A/N: Hello, lovely readers. I'm back again, as promised! Hope you're all having a great start to 2014 so far.
I'd like to take a moment to advise you that this story touches upon the issue of teenage suicide. Some may find that it hits a little close to home, and if you feel uncomfortable with the topic, this story may not be for you. I encourage you all to remember that suicide is never the answer, and there is help available at various organizations across the world should it ever become an option.
I want to thank two people for their invaluable contributions to this fic: firstly, Lucy, for beta-reading the entire thing in one night and just generally being a wonderful person with brilliant ideas; secondly, Jenn (ElvishGrrl), for allowing me to rant on and on for several weeks and offering insight and encouragement. I'd also like to thank the shitty wifi in a cheap Parisian hotel room that bored me to the point of rewriting a half-assed original fiction attempt into something presentable.
Disclaimer: I don't own TVD or its characters or the song Dust to Dust by The Civil Wars; all rights to their respective owners.
DENIAL
It's not your eyes
It's not what you say
It's not your laughter
That gives you away
You're just lonely
You've been lonely, too long
Oh, your acting, your thin disguise
All your perfectly delivered lines
They don't fool me
You've been lonely, too long
ELENA
Katherine Pierce.
There was a time when her name was mentioned more than any other in the hallways of Mystic Falls High School.
Always attached to a scandalous rumor – did you hear that Katherine Pierce once snorted cocaine with male model Connor Owens? Did you hear that Katherine Pierce was cast as an extra in the new Klaus Mikaelson movie? Did you hear that Katherine Pierce went to Argentina last summer and slept with three guys at the same time?
Where she walked – or rather, stalked – people scuttled backwards in their haste to get out of her way. She walked with the kind of self-assured presence and grace you'd expect from repeat Oscar winners. She deserved an Oscar for the performance she gave, anyway, but the only trophy she's receiving today is one of cold, heavy stone.
Her hair was always in those perfect ringlets, no matter how many times she tossed them in scorn at the freshmen that had the audacity to sit at her table in the cafeteria. Her make-up was flawless, as if a team of professionals flocked around her at all hours of the day to make sure she always looked fresh. Did you hear that Katherine Pierce hired an assistant to pose as a student here, just to make sure she always looks her best?
She wore the latest fashions, imported from Europe – all the best designers, for of course, no cent is spared when it comes to ensuring Oliver Pierce's precious daughter is dressed to impress.
One couldn't help but wonder why a girl with the world falling at her feet was stuck in Mystic Falls, Virginia, of all places. Perhaps as the stars shine brightest when the lights below them are dim, Oliver believed his daughter would flourish in a mundane town where people lived ordinary lives – where she would have no competition.
The cool exterior she maintained in public made it apparent that everyone and everything bored her. In fact, the only person who ever managed to hold her interest for longer than a few minutes was Damon Salvatore, a guy who matched her in looks, reputation, and ice-cold personality. The term 'power couple' doesn't even begin to describe the indestructible force they were together.
The only people who knew what went wrong between them were Katherine and Damon themselves, and one of them is about to be buried six feet into the earth.
One thing's for sure – up until four days ago, anybody from our nowhere, shit-boring, one-horse town would have sworn to any journalist until they're blue in the face that they know the real Katherine Pierce.
I'm not going to lie. I did not know Katherine Pierce.
As a matter of fact, I don't think anybody ever did.
Katherine Pierce.
Nobody dares to even whisper the name anymore.
I've always loathed funerals.
The earliest one I can recall was Grandpa Gilbert's, when I was six years old. I'd barely known him, and in an effort to avoid unfamiliar, grieving relatives, I'd ducked into a side room and come face to face with his open casket.
There's a certain chill in the air you can't shake from cemeteries, even in broad daylight in the middle of June. A small crowd of people gathers around a rectangular pit as the dark mahogany coffin is carried toward it and laid gently alongside, like a sick puzzle piece just waiting to be slotted into place. The air reeks of soil and too-sweet flowers, and the only sound is of Caroline Forbes sobbing quietly into her companion's shoulder.
Katherine's parents stand as far away from each other as they possibly can, both faces blank and empty, Diana's partially covered with a black veil. Then, of course, what remains of Katherine's posse: just Caroline and Vicki Donovan. For the most popular girl in Mystic Falls, her funeral is surprisingly devoid of people.
There's a priest, of course, and Caroline's mother, the sheriff, and the school principal with a solemn expression on his face.
And then there's me. I'm not quite sure what I'm doing here, for I was neither friend nor family of Katherine. I haven't attended a funeral since I was thirteen and burying my parents, but I woke up today and knew I should be here, that it would be the right thing to do.
A lone figure appears by a tree about thirty feet away, leaning against it like he could blend in with the rough bark and traitorously bright green leaves. He doesn't come any closer, and I don't blame him. I have my suspicions about what went down between them in the spring, but if I know Damon half as well as I think I do, he'd never let his girlfriend of two years be buried without showing up to say his final goodbyes, no matter how spectacularly their relationship crashed and burned.
I've known Damon Salvatore since the first grade, but it wasn't until high school that we became… not friends, exactly, but more acquainted with each other. Of course, up until this past year I always thought he was a bit of an entitled dick, but being partnered together in AP English literature showed me a completely different side of him. Though we were not paired by choice, it was surprisingly easy to establish a routine of meeting a couple of times a week – at the library or a coffee shop or at my house, never his – to study or discuss our latest read or test each other in preparation for our next pop quiz. By an unspoken understanding, we rarely talked about anything personal… at least, not until May thirteenth.
As it's evident that nobody else will be joining us, the priest begins a cookie-cutter service in a hollow monotone, punctuated only by Caroline's sniffs and light coughs.
I tune out, fixing my eyes on that box that was slightly smaller than those which had contained my parents five years ago. A tight coil of grief constricts itself around my insides, my lungs, my throat. Heat burns behind my eyes until the tears fall, some for Miranda and Grayson Gilbert and some for this girl whom I barely knew, mixing together as they race down my cheeks. Katherine was no angel, no saint, but she deserves more than a handful of loved ones to pay their last respects – she deserved more than a grave before her nineteenth birthday.
Katherine's parents decline to say anything, so the box is slowly lowered into the ground and the mourners turn away as the first shovelfuls of dirt hit the wood.
"Ironic, isn't it?" a voice spits bitterly from behind me; I don't need to look around to know whose it is. "Her entire life was a show and everybody was a spectator. Every party she ever threw had to be a bigger deal than the last. She'd have preferred no funeral at all to this generic, boring bullshit."
"Would she, though?" I ask quietly, turning to face him, and he stares at me in disbelief.
"Are we talking about the same girl here? About five foot six; long brown curls; craved attention?"
"You and I both know that wasn't always true."
"I have a hard time deciding what was the truth and what was merely an illusion when it comes to her, Elena."
He is angry; he's earned the right to be angry. It partially covers the pain and sadness swimming in his bright blue eyes as he continues to watch the gravedigger carry out his morbid task. I have to get him out of here before he snaps.
"Do you want to go grab a coffee or something?"
He stares at me and for a moment I fear he might laugh, or scream, or both, but he gives me a curt nod and follows me along the flagstone footpath, away from the suffocating atmosphere of a garden full of dead people.
We walk in total silence, taking our seats in our usual booth at the Coffee Corner. I order us two cappuccinos as he stoically stares at his fists on the table, clasped so tightly in front of him that his knuckles are turning white. I sip my drink and wait patiently for him to say something, knowing that if I rush him he's more likely to direct his emotions at me. Finally, when the froth from my coffee is all that's left in the cup, he speaks.
"Why her?"
"Why anybody?" I counter, absently playing with the empty sugar packet and tearing it into smaller pieces with my fingernails.
"It's my fault," he says softly, ashamedly. I look up sharply to meet his eyes.
"You didn't kill her-"
"I may as well have!"
We breathe heavily now, staring at each other.
"I should have seen it."
"Anybody should have seen it, but they didn't, because she didn't want them to."
"I knew her, Elena-"
"Did you?" I exclaim, my voice rising.
"I could have prevented it."
I take a deep breath, clasping my hands together tightly under the table so he can't see. "The first day I met her, I was eight, and she was nine."
"I'm not going to sit here while you take a stroll down memory lane-"
"My father was a divorce lawyer, a reputable one, and her parents wanted the details of their split to remain private, at least in its earlier stages, so they travelled all the way from Los Angeles to have their situation resolved."
"Is there a point to this touching recollection?" he asks snidely, taking a large mouthful of his now-lukewarm coffee.
"My mother told me to take Katherine outside and show her the garden, the tree house, the swing set, et cetera. Of course, I stood in front of this little girl with her perfect brown curls all dressed up like a doll, and I had no idea what to say. She eyed my simple jeans and sweater with distaste and then turned back to watch through the glass as the discussion between her parents got increasingly heated. Her face remained completely impassive the whole time, even when the shouting and profanity became audible and her mother slapped her father across the face.
Eventually, I dragged her away, but she still said nothing. Even I felt like crying, and she was completely disinterested, glancing around the backyard with a sigh. It was like she was completely emotionless, empty."
"Elena, I'm going to leave right now if you don't-"
"So I asked her, 'Katherine, why do your parents hate each other so much?' And she shrugged her tiny shoulders, and answered, 'Everybody has to hate something.'"
The words have haunted me ever since I got that phone call from Damon early Tuesday morning, and now I know they are echoing in his head too, as he stares at me, speechless.
"We all should have seen it, Damon. We all should have seen how much she hated herself."
DAMON
I stand in the men's restroom at the Grill, leaning my weight against the counter and shaking violently with anger. I can feel it radiating from me, from every pore, sucking the air out from around me and making it difficult to breathe. I can barely see straight, watching the drips from the faucet slowly, inevitably fall onto the porcelain and travel down to the drain, slipping away, one by one.
My rage, however, sticks to me, toxic, scorching, suffocating.
I storm out, flinging the door open and feeling satisfied with the heavy, resounding slam that causes people to stop and stare at me.
"What's your problem?" I snarl at some punk kid and his girlfriend as I stalk past.
"Damon?"
I whirl around at the tentative voice and see my classmate, Elena, gazing at me, wide-eyed. "What do you want?" I snap.
"Is everything okay?"
I scoff at the question. "Does it look like it is?"
She says nothing, only motioning for me to join her at her booth. She's alone, but the empty glasses and plates on the table indicate that her friends have already left. Reluctantly, I drop onto the seat across from her.
"Talk to me, Damon."
"What would you like me to say?"
"Lose the sarcasm," she says firmly. "I'm trying to help you."
"I don't want your help," I scowl.
"Then why are you still here?"
I don't have an answer for her, so I settle for idly spinning the empty glass in front of me for something to do with my hands.
"Look, I don't know what's made you so angry, but sometimes it helps to talk about it before you do something you regret."
"I don't want to talk about it."
"Then we can talk about something else?" she offers.
"No, thanks."
She sighs heavily and lowers her voice. "When my parents died, I was furious: at them, at the other driver, at myself, even though I had nothing to do with it. I was in junior cheerleading at the time, so one night, after practice, I stayed back, and I channeled all of my pent-up anger into running. I just did laps of the track, as fast as I could, running until I'd completely exhausted myself. By the time I was done, I could barely remember why I was angry in the first place. So that's what I do, even now. I just go for a run whenever I need to wear myself out, whether I'm angry or stressed or sad or whatever."
I don't respond to her, fighting the urge to look up and see the pain in her eyes as she shares this with me.
"You can talk to me, Damon," she pushes again, but I slam my hands onto the table, standing up abruptly.
"I was never here," I say icily, deliberately looking straight above her head as I address her.
And I'll never admit it to her, but after I leave the Grill, I walk to the Timberwolves' football field and run laps for another three hours.
I storm into my bedroom, slamming the door behind me so hard that the entire house shakes. This must all be some kind of sick joke. There is no way I could have attended my ex-girlfriend's funeral today. I must be dreaming.
Fucking Elena Gilbert and her heartfelt emotional speeches.
I press my fists into my eyelids in an attempt to drive out the image of her innocent, wide brown eyes and groan in frustration when they're replaced with Katherine's instead, also brown but with a hint of green and a dark and dangerous spark in them.
I hear a light knock at the door and scowl as the doorknob turns.
"Leave me alone, Dad."
"It's me." My saintly younger brother sticks his head around the door, holding up his hands in a gesture of surrender. "Just wanted to see how you were doing."
"I'm fine, Stefan. Now fuck off."
"You're obviously not fine."
"Oh, believe me, I am."
"I know you went to the service." Of course, a certain brunette little birdy must be chirping her way around the friendship circle.
"Have you been speaking to Elena?"
Stefan's brow furrows. "No. Should I?"
I roll my eyes in exasperation. "No! For God's sake, is it so hard for all you little do-gooders to believe that I can cope on my own?"
"You shouldn't have to be on your own, Damon. You lost someone you cared about."
"I used to care about," I spit scathingly. "Not anymore. Not after what she did."
"Which you still won't talk about, to anybody."
"It's in the past. Katherine and I were over."
Stefan's eyes light up with the triumphant look he gets every time he thinks he's won an argument. "So if you were so over her, why'd you go to her funeral?"
"Somebody had to. There were less people there than there were people awake at your last piano recital. Maybe I felt sorry for her."
"At least you're admitting you felt something."
"I'm not here for your psycho-analysis, Steffy. Contrary to what you all seem to think, I'm not about to go bat-shit crazy, okay? I dated her. We ended it. I got over it. She died. There's nothing more to say."
He hesitates, but clearly has no more inspirational nonsense to spout at me. "Well, if you do think of something, you'll come to me, right? I know we don't do that sentimental, sharing stuff, but I'm here for you. If not me, Elena, or somebody, okay?"
"You make it sound like she's my fucking girlfriend."
"Well, she's your something."
"Get lost," I growl, irritated. He leaves, quietly closing the door behind him, and I'm struck by the difference between us. If he were in my situation right now, he'd probably be crying on his friends' shoulders and making plans to build some shrine to Katherine in the hallways of the high school.
My phone lights up, and I see it's a text from Elena.
I'm here if you need to vent.
My something, Stefan called her. I don't feel anything for her but mild annoyance.
Elena is not my girlfriend. Katherine was, and she died, and I don't care.
End of story.
A/N: Thank you for reading! Expect the next chapter over the weekend if I haven't melted in the continuous 40C+ weather before then. If you want to talk about Disney's Frozen, salt and vinegar chips, or our favourite fictional couple's award-winning chemistry, I can be found on twitter at ohmyninadobreva.