The Blood Diaries
A fan fiction during which Caroline is made a vampire during the French Revolution by Damon Salvatore, only to stray from being a rich young woman, to the merciless killer Bloody Mary. Crossover between Angel, Buffy the Vampire Slayer, and Vampire Diaries.
Present Day
I smile as I look over the text in these pages of something my young human self would have referred to as a diary. I grin because I can feel the worn paper, hundreds of years old, rubbed against my fingers, sending flecks of dried blood into the air. Already in its appearance, lies my story.
My story. The words belong to a saint, a queen, or a scientist. I am none of the above; no, I am more. I am no saint, as God himself has repelled me many times. During my vampire years, the Devil became my mother, my father. I rule no nation, only the desire for power. And the only thing I have ever explored is the darkest corners of my mind, and what they can do to other people.
You might have heard of Damon Salvatore, my sire, or Stefan "Ripper" Salvatore. Maybe you've heard of Angel, or Angelus, as he was known to me before his I'm-a-total-good-guy thing. Or that girl Elena everyone's always whining about. But I'm definitely sure you've heard of me. Why? Because I am part of an evil that lingers in every soul, in every heartbeat. Heard of Bloody Mary, the drink and the ghost? Three guesses as to where the name comes from.
As I said before, this is my story. No lies, no cover-ups to make me sound like a sweet, innocent girl who "accidentally" slaughtered thousands. Nor am I a Stefan or an Angel who keep going all emo about what they did to others when they were very, very bad. I'm not going to keep a single detail from you, so don't run and hide from the truth.
Oh dear. I just realized something. If you really are running around there somewhere, then you know I'll catch you right? I'll always find you. And if you've read this, then you know exactly what's going to happen when I do.
Toodles,
Caroline
Paris, France
1792
I grew up in any girl's paradise. Rich parents, beautiful clothes, expensive house, and did I mention the adorable French accent? We lived in a grand mansion in the outskirts of town reserved for the First Class. My father was a clergyman, but had only achieved this job due to that my mother bore some relation to Queen Mary Antoinette. If you ask me, I don't believe there's a single drop of royal blood in my system. Well, maybe from a past snack or two, but I was talking about the genetic kind. Anyways, the point is that we lived like kings (except for the guillotining part), with dinner parties, balls and First Class only dances. Life as I knew it, was easy.
I never had to lift a finger to do anything, because we had a bell that solved all my problems. My sisters and I got along fine, although we were as polite and well mannered to each other as we were to guests. I look back and scoff at my naïve, good girl act, at thinking it all would last. How could it?
Because, truth be told, whilst my life barred out danger and trouble, it also barred out my true self. But I wasn't aware of it then. That a rich brat as myself could have been elevated to something better, purer. That I would one day walk in my real skin, stained with victims' blood, right in the direction of all the danger, all the trouble.
It began, typically enough, with a boy. I was a cliché in the way that I made heads turn everywhere, which never failed to please me. However, this did mean that I was overflowed with flowers and gifts, which exhausted my spoiled self. You laugh now (or probably not, if you're looking right at me), but sending all those thank you cards really were a bummer. Sometimes, if you were unlucky enough, you even broke a nail. Gasp!
Had I been a smart girl, I would have stayed at home in my luxurious house, especially with the revolution, and all. But no. Instead, I had stayed out to go to an exquisite opera, and decided to walk home instead of take a carriage. This, in combination with dark alleys, did not make for a good result.
He was gorgeous, of course. If he hadn't been, I would have probably run in the other direction, screaming my beautiful blonde head off. Black hair, killer eyes – who could blame me for pausing to stare?
So there I was, gawking away at none other than Damon Salvatore, when, annoyingly enough, Stefan showed up. He came from the shadows of a dim lit, evaluating me.
I was used to admirers, strange and even stranger. But in Stefan's eyes, there lay something different. Predatory, even. As if he were a lion, stalking a potential kill. Abruptly, I was brought out of my brainwashed stare, and began to pace away in my pink, pastel dress. Have I mentioned how hard is it to walk away quickly in one of those? Not to mention in heels.
Despite that my senses were on high alert, all I heard in my head were my mother's words: Always behave like a lady. Only, of course, in French. Duh. So I, dumbly enough, decided to stay and chitchat.
"Hello", was all I managed to say in nervous voice, before the two brothers have both taken one quick stride, and were now less than a meter in front of me.
Paris, France
1792
One hour later
My closed eyelids fluttered, sending quivers to my lashes.
"Good kill, brother."
The voice is high, yet muffled, even though I know it shouldn't be. Something's wrong with my hearing. It sounds as if though I were being held under water, but in the same time trapped in a cave where the noises are reverberated.
"She's not dead, and you know it."
This voice had to belong to the killer eyed boy. It just had to.
"Only one question. Why her?"
Laughter.
"You saw her. Rich, pretty, and vulnerable. What's not to like?"
I could almost detect the smile on the other young man's face, despite that I embraced by darkness.
"True, true. Not bad for your first progeny.
Only now do I manage to open my eyes.