Disclaimer! Stephenie Meyer owns all.

I remember when I could still cry. Of course, I didn't cry often. I always told myself I had to be strong for my mother, who lived with my father, John Whitlock III. He always told me I wasn't good enough to be the forth, so I was just named Jasper but my mother explained it differently.

"Jasper," she spoke, her voice high and full of pride. "It's a gemstone of a name really," she laughed. "But you're more valuable to me than a hundred of those."

I suppose you could say that my father didn't think much of me. He would have respected me more if I wasn't such an emotional child. Truth be told, I never understood why I was like the way I was.

"Empathy" - I know it now.

My father caught me once, six-years-old, shedding a tear when I grazed my knee. He told me I should grow up and become a man and that I should be in control of my own feelings.

"If you can't manage your own emotions, how are you going to handle a woman?"

As I got older, seeing my mother being bossed about by my father was a normal part of my life. That's not to say nothing no longer had any affect on me. My mother, protecting me with her strong façade, always gave me the necessary reassurance to ease my worry. She had told me, in a voice that was dead and controlled,

"Don't worry, Jasper. In this day and age, all women like me are treated this way."

I couldn't believe it. I wouldn't. Women: daughters, mothers, sisters, aunties…

Cecilia Carbridge from next door. We had played together as children and we were best friends, almost betrothed. I say 'almost' because apparently I ruined my chance.

It was just after midday in the spring of 1848. Cecilia and I had been playing in the field. I had only just turned five-years-old and she, two years older than me, was looking after me. I remember how fascinated I was with her and the way her light brown hair bounced in the wind, the hemline of her frilly dress twirling gracefully as she ran.

"My daddy says God controls our destinies," she spoke, slightly breathless from rushing towards me. Her cheeks were pink from the cool air but the sun caught her eyes and they sparkled - glistening pools of rich hazelnut. Mine were unexciting - merely a dull mixture of green and brown. Her father was a pastor at our church and she was just about as enthusiastic about religion as he was. All day she had been quoting from the Scriptures, searching for comfort as her horse had died.

"You know," I began, pushing my blond curls away from my face, "I can see you're upset, Cecilia but you shouldn't be. You believe in God. I'm sure there's a horse heaven," I smiled as she shook her head and then continued. "I wish I could help you. Don't be sad." I raised my eyebrows at Cecilia, who stood in the daises, perplexed, and then squinted.

"I'm not sad."

"Not anymore," I grinned and began running around the field we were in. She caught up with me of course.

"How did you do that?"

"I didn't do anything," I replied, looking down at my shoes, finding the shoelaces all of a sudden incredibly interesting.

"You did. I don't feel upset. You did something."

"You're crazy." She certainly sounded it. All I could do was shrug at her words. As if I knew witchcraft or something! "Maybe it was God who took away your pain. I really shouldn't take credit for that. That's just crazy, Cecilia."

"I didn't pray."

"Well, maybe you didn't need to." The air was suddenly tight in my throat. Maybe I had helped but even if I did, I was rather hoping that she would take it all as a joke - but then again, how can you fool around with something like this? It's improper. I would simply have to make her believe it. Surely, an offensive fact is better than an irreligious joke. Without thinking, I sprinted up to her - the small four feet away - and almost crashed into her. She was hugely taller than I was but I wasn't in the slightest bit intimidated.

"It's true!" I spat out, frowning directly into her eyes. I had lent into her so closely that I could smell the sweet honeysuckle scent that was embedded into her cotton dress. I hadn't realised until now that I was breathing rather heavily, as if I could feel her reluctant disbelief seeping straight off her.

"Angels visit prophets. You're just… Jasper." The way she had said that, as if I meant nothing more to her than the strand of grass that was stuck in her hair.

I would make her believe it.

"You've told me stories all day, Cecilia. Some sound unlikely but you believe them to be true. What about my story? I may just be a kid with a mighty lot of pretence but… maybe I'm not. What do you believe?" I wanted her to believe me. Not that it would change anything but I wanted to try something. My mother had told me that I had uncanny abilities in persuasion. Would it work for everyone? I blinked at her.

"Jasper, I do believe that you are telling the truth. I've got to go tell my daddy!" As she hurried through that sentence, she leapt out of our comfort zone and began tearing through the spring wind, leaving nothing but her footprints behind.

Oh dear.

I called after her but she was already convinced and this meant I really was in trouble.

"Well, damn my influence," I muttered as I strolled my way back home.

I took my time - I most definitely was not in any rush - and thought about what I had just done. Powers of persuasion. It sounded nice - special even - but no doubt incredibly dangerous for those around me. What exactly had I done? I looked right into her eyes and spoke with meaning. Is that all it took? Apparently so.

I later on found out that it wasn't as strong as I initially thought. My father beat me that night for being blasphemous and no matter how much I tried to get him to stop, he wouldn't. It only lasted a little while but during that time, I could see my mother, her face writhed in pain as his belt struck down on me for the twelfth time. It hurt her, just like it hurt me but I knew that deep down inside, she felt I deserved it and I suppose I did. I should have never used my charisma on the pastor's daughter.

That's how my betrothed quickly became the girl I merely saw at Church.

As years passed, the incident was just a speck of dust in a trashcan. That's not to say her family didn't think of me as a bad influence. If I looked at Cecilia even the slightest bit inappropriately at Church - or God forbid, anywhere else - Mr and Mrs Carbridge would take their daughter away for a few days, allowing me to get over, as it were, my 'need' for Cecilia. Ridiculous. I wasn't in love with her. I was merely fascinated with her. She had grown breasts over the summer. God bless that family's souls though, they did give me a chance in the beginning.