A/N: This is my first dark fic, so I'd really like some feedback. It was inspired by the song Is It Progression If A Cannibal Uses A Fork by Chiodos (which is, by the way, an amazing band, jus saying). That's where the lyrics at the end are from. Also, I'd like to thank my friends obliviouslivious and magiepoo for reading this before I posted it.
Disclaimer: I don't own The Vampire Diaries, Chiodos, or Colonel Lee.
She turns it off. Shuts it out. The blood, the fire, the screams.
If she didn't, she would feel, and she would hurt.
"Careful," Katherine tells her, "Or you'll end up just like me."
Elena's red-stained lips form a sad smile. Because she already is. Exactly like her. She loved them, and they loved her, and they died for her, and now she's dead, too.
And running. Running, running, running. Because if she ever stops, they'll catch her. She's not naive enough to hope they'll ever quit looking. Not after what she did.
And if Klaus ever does catch her, he'll kill her. Slowly. And then she'll have to face an eternity of what-ifs and should-haves, of burning, inescapable regret. Because there won't be a switch that she can turn off in Hell.
She pushes all of this to the back of her mind for the millionth time, mentally cursing herself for stumbling upon the off-limits train of thought again, and focuses on the reason she's in this hole-in-the-wall at two in the morning: the man on the barstool next to her, drowning himself in bourbon. He has dark-as-night hair and piercing blue eyes, though they're not quite the right shade. On top of that, he's dressed all in black and half a head taller than her. Someone up there must be getting a kick out of this.
When the barkeep calls closing time, she swoops in, smooth as glass.
"You look like you could use a ride."
He turns to face her, his eyebrows raised as if he's just now noticing her, but she's seen him stealing glances since she followed him in.
"Are you saying I'm drunk?" he asks, a smirk playing on his lips. He's making this too easy, playing his part perfectly.
"Judging from the half-bottle of Colonel Lee you just downed, I'd say so."
She likes this. Luring them out of public without having to compel them. She tells herself that this makes it fair, that it gives them a chance. Then again, no one's ever turned her down. This one's no different.
She takes him to a seedy motel, and when he questions the sudden transformation of her face, she looks him in the eye and tells him that he's Not Afraid of Her. It's only courtesy. He is about to die, after all.
She leads him to the bed and she gives him what he wants, what he followed her for. Whimpers and groans taint the air and blood stains the sheets in intricate, perverse patterns. And if she pretends a little for herself, well, she'll never admit it.
It's afterwards, when they're lying there and he's tracing the pronounced veins on her face, that he asks her.
"Are you going to kill me?"
She doesn't hesitate.
"Yes."
"Why?"
She closes her eyes and focuses on the feeling of his fingertips ghosting over her skin, smearing rivulets of his own blood.
Why does she kill them? Why not just compel them, drink her fill, and be on her way? Because everyone dies. Because everyone died. Because he died. Because she died. Why shouldn't they die, too?
"Hmm?" he coaxes, and she realizes she still hasn't answered.
"Because you're not him," she whispers. "None of you are them."
Then she tears into his throat, rips, drinks, leaves.
She'll regret it later, when she succumbs to the sleep of the full, the satisfied. When faces and memories from lifetimes ago haunt her dreams.
She's resigned to her fate, though; she'll walk the Earth forever, looking over her shoulder, seeking solace and refuge in faces that are lies.
Maybe the next one will have mousy brown hair and hazel eyes.
Lies are all she has left.
Flowers of red begin to bloom on the
White sheets in her room
Our lifeless bodies
Lying there rotting for all of time
Please review. Nothing would make me happier.