Disclaimer: This story is based on characters and situations created and owned by Stephenie Meyer. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended.

Author's Notes: This story was inspired by a review for another one of my stories, Seven, also a Twilight story. Many thanks to FauxFox, who is regrettably anonymous. This is a canon version of Seven, but you do not need to read that in order to understand this. I have written this to explain my concern over the Imprinting issue, and why I believe that it is completely unreasonable and wrong of Stephenie Meyer, only this time in a more canon way. Please read and review; I love constructive criticism and I accept flames, so no need to be shy!

EIGHTEEN

I'm seven years old.

Well, not really. I've been alive for seven years, but today I turn eighteen. Physically and mentally. I've got the boobs to prove it.

It's weird. I still don't know how it works. Carlisle doesn't even know how it works, but somehow it does and that's the only explanation my darling mother and father give me. Frankly, I don't think they know either.

It doesn't really matter, I suppose.

I'm still eighteen.

Or seven.

Or whatever the hell you want to call it.


I've been told, from the day I was born, that I was a very speshul girl. I'm also the most beautiful person in the world, or so Jacob tells me, which does wonders for my modesty. But there you have it. I'm the most beautiful person in the whole entire world

.

He's been telling me that since he first saw me – fresh out of mom's womb.

Jacob's a sweetheart. He's been everything to me – a brother, a father, an uncle, a best friend…hell, he's even been my mom's boyfriend. Or at least, he shoved his tongue down her throat. And fell in love with her. But that's okay. He's still my everything.

He doesn't talk much about our connection. I'm his imprintee. I didn't mind much. He's been a good dog – a good babysitter. But I'm eighteen now. I don't think I need a babysitter anymore. I'm a woman, despite having only seven years of life.

Mom was eighteen when she was married and had me.

Back to Jacob. He's a good guy. "Nessie," he says occasionally, "you know I love you very much."

"I know, Jacob," I often reply.

He stares at me almost pathetically, like a love-sick puppy dog. "I'll be good to you."

I can't read minds, like dad, but I know what he's trying to say. I'll be a good husband.

I usually smile gently and touch his hand. "I know, Jacob," I say again. Then I turn away and adjust my bra. "Why, I remember when you used to change my diapers! You were always so good to me."

Although I can never see it, I know his face turns pale and he swallows awkwardly. The smile never leaves my face.

He usually doesn't say much after that.

He still waits.

It's never been discussed, out in the open – everyone expects me to marry Jacob. A couple of years ago, I even expected it myself. Then we could all be One Big Happy Family.

How quaint.


Dad is really awesome. He respects my privacy and doesn't invade my mind. At least I don't think he does. I told him not to. I mean, jeez. I'm seven now. A grown girl ought to have some privacy! He doesn't need to see what I think about sometimes.

Seven. Ha. A seven-year-old girl shouldn't be thinking about sex.

Yes, I said it. Sex. Sex, sex, sex, sex, sex. I think about sex. I think about sex a lot.

Not all the time. But quite often.

My parents don't know that I know about sex. I think Carlisle knows, though – he caught me putting back one of his medical textbooks a couple of years ago. He didn't tell the parents, obviously, otherwise dad would have given me a very big Talking To. I should thank Carlisle one day.

I think my parents sometimes forget I'm eighteen. Or seven. Or whatever. They haven't given me The Talk. Rosalie hasn't either, which is strange for someone like her. I guess, in her eyes, I'll always be the little girl she helped save.

Oh, yes. I know that dad wanted mom to get rid of me.

I could hear him.

It doesn't matter now, I suppose. He loves me very much. He's very protective.

So protective, in fact, that I haven't even had a boyfriend.

This is upsetting, quite frankly. A girl who's gone through major hormonal changes within less than a decade of her living life shouldn't have to remain celibate, for goodness's sake. However much I love my parents and Jacob, they're way too protective. They don't like me leaving their vicinity too much. Jacob doesn't like being away from me at all.

Again, I think they forget how old I am. Seven years, in my case, doesn't mean seven years. It means eighteen years.

I don't get any free time to myself to visit Forks and admire the cute boys hanging around outside the shopping malls. I'm too speshul to mingle with likes of them. AKA homo sapiens.

I'm a very frustrated young woman.

I want to know what sex feels like.

But I also know that mom and dad won't let me go out.

Jacob's the only one they trust.

I don't like the thought of that. I haven't told them, and I haven't let dad see it – I don't want to have sex with the guy who changed my diapers and played read me bedtime stories when I was two. Or six-ish.

I never used to think it was wrong. Things change, I guess.

The internet is good for something.


Anyway. Today, I become a woman.

Today, I am allowed to drive a car.

Today, I am allowed to drink alcohol.

Today, I am allowed to hunt alone.

Today, Jacob expects me to tell him that I'm ready for him.

I've seen it in his eyes. Every time I look at him, there is an unspoken question lingering in his expression – will you let me make love to you? Are you ready for me?

Dad knows. He seems all right with it. He trusts Jacob – he can read his mind. Jacob would never hurt me on purpose.

Mom knows. She also seems all right with it. She trusts Jacob, but part of me wonders if that's just her undying lust for the werewolf talking rather than her maternal instincts. (Rather, lack thereof, but that's irrelevant.)

I guess I used to be all right with it. It made sense, after all. Something almost…poetic about it. The man who fell in love with a woman, only to have his heart broken by her, is destined to become soul mates with her daughter.

Very poetic indeed.

But I digress. My presents are pretty awesome. Alice bought me some really exclusive wedding magazines, being ever subtle. Emmet and Jasper bought me whip and handcuffs, laughing hysterically – and I didn't miss the disapproving glare mom and dad gave them. Rosalie's gift is hooker-red lingerie. Very sexy – and I could see Jacob's hungry gaze from out the corner of my eye. Mom and dad bought me a car. That was nice of them.

Afterwards, I excuse myself to the bathroom. I don't really go there – I just loiter in the hallway, and mull.

Jacob hasn't stopped watching me all night, and mom and dad have conveniently looked the other way. I don't mind so much now – I'm seven. I'm a big girl. I can look after myself now.

I wish I could talk to them. I really do. Sex has always been a taboo subject in this household, though. I know they fuck each other all the time (we've spent over a hundred-thousand dollars on new beds), but that doesn't mean they talk about it, or are willing to talk about it.

I wish I could tell them that I don't want to fuck Jacob, even though he obviously wants to screw me.

But I know what they'd do. They'd laugh and reassure me it's just a phase of Rebelliousness I'm going through. After all, I'm his imprintee. I'm supposed to fall right back in love with him, and then I'm supposed act like the perfect partner, the perfect imprintee – submissive and angelic, never questioning him, always at his whims. Much like mom is to dad.

Well, it doesn't matter. I can take care of it myself.

I'm sick of this life.

I want sex, and I'll be damned if I have to screw one man for the rest of my immortal life. I mean, jeez, won't that get boring? I'm a virgin as it is. It'll just be the same sex, over and over and over and over again for all eternity.

I don't know how mom and dad keep it up.

I don't know how any of them keep it up.

Actually, that's not quite true. Carlisle, I know, goes away on 'conferences' a lot, but that's none of my business.

(Though I will say 'good for him'.)

But I digress again.

I know what to do now. Dad still hasn't realised – he respects my privacy too much. Alice is having too much fun to be bothered by visions; besides, I know how to get around those now. So long as I keep changing my mind about what I want to do, she can't make a head or tail about it. They're all blissfully unaware, and I'm hoping it'll stay that way for at least a few hours. A few hours are all I need, after all.

I think Carlisle suspects, though. Why else would he set up a bank account in my name with nearly three million dollars and not tell my parents?

I'll have to thank him one day.


Claire is only nine years old and she doesn't really know what's happening. She sits in the brand new car dad and mom bought me, fiddling with the seatbelt and playing with the windows.

"Where are we going, Nessie?"

I smile gently. "For a long holiday."

She shrugs her shoulders. "Cool."

She's silent for a while.

"Is Uncle Quil coming as well? And Jacob?"

I shake my head. "No, Claire. Just us two."

"Oh." She looks puzzled. "Why?"

I keep my eyes on the road as the speed increases. "To save us."

"From what?"

I can't answer. My arm is trembling, and somewhere in the back of my mind, I hear an anguished howl.

Nessie, Nessie –

"I'll tell you later, sweetie. Just rest for now. I'll take care of you."

And I will. I might only be seven years old – I might be younger than her – but I won't let her go through what I've gone through. She doesn't need a grown man as her babysitter, intent on grooming her to be his life partner. She doesn't need to go through the torment of knowing that the man who practically raised her from the tender age of two will one day sleep with her.

Claire settles eventually, but my mind has not. I can hear the howls and screams, even though I know they're not really there.

NESSIE –

Renesemee, Renesemee, where are you –?

DON'T LEAVE ME, COME BACK – I LOVE YOU, NESSIE, PLEASE –

Jacob's voice is the worst.

He's always been there for me.

He's always been my brother, my uncle, my father. My best friend.

My everything.

My hand twitches on the wheel.

Is it right for me to hurt him like this? He does love me. I know he does.

I glance at the sleeping child in the seat next to me and the unfamiliar sting of tears burn my eyes.

Damn…what the hell am I thinking? I've come this far. I'm not about to turn back now.

Jacob does love me. I love him, too.

But I won't let him turn me into his lover.

There's something I always wanted to say to him, but I never had the chance or the courage. Do you know what child grooming is, Uncle Jake? Child grooming means actions taken by an adult to form a trusting relationship with a child with the intent of later having sexual contact. Sound familiar, Jacob? What about a pedophile? Do you know what that is? It refers to any adult who is sexually attracted to children and acts on it. You know, I'm technically only seven years old, Jacob. You used to change my diapers. Remember that? Did you find that sexy, Jacob? Did you?

Great speech. Shame I'll never get to say it.

I wouldn't have let that happen to me.

And I most certainly won't let that happen to Claire. I'm giving her a chance now. She can live with me, experience life away from Quil, free from his grooming. If she doesn't like it, she doesn't have to stay with me.

But it's her life. Her choice. She's too young to know what's happening to her.

I guess, in a way, I should be as well.

Thank God I super-aged. Seven equals eighteen. Not enough years of grooming for it to brainwash me, too many to frighten me.

There, I said it.

I was frightened.

Knowing that everyone expected me to one day marry the man who raised me from birth.

Claire doesn't have the same benefit I had, but I can give her the next best thing.

Quil loves her. Too much.

It's her life. Her choice.

I hope I'm doing the right thing.


I'm seven years old.

Well, not really. I've been alive for seven years, but today I turned eighteen. Physically and mentally. I've got the boobs to prove it.

No-one knows how it works. It doesn't really matter, I suppose.

I'm still eighteen.

Or seven.

Or whatever the hell you want to call it.

It's my life.

My choice.

I'll do whatever the hell I want.

I know I'm doing the right thing.