisp, fresh paper with oil from my fingers. Even the first few pages were fascinating. I had to tear myself away. If I saved carefully, I could gather enough coins to purchase the book without Father noticing the missing money.

I knocked on Widow Sanders' home about a quarter after nine. Her eldest daughter Mary answered the door a moment later.

"Good morning, Miss Sanders," I said, bowing and removing my hat. "Is your mother feeling any better this morning?" I knew the answer simply by looking at Mary. Her taught face was stained with dried tears, shoots of curly red hair were springing from her cap in every direction, and her fingers were smudged with grime. She was a far cry from the coquettish girl who spent much of the past several years fussing with her skirts and batting her eyelashes every time I came near.

"I'm afraid not, Master Cullen," she said despondently. "The fever grew worse over night. She's been in and out of consciousness. But we're so grateful that you and your father could come. Pastor Cullen has been a great comfort to Mamma. Please come in." She held the door open for me, and I stooped low to avoid hitting my head on the door frame. The air inside the tiny two-room house was even more oppressive than it was outside. My shirt began sticking to my chest, and droplets of sweat gathered on my forehead.

My father was sitting in a chair next to Widow Sanders' bed. He held her left hand in both of his and spoke to her softly. Jane, her youngest daughter, wiped her mother's head with a wet cloth. My father turned toward me as I approached, eying me pointedly with arched eyebrows. My tardiness had not gone unnoticed, but he said nothing. Instead, he inched closer to Widow Sanders' and began to pray.

"Father in Heaven, we ask thee to watch over thy daughter. She is one of thy most humble servants, striving to do good in a world filled with evil. If it be thy will, we ask thee to relieve her pain, lessen her fever, and bring her back to her daughters. We ask thee to remove the scourge staining this house and bless it with thy presence. We ask thee to give strength to Jane and Mary as they care for their mother. We say these things in thy name. Amen."

All present chorused "Amen." Tears glistened from Jane's eyes as she resumed sponging her mother's flushed face. My father smiled gently at her.

"Peace be unto thee, child. Your mother is a good and kind woman. God will take care of her. If it is best for her to conquer this fever, He will provide a way. And if it is time for her to return to Him, He will shepherd her away in peace and comfort. God always does what is best."

Jane's tears fell openly now, but she smiled slightly and whispered, "Thank you, Pastor Cullen, thank you so much."

I sat next to my father at the bedside, observing him interact with Widow Sanders and her daughters. It was times like these that I understood why he was not only feared by his parishioners, but loved as well. He devoted his weekly sermons to threats of hell and brimstone, of witchcraft and vampirism, of the evil threatening to destroy God-fearing people. He eagerly punished those people he saw as devil-worshippers, sentencing them to slow and painful deaths. His parishioners obeyed the edicts and instructions issued from the pulpit more out of fear of the Church's wrath than God's. Yet with the sick and afflicted, he was a different man. Soft-spoken, compassionate, and merciful. Many other pastors avoided the sick, out of fear of catching their illnesses; my father devoted hours each week to comforting these poor souls, without care for his own health. I hoped that I could emulate the compassionate side of his nature.

We sat with Widow Sanders for another half hour until she fell into a restless, fevered sleep. The kindness reflected on my father face disappeared as we stepped into the alley outside the Sanders' home. He glared at me. "You were late again, boy. When will you learn to put aside your selfish wants and focus on God's work? You are a grown man, yet you act as irresponsible and carefree as the average imp in the street."

My stomach twisted, and my chest tightened, shame warring with anger. I devoted my life to my father's work, watching as my peers devoted themselves to education, jobs, families. How dare he treat me as a child, ignoring the fact that lately I worked far more hours than he did. Yet I was indeed late due to my own curiosity. The Sceptical Chemist was a useless frivolity. Science would not further God's work and would not ease the suffering of my fellow parishioners. I was, as always, a disappointment.

"I am very sorry for my tardiness, Father," I said, chagrined. "I am free the rest of the day to help you however you think best." He began to grunt in acknowledgement of my apology, but it turned into a hacking cough, a frequent occurrence these days. My shame deepened.

"Miss Jane believes she knows the reason behind her mother's sudden illness," he eked out between coughs. His voice was weak, but the glint in his eye was a familiar mixture of anger and excitement.

"Oh?" I asked cautiously. I felt a sudden urge to speed up, leaving my father and this conversation in the puddles behind me. But it would only delay the inevitable.

"Mrs. Johnson came into Widow Sanders' dress shop last week spewing all manner of profanities and curses. She insisted that Widow Sanders sold her cheap, flimsy fabric and vowed revenge. Miss Jane walked outside just after Mrs. Johnson stomped out of the store and noticed a pentagram drawn in a pile of mud in the entryway. Widow Sanders fell ill only two days later."

We'd reached our flat by this point. We lived on the second floor of small building adjacent to the chapel. My father's energy was spent by the walk from Widow Sanders' house and his excited ranting about Mrs. Johnson. He had to stop to catch his breath after climbing only five stairs. I put a hand on his arm to offer support, but he shook me off and huffed up the remaining stairs.

"This is one of the most blatant accusations of witchcraft we've seen in several years, Carlisle." Father collapsed into his chair at the dining table and lifted the water jug with shaking hands. I hurried to help him pour water into his cup, but not before half the jug spilled onto the table. He took a large gulp of water and continued, "I want you to fully investigate it. I will not allow the devil to invade my parish. She must be stopped."

I busied myself with mopping up water on the table. "I'll look into it today, Father," I said, not meeting his eyes. "I'll let you know as soon as I find anything."

"You let me know everything, boy," he said cantankerously, in between coughs. "You have demonstrated numerous times your complete ignorance in the face of evil. You tell me everything you find out, and I will make the decisions. Perhaps then, you will recognize the devil."

I left my father at midday, manipulating him into taking a nap. He refused to do anything I suggested unless I made it seem like it was his idea. His cough was growing slowly but progressively worse. I worried that he would be a complete invalid within months, or that he might leave me altogether. Hopefully, rest would delay whatever disease was attacking his chest.

Despite my promises to Father, I would not investigate Mrs. Johnson's supposed witchcraft this afternoon. She was an unpleasant shrew, always ready with a cross word and a complaint, but she was no more a witch than I was a wizard. I was actually surprised that it had taken this many years for someone to accuse her of witchcraft. Many victims of my father's witch hunts were better liked than she. Jane's willingness to cry witch grew out of vengeance. Mrs. Johnson's eldest son wanted to court Jane earlier this year. Jane was elated. The couple's hopes were dashed when Mrs. Johnson strongly disapproved of the relationship. She wanted her son to marry into a wealthier family. Since then, Jane glared daggers at Mrs. Johnson whenever she passed and glibly spread gossip of her various misdeeds.

I spent the afternoon at Hyde Park. The park was not a significant distance from my home, but I'd only been to it a handful of times. My father thought the park was a blight upon the city. An open space that invited leisure and laziness. A roadblock set up by the devil to distract people from the fight against evil. The one time I visited the park with a friend's family as a child, he'd whipped me so hard that I could barely sit for days.

It was ironic that I now viewed the park not only as an escape from my father, but as a place to commune with God. On hot days like today, the tree-covered lanes, grassy fields, and creeks were a respite from the oppressiveness of the city. Even though the park was crowded with other afternoon amblers, I felt alone and free to think and pray. I sat on a large stone next to a small pond where a doe and her two fawns lapped at the water. A slight breeze ruffled through the trees, making the temperature feel pleasantly warm. I tuned out the conversations around me and focused on the clean scent of grass and the light sound of waves hitting the rocks at the edge of the water.

I bowed my head, but did not pray formally as I'd been taught. I felt closer to God surrounded by nature than within the confines of the chapel or home; formal, stilted prayers felt like a mockery of my relationship with my Heavenly Father. My prayers in Hyde Park were more like conversations. I did not ask for God's forgiveness for defying my father's orders to investigate Mrs. Johnson. I was certain that God did not want anyone, however unkind, to suffer for crimes she did not commit. Pursuing Mrs. Johnson was not doing God's work; it was only furthering a petty vengeance. I did ask God to forgive me for not being a better son to my father. While his eternal hunt for demons was often overzealous and even cruel, his sincerity and faith could not be doubted. I could not find evil where it did not exist, but I could try harder to identify and eradicate true works of Satan. Perhaps then, I could please him. I feared that I did not have much time left to demonstrate my worthiness as his son. I asked God to grant my father good health, to remove his cough. I hated to see him weakened and in pain.

I stayed in the park until early evening. Father would be at the vicarage for vespers and then in his office late into the night for meetings. Since my assistance was neither expected nor wanted, I did not feel the need to hurry home. I put off returning home further by dropping in on a friend I had not seen in months. I spent several joyous hours in his home, enjoying his wife's cooking, laughing at old stories, cooing at his new baby, and catching up on his latest endeavors.

It was after nine o'clock when I left. Despite the late hour, the sun had barely set. The sky, only partly cloudy now, was dusky, with hints of pink and orange remaining at the horizon. I was distracted as I walked home, recalling my visit wistfully. The streets were mostly empty, so I was free to lose myself in pondering. It was wonderful to have a few carefree hours full of laughter and reminiscing. But I felt oddly empty. My life was focused solely on succeeding my father as the pastor of our local vicarage. There were no immediate prospects of a wife, children, or even simple independence. I wasn't jealous exactly. I chose my path; I felt honored to devote myself to God's work and assisting my father. Yet I still noticed what I did not have. And tonight, my life seemed very lonely.

I shuffled my feet aimlessly on the streets near my home, wallowing in sinful self-pity. A giggling couple walking toward me finally broke me out of my trance. Something about them seemed off, but I couldn't identify exactly what. I first noticed the way they walked; it was strangely graceful, like they were dancing to some tune I could not hear. Their physical affection was also unusual. They clutched each other's bodies and sneaked kisses as they walked. It was socially unacceptable to display such affection in public, even at night where few would see. This couple did not seem at all troubled by the impropriety of their actions.

The oddities became even more pronounced as they walked closer to me. Their faces were beautiful, entrancing, even if only dimly visible in last vestiges of sunlight. I wanted to step closer to study their features. When the couple was directly across from me, the man turned to look at me. My intrigue immediately turned to shock. His eyes appeared to be bright red! He stared at me for a moment with a strange look of longing before the woman said something to him a rapid, quiet voice. From the few words I caught, it sounded like Latin, a language no one spoke conversationally anymore. I watched their backs as they walked further down the street, concealing myself in a doorway. Something told me they did not want to be watched, but I was too fascinated to turn away. At the end of the street, the woman bent down and pushed something out of the way. Then both jumped into a hole in the street and disappeared.

Curiosity still getting the better of me, I rushed over to where they'd disappeared. The hole was now covered once again by an iron circle. They had jumped into the sewer!

I walked home quickly now, my mind full of questions. The vision of crimson irises was burned into my mind. Surely the darkness must have been playing tricks on me, but I could not come up with another explanation for what I'd seen. Their strange gait and disturbing beauty exacerbated my wonders. Were they one of the various evil creatures my father had preached about for a lifetime? Their actions toward me evidenced no ill intent - left me only with a vague sense of discomfort. But what kind of person would purposely jump into the sewer at night? And who has red eyes?

I resolved to ask Father about it as soon as I reached home. He would be fascinated by my discovery and thrilled at the idea of a fresh chase of evil. I was relieved to have something to tell Father to distract him from his fixation on Mrs. Johnson and rather proud to have found something on my own.

I burst into our building and ran up the stairs. Father was sitting at the dining table in his nightshirt, reading the Bible in the dim glow of candlelight.

"You were out late tonight." He pursed his lips irritably. "You must have a great deal of evidence against Mrs. Johnson with all the hours you've spent investigating." His voice dripped with sarcasm. He clearly knew or suspected that I had not looked into the allegations against Mrs. Johnson as promised.

"I'm sorry once again for being late, Father," I started, deciding to ignore the issue of Mrs. Johnson entirely. "But I just saw something very suspicious that demands our immediate attention! I wanted your opinion." I described the two figures I'd just seen. My father's eyes grew larger with every word, and his mouth dropped open in surprise when I told him about the red irises.

"Have you ever seen anyone like this?" I asked. "Do you know what they were?"

Father closed his eyes and covered his mouth and nose with his hands, deep in thought for a moment. "Red eyes...very interesting. You said they were attractive, yes? What was the color of their skin? Were they pale?"

I pictured the man in my head again. His eyes were still at the forefront of my memory, but his skin did look unusually pale. I looked down at my arm for a mental contrast. My skin, naturally pale even during the summer, was much darker than the skin of the man in my memory. His face was pure white, the color of ivory, without the pink undertone of my skin.

My father nodded excitedly when I relayed my memory. He grasped my arm. "Vampires!" he exclaimed, with a big smile upon his face. "One of the most evil creatures in existence. A very rare find. Well done, son." It was one of the most affectionate instances of praise he had ever bestowed upon me. Part of me wanted to jump up and down like a little boy in celebration of pleasing my father. The more adult side of my mind was rather disturbed at my father's happiness on discovering evil. Like a child being gifted a new toy. I would rather evil did not exist; I did not relish its discovery.

"Much to do," Father pondered. "Now we know they are hiding in the sewers. And where there is one pair, there are sure to be more." He stood up and began pacing the room. His body eerily faded in and out of visibility, with the only light in the room provided by the limited range of a single dripping candle.

"We should organize a hunting party," he said, still pacing. "We will wait for them just outside the sewer opening you found and attack them as soon as they exit onto the street. They'll be surrounded and unable to defend themselves. A quick, simple way to rid the city of Satan's monsters.

"I will speak with Constable Blake in the morning. He will surely provide several men. Mr. Chandler, Mr. Davis, and their sons will certainly help as well. Are you willing to lead the expedition, Carlisle?"

I nodded eagerly.

"Excellent," he continued. "You'll do wonderfully, son. I only wish I could go with you." His smile faltered, and he erupted into a coughing fit strong enough to shake his entire body. It was as if the reference to his health had sent a calling card to his lungs.

"I can ask a few friends for their assistance, Father. When do you think we will be ready to go after them?" I asked.

"We should not waste any time," he said ardently. "The longer they are alive, the more people will die. The devil has control of London with them walking freely. We must attack before they change their hiding place. I will ask the men to be available tomorrow night, at midnight. Will you be ready by then?"

"Yes, sir," I said without hesitation. I did not understand what exactly I would be doing in this expedition, but I wanted to please Father with my enthusiasm. "Father, how do you destroy vampires?"

"There are several methods," he responded. "I've never had the opportunity to destroy vampires myself, but I've spoken with men who have killed dozens. They are harder to capture and kill than witches and werewolves, but not impossible if you are prepared.

"The most direct method is a wooden stake to the heart." He made a stabbing motion toward his own chest for emphasis. "It is the only part of their body vulnerable to attack. Garlic is also an effective weapon. The scent apparently overpowers their senses and prevents them from breathing. Unfortunately, we do not have much garlic available here. Perhaps the most difficult method of destruction is holding them until dawn. Their skin burns to a crisp the moment it is exposed to sunlight. But these creatures are physically strong and very cunning. It is extremely difficult to trap them and wait hours for sunrise. You should use a stake. With speed and surprise to your advantage, you will be able to attack them directly."

Father walked over to the wooden chest at the end of his bed and opened it. He rummaged through the contents for a moment and pulled out a wooden stake, about a foot long, its tip nearly as sharp as a knife. "This was given to me by a man I knew long ago. He specialized in rooting out vampires and destroying them. This stake has been the means of death for many, many vile creatures. You can see the dried blood left on it. I want you to have it."

I accepted the stake from his hands and held it gingerly. It was of light weight but looked solid. The bottom inch of the stake was indeed stained with the brownish-red color of dried blood. "Thank you, Father." Any gift from my father was a great honor, even a weapon of death.

"Use it well, son." He placed a hand on my shoulder and looked straight into my eyes. I felt like a soldier being sent off to war.

The moment passed. Father walked back to the table and closed the Bible. "It is time to rest now. We shall be very busy in the morrow."

The following day passed quickly. Father and I were busy gathering and instructing a group of men to go on the hunting party. The group was mostly comprised of the same men who attended all my father's raids and then gleefully watched the burning of those captured, cheering at their agony. I did not particularly care for any of them.

I was grateful that my friend Henry agreed to come along. A reasonable, friendly man only a few years older than me, he never would have attended a raid had I not insisted that this was the real thing. It was not easy to convince him to join.

"Why are you doing this, Carlisle?" he asked when I entered his blacksmith shop and asked for his help. "All these raids accomplish is the slow, torturous death at the stake of an innocent person. I've seen the look upon your face at those burnings. You don't approve of them any more than I do."

"No, I would never want to cause the death of an innocent person," I said carefully, trying not to directly accuse my father of doing exactly that. "But I'm sure that this is something different. These creatures I saw were not human." I described the figures I'd seen, and Henry was fascinated, like my father and all the other men we'd recruited.

"Why exactly are vampires considered evil?" Henry asked.

"Father says they trade their souls with the devil in exchange for immortality. That alone is too nebulous to damn them in my eyes. But legends abound with tales of their killing." I'd spent the night searching the books in my father's library for any and all details of vampires. I needed to understand them firsthand if I was going to take part in their destruction. "They prey on women, seducing them away from their husbands and family, and then taking their blood and their lives. Children are frequent victims as well. The vampires suck away their lives while they are sleeping, leaving parents with the horror of discovering their children's lifeless bodies in the morning."

Henry nodded in acknowledgement. "These creatures should be destroyed if they are as evil as you say. But I don't want to participate in torture, no matter what they have done."

"Nor do I," I agreed, remembering the terrified screams as the flames slowly burned the bodies of those at the stake. "I want to destroy the vampires before they can harm anyone, but I don't want it to be a show. Father said that vampires are extremely difficult to capture and hold for any length of time. I'm instructing everyone in the party to kill them as quickly as possible."

With my assurances, Henry agreed to attend the raid. He was not willing to abandon his conscience in enthusiasm for eradicating evil, but still considered it his duty to keep the world as safe for his wife and child as possible.

The hunting party met shortly before midnight, a few blocks away from the street where I'd seen the vampires. The evening was unusually warm; there was a light drizzle falling, but thankfully not enough to extinguish our torches. I carried a torch and my stake. The other men carried pitchforks and knives, the sharpest items they could find, along with their torches. I felt a little ridiculous having only a piece of sharpened wood, but trusted Father's guarantee of the stake's usefulness.

Several of the men in the party were flushed and loud from drinking copious amounts of ale at a nearby tavern. I wanted to scold them for their carelessness; we needed everyone in the party to be fully alert if we were going to safely destroy these creatures. But I kept silent. Father would have harshly criticized the men, but I still thought of them as my elders. I did not consider myself qualified to upbraid.

Henry's presence helped calm my nerves. "I'll be at your side, ready to fight," he assured me. "Even if the others are too addled to do anything, we'll make sure the vampires don't escape."

We left the gathering spot at midnight and crept as quietly as is possible for a group of ten men to the entrance of the sewer that I'd found. We split into small groups and concealed ourselves in doorways lining the alley near the sewer opening. We stood in these spots for at least an hour. I could hear the grumbling increase as time passed. I had warned them that a long wait was likely and that the vampires might not emerge at all, but clearly they were expecting the chase to occur sooner rather than later. Two of the most drunken men stumbled home when the nearby church tower bell struck one thirty. The rest of us continued to wait.

It felt like hours had passed when the bells for two o'clock chimed. The rain was starting the fall harder, soaking all of us. My wet clothes were plastered against my body, making my teeth chatter despite the warm air temperature. All of the torches had been extinguished. The alleyway was nearly pitch black, lit only by a few candles visible from the windows lining the alleyway. I was about to call off the watch, figuring that no one was going to appear tonight and that we could not catch them in this darkness, when I heard the screech of iron on stone.

Everyone turned in the direction of the sound, but no one moved. The shock of something actually happening coupled with curiosity about the vampires stunned all of us. In the dim light, I had to squint in careful concentration to see the circular hole in the ground. Twenty or thirty seconds later, a head popped out of the hole; the creature looked around, presumably checking to see if anyone was near. I flattened my back against the doorway I was standing in and even stopped breathing for fear of frightening the creature away. Judging from the stillness and silence of the alleyway, the others did the same. The vampire pointed his head back toward the sewer and said something to his compatriots. I was close enough to hear a few familiar words of Latin, but not close enough to make out the entire statement.

The creature seemed satisfied with his cursory sweep of the alleyway. He must not have been able to hear or see us. In a fluid leap, he hopped out of the sewer and onto the cobblestones.

Everything happened very quickly after that. One of the men, a good friend of Father's who I disliked intensely due to his particular cruelty toward accused witches, ran into the alley and shouted at the creature, startling him. I was irritated at his bravado. I had emphasized that we should wait for the vampire to be some distance away from the sewer entrance before provoking him; I did not want him to jump back in and never reappear.

Instead of going back to the sewer, the vampire started to run down the alleyway. He clearly noticed us now, but must have assumed he could outrun us. I joined in the chase once the creature passed the doorway where I stood. I soon outpaced the others in the raiding party. The vampire was very fast, faster than I could ever run; yet from the ease of his steps, I sensed that he was not traveling at anywhere near his top speed. I feared that if we did not catch him very soon, he would be beyond our reach and loose in a city full of innocent women and children.

I chased the creature for a block, running as fast as I could. The distance between us was decreasing. Perhaps he was growing tired. If I kept this up for a few more minutes, I could probably catch him. I gripped the stake tightly in my right hand, hoping that I could quickly and accurately stab it into his heart and not prolong his suffering. Suddenly, the vampire came to a dead stop, turned, and looked right at me. My heart, already pounding from the exertion of sprinting, doubled in speed as my body perceived the danger before my mind.

The vampire was running again, only towards us instead of away. There was no time for me to run in the other direction. He was moving ten times faster than his jog down the street. In seconds, he was inches away from me.

Time seemed to stop. This street was better lit and his features were clearer. In a mixture of horror, terror, and fascination, I noticed everything about him. He was a head shorter than me and of a thin build. His skin was as pale as the creatures I'd seen last night except for deep purple circles under his eyes. His dark hair hung in tangled strings about his shoulders, and he was dressed in tattered rags. To my surprise, his eyes were not red. They were a deep black. The eyes had a ferocity, a hunger, that made them far more frightening than the blazing red irises of the vampire from yesterday. His scent was oddly appealing, a combination of cedar, grass, and honey. Part of me wanted to move closer to breathe in the aroma, even as all my instincts told me to run away.

But the time for running was over. He closed the minuscule distance between us and grabbed me, wrapping two ice cold arms around my back. I screamed out in pain. I heard the snap of ribs, and my lungs struggled to suck in oxygen. He forced me to stoop slightly and put his lips against my neck. The strength of his grip on me made any attempt to struggle or fight impossible. My stake, useless in my immobilized hand, seemed laughable now. The dried blood on the sharpened wood was clearly not from a vampire. I had no doubt that the wood would splinter harmlessly against this monster's body.

I vaguely heard a shout behind me and the world, which had been moving in slow motion, suddenly began spinning at full speed once again. The vampire flung my body to the ground with enough force to crush my elbow and several more ribs. I watched in horror as he turned on the raiding party. Henry ran up to him, knife raised and poised to strike, but the monster effortlessly grabbed him by the neck with one hand and crushed his windpipe. My friend slid to the ground a few feet in front of me, his unseeing eyes still open wide with shock. The monster moved on, tossing another man down the street, so far that I barely heard his body land. He then picked up a third man and ran away so fast that he literally disappeared into the night. The remaining members of the party scattered, running for their lives, not bothering to look back at Henry or me.

I tried to get up. I wanted to go to Henry, kneel beside his body, and beg forgiveness for causing his death. It was then that I noticed the pain. My ribs and arm were throbbing, sending bolts of pain shooting up and down my body. But it was nothing compared to my neck. I must have landed on a smoldering torch. My neck was on fire. I slapped my hand to my neck, irrationally thinking that I could extinguish the flames. But there was no fire, only a sticky liquid. I pulled my hand away and stared at it slack-jawed. It was dripping, covered in blood.

The monster bit me. In the commotion of the last few moments, I hadn't even noticed. He left me alive. There was a reason for the burning. The legends were uniformly clear on the meaning of a vampire's bite. I was transforming into a vampire.

My eyes were still fixed on my bloodied hand. It was shaking slightly, both from shock and pain. The burning was growing worse. I needed to move, somehow. The hunting party would tell my father what happened soon, and he would come after me. I couldn't let that happen. He would kill me, seeing only a demon in the former body of his son. Or perhaps I would kill him, as thoughtlessly as the monster who had just attacked us. I had to hide somewhere no one could find me.

I used my good arm and legs to drag me forward. Standing was impossible with my muscles spasming in pain. I could only move inches at a time. It took a few minutes to reach Henry. I slid my hand down his face, forcing his eyes closed. Tears of sorrow and agony dripped down my face.

I spotted a wooden cellar door about six feet away. I dragged my body toward it. The burning was spreading. I could feel it in my chin now and my left shoulder. It was becoming harder and harder to move. I finally reached the door. I prayed that I would have the strength to pull it open. Using the entire right side of my body, I forced the door open. The cellar was small, no more than five feet below the street. The door slammed shut behind me as I slid down the steps. I was blind in the pitch black room.

I felt my way to a group of large burlap bags against a wall. I pushed a few aside and squeezed my body into the hole I'd created. I dragged the bags back over the opening to completely hide me from view of anyone entering the cellar. In a vain attempt to ignore the pain, I focused on guessing the bags' contents. They had an earthy scent, but the aroma of mold and rot was most prominent. My game ended all too quickly when a large potato fell from one of the bags directly onto my crushed elbow. I shouted as the pain from the potato's weight radiated throughout my entire body.

The sound of my own voice jolted me into awareness for an instant. I would have to stay silent if I was to avoid discovery. More shouts like that would send people running to the cellar to investigate. No one could find me.

As much as I feared discovery, it was becoming harder and harder to be quiet. My entire body was lit up by invisible flames. The fire seemed to attack from inside and outside my body, ravaging not only my skin, but my brain, muscles, and organs as well. Rather than turning to ashes, I seemed to be strengthening, making the fire burn hotter and stronger. Perhaps the devil was welcoming me into hell. Surely I deserved it for leading three men to their deaths. Maybe the legends were wrong, and I was merely dying a horrible death, instead of turning into a vampire. I hoped so. I hoped death would come soon. It couldn't come soon enough.

So many questions. What was happening to me? How long would the burning continue? Was it possible for the flames to burn stronger than they did now? What would happen if the burning stopped? Would I die? Would I become a vampire? Would I become a ruthless killer? Would any part of my soul remain? I had no answers. At the moment, I did not care about anything but the pain. But the questions remained. I could only wait and see what my future held.

A/N: I wrote this as an extended one-shot for Twilight Novel Novice's One Fine Summer Day challenge, but I really see the potential for a longer story here. Would anyone be interested in reading more about Carlisle's human life and more about his life after transformation?

Reviews appreciated! I'm a new fanfiction writer and would love to hear from people.