Bella's Vampire Diary: Blood on My Hands

Epilogue: The Blue Devil and the Doctor

June 30, 2012

In my hundred and fifty year existence, I've strayed away from my kind. It is unnatural of course, but my creation was to protect humanity, so I have to live by other means. It is my duty as a lawman to live by man's laws and the power of the Lord, so I see this as a blessing and not a curse.

In 1867, the west was as wild as its legend. The Civil War had just ended, and the country was going through Reconstruction. We had lost one of the best leaders of all time by an assassin's gun, and at that moment I wanted to be a sheriff.

In California, in a small town of Mack Valley, my job was to keep peace in a dying gold town. Men were as mobile as tumbleweeds, and no one wanted to grow any roots. At the time, I was a deputy to several lines of sheriffs, who thought they were braver than me, could control the evil more than me, and were all six feet under- unlike me.

As we grew in 1872, the gold was gone, so many people didn't fear living in Mack Valley. They settled in, and honest people began to prosper. I finally became sheriff in 1871, and the jail was pretty empty. My deputy was part-time, and I settled arguments that were trivial at best. That was until The Blue Devil came into town.

At the time, I didn't know the man's name, only his reputation. Blue Devil had hit several towns east of Mack Valley, and I hoped he would turn south toward Mexico. He arrived on a September afternoon, and he immediately robbed the local bank. Then, that evening had used the people's money to gamble at the local saloon. He abused good people's money to pillage his desires and began to create a cancer in the town.

The next evening, I called Blue Devil out. I knew he had robbed the bank, and it was my duty to arrest him and let justice take its course. He jumped onto his horse, and I followed him into the forest. The blanket of trees made finding him difficult, but near a stream, I found him watering his horse.

"Blue Devil, you're under arrest!"

He turned and fired immediately; the bullet was deep in my gullet. I fought unconsciousness as I heard his voice, "Nobody will take me down. Not you. Not anyone." The last thing I heard was the galloping of a single horse. Death was at my doorstep.

I suffered for hours—hoping that Death would do his job and be done with it. Hearing footsteps, I knew I was found-found to give me a proper burial.

I couldn't recognize his face, but his voice was clear, "Sheriff Deke, that was the bravest thing I have seen in a long time. You want justice, not glory, and you cannot die with that worthy of a cause." With that, he bit my neck. I began to scream in agony; the venom was sealing every vessel in its quake. He stood up, "I'm sorry about the pain. It will be over soon. You'll get justice, but you just needed an extra boost." I opened my eyes, and I saw the young doctor staring at me.

The searing of my body felt like a constant branding against my skin. I convulsed in pain as the change occurred. At the end, I was a newborn vampire, and the doctor sat by me.

"I'm Carlisle Cullen. The man who did this to you needed to face justice. I usually stay out of humans' business, but this couldn't be overlooked."

Within the next several days, we hunted deer and cattle, and he spoke of his philosophy about humanity. He offered me to be his ally and traveled with him, but in my young madness, I thanked him, and he went about his ways. His route was Alaska to another coven, and if he ever needed me, he would be there.

The rest of the year, I hid from the rescue teams, my deputy, and my friends. I feared I would attack and kill them out of thirst, so I climbed mountains and lived on the game of the wilderness. My mind was always thinking about my little town, but I had to make sure I could control my new abilities.

There was something new about me. Whenever I came by humans, I could see shadows around them. In my heart, I knew I had the ability to read auras and see good and evil. My power could be used for good.

Epilogue: Earthquakes, Vampires, and San Quentin

June 30, 2012

By 1874, I had travelled throughout the west wandering from region to region. If I had any contact with any humans, I made sure my eyes were shaded, and I had fed before any interaction. At the time, I didn't stay long enough to know my name or who I was. In comparison to my former life, it felt almost foreign not to live with humans, and I felt very isolated. Other than Carlisle, I had not seen another of my kind until 1900.

I had read about the destruction of Chicago after its great fire, but other than a quake or two, I never fathomed what kind of carnage a natural or unnatural disaster can do. I celebrated the turn of the century in San Francisco, and I spent time working a Golden Gate ferry transporting goods from northern California further south.

Many crew members were becoming sick, and some never returned. Soon, the ferry was closed, and what I saw—was worse than any battlefield I had ever seen. The bubonic plague crept into town and killed so many people that cemeteries could not catch up, and later, cemeteries were banned from city limits. Chinatown was quarantined, but beyond that, there were more corpses than living bodies.

While the dying breathed their last breaths, I realized some people wandering around the hospital or near homes. They weren't people; they were vampires waiting for their opportunity to feed. In hospitals, they were the attendees or the nurses. In homes, they were the morticians or their assistants. No one noticed their red eyes; no one focused on anyone. The bloodsuckers hovered like avenging angels; some had said they were giving "mercy". No-they were feeding on a human buffet. When the plague was over, it wasn't long before the Great 1906 Earthquake hit San Francisco. Again, my kind oozed out of cracks and crawled through rubble for their next bite.

After the Great Earthquake, I decided to start my destiny. Alcatraz Island had been a military prison during the Civil War and the Spanish-American War, and after the earthquake, several civilian inmates were sent for confinement until the city was rebuilt.

At that time, the prison needed strong backs and warm bodies to keep watch. There I accepted my first prison job, and prisoner 18395 was placed in my block. David "Blue Devil" Smith was locked in his cage, but it wasn't enough. His aura was darker than coal; his soul was an endless pit. I didn't need to live, while others had to die for his greed.

Three hundred and twenty-three days after he was placed in my cell block, Blue Devil had a terrible accident—his neck was twisted so hard that his head dangled from his neck. Tasting his blood, as much I wanted to, would be reprehensible. No blood from his body would taste my lips. I'd rather starve than drink from that man.

I didn't check if he knew who I was; this was technically the first man I killed. I had let instinct take over for just a split second, and then, I acted as if nothing had happened. His body was dumped in Potter's Field, as a grave with a number, and that was justice not just for my "death," but I knew this would bring closer to all of his victims.

I left Alcatraz after it returned to be a military prison instead of a civilian one. Besides, within a couple years, people would notice I wasn't aging. San Quentin wasn't far away, so I applied for a guard job. Ironically as I walked into the warden's office, I saw the face of a now older deputy and his shocked face.

In a matter of hours, I disclosed my story; he was my friend and biggest confidant back then, so I believed he would be one person who would understand. I had told him about the Blue Devil and how he died in Alcatraz.

I insured my deputy that he wouldn't have to worry about paying me and except leaving to hunt. I would be at the grounds at all times. My powers of reading auras made it beneficial for him also. I could organize the inmates from the dangerous to the innocent. This would make the warden's job easier and make him look good to the board. He agreed, and I began my tenure at San Quentin.

Through the next twenty years, I was able to organize the prison and over time, learn enough about the law that I was able to get innocent men freed when all hope was lost. My deputy/warden never questioned me, whether it was he knew what I was or the respect, I'm not sure. But as promised, the rate of prison violence reduced dramatically and unfair convicted men were set free.

As the warden aged, his son became the assistant and then the new warden. He knew the secret, and after the success of his father, he felt very comfortable about me and how I ran the prison. By then, it was the beginning of the Depression, and more criminals landed in jail—not for being evil, they just wanted a warm place to live and not starve to death.

After the First World War and the Depression, I saw people in different lights and how some people's bravery and courage were the differences between life and death.

In most cases, I used my powers for good. I tried not to use any violence toward the inmates, because I knew I would not be able to stop. There were times inmates would go too far, and they ended up in Potter's Field with no argument from the warden. Some inmates suspected who I was, especially those who served life sentences, but I made sure I switched levels every couple of years to avoid any questions.

As time went on, warden after warden (really father and son) continued to repeat right up to the present. The Great-great Grandson of the Deputy was running San Quentin, and the prisoners have entered more violently and viciously than ever before. It would sound a little strange for my kind to stay in one place for over fifty years, but my relationship with the humans has made it possible.

Other than my watch, I was interacting with the innocent inmates as their council. The warden had a law degree made with my name on it, so all my paperwork was legal. In early 2012, I was preparing a brief for a young man, Tom Robinson, who was convicted for second degree murder, but wasn't the perpetrator. After the second appeal, it was finally going to the California Supreme Court for review. Tom and I hoped the decision would come before the summer was over. Unfortunately during the wait, I was preoccupied by a newcomer. Inmate 235692 was wheeled in from Washington to serve his time and recover. He had two boxing glove gauzed hands and a blue cast on his foot. What I didn't know then was this inmate connected my present to my past.

Epilogue: The Note to Forks

June 30, 2012

I didn't have to deal with Inmate 235692 until he was release from the infirmary. For three months, he stayed there while he recovered. The warden had told me about his injuries, which made me wonder about the origins.

235692 was convicted of two counts of second degree murder. He received two life sentences without the chance of parole with no death sentence, which was odd. He had murdered his business partner and his fiancé for a chance of business buy-out in the outskirts of Washington.

Somehow, he was maimed in which he did not say how or who, and he decided to confess and begin his sentence. His only stipulations were to serve his sentence out of state and the prison not disclosed. What had scared him so much to negate a trial and begin two life sentences without complaint? Only my kind could do that, but why did he live? If a vampire cared for a human and that human was killed, how were they able to control their anger? And I thought one kind of vampire…Carlisle.

Through the years, I had kept in contact with Carlisle via postcard or small note. In the past hundred years, he had created his own family: two sons and a daughter. In the fifties, another pair had joined them to make them a bigger coven. One son had the ability to read minds; another had great strength. They drifted from Alaska to Washington to Maine every twenty or so years, and his children posed as high school and college students. I hadn't had contact with him for fifteen years, but hearing Washington made me almost know that one of his "children" was responsible.

As I researched more, 235692's hands had been broken and had been impaled by some object. The doctors had told me that he had nerve damage and most likely, would not be able to do simple tasks anymore. The foot was broken, but it would heal over time. Impaled? This is a work of a female vampire—probably a writing instrument or shoe heel. Now, which female?

The internet has proven to be an effective tool, not just for legal purposes, but to make harder tasks easier. Before the internet, it took newspapers, phone calls, and letters to connect one dot to the next. Now, it is a click away. Entering "Carlisle Cullen" and "Washington" into a search engine, I found a wedding announcement of his son, Edward, and his new bride, Bella Swan, in Forks Washington. Carlisle was quoted praising how his son married the police chief's beautiful daughter. That was almost five years ago.

Then cross-referencing the victims to Edward and Bella, the connection was made. His bride graduated with the deceased fiancé. In order to do this kind of damage, Bella had to be a vampire now. It seemed very unusual for a newborn to control emotions and anger. Was this her gift, or was her humanity still intact?

I had my first good look at 235692 when he was released from the infirmary in late 2011. Swirls of smoke, ash, and death surrounded him; while this Bella had humanity, this human had none. He was placed with the other life sentence inmates.

During his free time, 235692 had four bodyguards by him at all times. They surrounded him, and no one talked to him unless it was okayed by them. Very odd. Not many newcomers would have protection so soon, unless money or other contraband was involved. I guess his vampire encounter made him paranoid, afraid she would find him and finish the job.

Again my computer was my ally, 235692's accounts had been frozen since the conviction and sentencing. The business had fallen into the board of directors, and the deal that cost the two Washington lives actually passed. When I looked at his prison account, five thousand dollars had been deposited the week he arrived. For any prison, this was way too much money. California law states that no one should profit from his criminal acts, and through several phone calls and legal actions, it was found that the company's buyer had made a deal with him illegally, and money would be deposited in his account for the rest of his term in prison.

I didn't know why I pursued this so passionately other than to prove to this man that greed should not be rewarded. As an agent of justice, I filed a complaint against the mother company, and the money and the deal were voided. Thus, 235692's protection detail disappeared by March of 2012, and he was now a regular inmate, miserable.

As 235692's life was turning sour, Tom Robinson's life was getting better. We received a motion from the court, and on June 25, 2012, the judge overturned the previous decision, and Tom would be released as soon as the paperwork was completed—about two days.

All of our innocent inmates had special privileges and more freedoms than the guilty. If they had to be imprisoned, they could have some luxuries of being free. Many of them worked in the kitchen and were trained as cooks; they had some skills when they were released. Tom, especially, had aspirations of culinary school after his time in prison. He wanted to go to the Culinary Institute of America in San Francisco and through an "anonymous" donor; he received a full scholarship and living expenses.

On the 27th, Tom was going to be a free man at noon. His last duty was to help the breakfast crew, and then, he could gather his belongings. I personally was going to drive him to his new apartment and get him started; unfortunately, it never happened. Tom and inmate 235692 had a fateful encounter.

Tom scraped, stacked, and loaded the dirty trays into the dish washer. As he was gathering a load, inmate 235692 tossed his tray on the table. Tom noticed his scars on his hands and stated, "You must be devoted to the Lord to place Jesus' marks on your hands." Without warning, the inmate slammed Tom on the wall and with a hidden shank, began to stab Tom.

235692 screamed, "No one asks me about my hands! Nobody!"

By the time the guards pulled him from Tom, puddles of blood stained the floor, and Tom died before the medics reached him. The room was cleared, and I held Tom's lifeless body. Unable to form tears, I could not properly mourn him. His innocent comment got him killed, and he had his life in front of him, and this evil, pus-filled son of bitch erased Tom's future.

235692 was placed in the Hole. I knew he would die there too.

Midnight approached, and I entered the confinement area. There was only moonlight. I reached 235692's cell and whispered, "I know what happened to you. Those marks on your hands… were made by heels."

"Who are you?"

"She was kind. She could have ripped your throat out and drank your blood in victory, but she didn't. She let you receive justice for your crimes. "

"You know nothing…"

"I know more than you think, when I said she would drink your blood, I mean it. It took an immense amount of strength to pierce heels through both palms. Don't you know what she is? Don't you know why you're so scared?"

"A psychopath.."

"No," I opened the door and jumped next to him, "she's a vampire—just like me." I lunged for his throat and bit down. After just one scream, it was over. He dropped on the floor as a pile of bones. I dropped the shank he killed Tom next to him and left. I had tasted human blood for the first time, and I hated it. I left before I called the crew. The warden ruled it a suicide. The cell was cleaned, and 235692 was dumped in a six foot hole before dawn.

The next morning, I had told the warden that I needed some time away to deal with Tom's death. What could he do? Say No? I needed closure, and I think Bella did too. The Fourth of July weekend was coming soon, and I started the drive toward Forks.

A part of me wanted to reunite with Carlisle; the other part did not. I thought that the best way to let Bella know what happened was to write her a note. I did not want to add to her guilt and tell her about Tom. She just needed to know the simple facts.

I wrote: "M'am: Inmate Andrews is deceased. I know you spared his life; however, his overall acts could not be accepted. His soul was black and his heart just as cold. He and his kind will not bother you again. I hope this will bring closer to you or anyone else this man destroyed." I didn't want to disclose who I was, so I signed it with just a D.

I think after I deliver the note, I'll drive back down to San Quentin. There are still people who need legal help and more to save. I owe that to Tom and as a lawman, I owed it to myself.