He yelled at his parents, and he yelled at the sky. He yelled at the world but his eyes were dry.
Jackson wishes his dead/dead-beat parents were alive so he could finally feel like he belongs somewhere.
Jackson Whittemore. A name that struck fear into the hearts of every teenager in Beacon Hills High. A name that made everyone green with envy. Everyone but its' owner. The owner felt nauseous thinking about his name, thinking about the implications it gave. Now, Jackson wasn't stupid. He knew that he was better off here than on the street, or in a Home. Which is where he would be if the Whittemore's hadn't taken him home after the DUI case was closed. But sometimes he couldn't stop himself from wondering what his life would be like if things had gone differently.
When Jackson was little, too little to remember, his parents had died. They had died and yet he was the one who couldn't seem to live. His entire life seemed to revolve around proving himself to these people. These non-existent, people who still caused him so much pain, so much self-judgment. His parents, who were really nothing more than genetic donors for all they had contributed to his upbringing, remained nameless, faceless, entities that ruled his life. And he couldn't stop wondering how different his life would have been if they were still around.
When Jackson was seventeen he lost his title. He was no longer the king of Beacon Hills High; he was the co-captain of the lacrosse team, runner-up for prom king, second choice for valedictorian. Scott McCall stole his team, Brent Johnson took prom king, and Lydia Martin was the favorite for valedictorian. People he had once considered, if not friends, then certainly worthy adversaries, had stolen everything he'd worked for, and he was determined to figure out how. Wishing he'd just stayed in bed that first day of school, he kept wondering how things would have gone differently if he could have just been better. Been faster. Been able to push himself enough to beat everyone.
Jackson did figure it out. Scott McCall was a werewolf. An honest-to-god werewolf. Who, by the way, didn't even deserve any of the attention he was getting. But Scott didn't seem to care that Jackson knew. He continued to gallivant around school, practically shoving his secret in the faces of the other students. And worse yet, he refused to share the gift with Jackson. A gift that could change things for him, could give him closure. Even now, months later, he wondered how things would have been different of Scott had just bitten him when he first asked.
Jackson did become a werewolf. But the transformation didn't achieve what he'd hoped. There was no feeling of finality, no knowledge that he had proved himself. He still didn't have parents to tell him that what he did was right. Sure, being a werewolf was great, the heightened senses and the super-speed, but he didn't feel different. Didn't feel superior. And Lydia had to take even the small moment he had gotten by being the new beta, and strangle it to death with her newfound banshee powers. Because she wasn't perfect enough already. And he couldn't help but wonder how things would have gone if Lydia could have kept her big mouth shut.
Jackson envied Erica Reyes for her easy pain. Pain she wore on her sleeve. Everybody knew what she went through, what happened to her. And they pitied her for it. But no one cared enough about him to ask what happened that made him so bitter. But Derek offered him what he wanted; Derek offered him a way out. And that was worth more than the fucked-up opinions of the entire Beacon Hills High School student body. But in the end the bite wasn't worth anything. So he kept wondering what would have happened differently if he'd just butted out.
Jackson's mom visit's him sometimes. He sees' her in his sleep. A blank face telling him to be strong and brave, an empty dream proving just how difficult it is to be normal. He never sees' his dad though. His therapist says it's because he wishes he were like his father, but he doesn't have a father to be like, so he creates a only mother figure to love him, and by not creating a father, he allows himself to maintain the illusion that his dad is still alive. But Jackson doesn't believe that. He thinks it's because he subconsciously blames his father for the accident, because his dad was driving. And he can't help but wonder if things could have gone differently.
He didn't want to move to London. He really didn't. But the Argents said it was best, so he did. He would never admit that it gave him a sort sick satisfaction to leave these people who loved him without a real explanation, without closure. Because that's what had been done to him all his life. And Jackson Whittemore loved getting back at people. He loved watching weak people get hurt. The letter his mother wrote him when he was a kid told him not to be bitter, told him not to feel resentful. She said that as a baby he'd always tried to beat the other kids, always tried to be better. It was surprising how spot-on the advice of a woman who had died when he was a baby was. Surprising how much foresight was put into this letter written by a woman who didn't know she was going to die. And Jackson started to wonder how differently his childhood would have been if he hadn't spent his life living by this letter.
When Jackson was three his parents died. He doesn't remember them, but he's heard stories. He heard about his father terrorizing local pubs, and his mother's iron fist on the textile production in Washington. He's wondered if maybe he won't be like them, won't die too, if he act the way they did, but these mannerisms are the only thing of theirs he has to hold onto, and he isn't quite strong enough to let go.
Jackson hated England. The people were a jolly, laughing bunch of red-faced fools who stumbled into work hung-over every morning. Jackson couldn't stand happy people. What in life was so great that you could be smiling and laughing all the time? His life certainly wasn't. He had been abandoned in the UK by people he barely liked, left to deal with this curse on his own. And he couldn't help but wonder how differently things would have gone if he'd just stayed in bed that first day in august when Scott McCall made first line. Certainly they couldn't be worse.