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The thoughts and observations of Twilight characters at strategic points in their existences.

Disclaimer: I do not own Twilight or any of its wonderful characters. So sad.

3. Edward

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August 18, 1918

Dear Chester,

I’m sorry that it’s been so long since my last letter, but my mother has been a little… anxious since the announcement about the draft. I’m sure Aunt Lydia gave you a talk about it, too.

Life in Chicago gets a little tedious after a while. Well, as tedious as metropolis life can be. Father is a lawyer, so I never see him in the daylight hours. He’s up before dawn and back after dark. I say he secretly divorced mother and married his firm.

I can’t complain too much, though; we live in a large house and even have an automobile. Yes, that’s right: an automobile! One of these days mother says I can take it out of the city and drive it on the country roads—I’m going to try to get it all the way up to forty miles per hour. When I told that to my mother, I could sort of sense that she thought that I’d never live to see my next birthday. Her lips got smaller and whiter; that’s always a sure sign of hyper-worrying on her part. Note to self: stop telling mother plans.

I hope you get this letter soon and reply. I need something new to read.

Your cousin,

Edward Anthony Masen

August 20, 1918

Dear Chester,

I’m sorry for writing again without a reply, but there’s honestly nothing to do here. See, I went down to the lake with some of my friends (all two of them—the rest are in Europe), and we started fishing and swimming and stuff. It was a lot of fun. Then, of course, some stuffed-shirt officer walks over to us and begins to lecture us on what she should be doing to help the war effort.

I am not even kidding.

But before this man gets to the part about what the German hordes did to Belgium, Arthur looks up in this way and says, “Why the hell are you here harassing boys that are too young to fight instead of fighting yourself?” I could almost feel the suppressed amusement coming from Oliver, who was standing by. Myself, I wasn’t all that amused as this man could have really started trouble for us—there was this paper thing that we all signed at the end of school pledging our summer time to the war effort. I guess we had all sort of suppressed that memory. After all, this might be our last summer alive. Who would want to spend it trying to get other guys our age to enlist?

Anyway, since this officer was obviously annoyed, I grabbed Ollie and Arthur and said a hasty goodbye to the officer. There goes any more days at the lake for the foreseeable future.

Arthur suggested that we “borrow” some of my father’s Cuban cigars, but I just wanted to go home and rest. I think I need to find some new friends.

August 22, 1918

Dear Chester,

Haven’t you gotten my letter? You only live the next town over.

Well, things just got really serious. I am being stalked. I’m not kidding in the least—this one girl in my grade is following me, and to make matters worse, her friends are helping her.


Her name is Virginia, and she goes to my school. She’s always been infatuated with me, but only recently has she actually done anything on this level. Yesterday while I was in the garden polishing some of my father’s tools, Virginia appeared out of nowhere over our fence and started smiling in this really weird way.

“Hello, Edward!”

I looked up and, with great difficulty, suppressed a groan. “Hi, Virginia.”

“Oh please, call me Ginny.” She giggled in this annoying way that girls do whenever something is really really REALLY not funny. I grunted.

“Sooo… what are you doing?”

I considered for a moment just telling her that I was aiming for her head, but that would have been rude, so I just told her the truth: polishing tools.

Then she asked me if I wanted to go get an ice cream at this place downtown. Like on a social boy/girl thing. No.

“Virginia, I’m really busy. I’ll see you next month in school, okay?”

And then she started pouting, so I grabbed my tools, tipped my cap, and went inside. Sheesh.

I had to stay inside all day to avoid her, so that’s why I have a 6-page Nocturne of Chicago inside my musical composition. I get bored easily.

And when I realized that I was running out of blank pages, I went to the store that sold them, keenly aware that Virginia and her whole pack of girls were following me the whole time. DOESN’T SHE KNOW THAT BEING FOLLOWED BY OBSESSIVE LOVE-SICK PSYCHOPATHS IS MORE THAN JUST A LITTLE BIT UNCOMFORTABLE!

This morning when I woke up, I found a letter on my bedside table. SHE SNUCK INTO MY ROOM, DAMN IT. I’ve pasted it in this letter so you can read the heinousness:

Dear Edward Darling,

I love you so much; I will die if I can’t be with you. You have captivated my heart and mind. Every moment I’m not with you is more than I can bear. Please think of me fondly.



What would you do? I considered alerting the authorities, but that seemed really extreme. Write back quickly, because I’m not coming out of this closet until I have some decent Virginia-repellent. Or at least a shotgun.

Your cousin,

Edward Anthony Masen

August 24, 1918

Dear Chester,

Why the hell haven’t you written back!

Mother was fretting about me like something insane today. The gardener found the rose arbor beneath my window—broken and with cloth all over it. It seems like little ole’ Ginny had quite a time climbing up to my window that night.

Mother thought that I had tried to climb out, but I convinced her that if wanted to go anywhere that bad, I’d simply run out the door like anyone with sense.

On a better note: I’m going to the country tomorrow in the automobile, and Arthur is coming with me!

Your cousin,

Edward Anthony Masen

August 26, 1918

Dear Chester,

Are you mad at me? I thought I apologized for that incident and your sister’s wedding. I just wish you’d write back—you’re my only relative with a brain.

Driving was, to use some modern slang, COOL. When I got on that open road, it was just me, my breezer (more new slang), and my annoying passenger yelping about how fast I was going.

If only cars came in red. Or silver. Ooh—red AND silver!

The only bad part was when we had to turn around and go home because Arthur wouldn’t stop coughing from the dust. Honestly, he sounded like he was hacking up a hairball.

We brought him to the town hospital, because he just got worse.

I hope he’s okay, because twit that he is, he’s my best friend.

Your cousin,

Edward Anthony Masen

August 28, 1918

I’m not even going to bother asking you why you haven’t written back.

Arthur died this morning of the Spanish Influenza.

He was seventeen.

Your cousin,

Edward Anthony Masen

August 30, 1918

Dear Chester,

I was getting dressed for my best friend’s funeral this morning when the telephone rang. It was father’s law firm. He was taken to the hospital because he couldn’t stop coughing and gasping.

Mother and I rushed to the hospital, of course, and there he was on a hospital bed. Surrounded by dozens more of the dying. The doctor told us that the influenza is everywhere in the world, spread by the Germans. It strikes the young and healthy and kills them in 72 hours.

How could I have not known about this?


Your cousin,

Edward Anthony Masen

September 1, 1918

Dear Chester,

I’m writing this letter with great difficulty, as I can’t breathe right. Every time I take a breath, I have to stop so that my mother won’t hear me and take me to that ward. This can’t go on much longer—she’s sick herself. I hear our maid packing her clothes for the hospital. I have time only to write this letter.

I was thinking, Chester, about this epidemic. How it strikes the young and healthy. How it’s everywhere in the world. I was also thinking about how I haven’t heard from anyone in your part of the state. These thoughts leave me with only one question, and then I promise I’ll stop writing letters to you:

You’re dead, aren’t you?

Your cousin,

Edward Anthony Masen