The boy lay, staring at a crack in the wall. Well, it might be a crack or a smudge, he couldn't be sure. His vision was too blurry.
It was always too blurry.
He could hear the door opening and shouting. He couldn't see his brother getting dressed quickly. He could hear endless rounds of wooden bullets emptying into his brother. He couldn't see him drop to the floor. He could hear the calm and knew his brother had been staked. He couldn't feel the gentle hands cleaning him up and dressing him. He could hear the whispers and the gasps. He couldn't feel them gently pulling him out of the soiled bed.
He couldn't feel a damn thing.
Running. He had to keep running.
"You can't hide from me. Hell, you can't even run," his voice rang through the air. Stefan bounded down the stairs, wishing, wanting -needing- to vamp speed but he couldn't. Damon had practically drained him of blood and kept injecting him with vervain.
He was so weak.
"I found you," Damon whispered.
He woke up in a cold sweat, breathing hard. He curled into a ball and muffled a sob. He had never felt so small and weak. Someone knocked on the door but he couldn't, couldn't, look up. His brother had beaten that into him early on. He kept his blurry eyes trained on the sheets. It was too dark to see who was in the room anyway, there was no light of any kind because his brother took his ring... and he didn't want anyone to really see him.
So much shame.
"You've made me mad baby brother," Damon said while intertwining their fingers. Stefan was so laser-focused on that that he was too late to stop Damon from ripping his ring off of his other hand. "Now you must pay the price," he smirked. He pocketed the ring then reached up and ran his hand through his hair. Stefan shuddered away but Damon just followed, backing him into a wall.
"Damon please stop," Stefan whispered in a hoarse voice. He had screamed so much lately his vocal cords felt like they were on fire. Whether Damon heard him was beyond him though because he just leaned in and started kissing him like he hadn't said a word.
A hand started trailing down as Damon pulled away, biting his lip one last time before saying one word, "mine..."
When he woke up again his eyes immediately started to water again. His eyes burned so badly and he felt horrible. The boy shivered, the cold seemed to be at his core.
But, of course, it was...
He heard voices and involuntarily gasped shakily. He was so afraid. He kept thinking his brother was going to barge in, bloody, and tell him "I did this for you."
"I killed them for you."
"Stefan please stop fighting me. I killed her for you. Everything I do is for you. Why can't you see that?" he walked towards him, his bloody hands reaching out to him.
"You're sick Damon. You're mentally and emotionally sick," Stefan said carefully, slowly edging towards the door. In a flash he backed into a body, immediately knowing Damon was behind him now. He squeezed his eyes shut, wishing he could be anywhere but there.
"You make me better," Damon whispered in his ear, making him shiver in the worst way. Stefan could only scoff in his mind. Damon walked around to the front of him and placed his blood-stained hands on either side of his face. Stefan grimaced and tried to move away. "You really are, so, beautiful. I don't know how I ever restrained myself all these years," Damon whispered, dragging a finger lightly above an eyebrow, trailing down to his chin. Stefan couldn't help but blush, hating himself for it. Damon picked Stefan up, wrapping his legs around his waist, and carried him to his bedroom.
Stefan's bedroom.
The room was supposed to be Stefan's private sanctuary, but Damon ruined that long ago. Damon dropped him on the bed before crawling after him, pinning him down.
"Please don't," Stefan pleaded quietly as the tears already began to fall. "Please stop..."
His panic attack had made him pass out. He had never really thought vampires could be this kind of sick. He always thought if they were sick it was cause they were a psychopath. He never knew depression and anxiety was possible.
Until they found his ring. Until they took him to a therapist. Until he was diagnosed with PTSD, clinical major depression, and anxiety disorder. He honestly barely noticed he was self-harming until he was asked about it. When the woman asked him why he chewed on his knuckles to the point on bleeding he was surprised.
When he said he didn't know he did that, she wrote for a long time.
After that, he was hyper-aware of himself. He sat in the dark, dragging the blade down his arms, watching the blood blossom over his pale skin then fading as the cut began to close. The longer he did it, the longer it took for the wound to heal until it wouldn't and he'd pass out in the tub, blooding pooling around him.
The drain was plugged.
"You worthless piece of shit!" Damon yelled through the house. Stefan could hear things breaking as Damon threw his fit. "Where the hell are you?" he yelled again. Stefan held his breath from his hiding place in the kitchen. He was wedged between the wall and the refrigerator. He closed his eyes but they snapped open when he felt a hand slide over his mouth. "I'll always find you; you worthless slut," Damon said with an eerie smirk on his face. He pulled Stefan out from his hiding place and brought him up to standing.
"I'm sorry," Stefan whispered weakly, breath heavy from the energy he was exerting to just stand. The wood that was kept, jammed in his leg was hurting an exceptional amount that day.
"Shhhh, it's alright," Damon said, stroking his face. Stefan's eyes lit up a small bit. "Yeah, but of course, I have to punish you," he added and Stefan's face fell.
"No please, I'm sorry! I'm sorry-"
Damon plunged the stake in his side, causing a head-splitting scream to erupt from Stefan. He staggered forward, falling to his knees as the blood rushed out as if it couldn't be happier to touch the floor.
"While you're down there..." Damon trailed off and unzipped his pants grabbing Stefan's hair and pulling his head up, hard. The tears were streaming down his face as his brother shoved his dick into his mouth and Stefan wondered not for the first time if death wasn't all that bad.
Scars took the place of cuts and he couldn't remember the last time he had a scar. He turned on the faucet and washed out the blood. He stood up and caught sight of himself in the mirror, making him jump. He barely recognized himself. The boys hazel eyes, usually more of a bright green, were now a dull brown. His hair looked limp and dead and his skin, pale. The bags under his eyes were almost purple and huge. His lips were a dry, pale, pink mess; they were in desperate need of some chap-stick. He entered his now-room and laid down on his bed, wanting sleep but not wanting the dreams that come with it.
For the first time in months, he had a dreamless sleep. He woke up feeling almost refreshed but all the memories took care of that, not to worry. He got up and changed, looking at himself. His ribs were very prominent and his hip bones looked painfully exposed. His silhouette looked that of a young girl's and he knew his brother would be happy.
"You're perfect Stefan. Perfect. Just need to lose like ten pounds. That's all," Damon said soothingly. Stefan just continued nodding as he couldn't argue any longer. Damon kept stroking Stefan's stomach as Stefan lay, immobilized by fear and pain, in between his legs against his chest. He shifted uncomfortably and Damon moaned, his dick was stuffed up his ass after all. "Baby brother you are so tight," Damon dug his fingernails into Stefan's hip causing him to cry out in pain. "I love when you do that," Damon said in his ear, biting the lobe. He squeezed his hip again and Stefan cried out again, tears slipping down his face.
He stepped onto the scale, clothed in only his boxers.
126 pounds.
He couldn't help himself and flinched at the number. He was used to seeing 100's and 110's. He knew that gaining weight was good but in the back of his mind he heard his brother's voice telling him how fat he was. He decided to skip meals that day; he felt nauseous. If he just got down to 120 he'd be okay. He kept telling himself 120 would be safe. Just six pounds.
Next time he stepped on it was 114 pounds and he weakly smiled, a week of no meals paid off. When he saw the blood they tried to give him he almost threw up. He overheard them say it was an eating disorder that he developed from the PTSD or the depression.
Anorexia, they called it.
"You lost 20 pounds already! At this rate, you might as well lose 30 more and it'll bring you down to 120!" Damon hugged him from behind as they both looked at the scale. Stefan felt too self-conscious being naked in front of his brother and in the bathroom while they looked at his weight.
151 pounds. But it wasn't enough. Not for Damon.
Stefan didn't actually have a choice, he knew that for sure. Damon just pretended like it was a suggestion. But considering the fact that he was the one who fed Stefan now, he was in charge of how much he ate anyways.
"I love you, baby," Damon whispered as he thrust him into the mattress back in Stefan's room. Stefan couldn't speak; he was gripping the sheets too tight... Yeah.
103.
He was at 103 pounds.
His brother would be ecstatic. He kept waiting for the moment he'd walk through the door and laugh at him for thinking he'd escaped. He kept waiting for him to screw him now that he was at an all-time low weight. He kept waiting for the rug to be pulled out from underneath him. His scars were more prominent now. His body was so weak he could barely heal. Scabs lasted half a day or so.
He found a stake one day. Hid it in his now-room.
98.
They were frantic. Desperate for something to make him better. He had the cure. He had always had the cure.
94.
He was so weak, so fragile. With trembling hands he brought out the stake, barely seeing it. His vision was too blurry. It was always too blurry. He could barely hear the scrambling steps of his friends running up the stairs to his now-room. He couldn't make any sound come out as he mouthed his last good-bye. He ran the stake through his chest, a smile starting to spread as the light rushed out of his eyes.
He couldn't feel a damn thing.