"Mommy?' A small voice called out. The little boy's footsteps were as light as a kittens as he made his way across the boarding house. It was in the early hours of dawn as he crossed the extravagant living area and proceeded through the library. His dark bedraggled hair bounced against the creamy complexion of his forehead. The wide, dark, innocent eyes of the boy scanned the dark hallways, carefully watching the dancing shadows. He jumped at every creak and groan that the ancient wooden floors elicited. He feared that someone was in the shadows; watching.

He was right. There was a man there. He was dressed in white, which contrasted greatly with his night sky hair. He tried to run to the boy and make him stop. He shouldn't see what was about to happen. "Stop! Damon, go back to bed!" He cried out, but his pleas were silent.

The child oftened did this; ran to his mother for comfort. He often had bad dreams and the only one that could calm his fears was her. The child reached his parents' room and placed a small hand on the doorknob.

He was four; just turned four on Christmas morning. He wasn't prepared for what was on the other side of the door. It was something no child should ever have to see. No child should ever be scarred the way he was. It wasn't fair, it'd never be fair. Living in fear for the rest of his life, always wondering if he'll come back to finish him off; the last witness.

"Please Damon! STOP!"

"Mommy?" He called out again. "Mommy, I had another night terror!" Nothing but silence answered. His small hand rested on the doorknob and he began to turn it giving one more attempt to contact his mother.

"Momma?" He gently pushed the door open. The infant's hand quickly dropped from the knob as though it had been on fire and let out a blood curdling scream. There on the dark oak floors was his mother, sprawled out in a pool of crimson liquid. Her jet black hair was matted with blood and her whole body was convulsing. She was clenching and unclenching her bruising fingers and her chipped fingernails were jagged and coated in blood. Her nightgown was soaked through red and her normal tan complexion was chalky and pale. She looked like death.

The boy began to shake uncontrollably as he backed from the doorway. His mother's eyes were opened and her hand was reaching out to him. Her mouth was open but only distorted noises left the bloodstained and swollen lips. Though all her attention was fixed on the boy, his was on the dark looming figure behind his mother. The child's eyes resembled a newborn colt's as he watched the attacker raise an unknown object and point it toward his mother. His mother followed the boy's gaze to the man behind her and she began to scream wildly.

The attacker tilted his head and studdied the boy; judging if he was a threat or not. The man stepped from the shadows and grinned evily at the boy. "Son, what are you doing out of bed?" It was his father, coated in his mother's blood. His trousers, coat, and button-down were stained red and his hands were bloody. He licked a finger and laughed. "Come give daddy a hug." And he stepped toward his son.

"No Damon! GO!"

"RUN DAMON!" Though his mother yelled this to him, Damon could not remember how to work his legs and the next few moments seemed to slow as he watched his mother's eyes fill with tears, and she called out to him with a shaky breath, "I love y-"

"Shut up you whore!" Guiseppe cut her off and smacked her across the cheek. "Why did I ever marry you? You're nothing but a gutter rat!" He raised his pistol again and held it against her forehead. "Say hello to Satan."

The shots rang out and his mothers life was taken. Damon cried out in a mix of fright and anger and stared at his father.

"Damon, be a good boy and come to your daddy." Guiseppe smiled at Damon. The boy didn't move. "Damon?" Nothing. "You little brat, how dare you disobey me. Do I need to show you why you don't disobey your father?" He reached for the gun which he had previously placed back in the holster and nelt down next to his wife's body.

BANG BANG BANG

Her body shuddered and Damon cried out again.

"Papa, stop."

"Now are you gonna come here?" Damon shook his head. "Well then, I guess you'll just have to learn the same way your whore of a mother did." The crazed man raised the pistol level with his son's head and shot.

Luckily, the boy had jumped out of the way and scrambled from the room. As he ran from that place, he heard his father's psychotic laugh ring out and it sent chills down his spine. A shadow sprang from the room and ran after him.

His small legs were moving at a quick pace and he easily maneuvered the corners of the house he had grown up in. Unluckily for him though, the shadow seemed to be at the same level of ease with the odd and rapid movements and was quickly gaining on the tired boy.

Just as Damon had thought he was going to make it to the front door, he was tripped by the rug in the main hall. His head was throbbing and began to release a large amount of sticky blood. Damon's world was quickly fleeting and he rolled to his back, only to take a sharp breath as he stared into the face of the pursuer. It was a man he knew better than anyone else; it was himself.

The older Damon stared down into his younger self's face and he began to weep. He knew this was a dream; he knew that he could wake up now if he wanted, but he didn't. Damon knelt down and pulled the boy into his arms. Younger Damon was sobbing and clung to his future self for dear life.

"Mommy." He cried, "He hurt her! She's gone!" Little Damon put his face in the crook of the man's neck and drenched his shirt in salty tears. Older Damon attempted to stop his own tears but couldn't help himself and continued to break down.

"I know." He sniffled, "I was there." And the two of them began to cry harder and held eachother tighter. The older Damon had truly been here before, back in 1843 when he had been 4 except, no one had been there to comfort him.

He had been persued through the house and hit his head at the front door only to wake up the next morning in his bed, his wound cleaned. Shortly after he went down the main staircase he was met by the sight of police officers and his father crying. He'd looked up at his son and smiled sinisterly before returning to his part as the grieving widow. They ruled it as a rape and murder conducted by one of the slaves. The boy they convicted was only 14. He was hung in town square.

The two Damons sat there for what seemed like a very long time until the younger of the two jumped up suddenly.

"Stefan! My little brother, he's in his room. I have to go save him!" And with that, the boy pulled from his grasp and sprinted back up the stairs. Damon stood to run after him when he felt the dream shift and his vision blurred at the edges.

He knew he was waking up. He knew he'd dream this again, just like he had almost everynight for the past 169 years. He knew what had really happened that night while no one else did and he regretted never telling anyone about what had changed him, what had shaped him into the cruel and unforgiving man that he was. He'd be forced to carry this secret of what happened that night alone for the rest of eternity. He'd never be completely happy; His father killed him long before he ever died.