Summary: Afflicted by a terminal, genetic disease, Isabella Swan is desperate to lose "it" before she dies. Her best friend since they were in the womb Edward Cullen just might be the boy to help her. Well, not until he saves her life, of course.

Rating: M for dark topics like death, diseases, and sensitive subjects.

A/N: I have been trying to write this prologue perfectly for the last three days, and I think I finally got it. DSYH has been put on hold due to lack of inspiration for that story, sorry guys.

But I love this one a lot.

"Remembering Sunday" by All Time Low is going to be the only song that will really fit this story, so go and listen to it if you haven't. I never thought I would like All Time Low, and now I really do! Surprising to say the least.

Anyway, without further meaningless banter, please read my sad, sad story!

Disclaimer: Twilight belongs to Stephenie Meyer.

"I'm not coming back, I've done something so terrible
I'm terrified to speak, but you'd expect that from me
I'm mixed up; I'll be blunt
Now the rain is just washing you out of my hair
And out of my mind
Keeping the eye on the world
So many thousands of feet off the ground
I'm over you now, I'm at home in the clouds
Towering over your hair."
- - - "Remembering Sunday" by All Time Low

Remembering Sunday
Prologue - The Day I Died

Since I was seven, I had been planning my funeral. Instead of dreaming about the day I would get married to my prince charming, I was wondering what kind of flowers I should have on my casket.

The day I actually died, I was in his arms, in the rain, when he couldn't make it to the hospital in time. But I was happy. I could have died alone, so many years before my time. Instead, he was with me, the man who had given me so much more time.

Time. Most people think it moves sluggish. At school, work, they always complain: Why can't it go faster? I was the one teenager in school who never wanted to leave high school. It would mean I'd have less time. No one else had to worry about that like I did. They could complain about it being slow. I could cry and scream, throwing things and asking over and over again: Why can't I have more like them?

"Hold on, Bella, please," He cried, his tears mixing with the pouring rain around us. I took a struggled breath, blinking. "I'll go get help," he said, going to set me down, but I reached up and fisted my hand in his shirt.

"No," I muttered, my voice being drowned out by the torrent of rain beating down on us. I shook my head weakly, desperately wishing he wouldn't let me go. "No. Just . . . stay with me." I swallowed, trying to labor my breathing.

He reluctantly agreed, kneeling down and holding me in his arms. "Don't leave," I breathed, my eyes closing. He shook his head, a sob breaking through his lips. I rolled my head until my forehead was pressed against his bicep, savoring his scent for the last time. I wouldn't make it through this one.

But I was okay with it. I was content in his arms while my heart sputtered in my chest, slowing down and picking up at the same time. It was a mix of hurt and thrill.

I was scared. "Don't leave," I repeated, locking my hand on the collar of his shirt. I took one last breath, letting my body relax. I couldn't feel my heart beating anymore. I tried taking a breath. I failed.


"Bella," He says, shaking her once gently. Denial. "Bella," His voice is firmer, his hand moves a wet piece of hair from her face. He doesn't believe she can be dead already. They said she would get better. That she would live. A sob breaks through his lips and he pulls her body close, putting her head on his shoulder so her still-warm forehead is pressing against his neck.

He knows that if he takes her home, they will blame him for not taking care of her and taking her to a hospital. They will yell at him. They will take her away from him.

He slips his arm under her thin legs - the same legs that had once kept her away from so much - and carried her to where should have been taken: the hospital. He should have taken her. He knows this. But he couldn't. She didn't want to be there. And he could not deny her.

"Dad," he chokes as the blonde man turns the corner. The doctor looks up and he drops the clipboard had has been flipping through.

He picks the tiny, soaked girl from his son's arms, in place of the clipboard. The son stands with his arms still held out, as if he is still holding her, trying to get used to the absence of her weight.

The doctor rushes down the hallway, the girl's torn shoes dripping dirty water onto the white tile. He tries to find a pulse, is unsuccessful, and tears the shirt from her chest, something he's done too many times before.

A nurse dries her skin quickly but thoroughly. A ringing fills the small room as a monitor is hooked to her hand to read her heartbeat. The doctor shocks her once. The doctor shocks her twice.

He wipes his brow. She can't die. He can't let her die with his son here. He shocks her again, the third time. No. No. No. No! he yells inside, a knife twisting inside his gut. He takes the paddles and presses them to her flesh again, knowing her crippled heart could not take too much more. Her muscles clench and unclench with the fourth shock.

The doctor cannot give up. His face pained, angry, and determined, he moves to shock her again. Fifth time. The flat line still flows on the screen. The machine still screams with that one, ominous tone. His movements jerky, he goes to shock her again. Someone holds him back.

Turning, it's a nurse that has been with him since internship. "Carlisle," she mutters, her eyes sad. She has seen this girl here so many times before. She shakes her head, "Call it."

The two other nurses silently exit the room, knowing there is nothing more they can do while he is still there. The nurse removes her hand from his arm, taking the paddles from his hands.

He swallows, slowly lifting his head to the clock on the south wall of the room. "Eleven twenty-seven." He whispers, putting his hands behind his head; he is scared to look down at the girl on the bed. What he will see frightens him. Her skin pale, her lips blue.

Without him knowing, his colleague has left. The doctor shakes his head, runs his hands over his face. How could she be dealt this horrible card? He shoves the monitor from its perch, silencing the ear-wrenching ring that would forever remain her heart.

He tries to fix her shirt so she is not exposed, his eyes filled with tears that cloud his vision. "I am . . . so sorry, Bella," He stares at her face. Her lips are slightly parted, her eyes closed, and her wet, matted hair stuck to her face. She is peaceful, and an agonizing smile fits itself on his face. She did not die in pain.

He cannot go and face his son, so he sits in her room, asking for his patients to be traded off. His elbows on his knees, his hands over his mouth, he stares at her body. More precise, the gold ring and band around her third finger. Her hand is hanging just outside of the bed, still locked in a crippled position. Even in death, her body wasn't free from the disease.


In the lobby, the son had fallen to his knees, his arms still held out like he was holding his love. Someone had come by and wrapped a wool blanket around his waterlogged shoulders, trying to get him to stand, but he did not budge. The lobby buzzed around him, the people a blur.

She is gone. She has died at least twice with him in the room, always coming back and smiling the next day. But now she is really gone.

He does not want to remember this day.

A/N: I cried when writing this. ):

So, what do you guys think? Yes? No? Too depressing? Review and let me know!

Oh, and I'm officially taking a set date to update off for me. It's just too much pressure. I just got a letter of homework from my high school to do over the summer. Arrg, I have about 15 books to read! FML.