Georgia is like Virginia... without all the undesirables crawling around (and Damon doesn't put himself in this category, despite the many, many, times he's been alluded to being one of said 'undesirables') Collectively, he's spent almost fifteen years here and its become his version of home. The home he actually wants to go back to. The air is just as smuggy as it blows through the car windows, the sun is just as strong on his skin, and he wouldn't have it any other way. Besides a few instances recently in which his ring has been taken forcefully from his body (fucking Stefan) Damon has been lucky enough to be able to walk during the daytime, directly in the line of the rays of sun and despite one hundred and fifty years he's never once taken this for granted. Yeah he can be grateful for things. Another thing people don't know about him. He really is frightfully misunderstood, he contemplates as he makes the turn down a mildly secluded road.

Georgia isn't far from Mystic Falls, but it doesn't matter. It's far enough to avoid everything that's been going on. And he's sure Stefan won't come looking for him. He did leave a note after all, a simple Fuck Off scribbled on a note attached to the refrigerator probably got his point across pretty sufficiently. And he threw his cell phone out of the window on I-80 so he's got more than enough time for introspection.

Yes, he introspects. Not on a regular basis... or ever, but shit, if he ever needed to get his head straight it's now. These past few months have screwed him over royally and he barely recognizes the voice in his head anymore. The voice that used to tell him to hunt and kill is now telling him to restrain himself and make connections with people.

And he doesn't like it, he thinks as, after hours of driving, he pulls into his driveway. Not the thoughts, but the fact that he doesn't really mind the new direction these thoughts are taking him. So, in retrospect he hates the thoughts too, for putting him in this predicament in the first place...

God, he hates Mystic Falls.

o o o

When Damon walks into the house he purchased a few years back he rolls his eyes. The decor is exactly like the boarding house and he's a little disgusted at his sentimentally. He remembers thinking he had to have a fire place, had to have wooden floors and paneling, had to have giant bay windows. Now he knows why.

He dumps his bag on the couch, and walks around, running his fingers over the dusty surfaces. He should have hired someone to clean this place, but he didn't know when he'd be back.

Does he really want to live here? Stay in a place where every time he walks into the front door, he'll have to do a double take because he thinks he's back in that godforsaken place?

He thinks about the effort it would take to find an apartment on such short notice, shrugs his shoulders, and goes to inspect the state of the bedroom. He's got to make sure that room is clean enough for tonight if he wants linger over dinner.

o o o

But Damon doesn't hunt that night. He only takes a blood bag and a straw to his room and flops onto the fresh parchment sheets. He stares up at the ceiling and sips slowly, brow furrowed. He didn't come to Georgia to stare at ceilings. He came here to-

To what?

And he's getting sick and tired of that voice. His voice. He hasn't gone this long without speaking to another person, plotting, scheming, in months and now he's plunged into silence with nothing but that annoying voice in his head and pathetic version of a juice pouch.

What did I come here for? He has to ask himself, and hates it because he thought he knew. To get away from the madness, to have it be like before when he was heartless and brutal and drowning in sin. But even as he thinks this his brow furrows further. He doesn't want these things. He doesn't want it to be like before. He doesn't know what he wants. Even after having that unfortunate mental breakdown he disguised as an existential crisis and ripping out that girl's throat he's confused about his life. He still feels guilty about that, not that he should, he is a monster after all. But all the same.

His straw makes a scratchy noise as he sucks up the dregs of blood and he tosses it, empty, on the floor and licks his lips.

Should he go back? Go back to Mystic Falls and then leave again when he knows for sure what it is that he wants now? A flash of big brown doe eyes looking up at him, begging for something he cant give pops into his head and he dismisses that idea. Going back would mean enduring Stefan's smug expression and Elena's suicidal tendencies. And John Gilbert. Man, he hates that guy.

No, he'll stay here. Stay here and... float.

He hasn't floated in a while. Sleeping whenever he wanted to, killing whenever he wanted to, drinking, drugs. Oh, he misses drugs. Best thing about having a body that's nearly infallible - cocaine doesn't make a dent.

So he'll float and entertain himself with bets about how long it takes Elena to find a new way to kill herself and simultaneously take down everyone with her.

Not what he intended for this little getaway, but it's a start.