Chapter Thirty-Six
Wishes
Mystic Falls, Virginia
1956
Damon,
I wish I had the words at my command to fully express the extent of my love for you. I do not think you will ever truly know, so I can only say it plainly and be done.
Do you remember when we were young? I see my human life in my dreams. I see pictures of my family, of my home, of my life, and mostly of you; for you were all of those things. You would always ask me to run away with you. Do you remember that? I wish I had said yes. I wish we had left Mystic Falls and never come back. I wish we were human, even if that means we would be dead now. A life, a real life, with you is all I ever wanted.
We would have children. God knows I wish for that everyday. Our children would have children too, and then their children would have children. I can picture them all right now, fictitious as they are, running through the grass surrounding our little house. We would have been so happy. It is the most beautiful picture my mind can conjure, but it is too beautiful to be real.
And wishes cannot repair our ruins.
You sleep so easy at night, but my human life haunts me. I can smell my father's fields in the morning. I can hear the sound of your laugh as we race through the tobacco. I can taste the bile in my throat when I knew you were dead. I can feel our child inside of me. I can see its blood rushing to stain the floor.
Those memories are hollow to me now. I never cried though my heart suffered. I never mourned for my own child because of your compulsion. Like I was unable to be trusted with my own emotions. Or did you take my memories because you knew it was your fault? I wish I never knew what you did to me. I wish I died when I jumped off of that bridge. Instead, I live as an outcast, pain and vengeance as my only children.
I blame you for nothing and everything. Not until I was Reborn did I understand the power of your thirst. I suppose I can understand how tempting I was as a human, but I still cannot pardon your betrayal. It burns me to know how badly you have hurt me, and how easily you sleep still. I suffer alone.
I do not know when you will ever get this letter. If you are reading it now, then we must be apart. Please know that I miss you, no matter my anger towards you. You will always be apart of me. You remind me that I was real, that I had a soul, and that I could love. To lose you forever would be to lose myself. I only need time for my wounds to heal. Maybe you do too.
We have forever to be apart, and we have forever to be together. When I first turned, I dreaded the thought of forever, but now that we have both wasted so much time, I fear that forever is not enough.
Look within yourself, my darling. Release your pain and I will release mine. Find peace and we might return to each other one day.
Please be careful, I love you, and until I see you again,
Elena
"Can you believe that, Stefan?"
The papers of Elena's letter shifted in the wind between Damon's fingers. He held onto them tightly, scared that one would fly away, and wrapped his fingers around the bottle of bourbon at his side. His eyes were closed, and amber liquid spilled across his white shirt before it reached his lips. He lowered the bottle, glowering at the canopy of the willow tree above him. To the East, the sun slowly rose above the fiery horizon.
He'd been to this place before, many decades ago. In the distance he could see the old Salvatore Estate, and even further away, the shambles of the Gilbert estate. His brother died not even 200 yards from where he sat, for the second time, at least. Damon and Elena had buried his gray remains beneath the very spot he sat, only marked by the hard, black dirt where nothing could grow. A sea of clovers and verbena grew like a halo around the grave, and Damon was careful not to touch the bright purple flowers. Elena had offered to bring a rock or some kind of marker to lay in the dirt, so Damon could come back, but he declined the offer. "Vampires do not belong in marked graves," he had said.
"She thinks…" he paused to look back at the letter, his drunk eyes struggling to focus. "She thinks I forgot about… everything."
He read the letter again, silently this time. The paper was brown and delicate from being read over and over again. Her scent was faint, barely recognizable upon its surface. The ink had faded, but the sound of her words was crisp in his ears. "'I cannot pardon your betrayal,'" he repeated quietly, and his brow furrowed. It had been a very long time since he thought about it.
He folded the pages and placed it carefully into his pocket, shoving the feelings aside. "I miss you, brother," he said miserably. "I wish I could talk to you now. Or…" his lips turned up mischievously, as though Stefan could hear him, "I wish you were here to really screw up. You know, kill everybody in a church or something really horrible like that. You used to make me look so well-behaved." His head fell back against the bark of the tree behind him, a frown encompassing his face again. "But wishes cannot repair our ruins," he quoted again. He could recite the letter from memory at this point. Every word was burned into his brain.
He closed his eyes again, taking another sip of bourbon and listening to the wind's song. It almost put him to sleep.
"Well, I'll be damned," came a voice.
"I know I'm damned," Damon replied, for he thought the voice was just a figment of his imagination.
"Damon Salvatore."
"Damon Salvatore," he mimicked, looking like the words tasted bitter on his tongue. "Yes, that's my name. I'm glad I can remember it."
"What the hell is wrong with you, boy?"
He peaked through the slits in his eyes, the sudden rush of light making his head throb. A silhouette appeared to him from a few feet away, and he jumped at its proximity. He hadn't expected the voice to come with a body. He blinked, trying to focus.
It was a woman, he realized. "Who are you?" he said, or at least that's what he intended to say. He was much drunker than he originally thought.
"I didn't think you would remember me," she said, taking a step forward. Damon meant to take a step backward to compensate, but he was clinging to the tree for support. Her hand reached out, its dark skin like paper over her veins. "Go on," she said, almost like she was talking to a child. "Take my hand. I'll take you back to the house."
He considered for a moment the risk she could pose to him, even in this state, and decided he would go with her. He reached forward stupidly, unable to pinpoint which hand was real. When he found it and their palms slid together, a sudden picture overwhelmed his vision, a long-forgotten memory. There was a small girl, gazing sleepily up at him from a pile of hay. Her dark skin was glowing against the white of her dress. A small bow hung haphazardly from her kinky curls and a Raggedy Ann doll lay at her side.
"Abigail Gilbert," he breathed.
She said nothing and the two walked arm and arm through the long stretch of field. It was impossible to tell who struggled across the uneven terrain more; him under the weight of alcohol, or her under the weight of a drunk vampire. In the distance, he recognized the old Gilbert farmhouse.
"I've been waiting on you," she grunted. "Three months I've been seeing your face lurking around the corner."
Damon rolled his eyes. "Elena mentioned your mother was a witch." Saying her name out loud hurt more than he expected. He suddenly wished he had that bottle he left behind, but then he realized it was probably empty anyway. "Glad to see you're keeping up the family business."
"Don't get smart," Abigail growled. "I may look old, but it won't take but a second to sew that mouth of yours shut." She struggled to get him up the steps without falling. "Come in," she strained.
Once he was past the threshold of the big house, the faint smell of something like roses hit his nose. He looked down at Abigail warily. "Vervain," he almost groaned.
"Just so you don't get any ideas," she smirked.
He was absolutely positive that his brain was not capable of ideas at the moment; his head was spinning like a top.
"Sit." Her voice came from somewhere behind him, but he didn't bother to look for it. He did as he was told, clumsily lowering himself into a chair at the kitchen table.
Abigail joined after a moment, delicately placing a cup of tea in front of him. "I've been expecting you for so long, but I never thought I'd find you like this."
He didn't respond, staring at the steam that billowed out of her cup and into her face.
"What are you doing here, boy?"
He laughed, "Boy? I'm old enough to be your… your…" Now wasn't the time for mathematics, he decided. "I'm older than you."
"Hush," she ordered, unamused. "I asked you a question."
"I came to visit an old friend."
"I'm guessing you're not talking about me."
He considered it for a moment. He didn't even remember she existed, honestly. "You were my next stop," he said wryly.
Her suspicious eyes bored into his, as though she were trying to read his thoughts. "You've been planning to come for months," she stated.
"Just thinking about it," he corrected. "I ended up here on accident, I guess."
He tried to remember the previous night. One minute he was drinking too much at the bar, and the next he was running like someone had set him on fire. He must have run fast too, if he made it to Virginia before sunrise. Why? he wondered. What could he want in Mystic Falls?
She looked at him suspiciously, but said nothing else. In sync, they raised their teacups to their mouths. Damon's nose paused over the rim of his cup, subtly enough that Abigail could not have noticed, and pulled the steam into his nose to search for any trace of vervain. Being home made him paranoid, it seemed. Or maybe it was just the witch. He took a big drink, not minding the liquid as it burned down his throat. He welcomed the rush to his senses, hoping it would wake him up. "How are you doing, Abigail? Or are they still calling you Abby?"
It had been so long ago since she had seen him, and she could still remember every detail of his face. His hair was much shorter than she remembered, but still swallowed the sunlight into depths of deep obsidian. Every edge of his face was still sharp. His eyes were still that odd, transparent blue. It was still just as unnerving to look directly into them now as the first time she saw him.
Long ago, he had taken her gently into his firm arms and she remembered that his skin was cold. He'd asked for her name and she was so tired she might have forgotten. He petted her hair and told her not to be afraid, that her mother wanted to see her. She never felt afraid for a second with him.
"Well?" he said, still waiting for her to answer. How long had she sat there? It took her a minute to even remember what he was asking. "Abby," she said, distracted. "They call my Abby. You can call me Abigail."
He laughed. "Fair enough."
"You looking for Elena?"
The abruptness of her question took him so by surprise that he choked on his tea, further scorching his insides. "What makes you say that?"
"Why else would you come?"
"I told you it was an accident." He felt very alert now, the alcoholic haze slowly but surely fading from his brain. That was the worst part about being a vampire. Booze never lasted long enough.
"Vampires don't just roll through Mystic Falls on accident. They always have some sort of agenda."
He looked at her skeptically. "What vampires?"
"What? You want names? Like I'm inviting them in for tea? You want their favorite colors too?"
He laughed again. "You invited me in for tea."
"No, I dragged you in for tea. It's different."
"Smoke?" he said, digging in the inner pocket of his jacket.
She shook her head. "Doc says it isn't good for me."
He rolled his eyes. "Sounds like a quack."
He inhaled slowly, getting a feel for the room around him. The wide open windows spilt sunlight all over the cheery yellow cabinets. Pictures littered every inch of the walls, some very old, and some very new. One caught his attention in particular. The young and lithe Jeremy Gilbert smiled through squinted eyes. Under his arm was a beautiful woman with dark skin and big lips. A child hung in their arms between them, the center of the picture. Behind them, a wooden skeleton of a house lumbered over them. It must have been this house, he realized. For a moment, he pictured himself and Elena in the picture and he suddenly felt ill.
Abigail seemed in no hurry to make conversation, which he was thankful for. He admired her through the smoke, trying to distract himself from the inexplicable heaviness in his stomach. She was broad for a woman, but not without beauty. She looked older, a lot older from the little girl he had known so long ago, but not decrepit. Nothing of Elena or Jeremy stuck to her face but the eyes, which he was thankful for. He did not want to speak with those ghosts at the moment.
"You going to tell me about those vampires or not?" he said.
She shrugged. "Your kind seems drawn to this place like ants to sugar. They'll swoop in every now and then, lay claim on some burrow or another, but it isn't long before they realize that the people here have not forgotten your curse." She nodded pointedly at the garden through the window. Even from where he sat he knew he was looking at a long stretch of vervain, its petals an innocent pale violet. Just looking at it made the hair on his neck stand up.
He had forgotten Jeremy's flare for business. How nice of her to carry on the tradition, he thought sarcastically. "So they come across a little vervain and run scared?" Vampires these days were so cowardly.
"I think they like it," she disagreed. "Humans present a much bigger challenge when they are not compelled."
He thought of The Moonstone. None of the Betties there were compelled, and they were not a challenge at all. They were a good kind of easy, and the vamps loved them. "So, what then?"
Abigail's eyes lit up as she finished her cup of tea, a smug sort of smile creeping into her features. "Supernatural attracts the supernatural. The vampires can sense the aura of this place, they just don't know it's coming from witches, not their own kind."
Should have known, he thought with a frown.
"My coven takes care of them with no problems," she went on.
"Why bother with vervain, then, if it's so easy?"
"It protects people when we're not around." She laughed a little. "And nothing's funnier than the face a surprised leech."
"Is that why you brought me here then?" Every muscle in his body tensed to pounce. The fog had lifted enough from his head that he knew he could escape, so long as this mysterious coven was not hiding in the closet.
"Oh, sit down," she said irritably. "I'm not going to kill you or anything like that."
"Why not?"
"Well, you did help save my life once." Her eyes flickered quickly to his and then away, as if she didn't want to talk about it. "Plus," she continued, "Elena would kill me."
He froze at the name, a sharp crack coming from somewhere in the room. His muscles grew so tight that it felt like he was shrinking in his seat. He looked down slowly, trying to shake the feeling. In his hands, his teacup lay in pieces with dark red liquid filling its cracked basins. Abigail leapt into action, crossing the kitchen to grab a towel. The wound in Damon's hand had healed before she even returned, but he had made quite a mess. He held his hands and the broken shards above the table obediently, allowing her to wipe the table clean. "Elena?"
"Boy, have you been listening to me at all?"
No, he thought. Has she been speaking?
"What is wrong with the two of you? The both of you can't even handle hearing each other's name?"
He smiled a little.
She flitted back to the kitchen with the broken teacup wrapped in her towel. "You alright?" she called.
He didn't even glance down to check. "I'm fine. What were you saying about Elena?"
She sighed. "I was saying that Elena would kill me if I killed you. "
"She's been here?" He inhaled deeper, trying to find her scent, but there was nothing but the smell of dirt and vervain. If she had been, it was a long time ago.
"She stops by now and then, just to check on me. Usually she sits out by that tree and reads."
Damon glanced out to the tree by the garden, three large white stones at its base.
"She told me to keep an eye out for you if you ever stopped by. She gave me some bourbon to keep just in case, but I thought you would be better off without it today."
His insides seemed to scream, his words rumbling like a locomotive up his throat, but he kept absolutely still. Casual, he thought. Be casual.
"Does she seem… well?"
Abigail was sitting again. "Last time she was here she seemed a little agitated. She didn't come around much."
What could she be agitated about? Was she thinking about him? Someone else? Surely she hadn't found anyone else. Impossible. Then the thought of her face illuminated his brain. Her big smile, those brown eyes, that soft olive skin, and never-ending legs that seemed to stretch for miles until they disappeared beneath the slip of her skirt… Maybe it was possible. "Do you know why?"
"Like I said, she kept her distance. She said something about a friend."
Friend. The word echoed in his head. What kind of friend? "How odd," was all he could manage to say.
"I wish I could tell you more."
He looked at her curiously again. Why would she want to help him at all? He was, after all, just another leech. "Why does your coven allow Elena to be here?"
Dark pink faded into the color of her nose and ears, and Damon could feel the heat of her blush. "They don't know," she said. "I keep Elena secret."
"Secret?"
"She's my family," she said defensively. "Not to mention she saved my life, and she has always shown me kindness. She is not allowed to hunt here, of course, so they don't have to know."
He laughed. "Gilbert women have a history with betrayal."
"You would know."
"Do you know where she went?"
"She never tells me anything," Abigail shrugged. "I don't think she stays in one place for long."
He nodded.
"Can I ask you something?" Abigail asked, a little nervous.
"Of course."
"Why aren't you with her?"
He thought of simply reaching into his pocket, unfolding Elena's letter and spreading it out in front of her but shook the urge. "It's… complicated."
"You don't have to tell me."
He nodded. "If you don't mind."
"I was a little disappointed when she first came here without you, you know."
He tilted his head, confused.
"Her visit was so last-minute that I didn't even see her coming. One day she just showed up. My daughter had just left to go pick up some apples down at the market. We were going to make a big dinner for Daddy's birthday, and I was going to bake an apple pie." A sad smile was on her face and she was looking right through him. "I walked into the kitchen and she was just sitting there, right where you're sitting, looking out the window like she didn't hear me come. I knew who it was the minute I saw her. She hadn't changed a day." He could see it perfectly; the sunlight on her skin, a furrow in her brow. "Elena cried when she saw me. I never new why. 'How you've grown!' she kept saying. Of course I had grown! It had been so long.
"We never talked about you, but I always wondered where you were. Even as a child, in those few moments I saw you together, I could see how attached you were. I was sad to see that bond was broken."
Damon smiled. Even a witch knew that they were meant to be together.
Abigail sat silent for a moment, waiting for him to say something, but when he didn't, she squared her shoulders. "How long are you planning on staying?"
"Don't worry. I need to get back soon." He wondered how the club was doing without him, but the thought couldn't distract him from the possibility of finding Elena. Was he ready? Was she? "I was thinking about going into town to grab a bite first."
Her eyes widened and her fists clenched on top of the table. "What?"
"Did you want to come?" he asked hesitantly. He didn't really want the company, but if that's what she wanted…"
"Why would you even ask that?" she hissed.
Then he understood. "Not that kind of bite," he laughed. "Food helps burn off the liquor." Blood does too, but he figured if Elena wasn't allowed to hunt in Mystic Falls, he wasn't either.
Abigail relaxed only slightly. "I don't usually eat in town."
"There's a burger joint close by. Are you sure?"
She nodded. "My daughters are coming for supper," she said.
"Your loss," he smirked.
She smiled a little in response, rising to her feet in order to escort him to the door. "Thank you for not killing me," he joked.
"I suppose I should say the same."
He thought to ask if he could come back, but he decided not to. If he ever needed, he'd rather do it and apologize than be denied altogether. "If you see Elena, say hi for me."
Damon stared up at the shabby green building on the corner of the street. On the bricks by the door, a large mural was painted over the entire wall. Mystic Grill's Famous Steaks, Shakes, and Burgers, it read. Someone had painted a large cow with a smile, pointing to the door. Just below the faded green awning above the door, in smaller but no less noticeable black ink, a sign read, WHITES ONLY.
Oh.
Damon frowned, inspecting the other buildings that lined the street. Every one had the same sign. No wonder Abigail never ate in town. He was irritated at the thought.
Just eat, a voice inside of himself cooed. If not a burger, then maybe her. His eyes trailed through the window and towards a small brunette in the back corner of the restaurant. She sat alone, her meal untouched and a book in her hand. How easy it would be to slide into the booth across from her and calmly look into her eyes. Don't make a sound, he would say, right as he bit into her-
"What's that boy doing?"
The voice caught his attention from the other side of the restaurant. He turned as though they had called his name, and they looked away. He must have been staring. Embarrassed, he ducked his head and went through the door, trying to pretend that none of it had happened at all. Ducking around the corner of the bar, he picked a stool that was out of their line of sight. "This town's overrun by freaks," one of them murmured.
"Damn kid looked like he could'a swallowed her whole."
He pushed the sound from his mind and turned his attention to give his order to the teenager behind the bar.
As he waited, an old man entered the building, taking a seat on a stool a little bit away from him. Damon stared warily at him. His face was red with effort and Damon could hear his breath coming out in gasps. For a minute he was afraid the man would hit the ground before he made it into his seat.
His face was round and soft, but his body was rounder and softer, both by nature and age. He barked his order at the same boy that took Damon's, and his face stayed red long after he sat down. It was odd to think that he was much younger than Damon. This man could have been his grandson. A chill ran down his spine and he shook the thought from his head.
In an attempt to distract himself, he pulled Elena's letter from his pocket and read it again. Halfway through, he realized he was not reading it at all. The words flew past his eyes, and all he could see was her face when they reunited. Her eyes would find his from across the room. He could see her smile. She would be overjoyed to see him again and run into his arms. He would whisk her away into a happily-ever-after. The end.
Then he saw another story. Her eyes finding his and filling with rage. Her teeth barred to attack. Her hand wriggling its way under his ribcage and tearing out his heart, just like Stefan.
He was frowning when his burger was brought to him. Suddenly everything seemed very unappetizing. The bell on the door jingled with a new arrival. Damon looked up just in time to see the red-faced old man turn to the door. His face was alight with a new shade of red: blush.
Damon turned to see who the man was staring at. It was a woman, probably his wife, smiling just as big as he was. Though he had struggled so hard to get into it, the man slipped out of his chair with ease and strode slowly towards her. He took her hand into his and kissed it lightly before tapping it with the other. Damon hadn't noticed before, but the man was shaking almost violently. "I ordered your favorite," he said as he escorted her back to his spot. His voice was hoarse, barely audible over the music that played from the jukebox in the corner.
As the air settled and slowly diffused into the space around them, a scent wafted to Damon's nose. It was different than the general smell of the elderly. Usually, they smelled so strongly of their coming death that Damon hardly had the stomach to be near them. No, it was more than that. He inhaled deeply, searching his memory for anything similar. The realization came to him slowly. He could smell cancer.
He recoiled, the smell alone making him feel sick. It happened occasionally that a vampire would come across a sick person. Feeding on the sick made vampires sick too, in a sense. It made them weak and ravenous, a disease of the mind and body. It all depended on the severity of the human's illness, but this "sickness" in the vampire could last for days or weeks. When he was still relatively new and did not know any better, Damon had fed on a man with cancer. He was too young and crazed to smell a difference in his blood. Now he knew better. That was why his blood could heal humans. It was so he could safely feed.
Damon watched them closer. Could either of them know? The scent wasn't subtle. Surely she had noticed the side effects by now. They sat very close as they ate, never speaking but sometimes looking to the other to share a look, as though they were communicating silently. Damon never touched his own food, he just watched and waited until they gave him some sort of answer. Luckily, he didn't have to wait for long because the man finally raised his head and said, "How's the doctor?"
She smiled. "He's very well. Told me to tell you hello."
He looked more anxious now. "What did he say?"
"I'm as healthy as a horse." Outwardly, she gave nothing away. She smiled warmly, utterly calm. However, Damon could hear her heart begin to beat heavily. She was lying.
But why? Why not tell him? Doesn't he deserve to know? Shouldn't she warn him? The man took her hand with a relieved sigh. His cheeks were flushed again, in a good way, and a giddy laugh broke from his throat. "Thank the good Lord!"
He turned happily back to his dinner, as did his wife, but now Damon could see her worry. She was protecting him, he realized. She did not want to cause him pain. She was allowing him to believe whatever made him happy.
"Sir?"
The nervous voice broke his concentration. He turned, still frowning, to the boy who had taken his order. "What?" he said a little too aggressively.
"I noticed you hadn't touched your food. I was wondering if I could get you anything?"
"Oh." He looked down at the plate. No doubt it was cold by now. Serves me right for eavesdropping. "No problems. I was just… distracted."
"I could reheat that for you," he offered, staring down at the limp patty on his plate.
"Don't worry about it."
Damon turned his attention to the letter again, eating his food as fast as he could so that he wouldn't have to taste it. His milkshake was melted but he drank it anyway. Though he tuned the old couple's conversation from his head, he could not help but to think of them. He thought of Elena's letter, too. Is that really what she wanted? Even from where he sat, he could hear their bones creaking like the foundations of old house. They were weak, decrepit, dying. How could she want that? He thought about the cancer too. He would never be able to bear it if Elena became sick. Pictures of her sunken face floated to the brain, but he shook the thought. Elena was alive, and even if she wasn't here, she was somewhere.
But she was sick, he realized, in a way. She was sick because of him. He jammed his fingers into his eyes as though he could physically force the thoughts backwards into his brain, but they began leaking into his every thought. No, he thought. Now wasn't the time for this.
Abruptly, he retrieved his wallet from his pocket and threw a handful of cash on the table. It was probably too much, he realized, but he didn't care. Money didn't mean anything to him. He just needed to leave. Now.
He wandered with no aim, following his feet blindly. He hadn't noticed earlier because he was so drunk, but he could feel sadness leaking into every inch of body. It made his bones ache. He was tense too, accustomed to shoving the emotion from his thoughts. This is what Elena meant, he realized. She needed to heal, and so did he. Release your pain, she said. Find peace. He was no fool. He knew that his humanity had begun to return long ago, but it was the good part of humanity: joy, excitement, pleasure. Now his misery was pounding at his ribcage with the beat of his heart.
He stopped when he reached a tree, but it was not Stefan's tree. Close by, the Gilbert house sat dark and quiet in the night. The garden of vervain glowed in the light of the moon. This was Elena's tree, he realized, the one she liked to read by.
He circled around to evaluate the rocks at the base. Jeremy was buried next to the empty grave of his sister, his makeshift tombstone much whiter than hers. There was a grave beside that, for a man named Gil. Then, Elena's, which was covered in a layer of dirt. He lowered himself to sit in front of it, dragging his fingers over the rough stone where her name was carved, barely legible. Beside it, a much smaller stone sat with the Goliath carved into its face.
Now he really felt it. Heat rose to his ears and burned his throat. Every one of his instincts commanded him to bury it, run from it, turn it off, but he let it swallow him. He might as well have commissioned her tombstone, for he was as integral to her death as she was. It was his fault. She had been so disgusted with him that she flung herself off of a bridge.
She was right, he had betrayed her. Guilt choked him, and he knew it was only the beginning because now he saw Elena, human Elena, with all of her frailty, hugging her round belly hidden beneath her dress. The baby, he thought, a low sob breaking through his throat. I killed the baby.