The Recovery

Disclaimer: I don't own Twilight.

Warning: depictions of child abuse, some violence I guess….

A/N: This probably going to be one of my more disturbing pieces. So be brave friends.

Summary: "You'll see how wonderful life can be if you let me take care of you." It was then Jasper sobbed, Carlisle would never let him go. Dark! Carlisle x Jasper

1. In The Flesh

[Carlisle]

I was born, that much is truth.

What is untruth is the idea my parents were delighted with new news of my birth. I pictured a woman with blonde hair and brown eyes like mine whispering to her belly as she smiled dreaming of the future. I placed a image of preparing a nursery while my father looked on with pride. He was to have a son, from the woman he loved. Their child so loved, they would spoil him with gifts and shower him with deepest of affection. I then could imagine my mother smiling down upon my face as she first saw me. I was hers, I was of her, and we were of each other. She saw by eyes and she loved me, she touched my hair and she loved me. She'd sob and call me her little angel. My father would laugh and hold me close, whispering about how I would carry on his pride.

I imagined love.

I wish I had experienced these imaginative and beautiful day dreams.

Oh, but life was not so.

August, 1968

"He not busy being born, is busy dying."

-Bob Dylan

My mother was in labor. It was a very bloody birth, laden with hardship to bring one life into the world. She needed to bring forth my existence from inside her. Like all babies, I was eager to claw out the very same way the same way I slithered in.

She screamed, she sobbed and begged for me to come out from her, for this pain to end, and my life to begin.

My father told me she fought hard for my birth.

It was a losing battle though. She shook heavy with sobs as I was finally released from her frail body. A bloody creature covered in gore, more imp than human. I was whisked away, wiped clean, and inspected then placed with a box. My mother cried as much as I did. She was so unready to face the next world.

My father was at her side when she died.

At least he claims to have been. Most of the things my father told me in my youth were lies or things meant to strike fear in my heart. My father was cruel; I am more than aware of this fact. (Once he left me standing in front my school for four hours in the snow, he had the day off.)

Hopefully this is truth; my father said she named me right before she died.

I asked my father several times if those were her last words, my name upon her lips. He says yes but gets quiet there after.

So I was born to father with no wife.

"Carlisle…" I could hear voice say, her voice was clear.

1974

"To perceive is to suffer."

-Aristotle

My father was a preacher. He helped people find salvation. He said his work gets him angry sometimes and it's good that I'm here to keep him calm. At night he would hit me and call me devil spawn. I'd would cry and ask why, other times I fell silent allowing the 'thwack!' to fall into a fierce rhythm. My father grew angrier as the beating went on and eventually he would tire out and put back on his belt. I crawled back into my room. I was a boy, boys don't cry.

'Save your sniveling Carlisle, crying is for women.'

I didn't mention to my father that there were no women for me to model myself against at home. He did not take a second wife, nor did he sneak around at night. At times I wish he had then at least he'd be home less. I could watch our little TV or eat the leftover food. Spaghetti was the only thing my father could make, so nearly every night I was forced to eat the overcooked and burnt pasta. I was too afraid to say other wise to my father.

His father was such an imposing man, tall very tall. He was strange, his eyes were slightly cross and his glasses did not hide his fact very well. His hair was a mousy brown compared to the brilliant blonde of my own hair. I dreamed sometimes of a father who had the same hair as me and would buy me nice clothes. My dream father laughed and ruffled my hair.

I gave up on caring after a bit, although I secretly hoped one day he'd say he loved me. Despite my deep rooted dislike of him I was always waiting anxiously for him to call on me. I'd be happy to put out the trash. Wash dishes, anything as long as he was paying attention. I wasn't a complete fool; I knew and we both knew we were no meant to be alone together. My father's impulsive nature and my emotional distress were too much for either of us to handle. He shot me stern looks from across the dinner table, while I gave fearful glances and picked at my food. We were not father and son. We were two residents who slept with an eye cracked open at night, I was afraid of being hurt and my father feared I would have my revenge one day.

He was paranoid and jaded, while I was the type of child who'd cry if I saw a dead animal. I was child infatuated with all the delights of the world; I was curious about the mysteries it held. I wondered why the world was so big and whether earth was really just a snow globe. I thought about where snow came from and why Santa never visited my house. I wanted to know everything, I pulled radios apart in the house, I took apart pipes if they were loose enough to twist, I ruined my bicycle, something father never forgave me for, I broke dishes and wondered why they couldn't just fit back together.

The world was different from the house. It showed me so much.

At the house in our backyard, there was a tree, it was rather tall but I could climb on it well enough. My clothes were dirty and I usually ripped my already patchy pants on the way up. It was wonderful though. I could see into the yard next over. There was a girl and her mother there. She'd wave and I offered a wave in return. Her mother would yell across the yard to come over, but I always declined. I was fine just watching sometimes the father would come and sling the girl over his shoulders laughing before going into a cough fit. He was smoker, I knew that from glancing into the yard, and seeing the smoke rise high and blow from his lips.

Father preferred not to smoke because, 'It made one's soul unclean.' My father said worldly influences must be kept away from the body as to prepare us for the second coming of the Lord. Despite that he kept the side of the fridge filled with beer bottles. He did sober up for his Sunday mornings though.

My father would take to church, and I'd listen to him preach. Many of them cried, but I did not. I liked listen to him say words though, they were pretty little lies of course. But I could pretend for a moment that that man standing at the podium was really my father and not the façade of a cruel monster. I pondered to myself if God knew what he was rally like, Should I tell him, I thought. I didn't pray often then, only when we ate food and father made me do so. I refused to pray to someone who robbed me of a mother, friends, and a father.

At first I did, everyday the same prayers:

God, please just give me a mother.

Please, God, give me a friend.

God, please make father stop hitting me.

God please make this day better than yesterday.

I begged God for every small mercy he would offer until my sixth birthday. All my hopes were dashed by the event that my father forgot my birthday. I was left alone to sit in my tree and cry until he came home. I had to watch the girl and the next yard over play with her mother. Esme, she was called.

I didn't snivel at dinner as I was forced to pray though.

"Bless us O'Lord…"

I cursed God silently wondering whether my birth was some kind of catastrophic occasion that I was not informed of. I'm sorry, just stop being angry! Was I such a bad child, did deserve this? I never voiced my birthday to my father, because a week and half later he showed up with a crumpled card.

'Happy Fifth Birthday!', it read.

I wished to tear it to pieces. I wanted nothing more than to burn it!

I was six; he'd even gone as far to spell my name wrong. 'Charlie', he wrote. It was the biggest slap he could give me, mother gave me that name. It was her last words, her legacy for me. What did I have of her other than my own name? It was mine, the gift of love.

Hate took too much energy and anger didn't suit me.

'God', I pleaded, 'make everything alright.' my last prayer as a naïve child. My final plead.

These prayers fell from my lips unanswered.

December 1974 -January, 1976

"Man is the cruelest animal."

-Friedrich Nietzsche

I was eight years old.

My father gave me a new winter coat for Christmas about two weeks before. The coat was blue and rather pleasant looking.

Blue is still one of my favorite colors. Back then I wished my eyes were blue, I figured I would be prettier. I was a handsome boy, the ladies at the church would tell me. I'd laugh and say I wanted to be pretty like a mother, they were charmed. The church women loved me. They baked me cookies and had me try on mittens they'd knit for me in the winter.

My father could care less, their compliments did nothing as did my achievements. I brought home A's and made the honors list for my grade school. I attended everyday of school one year despite being ill a few times; he still cared nothing for my merits. 'LOOK AT ME!' I longed to scream. I refused to act out though. If positive accomplishments still earned me a beating, I shuddered at the idea of negative ones.

However recently that year my father had begun to notice me…

As of late he'd ask me strange questions, mostly concerning the discomfort I felt n my chest, after a horrible cold. The doctor, a friendly man who ruffled my head, said it would probably be little while before I completely healed. Dr. Evans, that was the doctor, was only in town for about a year; he'd married a young woman and moved to our neighborhood. My father didn't like Dr. Evans' wife she was unable to have children due to a car accident that damaged her pelvis permanently.

She got around with crutched and moved about with a cane. She had brown hair that ran down straight and fine. She wore yellow dresses and would usually stay indoors. Sometime she'd limp down to the clinic to visit her husband. I was intrigued; she was beautiful in her own right. Her face was exotic compared to the usual plainness most of the women had here, her nose was long and round at the end making her look more stern and serious than she actually was. Her face was covered in cute freckles that made her seem girlish as well. She had pert lips and large green eyes. He hair was the color of ginger. Her laugh was light and sometimes I closed my eyes to listen to it whenever she was outside and wandered by her home.

I pulled tighter on my hat; she made it for me the year before, back when she was spending her first Christmas here:

She noticed me one day in the fall of the previous year, and I saw her perched on the chair. She was relaxed on the porch reading a book. She offered me one of the kindest of smiles I have ever come to know, and I ran all the way home. Her quaint laughter echoed behind me and followed me up the street.

I saw her even less when the snow came; she did however hobble up the street to give me a gift on Christmas Eve. She came that night before with cookies that my father glared at.

I recall peeking around him and smelling the warm glorious flavor that lay within them, snickerdoodles.

"This is for young Carlisle." She looked down at me, leaning awkwardly on her crutches. She held the plastic wrapped plate out to my father.

Father, all but snatched it from her hands.

"Make sure you leave those out for Santa." She said smiling.

I fought the urge to laugh, "Santa doesn't come here." I said.

Her smile faltered, and she looked sad. She glanced at my father who'd turned and made his way to the kitchen.

"Well then, you'll come and stop by tomorrow at my home."

She left and I slammed the door shut. I ran to the kitchen eager t snack on the cookies. My delight was short lived as I arrived to find my father shoveling the cookies into the trash can.

"Stupid woman." he muttered.

I fought the urge to cry and I curled into a ball in my room. I fought hard to hold back my tears and disappointment. Needless to say it was another long Christmas Eve.

The next day I walked over to the Evans' house and received a blue hat.

"I worked on it all night!" she said.

Dr. Evans smiled at me from over his wife's shoulder.

Again, I ran home. I was afraid of their kindness and care for me. I spent more time with them, and I began to linger at her home after school. She baked with me and I was all but too happy to go home covered in flour. I went home covered in love. When Dr. Evans would come home early he'd sample my burnt ginger bread men and humor me by also eating my brownies that tasted like cake. He did put me in head lock and ruffle my head, a gesture I relished in with giggles and over flowing grins.

The year 1975 came to an end and Mrs. Evans made me a scarf, for Christmas. It was so warm. I remember the soft texture, and the airy feeling it had between my fingers. It was wonder full. It matched my new blue coat, and my hat.

However, the joy of my small Christmas gift did not last.

January


I was giddy the night it happened.

Father told me to wear my white Sunday suit. But it was Wednesday. I only wore that suit to church. It was peaked lapel jacket and my pants were straight and crisp.

Father has something planned! The two of us, doing something special! Together!

I took extra care that night to arrange my hair just right,. It was parted along the side the combed outward. I looked "cool".

Father was waiting for me at the door, along with a woman and another man. I recognized them from church. They said nothing to me, not even the lady who usually smiled at me. They both had black flashlights, with a long gripping handle.

I asked many questions; what are we going to do? Where are we going? How old are you? Why can't I wear my coat? Can we go back and get my hat? Will this be fun?

We came upon a spot not far from the house. A small patch of woods, I never explored. I saw Esme's house in the distance between the trees. There were lights were on banishing the darkness of their backyard.

The man and the women placed their flash lights on the ground. They illuminated a single spot on the ground in an eerie fashion.

I wasn't ready for what happened next.

My father stroked my head.

I was shocked.

"Take off your jacket."

I complied.

I stood in my white shirt.

"Now the shirt." he said.

I hesitated, but the look he gave me forced me to remove the thin layer.

"Now lay back son."

"In the snow? I'll be cold!"

"You need to trust me."

Trust! I didn't trust him. I would be a fool to, but I laid back in the snow anyway.

"Hold him down."

"Of course sir." They uttered this in perfect harmony.

"Ah! It hurts, let go please."

I was cold, and now I would have bruises on my arms and ankles.

My father kneeled, and the flash lights highlighted his frame and made look something akin to an executioner.

"In the name of Jesus Christ our savior, I ask you Lord to release this child from the chains Satan has wrapped around his soul."

Cold sweat came to cover my body.

What was happening! I struggled uselessly.

"Into you Lord I commend his spirit!" My father raised his arms.

"I ask you now, Jesus the Christ, to accept this child's soul in retribution for his sins."

He reached into in pocket pulling out, what I'd later find out to be a scalpel

"Lord, accept this child into eternal life. I ask this in your name, Amen! " he cried.

"Amen." The two church goers echoed.

"Now son, close your eyes and don't make a sound."

He smiled, leaning over my chest from his kneeling position. He took the scalpel he ran it from my navel to the top of my sternum. Blood poured out and I shut my eyes and howled at the pain. I cried and began to squirm but the two held me tighter. My tightly knitted muscles seemed to be sliced open like seams. It was as if I were a fat piece of steak.

Father's face held even more glee as he lifted the scalpel to make another cut.

He placed the scalpel just below my left nipple. My heart slammed against my rib cage, as though it were desperately trying to escape from my body. I screamed until I sounded like an animal. He sliced across from peck to peck, forming some imitation of the cross carved into my chest.

He made more slashes and I sobbed more as my life's essence escaped me.

I shook and screamed as it pressed into my skin. I pissed myself and yellow mixed with red and white covered ground.

"…..stop it…" I kept crying.

There was the sound of snapping.

"Oh god!" it was a woman's voice.

I closed my eyes, suddenly I was gone.

*shudders* I hate abusing Carlisle…..He's just too sweet (well now anyway).

Um, no Jazz here….just a Carlisle flashback. _ yeah…. I hope you're curious….?

Should I continue (It's a strange project)?

Please review if you guys like it.