A/N: Very short, almost a drabble really. But I didn't ask much of Jasper for this chapter—I only asked him if he could please, please find a way to get away from Maria. This is how he said 'yes' to my request.

As always, thanks to my loyal readers and reviewers. You make all the time I spend on this worth it.

Stephenie Meyer owns Twilight and all its characters. I own the computer that I type on, but nothing else.

Jasper

Eighty-two years. I have lived the span of a human life, and in it, I have died six thousand, four hundred and eight deaths. With my victims, I have breathed every last breath, I have cried every last tear, and I have prayed every last prayer as if they were my own. Ask me now if there is a god, I will tell you that everyone—everyone, regardless of race or religion—finds themselves upon their knees at the hour of their death. So yes, I believe there is a god. But his will is immobile, and cannot be swayed by even the most ardent of supplications. Thousands upon thousands of private communions have I held with my victims moments before I take their lives, and not one of them has ever been answered.

So why is it that my prayers have been answered today?

Peter has returned, and with him he brings the promise of another life. In the more than five years since I last saw him, he has never fought with others, he has never had to create another bein' just so that it can be destroyed, and he has never squabbled with others over land, territory, or possessions. Neither has he lived a solitary life. He has remained faithful and true to Charlotte, and together they have met others of our kind who feel no need, no compulsion to fight. Somehow, in findin' each other, the two of them have found the world that I so desperately crave for myself.

I listen with both interest and heartache as Peter tells me of this world that exists outside of my own. There are covens of us that are able to live together in near perfect harmony. Such groupings are small, generally only two or three in number, but still, the members are usually fiercely loyal to one another. The bonds these vampires form allow them to live as humans do—they own houses and cars, and have jobs that allow them to keep the secrecy of who and what they are in tact. Because their purpose in life is not dictated by violence, they are able to indulge in hobbies, interests that were never possible for me—they paint, they play music, they read, they write… in other words, they are civilized. Peter even tells me that there are some of us who walk, work, and live amongst humans as though they are humans themselves. But even though he tells me so with perfect sincerity, I cannot imagine that this can be possible, since such an arrangement would cause even the strongest of us unbearable sufferin'. Still, I remember a time when Peter would escape me by hiding amongst humans, so maybe… maybe it is so.

If I could still shed tears, I would do so when Peter begins to tell me about the North. Though vampires have impeccable vision, the bright city lights of Texas still interfere with and obscure the beauty of the stars. Peter tells me how, the first month they were in Alaska, he and Charlotte spent every single night lyin' beneath the clear sky, just revelin' in the wonder of it. He describes a phenomenon where bright lights of all different colors appear to dance across the night sky like swirlin' flames, and says that in all his years on this earth, he has never seen anythin' that has made him feel so small. I can feel the reverence he feels as he remembers it, and I can tell that he is speakin' the truth. I laugh with him when tells me about the strange animals that live in the North: huge, furry deer-like creatures with fuzzy antlers, oxen with gigantic bodies and small, stubby feet, and great white bears whose fur blends in perfectly with the snow.

Snow. I've seen all kinds of weather in my time on this earth—rain, hail, hurricanes, droughts, floods, tornados—but never in my life have I seen snow. A long-forgotten human memory suddenly surfaces in my mind: My daddy and I are standin' in front of a Christmas tree, and he is tryin' to tell me what Christmas was like for him, as a boy growin' up in Pennsylvania. He tells me about my grandma and grandpa, and how they used to have to walk several miles in the snow each year to find a tree that they could cut down and bring home for Christmas. I ask him about snow, and he tries to describe it for many minutes before he stops, defeated, and looks down at my confused face.

"I can't tell you what snow is," he finally says, "but I promise to show you one day. I'll take you to my home in Philadelphia, and we'll make snow-angels, and build snowmen, and have snowball fights."

"Promise?" I ask, full of excitement.

"I promise."

Of course, thanks to my selfishness and recklessness, this was a promise he never even had the hope of bein' able to keep.

In my life, territorial lines have always been malleable, adjustable. Divisions between properties are constantly being drawn and redrawn as challengers become victors, or possessors are defeated. I've never paid much attention to the more permanent lines drawn by the government that indicate the divisions between states. I know I was born in Texas, and I know Texas is in the South. Beyond that, things start to get fuzzy. I consider askin' Peter if Pennsylvania is anywhere near Alaska, but then decide that it doesn't really matter. Peter is offerin' me a chance to escape this life that has, for too long, been tainted by bitterness, anger, battle, and death. I would be a fool not to jump at this chance. I will follow him wherever he leads me, so long as he leads me away from here.

Without a backwards glance, I leave the only world I've ever known behind me. It would have been better had I never known it at all.

For the past eighty-two years, time has been measured not by minutes or hours, but by the screams of my victims. Six thousand, four hundred and eight of them, to be exact—each as terrible and distinct as the last. Added to that number are the countless bodies that I have sent back into the earth as ash. Those were a joint effort though, and so I cannot rightly add any of them in the ever-growin' tally of fatalities that I claim as my own. But someone, somewhere, knows the exact sum of my guilt, and I shudder to think what the reckonin' will be when I am called upon to answer for it.

I have survived, against the odds, for one, terrible, eighty-two-year-long day. Who knows when this life of mine will end? All I know for sure is that when it does, I will not be able to plead ignorance as an excuse for the life I've lived—no excuse, no bargain, no bribe will be sufficient to erase my blame. But perhaps, before that time comes, I can experience some of the beauty of this world—some of its joy, its pleasure, its goodness.

Though I do not sleep, this moment seems to me to be the dawnin' of a new day. With any luck, tomorrow's sun will shine down on me from a different angle in the sky. I hope that in that strange and unfamiliar light, I will finally begin to see the path that leads to peace.