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forksianbeaute · 5 months

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Bleed Me Dry | C. Cullen | 01

𝚈𝚎𝚝 𝚊𝚗𝚘𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚛 𝚜𝚝𝚘𝚛𝚢 𝚊𝚋𝚘𝚞𝚝 𝚑𝚘𝚠 𝚊 𝚛𝚎𝚜𝚒𝚍𝚎𝚗𝚝 𝚏𝚎𝚕𝚕 𝚒𝚗 𝚕𝚘𝚟𝚎 𝚠𝚒𝚝𝚑 𝚊𝚗 𝚊𝚝𝚝𝚎𝚗𝚍𝚒𝚗𝚐.

Warnings: This chapter contains content that is intended to be consumed by those who are at least eighteen years old, such as strong language, discussions/thoughts about death, descriptions of an incurable disease that will ultimately lead to death, medical inaccuracies, an inappropriate relationship, an age gap and other mature content. Minors do not interact. Please take care of yourself before reading.

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It’s cold in here.

And not just any kind of cold either, but the kind that has got shivers running down the length of your spine in what seems to be a never-ending stream, and that makes you pull the sleeves of your white doctor’s coat down to shield your hands from the chilled air that is surrounding you without you even noticing it yourself — brain working in hopes of the action bringing some warmth to those poor limbs of yours that have been cold to the touch for the better part of the day.

It’s not like you haven’t been to a hospital before, because you have — and hundreds of times too, for what it’s worth —, but judging from the past few days you’ve spent running around the premises of Forks Hospital, you figure that they must keep this hospital just a tad bit colder than the ones you have worked at before. You wonder if it’s because the people here are used to the cold — used to the endless rain and gloom that greet them every single time they step outside.

The cold is something you most certainly will never get used to. You’re sure of it.

The heels of your shoes clank against the concrete flooring in a rather loud manner as you make your way through one crowded corridor after another. Dodging people to the best of your ability as you go — trying your absolute hardest to keep from accidentally nudging them with your elbows when pushing past them.

Realizing that you’re not really getting anywhere, you knit your eyebrows together and pick up your pace.

You’re on a mission. A mission that was supposed to be a quick and easy thing, but that turned out to be much more difficult than what you originally thought it’d be, though, you’re pretty sure that that has got something to do with the fact that there really is a pair of nice, black heels adorning your feet instead of a pair of those comfy-looking sneakers that most of this hospital’s staff seem to opt for each day when choosing what shoes to wear to work.

But seriously, first tracing down Dr. Cullen, and now trying to catch up with him — damn if it isn’t nearly impossible in those shoes.

Even though you have not gotten the chance to work with him yet — or, to have any other kind of a conversation with him either, for that matter —, you have seen him around enough times to recognize the back of that head full of blonde hair you’ve been chasing for a good ten minutes now to be his.

Finally close enough to know that he is able to hear you, you call after him, “Dr. Cullen!”

He already knows you’re there — of course he does. And not just because the loud clanking of your shoes is practically impossible for one to miss, but because the scent of you is too strong, too overpowering for it to get mixed up with the scents of others — too intoxicating for him to not pick up on it even in a space like this; a space that is brimming with humans, each of them which is constructed of nothing but flesh, blood and bone.

He stops and turns around, a kind smile climbing to adorn his lips the second he lays those golden brown eyes of his on you.

You’re beautiful — there’s no denying that. Speed walking over to where he is standing like that, a patient file tucked tight beneat your arm. Dark, high-waisted dress pants and a pale blue turtleneck hugging your figure just right, a white doctor’s coat with your last name embroidered to its breast pocket resting on top of your shoulders, tying the whole look together — making you look like you belong, like you’re exactly where you’re supposed to be.

“I don’t think that we have properly met yet,” you start, sounding like you’re a little out of breath; all the speed walking you did just to be able to catch up with him is clearly taking its toll on your lungs too, not just on your feet. Stretching an arm out and offering it for him to shake, you proceed to introduce yourself to him.

“It’s a pleasure to meet you,” he says, not catching a hold of your hand like most people would. You don’t think much of it — many doctors aren’t really ones to shake hands with others upon meeting them for the first time, anyway.

“You as well,” you tell him, really meaning it.

Having overheard a few surgeons speak very highly of Dr. Cullen in the cafeteria a couple of days ago during your lunchbreak, you know now that the doctor who is standing right in front of you is one Hell of a good one, and really — to you, there is no other honor quite like getting to meet a world-class doctor, no matter how many of them you have already had the pleasure of meeting.

He hums in an answer.

Now, finally getting to look at him from this close, you’re beginning to understand what all the nurses have been gushing about; Dr. Carlisle Cullen really is one, insanely beautiful creature. Perhaps the most beautiful creature you’ve ever laid your eyes on, even.

Thick, blonde hair of which not a singular strand has fallen out of place. Pale skin that is seemingly free of all imperfections — a smooth canvas, that you don’t know just yet, but is untouched by the beams of sunlight. Sharp features that look like they have been carefully carved out of clay, by someone whose touch is nothing less but ever so perfect and precise.

And for reasons completely understandable, for a little while you just stand there, not saying a thing, only staring at him like a fool. Lost somewhere deep in the gold dust of his eyes and the pale of his skin because God, how could you not be?

“Was there something I could help you with?”

Those words of his, that are laced with nothing but kindness and patience, pull you from your thoughts. “Yes. I, uh—,” you stutter, giving your head a slight shake in an attempt to gather yourself before continuing, “I need your opinion on something.”

“Alright,” he says, pulling his hands out of the pockets of his white doctor’s coat. “What have you got?”

Catching a hold of the patient file that has been sitting in the snug embrace of your underarm for a while now and handing it over to Dr. Cullen, you begin explaining, “It’s this girl, Jamie. She’s nineteen years old, and came here for the first time a couple of months ago after experiencing immense pain in both of her legs after swimming practice. She was discharged then, after they found nothing to be wrong with her.”

“Mhm,” Dr. Cullen hummus in aknowledgement, golden brown eyes rummaging through the pages he is being presented with.

“She tells me that she still experiences this pain every now and then, and that she’s got this odd twitch in her left thigh that just won’t go away,” you tell him, watching the way there are now a few little lines appearing in between his eyebrows, making it evident that he is really concentrating on what you’re telling him. “Odd, right? I mean — she’s so young… Anyway, I ordered an EMG for her and the results just… I just… I was hoping to get your opinion on them.”

EMG, formally known as electromyography, is a test that is used to evaluate the electrical activity that is produced by the patient’s skeletal muscles. This particular test is often conducted in situations where the patient is showing symptoms that may indicate, for example, ALS — an incurable disease, in which the patient’s voluntary muscles will, in time, atrophy, ultimately resulting in death.

Dr. Cullen stays silent for a while, clearly deep in thought.

ALS is a rare disease, especially among those who are under sixty years of age. And this poor little girl — Jamie, as you said her name was —, is only nineteen years old. She still has got a whole lot of life yet to live, a whole lot of things to learn.

This is something that doesn’t happen all that often — you wishing that you weren’t right. You wishing that whatever it was that you thought you saw in those damned test results, would turn out to be anything, but what you think it is — what you know it is.

It’s when you swallow, hard and awfully loud, that Dr. Cullen finally tears his eyes away from the stack of papers he is still holding onto. His serious gaze soon meeting your nervous one — one, that worry is so very evidently veiling.

“Hm…?”

“You needed my opinion on these results?” he asks, eyebrows raising in question just ever so slightly. You are a smart woman. He knows you are — he can tell. Which is precisely why he also knows that you are able to see the exact same thing on these results that he is, and very evidently so too.

Letting your teeth sink into the soft flesh of your lower lip, you think about it for a while — think about what it is, that you want to say.

Figuring that there is no way around the truth, you end up telling him, “I guess I was hoping that you’d tell me I’m crazy — that you aren’t seeing what I’m seeing, and that there’s no need for me to page neuro.”

There is the smallest, yet still the most apologetic smile you’ve ever seen tugging the corners of Dr. Cullen’s mouth upwards. He has been there, too, more times than he cares to count. And he knows that it never gets easier — not for people like you; for people that have spent years studying medicine because they truly, wholeheartedly want nothing more than to help others.

“You know I can’t do that,” he then says, stretching his arm out and handing the patient file back to you.

“Yeah. I guess I do,” you sigh, the audible exhale unbeknownst to you carrying the scent of the fresh blood that is now leaking from your bottom lip on its back.

All the little muscles that adorn the length of Dr. Cullen’s neck tense visibly as the scent of your blood floods his nostrils — driving him absolutely mad in a matter of only a couple of seconds with the way the iron-like tang there is to your blood seems to be stronger, more intoxicating to him than anyone else’s.

He swallows, hard.

Dr. Cullen isn’t one to lose his self control. He hasn’t ever, nor will he ever. But goddamn if he ever was to, the reason behind it would need to be someone whose blood smells at least as good as yours does, because God, he hasn’t smelled anything like you throughout the almost four hundred years he has spent roaming the Earth.

“I’m sorry,” he says.

You shake your head. “Don’t be. I mean — things like this happen, right?”

Dr. Cullen nods. “And they’ll keep happening.”

For someone so insanely good-looking, there is a lot of sympathy in Dr. Cullen’s eyes. You wonder if it’s because under all that beauty, there’s a heart full of gold that has been through more than it ever should have — which, for a doctor, is kinda rare —, or because he wants you to know that even though you are new here, there are people that are here for you.

“It’s just… God, she’s so young,” you speak your mind out loud, perhaps more to yourself than to him. “It’s so unfair.”

“I know.”

It’s actually quite a nice moment that the two of you share right here, in the middle of one of the many crowded corridors of Forks Hospital. It’s a moment of mutual understanding, of things of all sorts — understanding of each other, even.

Offering Dr. Cullen a kind smile in hopes of portraying yourself as someone who is a little less affected by these kinds of things than what you are, you proceed to excuse yourself, “Thank you for your time, Dr. Cullen. I’m sorry I’ve kept you from your patients.”

“No need for apologies,” he promises. “It was nice meeting you. I’ll see you around.”

You nod. “See you.”

It’s when you turn around on your heels and start walking away from him, those pretty heels of yours clanking against the concrete flooring just as loud as they did when you were chasing him down not too long ago, that Dr. Cullen brings his hand up and runs it along his features, wondering what on Earth should he do with you — how on Earth will he be able to work alongside you until the end of your residency, when you smell and look like that.

Next Chapter

Authors note: Thank you for reading! :)

I have not yet decided on whether or not Esme will make an appearance in this series, so please help your girl out! Is Esme around at all? And if so, is Carlisle married to her? Or was he married to her? What do you think...? 👀

Taglist: @hungrhay @itsmytimetoodream @glimmering-darling-dolly @stardust-and-snickerdoodles

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forksianbeaute · 6 months

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Bleed Me Dry | C. Cullen | Prologue

Warnings: This entire story is intended to be read by those who are at least eighteen years old. This chapter itself doesn’t contain any mature content, but I will block all ageless and underage blogs who interact with this post.

It’s still early — too fucking early. The sun has not risen above the horizon just yet, though from what you have been told, you figure that it wouldn’t really make the scene look any different even if it had, since there’s a thick, dark curtain of clouds veiling the skies of Forks more often than not.

Glancing outside, you take a brief moment to appreciate the beauty of the picture that opens right behind that steamy, clearly never-washed window of the Forks Hospital’s break room. It’s something you’re not used to viewing as beautiful, but now — looking at the endless sea of dark green and gloom, and seeing how both of those elements tie the picture together whilst somehow only adding to one another’s beauty —, you’re beginning to think you’ve never seen anything as beautiful in your life.

“I would like for all of you to meet the newest addition to the team.”

It’s one of the board directors — one of those four people, who actually have a say in what goes on inside the walls of Forks Hospital these days —, who introduces you to the entire staff.

You’re not quite sure what kind of a welcome it was that you were expecting to be greeted with upon arriving, but it surely wasn’t anything like this.

A couple dozen pairs of tired, still half-closed eyes staring back at you. Unimpressed, perhaps even a little bored expressions carved onto the features of what seems that is literally every single person present. Coffee cups in the hands of most — the smoky aroma of that freshly brewed, nearly black liquid that is supposed to knock some life into the employees of this hospital now lingering in the air.

Forcing an awkward smile onto those cherry-red painted lips of yours, you say, “Hi.”

It’s not that you’re shy, or not-that-good with people, because really you’re not either of those things — you’re quite the opposite, actually —, but something about seeing those nonchalant, ‘Can we go now?’ looks on the faces of your new colleagues seems to shove every single thing you thought you could say to them down your throat — making sure that this situation is way more awkward than what it needs to be.

The board director, Samuel White, gives his throat a rather loud clear, making it evident to everyone present that he doesn’t approve of this being the kind of a welcome new employees are greeted with here, at Forks Hospital.

Noticing that his efforts don’t really make a difference — noticing that not a singular person straightens their spine, or even tries to fix the look on their face —, he sighs, the audible exhale loud enough to be heard over the steady humming of the air conditioning unit that you’re sure runs on full speed all day and all night, just to be able to keep the humidity of this rainy city outside the hospital’s walls.

“Anyway…,” he then says, bringing his hand up to scratch the back of his neck. “She’ll be with us until the end of her residency. She’s a damn good doctor and surely a great addition to the team, so… Be nice.”

It almost feels as if you were eleven years old again. Standing in front of the classroom, with a backpack full of heavy books resting on your shoulder. An awkward smile tugging the corners of your mouth upwards, while waving at your new classmates — something that the teacher insisted you do.

Come to think of it, the situation which you’re in now isn’t that much different, actually. Only now you’re standing in front of a hospital’s break room instead of a classroom. Only now the room is brimming with highly educated adults instead of kids whose parents have spoiled them rotten — who they either don’t seem to give a flying fuck that you’re here.

Though it is something you don’t notice, at one of those flimsy-looking, white cafeteria tables that someone with poor taste has decided to decorate the break room with, sits Dr. Carlisle Cullen. There is no coffee cup in his hand like there is in the hands of many others, but instead a few patient files sitting in a nice and neat pile before him, patiently waiting for him to start his day by going through them.

With both of his elbows resting on top of that god-awful table, and with one hand’s fingers curled into a loose fist that is now positioned right before his nose and mouth, he sits still — not really having it in himself to do anything else because God, that’s how good you smell. And though every single person in this room kind of does smell good to him, this is different. You are different.

He has been around for a while. He has treated more patients with open wounds than he cares to count, and thus has become very familiar with the scent of fresh blood and the iron-like tang there is to it that tickles his nostrils each time he allows air to flow into his lungs at work.

Yet still, right here and now — with the air conditioning unit circling the air that to him now smells like a mixture of fresh coffee, you and the scent of that sweet, floral perfume of yours —, he feels the need to excuse himself.

God, it’s going to be a hell of a long next few years.

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