Disclaimer: I own an Ian Somerhalder calendar. That's as close as I get to owning The Vampire Diaries.
Always going to be Stefan.
The same sentiment, spoken by two different girls, in the space of just a few minutes. It would drive any normal person over the edge. Damon wasn t normal. The label "person" was also a pretty questionable one at that moment. He was a monster. Even through the haze of alcohol numbing his mind, he knew it. That knowledge gave him the ability to walk away from the heaving sobs of the girl he loved. She expected it from him, this cruelty, this coldness, and he would do anything for her, so he complied without a backwards glance.
Always going to be Stefan.
The words would forever echo in his mind, accompanied by the look in Elena s eyes when she said it. There was fear, of course. Damon was used to that. He d seen it too many times to be perturbed by it anymore. On the contrary, he enjoyed it. Especially in Elena. She didn t realise the power she has over him, and it gave him a vindictive sense of pleasure to know that he at least maintained some strength.
And when Elena unwittingly repeated her ancestor s rejection, oh how Damon wanted to take that strength and wring her pretty little neck with it. It would be so easy, so easy, to make sure she would never say anything like that again. But Damon knew that he could never forgive himself if he took Elena out of the world, to never see her smile again, to never hear her laugh. He supposed Stefan would be angry at him too, but that never really factored in any of his decisions. In fact, most times the Angry Stefan potential was what spurred him into action.
Damon knew he couldn t bring himself to kill Elena, but he had never wanted to hurt someone as much as in the moment where she wrenched her hands from his. He needed Elena to feel some of the pain she inflicted on him, needed her to know about the complete hopelessness she inspired in him, needed her to feel as helpless as he did every day seeing her with the wrong brother. He couldn t hurt her physically but the moment her younger brother stepped into the room, that stupid brat of a boy, Damon s hands were around his neck before he knew what he was doing.
And suddenly all the power belonged to him. He flexed his fingers, feeling the boy s pulse flutter under his skin. Usually the sensation - and the thought of the blood pumping just out of reach - would overpower Damon. But the combination of alcohol and heartbreak blocked out the bloodlust.
He told the boy that shutting out the pain was the easiest thing in the world. Ironic. If Damon could flip the switch in his emotions, he wouldn t be standing there about to make Elena feel just how much love could hurt.
There was a vague awareness that Elena was hovering in the background, too afraid to move in case it provoked him. Just like a wild animal. Poor Damon: too wild for Elena, not wild enough to keep up with Katherine. He put every ounce of anger and pain and self-hatred into one fluid movement. The boy s neck made a satisfying crack, although Damon was faintly surprised he didn t wrench his head clean off.
The initial release of emotion didn t last for long. Unsure of what to do next, Damon stepped over the body and hovered in the doorway, watching as Elena dropped to her knees and made to try and help her brother. He was beyond help, of course, and Damon observed that Elena was finally as powerless as he was.
This time there was no sense of victory with that awareness. There was only the knowledge that Damon would come to bitterly regret acting in the heat of the moment. Elena lifted her tearstained face and met his eyes. There was no fear in her expression now, it had given way to fury and pain and an accusatory glare. He imagined it mirrored his own expression less than a minute ago. He wouldn t apologise. Not now, at least. He had nothing to say that Elena would want to hear. After a split-second of hesitation, Damon turned and left.
Denied by Katherine, spurned by Elena, despised by them both.
Being a vampire had nothing to do with it. He was a monster, but only because of the actions of the women he loved. They had made him who he was, not fangs, not blood, not venom.
Leaving behind Elena s shuddering gasps and cries, Damon descended the stairs, exited the front door and walked into the night. He wouldn t tell Stefan what he had done. He couldn t bear a self-righteous lecture right now, particularly not one from the man who - somehow - held the hearts of the only two women Damon had ever loved.
A/N:
Attacked by a rabid plot bunny, wouldn't let me sleep until I posted this. Perfect it ain't, but hopefully you enjoyed and will be kind enough to leave a review. Thanks for reading. Title taken from an Apocalyptica song. And now, plot bunny, I'm going to bed, as I have a train to catch in the morning.