"Okay, your turn now," I fall on my back, breathing heavily, thanking some higher power for the softness and comfort of Stefan's bed.
We've made a deal - he would play his guitar for me, if I danced for him. So I dug out, from the back of my closet, some old dancing costume, which miraculously still fits. It's a simple dancing dress for a choreographed group routine, made out of a black one piece and fluttery red tutu skirt.
When Stefan saw me in it, he started laughing and wouldn't stop for good five minutes, because of how childish I look in it. Granted, the dress was made for a 14 year old, so it probably does look ridiculously on me now.
When I started dancing, though, he fell silent. I chose to do my solo routine, slow motion jazz dance with elements of ballet, for which I won first prize at the state competition. It was few months before I got diagnosed, and I remember it perfectly. I doubt I'll ever forget it.
It tells a story of a girl who slowly morphs into an angel, and during my performance, they actually stitched giant, feathery wings on my dress. I don't have them now, and the dress is all wrong, the stage too small. I'm trying not to bump into things or turn them over as I move. I can feel Stefan watching me intently, softly, calmly, that after some time I forget he's even there. Nothing gives his presence away, so I become one with the background and the things that surround me. When I touch the floor, it's as soft as air. Gravity becomes a foreign concept to me, I have full control over my own body, control not even laws of physics can break. I move, I dance, I fly. When my feet leave the ground, I feel weightless. In the air, my body carries no weight.
But soon enough my bones begin to hurt, feeling as if they're going to bend inside of my body, like rubber. My breath becomes short and sweat beads start prickling my skin, starting from my forehead. I know that if I continue this, I'll soon become dizzy, possibly nauseous. I have to do something about it, so in my mind I cut out a piece of the performance, hoping he won't notice, so I can finish it early.
"Umm, yeah," he seems distracted, fazed, maybe even a little bit surprised. "Yeah," he says again, getting up from the chair to reach for his guitar.
"But first I have to say something. That was freaking amazing, what you just did there. You looked so free and.." he stops, trying to find the right word to finish the sentence with. "Happy," he wraps it up, nodding to himself, "You looked happy."
"I felt happy," I agree. I felt invincible. "But then I got tired," I can still feel it - the pain in my wrists, like someone is hitting them with a hammer. The relief my joints long for, rest and air my lungs crave.
He nods, signaling to me that he understands. He knows there's nothing to say, words would be futile at this moment. You can do other things, though. Yeah, I can. But I can't do this, and nothing can replace it.
"Okay, here it goes," his fingertips touch the strings and, as soon as the first sound comes out if it, my breath gets stuck in my throat.
As lovely as it sounds, I have to admit that I don't know which song it is, not even when he starts humming the words. It's not that surprising, I don't know most of the songs, at least not until they reach the chorus. The melody is soft, pleasant to the ear, somehow familiar to me. It flows silently, rhythmically, coherently, as a river. And the words sound as if they're mine, as if, somehow, I have ownership over them.
I close my eyes and try to imagine the scenery behind the words. Even after an eternity runs its course, I'll pray for one more second by your side - his voice is low, in the form of a whisper, as if he's ashamed of how it sounds, or of the power of his words.
I can feel my body start to sway, left to right, right to left. The song pulls me down under, so deep that I don't even notice when he finishes playing.
When I finally realize my swaying is not followed by any sound, I open my eyes, only to see him looking at me expectantly, his cheeks flushed. When I look straight at him, he lowers his look, as if he's ashamed.
"Stefan, that was incredible," I say excitedly with a smile dripping off of my lips, "I don't know the song, though."
After a short period of silence, he says shyly, "It's mine."
I've never seen Stefan so shy and quiet, at least not since we were kids. He's usually very confident and straightforward.
"As in you wrote it?" I sound too surprised, but not because I don't think he's capable of it, but because such a thought never crossed my mind. Stefan, a self proclaimed word hater.
"Yes," he says meekly.
I can't believe those words came out of that beautiful brain of his. I can't believe he's able to create something so mesmerizing.
"It's really not a big deal, I threw this one together in few hours," he distances himself from his guitar and comes to sit next to me.
"Well, if you wrote this in few hours, I can't wait to hear something you actually worked your butt off for."
"I don't really have any inspiration to write right now," he puts his palm on my cheek. I can feel the tip of his thumb caressing my skin.
"How come?" I tilt my head, pressing it closer against his palm.
"Sadness inspires me, and now is the happiest I've ever been," he smiles at me. Now it's my turn to blush. "If you want me to write, you'll have to break my heart."
I pull myself closer to him. I have no intention of doing that.
"Is that what you want to do in life? Music?"
"Maybe," he sighs, "I know I don't want to be a musician. I would like my life to be private. But I wouldn't mind teaching, especially kids who need music in their life as much as I needed it."
I suck some air in through my teeth. I'm afraid to ask why. Why did he need it so much? I'm afraid to ask because I'm afraid of yet another rejection.
"I started playing after we left town because.." he starts on his own, then stops, but not because he doesn't want to tell me, but because he doesn't know how.
I'm still in his embrace, my head pressed against his chest, his heart thumping wildly against my ear. I take his hand and squeeze it tightly in mine, for support. Not because I want him to continue talking, but because I know he needs it. He knows the words he wants to say, and he can hear them even if they don't come out of his mouth.
"Elena, my father wasn't a very nice man," he says, and I bite my lip. "That's an understatement," he releases a painful chuckle. He's trying to mask his pain and fear and shame with laughter. "He was everything but nice. I don't even believe he was a man. He was a drunk, abusive piece of shit," his words shake me up. I've never heard Stefan swear before. Foul words have never touched his lips, maybe that's why they sound so harsh once he says them.
"When we were living here, he worked at this metal factory, but he would never come home right after work. No, he would go to a bar one town over and drink his ass off, spending half of the money he earned that day on booze and only god knows what else. He would come home late at night, when Damon and me were already asleep, still drunk. He wouldn't allow my mum to get a job, because he wanted the house to be clean at all times, and a hot meal whenever he comes home. And yet, he would leave her barely enough money for groceries."
I remember how spotless their home used to be. My mum always cared about our appearances, but Mrs. Salvatore cleaned everyday - I remember seeing her through the windows when we played in their backyard. Always dusting, vacuuming, rearranging. When she didn't clean, she cooked. Or baked. There was always something to eat in their house. She cooked constantly because her husband wanted a hot meal when he comes home, and she never knew when that would be.
Something tightens around my heart so hard that I have a feeling it's going to break.
"I was four when I realized he beats her. One night, her pleading woke me up. She was pleading him to stop. Damon was sleeping, or at least he was pretending to, so I went outside. I found her under the kitchen table, hiding from him. He was so drunk that he couldn't see her under there, but that didn't stop him from yelling. She saw me, standing in front of my room, and she shooed me away. I remember.." he swallows hard. I'm afraid to look at him. I'm afraid of what I might see. "I remember the look in her eyes. Mix of fear and despair."
I remember it too. How afraid she always seemed. Like something horrible is going to happen any minute now.
And when I wasn't there to see, it did. She knew it's coming.
"I went back to my room. I didn't do anything. I should have done something."
You were just a kid. You were only four years old. He could have hurt you as well. There are million things to say, but I stay silent. I'm too afraid of how my voice would sound if I let it out. So I let him talk.
"Do you remember Damon from back then?" he asks.
"Yes," I answer quietly, nodding my head against his chest.
"That boy, that wasn't my brother. That was a very scared and angry child who reacted to the abuse he had seen at home. He didn't want anyone to treat him that way."
Damon was a straightforward bully. He didn't just respond when attacked, he went and attacked others for no real reason. Stefan, on the other hand, was timid and shy.
"Stefan," I push myself up to look him in the eye. I almost forget everything I wanted to say when I notice tears in his eyes, threatening to spill out, but I find a way to control myself. "Did your father every hurt you?" I ask worriedly.
"No. As long as our mother served as his punching bag, he left us alone. He wouldn't have dared to touch Damon anyway, and my mother assigned Damon to protect me."
I remember how no one dared to touch Stefan.
I also remember how quiet Stefan was all the time. Like he's keeping a secret. It all makes sense now.
"As soon as Damon got his driving license, he told our mum to pack our bags, and we left town. We left while our dad was asleep."
"That's why you left so abruptly," I say, another piece of the puzzle falling into its place.
"He followed us. We were his possession, or at least he thought so. We moved a lot, so he doesn't find us. He was on our tail all the time. I don't know how Damon knew, but he would come home and tell us to pack our bags because dad is in town, and we would be on our way to the next town. Until we moved to L.A. He never found us there."
"How come you decided to come back?" how were they sure he's not going to be here, or look for them here? Did they feel secure enough to risk it?
"Because he died. Drunk driving. Our aunt, mum's sister, called us one day and said that he's dead. My mum wanted to come back here, this is her home."
"Oh, Stefan.."
Rebekah was right. Once you find out, you kind of wish you didn't. Not because you don't care, or because you can't handle it, but because now, every time you look at the man you love, every time he goes through it, you have to go through it with him. And you never know is your imagination worse than reality - you can only hope that it is.
"I'm sorry I haven't told you sooner," he looks at me, his eyes red and full of tears.
"It's okay, Stefan," I try to sooth him by rubbing his arm with my fingers.
"I don't know a lot about my father, Elena. I only know that he was a drunk and that he beat the crap out of my mum. I watched my brother do the same to others when he was a kid. I saw the anger in his eyes. It was the same anger my father carried in his eyes. You can't fight genetics. I'm so scared of ending up like him," he shakes his head.
"Hey, hey," I say, perplexed at his statement, "Stefan, you're nothing like your father, and neither is Damon. What he did when he was a kid, that was a way of protecting himself, and you. It might have been wrong, but kids are wrong all the time."
He continues shaking his head, so I put my palms on his cheeks to steady him. "Listen to me. You could never be like your father. You're the kindest person I've ever met. You have such a big heart. You could never hurt anyone. Do you understand me?"
He doesn't react to my words for a while, but after a while, he finally nods.
I put my arms around his neck and pull him into me. We stay in that position until the tears that fell on on my shirt fade away.
"Hey, where's Jeremy?" I ask when I notice there are only three plates on the table, which means my little brother won't be joining us for dinner.
"He's staying over at Trevor's," mum replies before assuming her place at the table.
I guess this is as good of a time as any to ask my parents for something I'm 90% certain they'll say no to.
"There's something I wanted to talk to you about," I start.
My mother lifts her head up curiously, while my father just says "Oh?" while picking through his plate. Mum is making him eat broccoli, and he's determined in avoiding it as much as he can.
"As you know, this is our last year of high school, and it won't be long until we're all scattered across the country. So we wanted to do something special for our winter break, go somewhere for a few days or something," I shrug. It was Caroline's idea, something she suggested from the top of her head without any real preparations, which is very un-Caroline like, but everyone jumped on board with it. "But everything we looked into is very expensive, so I got an idea. We could go to our lake house," I blurt out, continuing before they have a chance to say no, "You guys rarely use it, except in the summer, and we would be very careful with it."
I'm pretty sure I caught them off guard, since I never asked for anything like this before.
But my dad makes up his mind fairly quickly. "Sure," he agrees, but at the same time, my mum outshouts him.
"Of course not!" she booms.
They look at each other, surprised and confused about one giving me permission, while the other declining my request. They're at on the opposing sides now, and judging by the expression on their faces, they don't know how to handle it.
"Why not?" my dad asks her, his brow furrowed.
But my mum keeps her eyes on me. "When you say all of you, who do you mean exactly?" she sounds like she's accusing me of something, and I don't know what of exactly.
"Caroline, Bonnie, Matt.." I count the people she knows and is most familiar with, "The whole gang," I shrug.
"Does that include Stefan?"
I frown. "Of course." How could she even think any differently?
"That's why," she turns her head to my dad, looking at him pointedly, "She's asking us to give her the whole house for herself so she can get drunk with her friends and have sex with her boyfriend!" she resembles a blowfish as she says that sentence.
I can't believe she actually just said that. Out loud. To my father. In front of me. My cheeks blush. "Mum!" I yell, ashamed. I can see that my father is uncomfortable as well, but he doesn't seem like he's going to back off.
I guess he got sick and tired of her making all the major decisions.
"No, Miranda," he says firmly, "Our daughter is asking us if she can have fun with her friends one last time before their whole group falls apart." He seems determined in winning this fight. "And I'm giving her a permission to do that."
Go, dad!
They keep looking at each other, thunderbolts coming out of both of their eyes. There's a war happening between the two of them.
"Fine," my mum snaps, "But under one condition," she looks at me, "We get to meet Stefan."
Oh, bollocks.