Disclaimer: Don't own anything but my interpretation. Characters and story belong to Stephenie Meyer.

Weeee. Okay so...chapter 2. One more thing I forgot to mention last time is that I can't possibly write in a proper Southern accent (sorry). I love accents but that's just not gonna happen and I don't want to screw it up in a way that would just be unfair to the characters and the South lol...so yeah just pretend they're using Southern accents. Oh yeah and LOL sorry I couldn't decide between first and third person..so i'm alternating..Idk hopefully (maybe?) it'll work out...I could always go back and rewrite the chapters if I don't like the way they flow.

PLEASE REVIEW--I'm still writing now just because I really want to get it out there...but if like no one reviews then I'll think it's really bad and not finish it...so if you think it's decent just say so..idk and if you hate it that's fine too. I just want opinions so I can get better. GRACIAS.

My name is Jasper Whitlock and my life is about to begin. It had been a few weeks since I enlisted and already I was needed. I had already broken the news to my grandmother so it didn't come as a shock to her when I announced I was leaving. Most people, when they are filled with emotion, have trouble looking me in the eye. My grandmother stared right at me, saw right through me, "Is it time, then?" She asked. It wasn't an accusation. She wasn't angry. No, I couldn't have imagined why she felt the way she did, but I perceived her strongest emotion right now was pity.

"It is," I looked her directly in the eyes; letting her absorb my honest intentions. My grandmother shared my affinity for empathy. She knew why I had to do this.

"You'd better come back in one piece," she busied herself with the day's baking, seemingly unperturbed. But I knew better.

"I'll be fine, grandmother. I promise I'll come back. You know I could never resist one of your pies." I gave her my sincerest smile. Upsetting my grandmother was not a priority. I loved her. In contrast, I didn't care at all for my worthless mother, who was at that moment most likely parading around with some strange man while she should be in mourning. My father hadn't died that long ago and she acted like he never existed. It wasn't proper at all. I often wondered if my father left in the first place to escape from her paper-thin loyalty.

"I know. That's why I packed one for you. It's on the counter," she indicated the aforementioned counter with a tilt of the head. I smiled and thanked her, for everything, before kissing her cheek, grabbing the bundle that contained the pie and leaving the bakery and my home for what would be a long, long time.

--

My name is Jasper Whitlock and my life is about to begin. Like all lives, this new one was not to be without its share of exponential sin. That sin that supposedly weighed me down and would make heaven impossible without total subservience and repentance. Not that I was particularly religious. Of course, on the outside I was a good Christian. It just had to be that way. Quite frankly, I lived by by own guidelines and wasn't concerned with otherworldly consequences. I felt as though I would live forever. Death was not a concept I was closely acquainted with, with the exception of my father. I was soon to get to know Death a lot better. I'm getting ahead of myself. That comes later in my story.

--

Are you a soldier? That was a question everyone seemed to ask, with appropriate inflection depending on the scenario, and that no one ever seemed to have a real answer to. "Are you a soldier, a pretty boy like you?" That was a common one from the ladies...not that it ever got them anywhere. Mostly because it, on some level, either implied I couldn't fight or that I would fight and die, and oh what a waste that would be. To be honest, my first commanding officer was sure I'd be dead within the first week of actual combat. He found me unimpressive to say the least.

"Are you a soldier? Boy, let me tell you something. This war isn't just about us. It can't be about us. It can't be about glory...because when the going gets rough--and it gets very rough--pretty boys like you who are only in it for the glory and war stories run and hide first chance they get. You tryin' to prove something? Let me give you some advice: you're not fooling anyone just by being here. You want to pretend you're not a waste of air? Stop smelling the flowers and show me you know how to operate your weapon," The officer said. Ever the charmer, he was elderly, but fit, with greying hair. He was always impressively attired.

He would come around, however, as I proved to be less inept than expected. In fact I soon proved my worth in more than just combat. I was a brilliant tactician and a charismatic leader who always seemed to be able to get large numbers of uneasy troops to rally behind my cause. I would quickly ascend through the ranks and become the youngest Major in the Confederate Army by the time I was twenty.

It was during those in between years, when I was making a name for myself in the army and trying to prove my worth that I realized something about myself. I had always pursued scholarly activities, while simultaneously being frustrated by their lack of relevance. In the military I found relevance. I absorbed lessons in strategy and battle formations like a sponge. I had found something that was necessary, and that I was good at. Soon, protecting my family and avenging my father became little more than side benefits. My main focus was the fight itself. I adored it. I lived, breathed, and shit war. I became obsessed with it, and the end result seemed no longer to matter. I began to live in the moment; leaving the idealistic goals to the politicians and religious leaders. My philosophy came to be: let the kings and queens play their games; what was there not to relish in being a pawn?

I kept these thoughts to myself, of course, lest I be thought of as cold. In truth, my fellow soldiers were nothing more to me than numbers in the military equation. I felt nothing for them. Why should our common humanity mark us as brothers? Weren't our Northern enemies and our slaves human beings as well? I thought those idealists to be utterly ridiculous in their notions of brotherhood and friendship. Everyone was in it for themselves and they banded with people with common goals...wasn't that the way it always was?

It was sort of ironic; that someone who had such an affinity for the emotions of others had so little feelings for anyone at all. It was remarkable, really, how much of a vampire I had already become in my view of the human species. I was a monster, through and through. This was during a time when killing men was under a guise of righteousness. I did not share the righteous sentiment of my fellow soldiers, and yet, this did not change the fact that I had never really known death in its truest, most intimate form: senseless murder. In war, death was calculated, death was logical and could be reasoned...my views regarding death would soon cease to be the cold, scientific lenses through which I saw the world and manipulated through the emotions of others; however, at the age of twenty I had not yet realized this. I remained immune to the pain of my fellow man. I continued to murder in the legal, self-justifying way that man has always murdered: war.

Are you a soldier? Are you a killer?