He smelled of dirt, of wood, of nails. Like the old land, he mused.
But some days he could've sworn that he smelled of gunpowder, of human blood and of death. It seemed as if it clung to him still, even after all this time, like it had been embedded onto his skin and hair, onto his very being. Ridiculous, he knew. Such things were lost to him long ago, fading with time and his own barely remembered humanity.
He still smelled it, even when he knew no one else could.
He supposed it was all in his head, guilt playing with his mind again. He still thought about it, what he had done, what he was still thinking of doing. The humans were so damned delicious, so painfully ignorant of him. It could be easy, it could be quick. He could grab one, he could drink them dry, he could hide the body before anyone found out... He could get caught by Alice afterwards because she would know everything he was planning to do the moment the thought crossed his mind. She'd know now, he was certain. So now every thought that followed the other was intent on backpedaling as quickly as possible. He tried to think about how he wouldn't do this and how he was stronger than this, how he couldn't possibly get away with it anyway. The thoughts were all to placate Alice.
He knew she'd worry despite all that.
And there he went, as usual. One thought after the other twisting toward that inevitable conclusion that he could never escape, never truly rectify: "Humans were wonderful, weren't they? They sure tasted great. Remember that, Jasper? Remember that?" No matter what he did, his mind always went back to places familiar.
He saw her then, walking the length of lockers along the far wall. She was small, faceless, fragile. Her back was to him, her dark hair swept up into a loose, messy ponytail, revealing the pale and freckled skin of her neck. She smelled wonderful. She'd taste wonderful, too.
He felt his throat buckle in response to his thirst and to, painfully, the disgust that didn't follow quite as quickly as he would have hoped.
He wished he was stronger, he wished he hadn't been born new the way he had. But mostly he wished Alice, long ago, would have found him sooner. Bad habits and unhealthy mindsets were hard to break once they became comfortable.
He noticed his reflection glide across a classroom door's window as he passed. He grimaced slightly. On every inch of his skin were those very visible scars, like reminders of all those things he regretted most. Small and harsh looking strings of silver, draped uneven and awkwardly across his skin, stood out as obvious to any one of his kind as the sun itself. It made him ugly, he realized, though not in the tangible sort of way. No, this ugliness was deeper than just the skin, deeper than any useless organs inside himself. The ugly things he had done, the ugly things he still thought to do, reflected back at him through those scars; they wouldn't ever go away, he realized.
Maybe that was for the best. Maybe constant reminders of paths he should no longer tread would be enough to appease his hunger.
The girl fidgeted around her locker, as if she wasn't certain of the combination, as if she was beginning to doubt that the locker was even hers to begin with. Must be a freshmen. Her backpack was so heavy with books that it sagged ridiculously low on her petite frame. Childlike, even. She was just a child, he realized. An easy target.
His throat burned. Shit, did it ache.
This wouldn't be the first time he'd slip up. He had before, more times than he cared to admit, and some poor fool would end up his food. Alice would smile pleasantly at him and say, "It's okay, Jasper. You'll do better next time." Her unwavering faith in him was so pure and fierce that it was nearly palpable. There were times he actually believed her.
There were times he knew he never would.
He envied his father and his strength. Carlisle's dedication to this asinine "vegetarianism" was almost admirable, almost catching, even if he never truly believed Carlisle's lifestyle was possible for himself. It sounded nice enough in theory, but he was a vampire and vampires craved human blood, not some bastardized version of it.
The bell rung.
He stood there and watched her for a time, debating with himself. No, humans are wonderful little creatures and he should leave them the hell alone.
The girl had finished whatever it was she was doing inside her locker (she finally had opened it, switching huge textbooks for more of the same) and shut it with as much force as she could muster. The result of the action sent the huge textbooks in her hands sprawling to the floor beside her feet. She looked embarrassed for a moment, then bent down in an attempt to gather them up.
Before she could reach any of her books he was by her side, picking them up for her.
She looked up, confused. "Uh, thanks," she said, smiling nervously. Her voice was so...slight, much like the rest of her.
He immediately noticed the lack of sound in the hallway the second she stopped talking. It was unnatural. He looked around briefly; the hallway was impossibly still and silent.
And devoid of any other humans.
Of course. The bell had rung. The kids were in their classrooms. It was so late now that even the usual stragglers had been and gone.
This made the girl nervous. This made him nervous, too.
But, Jesus, did she smell good.
"Uh, yeah," the girl began, taking a noticeable gulp. "We should get to class, right? I don't want detention or anything..." She started inching away before she had even finished her sentence.
"They won't mind if we're late; they'll probably just think we ditched." He flinched the moment he said those words; he knew what he was about to do now, even if he hadn't been certain before. It was inevitable, wasn't it? It was an unavoidable course for every vampire. He almost smiled then.
The girl turned around stiffly, sensing something not quite right, but unable to understand what that wrong thing was. The feeling did funny things with her insides; her heart raced, her pulse quickened, her stomach churned. He heard it all and didn't care. The smell was intoxicating and it nearly made him drunk with anticipation, with raw need.
"Got that feeling, huh? Like something isn't right?" He could feel his throat buck. "Can't figure it out? Humans never quite can, even if some part of them knows." He forced himself to swallow. "You should run now."
She didn't. Instead, her pulse slowed, her eyes glazed.
Yes, he made her so unresistant, so damned calm. He breathed in deep and her heart was no longer racing. He thought it might be cheating that he could play with emotions, but he didn't care. Not now, anyway.
No, she wasn't going to run.
No, she wasn't going to fight.
He grabbed her gently in response to her new-found peace and tipped her head to the side, a waterfall of inky hair falling from a loose ponytail and down her freckled shoulders. There was something in her eyes, despite what he could do, despite how calm he could make her. There was fear, there was knowing. Consciously she may not have realized what he was and what exactly he was going to do. But there was another part of her, instinct imprinted there from thousands of years prior, that flight response to all things perceived as dangerous, that lurked in her mind even now. She twitched slightly in his arms, eyes wide with wonder and dread, but she wouldn't run, wouldn't fight.
He sunk his teeth into her lovely throat and he thought, detached, just how wonderful those humans were.
Unconsumed blood ebbed from the sides of his mouth and down her neck, discarded, forgotten (the blood soaked the front of her shirt and he would regret, later, wasting so much). She thrashed about suddenly, not quite able to scream, gurgling instead. The girl jerked back when he was finished, the weight of her backpack pulling her now lifeless body to the ground with a rather unpleasant thump.
He watched her with dead eyes. He'd feel guilty later, he knew. Because that's how he should feel.
But old habits and all that.