After finding out that John Gilbert is both she and Elena's father, Bonnie is stunned and confused. She decides to use her summer vacation to embark on a road trip across the country to find the mother she has never known. Damon Salvatore, the bane of her existence, decides to tag along.

In the end I light it on fire.

The letter, I mean. I watch my mother's hurried scrawl go up in flames of bright yellow and orange at the bottom of my empty trashcan, inhaling the acrid scent of burnt paper until there is nothing but ash. When the flames go out, I sit wrapped up in the darkness, knees to my chest.

And then I scream.

There's no one to hear. The house is empty. It's just me and has been since the day my Gram's passed away, a little over a month ago. I've always lived in this house, always occupied the bedroom right off the living room with the yellow walls and white furniture. This is the place where I grew up, where I took my first steps and said my first words.

All without a father or a mother to document them.

Instead I had Grams. Grams to read me stories, to tuck me in at night and help me with homework. Grams to teach me how to sew, how to iron properly, and what to do when I got my first period. Grams to cook me dinner and braid my hair when it got too unruly to be tamed. Grams to fill the roles of both parents I'd never get the chance to know.

And now… now I have no one. After reading the letter she had stored away in her safety deposit box, I realize the very bitter truth that has been staring me down all my life. My father has known me this whole time and never, ever gone out of his way to tell me the truth of my paternity. Grams had done all that she could to replace the role of my mother and father, but she had known as well. She had known he'd never claim me, and made sure I'd grown up a very loved, very happy little girl in spite of the circumstances of my conception.

But what she hadn't known was that cancer was creeping about inside of her long-dead womb. She hadn't known that skipping out on doctor's visits would leave her vulnerable to a wicked illness that would strip away the very last bits of her strength and vitality. She hadn't known she'd have to leave me so soon.

And now, struck with the knowledge of all the secrets kept away from me for years, I have absolutely no idea what to do.

Eventually, I grow tired of screaming. I sob instead, wrestling with the agony of the truth, now burnt to a crisp at my feet. It hurts. Reality is a vile beast, and at eighteen, I have only just begun to learn how foul and violent it can be. Watching my Gram's slow death had been terrible and exhausting...but learning my father's identity?

I am horrendously over my head, and can't even begin to comprehend the onslaught of emotions coming my way right now.

I clamber to my feet, hands shaking as I grab hold of the trash can. Stumbling through the dark to the bathroom is difficult, I trip once over the edge of the bed frame before I make it to the bathroom and flick on the light. My reflection in the mirror is hellish - I don't bother washing off the smeared remnants of my mascara. I dump the ashes of my mother's letter into the porcelain bowl and flush without a second thought. It all goes swirling down the drain.

God, how can I ever look any of my friends in the eye again? I can't even begin to fathom their reactions, let alone the reaction of my best friend. How do I tell her that her father is also mine? How do I tell her that the only reason I even exist is because her father raped my mother while her mother was only a month pregnant?

I can't breathe. I have a half-sister.

The walls of the lavender painted bathroom seem to breathe on their own as I slide down the wall into a crumpled mess at the foot of the toilet. My stomach heaves and I reach for the bowl, but nothing comes up. Nothing but another cry that wrenches from my throat. Elena and I don't even look alike. Her eyes are a soft, muted brown while mine vary by day between a vibrant jade and a subtle hazel. My skin is caramel brown, and her complexion has always been light olive.

None of my features of John Gilbert's, so I must look like my mother. Not that I'd like to share any physical similarities with my mother's rapist, but even if I were to work up the nerve to tell Elena, it wouldn't help my case any. She'd never believe me, and it doesn't help any that John Gilbert will never open his mouth to speak the truth. I'm not sure I can confront him about the matter - not after looking into his eyes all these years, certain that he was just my friend's moody father.

I am alone in this. Utterly alone.

The idea comes to me quick as a bolt of lightning as I dangle my fingers precariously over the water's surface. The icy press of the marble rim of the toilet bowl is cold against my cheek.

I should leave town.

Without Grams to anchor me, I have no reason to stay. College at Whitmore this upcoming fall semester can't be put off - not if I want to survive in the world on my own and keep my full four-year scholarship. But I can get away for a few months and live on the road. I can get out of this crippling community full of it's gossipy neighbors and stifling memories. My friends won't understand - but maybe they don't need to. Not yet. I can't look Elena in the eyes anyway, not to mention step one foot inside the Gilbert house like I used too.

I could pack up the civic, use a small portion of my inheritance money and save the rest.

Before my mind can go any further, a pounding noise sounds from the front of the house. It's repetitive and hard, and I hear the muffled exclamation of my name being shouted from outside. God, I'm in no shape to answer the door. Not like this.

It turns out that I don't have to. There's the sound of shattering glass, a window, and then my name can be heard more clearly as it's shouted again from inside the living room. I recognize the deep voice though I haven't heard it in person in months. It's laced with panic, and then I remember the conversation I'd been having before I'd read the letter stashed away inside the safety deposit box.

Damon.

He'd called to offer his condolences, having just heard the news about Grams when he'd arrived home last night for summer break. I'd been going through some of Gram's things when his named appeared and my phone began to vibrate on the bedside table. Though he and I hardly speak beyond the bounds of social gatherings - I'd forgotten entirely that I even had his number - I'd inferred his reason for calling and picked up anyways.

I hadn't thought too much into it as I ripped open the sealed envelope with my name on it. Grams had left me everything in her will; I'd figured maybe she'd written me something in her last days detailing how to take care of the house or the bank accounts. But as the words slowly began to digest and I found myself reading the named scribbled hastily in the bottom, left-hand corner of the paper, Damon's voice coming through the speakers had faded into background noise. I realized that everything I'd read hadn't come from Grams at all, but the mother who had skipped out of town before I was even a month old. I can't remember whether or not I had even hung up the phone or just dropped it altogether.

"Bennett!" He calls again. The sound of his boots clomping through the front hall echoes into the bathroom. Not one part of me can find the will to respond; he catches sight of the glow coming from beneath my bedroom door and is standing in the doorway of the bathroom in an instant. He takes in my slumped form over the rim of the toilet bowl and drops to his knees beside me. "What the fuck, Bennett are you okay? Jesus Christ on earth, you were screaming so loud I thought someone was murdering you!"

Yeah, I must've dropped it.

I shrug tiredly, and can't find the words to respond to his question. Am I okay? Sure. Somehow, I'm still living and breathing and existing on this plane like I always have. But fundamentally, something has changed. My skin and bones are half-monster, half-victim and always have been. Everything is all jumbled up in my head; all the lies, the memories and the unbearable truths.

Damon frowns, his angular features coming together in the knit of his dark brow. His usually icy gaze has darkened into a deeper blue, and then it hits me that Damon is actually worried about me. Granted, I'd probably given him a minor heart attack on the other end of the line. But the Boarding House is a good twenty minutes away, and he must've driven pretty fast to get here. I can tell that he'd been in the middle of something by the haphazard way his pants are tucked into his boots.

More often than not, Damon and I don't get along. It's a well-known fact amongst our shared group of friends, and has much to do with the different ways we have chosen to live our lives. He's two years older than the rest of us, but as Stefan's older brother, he's become an on and off part of our friend group. Damon, as the pretty son of a successful lawyer with a substantial bank account, has few concerns other than women, bourbon, and the next adrenaline high. When it comes down to it, my moral compass seems to work quite well while his doesn't seem to work at all. The fact that he's here now, looking more concerned than the night his crazy ex girlfriend faked a pregnancy, speaks volumes. Of what though, I can't be sure.

"Your head is in the toilet, Bennett. Imagine the germs," he teases gently, but the panic hasn't faded from his voice. He leans forward to filter a few curls away from my face in an uncharacteristically tender gesture. In another circumstance, I might've batted that hand away the second he reached for me. In this case I'm too worn down to even bat an eyelash. "You should at least sit up a little bit. Are you sick?"

I'm not sick, even though I probably look it. He's right. I should at least peel my cheek off the rim. I suck in a breath, knowing that I must look an awful mess. I feel it.

Maybe it's the insane influx of emotions I've been experiencing over the last half hour, or the genuine concern on Damon's face, but my bottom lip starts to wobble precariously as I push myself up. God, I don't want to cry anymore. Not in front of him, and not at all. These past few months I've shed more tears combined than the last three years of my life. I'd been so happy before Gram's cancer diagnosis six months ago. How had it all spiraled into this?

"Hey hey, Bon. Look at me. Tell me what's wrong." he urges insistently. I sniffle, dragging a hand across my wet face.

Slightly ashamed, I manage to look him in the eye. Since he's been away, his dark hair has grown out a few inches; it curls over the tips of his ears and splays out across his forehead in untamed, feathery strands. Even though summer has just begun, it's clear the sun has already been kind to him. His normally pale skin is a light tan, emphasizing the stark contrast of his startlingly blue eyes even more.

He's honestly an incredibly good-looking guy if you can get past all the cockiness and asshattery. I've known him so long though, that his lesser qualities are typically all I see. They seem to be absent now. I search his well-sculpted features for a trace of his usual mockery and come up short.

It wouldn't be the whole truth to call Damon my friend. We've actually been pretty consistent frenemies for the majority of our lives, though I find myself unable to muster up an ounce of irritation for him. He's really crouching next to me in the bathroom, utter germaphobe that he is, and although I know my demons could keep me in isolation - I could brush him off and pretend like problems are none of his business - I really don't want to.

I feel less alone with him staring at me like this, even if it's kind of like being a bug under a clear blue microscope. Even if I might want to strangle myself later for letting him in.

"Bonnie," he sighs, running a hand through the disheveled mop of his midnight hair. "I know we sort of hate each other but I'll probably have recurring nightmares about the sound of your screams for the rest of my life. If you need to vent to me right now, please do it. We can call truce for five minutes, right?"

He smiles a tiny, encouraging little smile at the word 'truce' and that's all it takes. I can never tell Elena - at least I don't think I'll ever be able to gather enough courage to tell her the truth about her own father. Our father. But keeping it all locked inside?

It's not healthy. I'll go insane walking around Mystic Falls, pretending to be regular Bonnie with such a huge, devastating secret. I can't even talk about it with Grams - it pains me to realize that I hold the teeniest amount of resentment her for not being honest with me while she was still alive. Now I'll have to sort through all of these emotions on my own, and I don't even know where to start.

But I could share it. I could tell just one person. I shudder, knowing I am desperate to tell somebody. Even if it's Damon Salvatore.

"Do you promise-" I pause to clear my throat. It's still painfully raw from all the screaming. "Do you promise not to tell anyone?"

He nods.

I take a single breath, gathering every single ounce of strength left, and then it all comes spilling out. Damon doesn't say a word as I tell him about the letter and the frantic apology my mother had written to me before she left town forever. I tell him that I am a child born of rape, but I don't tell him my father's identity - the name John Gilbert is lodged in my throat and I'm pretty sure I'll never be able to force it out. My voice breaks half a dozen times; he only reaches for my hand, linking our fingers in the space between us. The strange view of our conjoined fingers gives me enough strength to carry on.

"Shit," he mutters in quiet shock when I have no more story to tell. His thumb brushes absentmindedly over mine and it's oddly comforting, though my lungs still feel like overblown balloons, stretched to their limits. "That's fucked up." I snort bitterly in agreement. "But Bon, you know you're not any less of a person for this? You don't get to choose your parents."

"I don't know how to feel." I admit softly. "I've always believed that my mother was young and dumb, and that she'd left me here because the pressure of raising a child was too much. But she -" I hiccup, forcing back another wave of tears. My eyes are already burning. "She loved me. She just didn't know how to look me in the eye. I'm a living, breathing reminder of the worst night of her life."

"And that's not your fault," he argues, and I'm taken aback by how forcefully he squeezes my hand in conjunction with his statement. "You've always been the strongest person I know, Bonnie. Don't let this chip away at the foundation of who you are. It doesn't change a thing about you."

I can't find it in me to respond. Maybe he's right. But I don't feel the same - at my core I know it's too late to preserve the old way I'd viewed myself. Now everything just seems wrong. Tainted. Like even the tiniest molecules that make up my flesh were formed backwards. For so long I hadn't thought much about my conception beyond pre-conceived notions of it being an accidental side effect of a moment of passion.

Now I know for certain that I was conceived in moments of pure fear and pain. How sick is that?

"So what are you going to do?" he asks, when I've been silent for a couple of minutes. I remember the plan that had begun to form in my mind just seconds before he'd burst into the house. Maybe I'd been about to lose my mind, but even now it still seems like a good idea. I can't face anyone, but am I really brave enough to strike out on my own?

I've always been the level-headed friend. I've never stepped out of my comfort zone, but then again, I've never found a good enough reason to.

"I'm not sure," I tell him, though it's only partial truth.

He frowns before accepting my answer with a wordless shrug, and then reaches into the inside pocket of his leather jacket. The well-worn thing is a staple of his, even in the summer. He effortlessly works a cigarette out of a pack and takes it between his lips, using his free hand to light up. Though I haven't smoked since my short experimental phase back in junior year, I take a puff when he offers it to me.

Inevitably, it leaves me choking on the bitter combination of chemicals in my throat. A ghost of smirk dances across his features, but I'm not annoyed. Just exhausted. I'm sure I look ridiculous; pieces of my hair are still slick to my face from salty tears and probably a little bit of snot. When he offers the cigarette to me once more, I take another puff and this time I only cough a little bit.

We take turns that way, smoking in silence. I know there are probably a million other things Damon could be doing right now, but it is a relief to sit here with another human being. And though I haven't told him the full truth, at least one more person knows. Amazingly, he doesn't look at me any different for it, and for the first time, I glimpse a side of Damon I'd never known existed.

Maybe tomorrow we'll go back to being 'frenemies,' and maybe the normalcy of it all will be exactly what I need. But for now? I'm just grateful that he never lets go of my hand.

This sort of just popped up out of nowhere. I'm in the middle of writing WILD YOUTH chapters two and three, so I probably shouldn't be posting this but I honestly could resist. Not sure if I'll continue, but here it is at least.