Warning: Mentions of abuse, neglect and suicide. I don't own Twilight. This isn't my best work. XD
As I step up onto the railing, the birght sunlight blinds me. I'm surprised by it, really. Any amount of sun is unusual in London for this time of year.
People walk passed, brushing behind me. Some stare, they must do. There is a man in a t-shirt standing on a railing of a bridge staring down at the river in the mid-October, after all. I must be a sight, with the tattoos and scars, my hair greasy and tangled, my eyes tired and wary. There is nothing left for me here. My father abused me. My mother neglected me. My sister is dead. Nobody cares. Nobody cares about me. I hate it here. I hate it.
My hands tighten on the railing, preparing for the extra strength it will take to swing my legs over. However, but my foot has even left the ground, someone stopped next to me. I freeze. My breathing stops momentarily, until the figure speaks.
"Hey," They say. A man. An American man. I can't tell from where though. "It's a lovely day isn't it? Quite unusual, actually, to have sun around this time, or so I've been told. I've only lived here for the past couple of months, and I'd never been here before that. It's still cold though... Well, I guess it's always pretty cold."
What is this man doing? Can't he see I'm a hopeless cause? Can't he see that there's no point in talking to me? But there's something comforting about his voice, and the fact he has noticed me. Maybe he is trying to help me. But why?
"You seem way too tanned to live around here, well, unless you've been on holiday recently. Where are you from?" He asks, and he sounds genuinely interested. Is it possible that this man actually cares? His tone, and the fact he is actually talking to me, makes me feel like I'm going to cry, so I take deep breath before I try to talk.
"Texas," I reply quietly, still not looking at him.
"Texas?" He asks, sounding, not quite surprised, but... interested, still. I don't understand. "I've never been there. I'm from Chicago, myself, but my wife is British, and the man who adopted me when I was younger is from around here, even though his wife is from Ohio. My adopted siblings are also all American, but from different places. My brother, Emmett, is from Tennessee, but his wife, Rosalie, probably one of the bitchiest girls I have ever met is from New York. My sister is from Mississippi, and my wife was born in Birmingham, which is a few hours form here. We lived in Washington for a while, its where we met, in fact... and our daughter was born there but Bella wants her to grow up near her maternal grandparents. Which works out fine 'cause my adoptive parents are moving back down here once they retire anyway. Is it nice in Texas?"
Again, with the questions. Why does this man care?
But still, it's nice that someone is talking to me. It's nice that they're from the same country as me. It's nice that they're willingly sharing their background with me, a stranger. It's nice that they're not lying, or trying to humour me, but just openly admit that they haven't been somewhere, and that they don't know much about this city. I take another deep breath.
"It's alright," I mutter, not wanting to say much more. I want him to keep talking. I want to know about him, as selfish aa it may sound.
The man laughs suddenly, yet quietly. "I probably have one of the weirdest yet kindest fathers ever. When my parents died I was sick too, with the same thing, in fact. Viral Pnuemonia, not one of the best things ever, especially because we waited so long to get it treated. My mother was adamant it was the flu, and then one day my father collapsed and he died a few hours afterwards. My mom died too, and I was an orphan. But then, my doctor, who was about mid-twenties at the time, saw this spoiled, rich kid who played the piano and went to a private school and was dreaming of joining the army, and decided to adopt him. He wasn't even with the woman who is now my mother at the time. They'd dated briefly when they were sixteen, but they didn't meet again until one or two years after I was adopted. She's one of the nicest people I've ever met. Very loving. She's the best mother in the world. It's an awful thing, what happened to her before she married my dad."
He stops talking after that, and I feel as though what happened to the woman who adopted him is something he is unwilling to go into. Perhaps it isn't his story to tell, or perhaps he doesn't want to upset me. Perhaps she tried to kill herself. Perhaps she was abused. Either way, I can tell he adores her.
"What's your name?" He asks suddenly, without offering his own. I freeze. Do I really want him to know this? I decide I do. I want him to keep talking. He is comforting. He cares.
"Jasper," I say, louder than the other times I have replied.
"And how has your week been Jasper? I'm sorry I've been going on about myself," The man says next, not saying his name. He actually sounds like he wants to know, too.
"It's been shit," I answer almost immediately, my voice trembling. "My life is shit."
The man just sighs. "Well, if your week had been great you wouldn't be standing on the edge of a bridge, would you?" I smile slightly. "Surely there's something good about your life?"
I shake my head. "No. There's nothing good."
I expect him to come out with some bullshit about how it will get better, and how he knows how I feel. But he surprises me. "Well," He says in a slightly cheerier tone. "What do I know? I was adopted by the best the best people in the world just after I was orphaned and apart from my sister-in-law I have a pretty amazing family." He pauses, and then sighs again, but it sounds lighter than before. He takes a notebook out of his pocket, and writes something down with the pen attached. "Here," He says, and finally I turn to him. He's relatively good looking, with green eyes and copper hair. He's about my age, and he's holding a piece of paper in his outstretched hand. "My sister's phone number. She's a therapist, but if you don't want to talk to a therapist, then just talk to my sister as my sister. She's insane, and loving and I guarantee she will put a smile on your face. She's currently in London hoping a guy with an accent will come and sweep her off her feet. Now, you may not be British, but you still have an accent and I know for a fact she has a thing for blondes and tattoos. Please, take it."
I just step down from the rail, staring at him in shock. He is seriously trying to help me. He is actually trying to make me happy. After a moment I take the paper from him. "Why are helping me?" I finally ask, filled with a strange sense of relief. My life isn't going to end today, I know. I can't do this now that this man has tried so hard to help me, even though all he's done is talk to me about himself.
But he cares. He cares what I think and where I'm from and what my name is. He's genuinely interested in my life and how I am and he's basically setting me up with his sister. "Everybody deserves love, Jasper. Now, what are you plans for today?"
"I'm gonna go down to the shops and get some food, and then I'm gonna go home and call your sister," I say, and it sounds weird, but the man grins, a bright, dazzling grin. I can't help but smile back.
"Have a nice day, Jasper," He says, still smiling. "I hope we see each other again."
And then he walks away, leaving me standing on a bridge in a t-shirt in mid-October in a country neither of us were born in, covered in scars and tattoos, my hair greasy and tangled and my eyes hopeful, and for the first time in a very long time, ever so slightly happy. Because, even though I don't know their name, and I am already forgetting exactly what they look like, they have just saved my life.
And just because they care.