ONE: Jasper
Where am I?
A bright light was shining directly above me, blinding me. Was this death? I did not want to die if it was supposed to be this painful. This was probably how you were supposed to feel when burned to a stake.
Suddenly I could hear a voice speaking softly to me. Maybe it was an angel? No, that would be impossible. How would I end up in heaven? Hell was surely more fitting for a person like me, wasn't it?
"Jasper," said the voice, "Can you hear me?"
I wanted to answer, but I couldn't seem to manage to find my mouth, much less my voice.
"Can you try to move your hand, Jasper?" said the voice.
I have a hand? If I was dead, how was I supposed to have a hand? Had this angel lost his mind? Wait a second…
Suddenly I felt something wrap itself around my hand. So I did have a hand. How?
Well, death isn't turning out to be how I expected. I used to have three theories. Two were about how Iwould die and one for the deathofmysister.
Theory one consisted of endless darkness. We die and it's over. Just blackness, so deep and penetrating that it eliminated all else. No pain, no sorrow, no light, and most importantly no feeling.
Theory two was basically hell. Fire burning throughout the whole world, people screaming for mercy and a devil to make our lives worse and make even the considering of escape impossible.
Theory three was one that wouldn't apply to me. It was the place where good people who did no wrong went. Someplace light, happy, where everything and everyone is carefree, looking down to a troubled world. The commonly known and believed story that tells of wing-clad angels, pristine white clouds and children playing.
But this? This seemed to be a sick mixture of it all. Pain was everywhere. There seemed to be an angel and a white light so it eliminated theory one and theory two, but heaven was supposed to be painless. But what really stumped me was the idea of having limbs, having actual muscles and bones.
This just couldn't be death.
Mustering all my strength, both physical and mental, I softly squeezed the angel's hand.
"That's good Jasper," the angel complimented me, "Try opening your eyes now."
Eyes? God! This was getting stranger by the minute. There was no way that I could be dead. But wasn't the possibility of me being alive even more far-fetched?
Gingerly, I opened my eyes to take in the unimaginable.
I was, in what could only be a hospital room. Ask me how I got here? No idea. Ask me how the hell I managed to be alive? I have no clue. But here I was, and I can't do anything but gawk.
"I'm alive?" I croaked. My throat was sore and I felt like a piece of trash, but at least I'm alive, right?
"Yes, Jasper, you're alive," his voice sounded like he actually cared, something I wasn't used to.
All my life people either ignored me, or treated me like I belonged in a dumpster, like I wasn't actually a person. I never really understood. We are all people, we all are born, live a while, then die. It's all the same,
but why is it then, that people that live like you do, are treated so differently?
I'll tell you why, because no one sees this world, this life, these moments, exactly the same way as the person next to him. And so, we treat this life and the people in it, the way they see it. And let's just say that some points of view don't decide to respect what they are and what other beings are. And that how you achieve crime, abuse, disrespect, anger, dread, hatred, and everything else that makes life itself, become unfair.
Right now, in this hospital bed, laying on clear white sheets and talking hoarsely, I was meeting one of the few people in these lifetimes that actually saw the world in a good way and strove to complete the impossible: make life fair.
"Rose?" I questioned. There was nothing else for me to worry about, she was the only thing that was left of good in my life and she was to remain so in my eyes.
"She's fine," he assured me, "Worried, but otherwise fine. You were in coma for four days now, no one was sure if you were going to make it. Your sister is out in the hallway. You can see her through that glass."
His erect finger pointed to a glass wall in my room. The glass was pristine, like everything else in this place, and a thin, white curtain was hanging limply, thrown aside to show the world outside this cocoon of a room. Outside, in the hallway I could see the unmistakable figure of his twin pacing up and down the worn blue-green tiled floor. Her nimble fingers were wringing the fingers of her other hand.
She was the image of worry and restlessness. But incredibly this was probably the best I had seen her in ages. Her cheeks seemed more colored, fuller, her clothes were clean and ironed, and the ferocious flare that had always colored her eyes seemed to have come back with a vengeful force.
I knew that I would never find someone exactly like my twin. She was different from anything out there and her experience seemed to have fortified her nature, somehow made her a better, stronger person. It's truly incredible how hard situations sometimes bring out the best in people.
Trying to no avail to make my voice stronger, I whispered to my doctor, "Can I see her?"
The doctor paused a moment in his note-taking and seemed to be considering my question. I looked intently at him; trying to see his decision before he made it, but his face was impenetrable. For a few minutes the room was completely silent aside from the consistent beeping of my heart monitor.
After what seemed to me to be an eternity the doctor parted his lips, took a deep breath and answered me, "I don't see why not."
And with that he stepped outside to the corridor. He quickly whispered something to Rosalie and she looked up, gazing directly into my eyes. I could see relief smooth out her worry lines as a soft smile began playing at the corner of her rose colored lips.
She placed her hands to her heart as she ran to the window, tears streaming down her face. I weakly raised my hand in acknowledgement to her and she turned to ask something to the doctor to which he nodded.
Before I knew it, my sister, my twin, was standing by my bedside.
"Hey, sis," I whispered.
For a moment her face was impassive, then, to my surprise, she slapped me. It wasn't enough to physically harm me, but she sent the message through.
"Hey! What was that for?" my voice was a bit stronger, but it still came out in a whisper.
"Don't ever scare me like that again!" she said, her shrill voice undertone because of our settings. "You were out for four days! I thought I'd never see you again!"
"Sorry?" I put it as a question.
"You should be," she huffed.
"How about you?" I asked worried, "Are you OK?"
She nodded lightly and ducked her head, "They did the rape kit on me."
Shit! I can't believe the bastard actually did that!
"Rose," I said, shaking my head and straining to keep my voice steady and not let anger take over me, "he didn't."
She once again nodded.
"He was drunk," she whispered, "After you passed out, he turned on me. I managed to grab a lamp and hit him on the head. That's when I dialed nine-one-one."
I kept shaking my head. How could such a thing happen to my frail, innocent sister?
Most wouldn't agree to even consider the possibility of Rose being frail, like her name. But to me there was nothing in the world more fragile. Years of hardships built up a protective wall around her, making her seem a headstrong person, that wouldn't take no for an answer.
But I knew that if you dug in deep enough, you would manage to find a flower. This flower would be colored the deepest red, its petals would be in various layers to form the vision of perfection, and it was this flower after which she was named. And maybe, a long time ago a crystal vial might have encased it. But over the years that crystal shattered and thick brick walls took its place.
"Calm down, Jasper," she said, and all I could think was: what a stupid request, "Your heart rate increased too much, don't give yourself a heart attack."
That's when I noticed that the continuous beeps that told me the rhythm of one of my two most important organs in my body had accelerated ten-fold.
I immediately breathed in deeply, slowly managing to reduce my heart rate. What was happening to me? I had always seemed to manage to control myself, my temper. But when it was unleashed some would say that it was as cutting as a blade, as unforgettable as death, as suffocating as poison. Rage was an emotion that was as rare as water in a desert within me, but occasionally, very much so, it could be found. And now it had taken over all my senses, leaving me helpless.
"Sorry," I murmured quietly.
"Don't sweat it," said Rosalie, brushing it aside.
Just then a light knock was heard from the door.
"Come in!" I shouted out. My doctor walked in a clipboard in hand.
Just as Rose was standing up to leave, the doctor said, "Actually, I have some questions for the both of you."
Rose and I looked at each other, various questions written across our foreheads.
"Your father was arrested for abuse," he said. We nodded; it didn't come as much of a shocker to either of us. "Do you two have any other possible guardian; a mother, family member, friend?"
We saw no necessity to think it over; we knew what the final answer would be. We shook our heads.
"Sorry Dr. Cullen, but our mother is dead, I've got no idea if we have any other family members, and we never really had any good friends," said Rosalie with a slight smile.
"But didn't mom have a little sister?" I asked Rose.
"She did, but she died with cancer a month before mom died," she answered.
"Since you two are still minors I'd have to hand you over to social services, but there is one other option," he said.
Anything. The last thing I would want would be to be put in foster homes and risk being separated from Rosalie. I could take anything, but what if Rose was placed with a terrible family? I wouldn't be there to protect her.
"My wife and I just found out we can't have children," said Dr. Cullen, "we wouldn't really mind taking you both in. We have plenty of space and Esme is looking forward to having someone to take care of."
Rosalie and I looked at each other. We weren't expecting that. The man seemed nice enough, but was he really? Our father had looked nice enough, but look how that turned out. And could we really ask for someone to do such a thing?
"Um, Dr. Cullen?" said Rose, "Could we have a minute to discuss this alone?"
He nodded and walked over to the door. "By the way, call me Carlisle," he said before closing the door.