This chapter have been slightly changed from the original. I apologize for any inconvenience this may cause you. This is my first attempt at writing fan fiction. I look forward to constructive criticism and ecstatic recommendations!
This is a work of fiction. I do not own nor profit from Stephenie Meyer and her Twilight series. Nor do I own any of her characters. If I owned Jasper, I wouldn't have the time or inclination to write.
The title of my story is from the song, "Objects in the Rear View Mirror May Appear Closer Then They Are" which is performed by and belongs entirely to Meatloaf. Although there may be some similarities to the lyrics, the plot line is strictly my own.
This story is written from Jasper's POV unless otherwise stated.
Chapter 2: The Early Years
JPOV
Growing up, Eddie and I were brothers in arms. We laughed, we fought, and we were bound together in an eternity that we knew could only become tighter as the years passed. I was 6 years old when Eddie moved in next door. He was 7. We celebrated his eighth birthday the week after we met.
I often wonder now what he saw in the gangly awkward little kid that I was then, but he said I had an 'old soul.' He told me he could see many lives every time he looked into my clear grey-blue eyes. Even now, I am not sure what to make of his certainty, but that was Eddie. He was always cryptic, always enigmatic. His mind never seemed to reside in the mundane world of the here and now. No. He was an ethereal creature even then.
Eddie was tall and skinny, with unruly bronze colored hair and a constant grin. He looked at the world through his emerald eyes as though he wore rose-colored glasses. The eternal optimist, Eddie could turn any hurt, and every day, into an exciting adventure. We would lean into each other conspiratorially, my blonde curls mingling with his bronze mop, his green eyes focused on my grey ones, as we plotted the overthrow of the zombie army, or the speed and features of the newest bicycle in the sports magazine we found in his dad's bedside drawer. (We raided that same drawer for years after that, finding various publications that, as young as we were when we met, we still had no use for.) We had big dreams and even bigger plans, but our only certainty was that we would always be brothers, companions, and best friends.
We were so young and naïve that first year.
I remember my first fight with my Father like it was yesterday. (I was not allowed to call him 'dad' or 'pop' because those words were signs of disrespect he said. He was always Father, with a capital F.) My Father, a stern, unyielding, ex-marine, grabbed and pulled my hair violently as I walked into the house, because I had told mom I wanted to let my hair grow as long as Eddie's. Eddie's hair was touching his shoulders in wild waves, and I liked it a lot. My mom always thought my blonde curls were cute, and I liked making my mom happy, so I wanted my hair to hang down to my shoulders also. But Father told me that I was old enough, at seven, to have a man's haircut now and insisted that I would receive a buzz cut like his. I yelled at him and refused to get it cut. Hence, the fight. I lost. Father, after slapping my face and screaming at my mother that she was not fit to be a mother, marched me downtown to the barber's shop, where my golden curls were strewn across the floor as I cried. Of course, my crying didn't go unpunished either. When we returned home, Father locked me into my bedroom for 24 hours, with no food, water, or bathroom breaks. He told me he had to 'toughen me up' or I would be a sissy like my best friend. I was surprised, at that time, that he didn't just forbid me to see Eddie. Now I know there was method in his madness.
Of course, my fight with Father and subsequent haircut did not go unnoticed by Eddie. He tried to be kind and tell me that my hair looked great, but that only made me feel betrayed. How could he side with Father? It was only years later that I really understood what Father was doing. After I punched Eddie in his face that day, breaking his nose, I knew Father had planned things that way. In the years to come, as I look back now, I see that Father wanted me to have a place to take out my aggression on someone he considered weaker and unworthy. For years, I didn't realize that, after suffering abuse from Father, I would turn and heap that same abuse on my best friend. I still hate myself for the things I did then. And yet Eddie always forgave me and loved me, pretending that the monster I was becoming really wasn't my fault. He made up excuses to his parents, for all his bruises and wounds, so I would never get into trouble.
After the haircut fiasco, life returned to normal for a while. Eddie and I hung out after school together, usually at his house, where his mom gave us fresh-baked cookies and chocolate milk. We spent our time riding our bikes up and down the street, or playing video games in his room. Eddie was really smart, so he also helped me with my homework. I loved history and math, but just couldn't seem to understand the intricacies of science. Of course Eddie was perfect in all his classes, and being one grade ahead of me, knew the answers when I asked him questions. I still associate that time with warmth and joy and love. But that quiet interval was soon interrupted once again by Father.
We were playing out by the stream which ran behind our houses, when I heard my mother scream. We had been building a fort with some cast off boards and a hammer and nails we scrounged from Father's garage. I guess I wasn't as stealthy as I thought. I knew better then to touch Father's things but being a kid, I guess I didn't really see that it should matter too much if I just used something and then put it back. In our haste to rush off to play, I had left the tool box lid unlatched. Eddie and I ran back to my house, thinking that my mother may have fallen and hurt herself somehow, only to discover her on her knees in the garage, with Father's hand twisted violently into her hair. He shouted at her about not teaching me respect as tears ran down her face.
Stunned, we stood there as his evil grimace was directed our way. Then, with slow deliberation, Father dropped mom to the floor and stalked over to us, raising his hand to strike. I pushed Eddie out of the way, taking the full force of the blow across the back of my head. As my face hit the concrete and I landed in a heap at his feet, I screamed for Eddie to run, which he did. Father picked me up by my neck, punching me in the stomach and face, as he enforced his will on my eight year old frame. I learned that day to never, ever, touch anything that was not mine. Bruised and bloody, and vanquished to my room for 48 hours this time, all I could think about was how Father called Eddie a coward and reiterated time and again that Eddie would never care enough about me to ever stick up for me. Somehow, in my haze of pain and remorse, his words took hold. A week later, I punched Eddie several times in the stomach, and kicked him when he finally went down, for not helping me in the garage that day. When my rage abated and I realized what I had done, I begged for his forgiveness, and, just like the last time, Eddie forgave me and told me he loved me. He never told his folks about what happened this time either, just as he lied to them the first time, telling them he had fallen and hurt his nose. I look back now and wonder how different things might have been if Eddie hadn't been quite so loyal to me.
Life again, though not idyllic, seemed to go back to normal. I still had small blow-ups with Father, and I took them out, to some extent, on Eddie. But he always talked me down from my fear and rage, and always forgave me. As Eddie and I grew closer still, and spent every waking minute together, my Father and mother seemed to get a little more distant from each other. I guess I noted it in passing, but the full effect didn't really hit me until years later. Mom started staying in the guest room next to me, although at times I could hear arguments and crying coming from that room in the middle of the night. I never again saw Father's hand raised to her, but had I known then what Father was doing to her, I probably would have tried to kill him. But at ten years old, the intricacies and depravity of sexual assault were unknown to me. Mom became more and more distant, and thinner and thinner. She appeared older and moved slower, but always smiled sweetly to me when Father was not around. Father no longer seemed to notice that I was even under his roof, and I tried to keep out of his line of sight. He was drinking, I think, even then. I just remember that mom would hustle me out of the house quickly, and over to Eddie's, whenever Father was around.
One day, however, mom wasn't at home when I opened the door. Father was drunk and belligerent, and definitely in an abusive frame of mind. It seems that he had been caught drinking on the job and was fired. I happened to walk in shortly after he had returned home. He cussed at me, asking where mom was, and then proceeded to destroy the house as he attempted to get to me. Furniture and pictures, dishes and clothes littered each room, before I was no longer quick enough to evade his lunges. As he grabbed me and started beating me, all I could see were his cold, dead eyes. I passed out, thankfully, and only awoke hours later to beeping machines and my mother's tears. It was my eleventh birthday.
Mom, arriving home from grocery shopping, had found me on the floor that day, unconscious, and called an ambulance. Father was nowhere to be found. He literally, disappeared for a few years. I don't know exactly when he left, or where he went. He just faded into the city and even the police couldn't find him. In fact though, I didn't really care where he was. I was just glad he was gone and couldn't hurt us any more. Eventually I got out of the hospital and settled into life once again. My mom seemed to get stronger and happier after Father left. She no longer cried at night. We formed a tight bond of love and trust. I became her 'little man' and the 'man of the house'. I took that role very seriously and I vowed that no one would ever hurt her again. What a joke that turned out to be. But ignorance, as they say, is bliss.
