Owed To You
Chapter Two
The kettle breaks the hanging silence of my kitchen as it hisses it's usual pitch, the shrillness making me wince. Lack of sleep never fails to reward me with a ridiculous headache. Dragging my mug across the counter, I half-heartedly fill it with the boiling liquid. A decent night's sleep, that's all I ask. But no. Each one is tainted by twisted scenes, replaying over and over in my mind. As the steam from my coffee warms my chin, a deep voice whispers in my ear from behind.
"That's getting cold". I allow a weak smile to find its way onto my face as I turn to him, placing a gentle hand on his chest.
"Not while you're here". Tracing small circles on his crisp white shirt, I tilt my head. "How long until you leave?". The question hangs in the air for a few painful moments, before his reply.
"I'm meeting Stefan at the docks...", he lifts an arm to glance at his watch, perking an eyebrow. "Ten minutes ago". I am unable to prevent the groan that escapes my lips.
"You'll call every night as promised, yes?", my inquiry comes across more like an order. Amused by my authority, he chuckles. Without giving him ample time to respond, I grab his auburn tie in my hands and pull his head down to my lips.
*...*
My heart feels heavy in my chest as I stand in my front doorway, coffee in hand. The cool morning breeze struggles past me, carrying with it a few scattered leaves. Here we go. Another few months to spend alone, with worsening nightmares. Sure, a remedy would soon be found. As Damon promised, anyway. Raising a hand to wave gingerly at the retreating taxi, I give a quiet sigh. Watching him leave never seemed to become any easier, each goodbye filling me with a brand new batch of doubt. He blows me a kiss as the vehicle turns the final corner, before it vanishes from my sight. After lingering for a few moments, I step back to close the door with a creak.
Scrunching my nose, I drain the final drips of coffee from my mug. I've never much appreciated the granules left at the bottom, but I always drunk them none the less. As of late, consumption of blood had been affecting the severity of my nightmares. So, naturally, coffee would suffice. Turning the page tentatively, I examine the final headline in the town newspaper. A proud smile sets onto my features as the familiar faces become clear. The upside to this whole situation reveals itself to me once more, and I feel a ray of sunshine burst through the dim corners of my heart. My passion, my saviour from constant paranoia. From fear of her. From all supernatural matters.
Queen's Theatre Presents: Les Miserables.
Carefully folding the paper in two, I arise from my armchair. The house lies eerily quiet in his absence, a sound which sadly is no stranger to me. However much I despise it. As I shuffle my feet against the cold floorboards, I drag my fingertips across a polished white surface. My piano, my pride and joy, stands before me in all its subtle elegance. My hand lingers for a moment, resisting the urge to press the keys. Standing unnaturally still, I am once again struck dumb by its comforting lustre. I gasp as the silence is immediately broken by the grandfather clock, chiming noon. Turning on my heels to rush upstairs, I ponder over what to wear. I'm already late.
*...*
Hurrying along the cluttered alleyway, my black dress catches softly around my knees. I can already hear the music emanating from the building to my right as I approach a tall black door labelled 'STAGE'. Standing before it, I quickly glance down at my phone. A relieved sigh escapes me as I see what I had hoped for. No new messages. In my mind, that meant that all was running smoothly. No news is good news, or something like that. Giving three gentle taps on the door, I take a small step back. A few moments pass before it is swung open, and I am greeted by a tall figure, dressed fully in black leathers. I maintain a straight face for as long as possible, before laughing softly and taking his hand as he pulls me into a hug.
"Hey, lil' Kathy". His built frame almost engulfs me completely, and I force myself to pull back.
"Great to be back, Marco". For the first time in what feels like forever, a genuine smile finds its way onto my face.
"Care to explain where you've been?", he raises a hand to cut me off before I can answer. "Damon came back, didn't he?". Satisfied with his accurate synopsis, I merely nod. I am met by a low chuckle on his part as he nudges me before leading me off down the usual hallway. "You mean to say you still ain't told anyone you play?". His words force a laugh from my lips as I shake my head quickly.
"I told you I don't want anyone knowing. And, besides." I offer him a small shrug as we wander through a crowded room. "Play is still an awfully strong word". Descending the darkened set of wooden steps, he throws me an exasperated glance, rolling his emerald hues. Turning to face me, he effortlessly pushes open the door with the printed in gold lettering: 'ORCHESTRA'.
"If I've told you once, I've told you a thousand times, Petrova." We come to a steady halt as we reach the piano. "You've got something special, and you shouldn't doubt it the way you do." I deliberately avoid his eyes as I take my seat upon my stool, pulling myself in closer in order to properly reach the brass pedals. As I pretend to be engrossed in my keys, he leans down to whisper in my ear.
"Any further progressions with the whole Emily problem?". Looking up at him, I shrug.
"By the time this week is out, possibly. It all depends on how Damon gets on". His expression darkens as he processes my words. I smirk as he leans closer, drawing out his fangs.
"I still don't understand why we can't just kill her...", I give him a sharp tap under the chin to shush him with a giggle.
"You know very well we can't do that". I momentarily glance away as I hear the shuffle of company behind the closed curtain above us. "Now, go sit down, mister over-protective". Slowly setting his pointed teeth away, his expression softens.
"Knock 'em dead, superstar". He gives me a tap on the shoulder, throwing me a playful wink before making his way past the woodwind section to take his seat behind the drum kit. My sheet music lies open in front of me, a sea of quavers, semiquavers and half a dozen other notes I knew like the back of my hand. Cracking my knuckles, I place my fingers upon the keys. The bustling atmosphere drains away as the house lights are dimmed, and I take a deep breath. Glancing over at Marco, I let it out slowly. Giving me one final wink, the curtains open, he clicks us in, and it's showtime.