Chapter Thirty-Seven

Memories

Mystic Falls, 1963

"Don't be scared."

The words were soft like flower petals coming out of Elena's mouth, but they were deadly like nightshade too. A girl cowered beneath her, her face buried in her knees and hidden behind a wall of dark brown curls. "It won't hurt," Elena cooed almost mechanically, like she was reading a script. She reached out and took the girl in her arms, running her fingers through the soft silk of her hair. Her arms wrapped around Elena's neck, light as feathers, but shaking. "Don't cry, my darling. It hurts me to hear you cry." There was a final sob and a hiccup before the girl was silent. Her pulse throbbed loudly in her throat, right against Elena's ear. The flush of her skin was hot on Elena's. She smelled so sweet. Elena could feel her face change as her fangs slid from her gums.

Elena pulled the girl's hair back from her neck, kissing the small spot above her pulse. Her skin gave way to her mouth like butter. The blood was hot and sweet in her mouth. She could not help but to let out a soft moan at the taste, but then the blood was too sweet, too hot. It raced through her veins like acid, burning her.

She opened her eyes, suddenly scared, but she was no longer the one feeding. A head of jet black hair burrowed in her neck, and the pain was suddenly only at his mouth. Where had the girl gone? Then she realized that she was the girl. She tried to say something, move, cry out, but she could not. A pair of arms were around her so tightly she couldn't breathe. It felt like she might snap.

Then the pain was gone.

"Good girl," the voice said. She looked down at the head of hair, leaning against her shoulder and breathing hard. Damon pulled his head up to face her, his eyes a shocking dose of color in the black room. His fingers brushed a tear from her face. "This is the last time," he said. "I promise." He smiled, and he looked so beautiful that she wanted to believe him. She looked down at his mouth and his teeth were stained by the red sheen of her blood. Her stomach rolled. "Close your eyes," he said. "When you wake up, all of this will be over. You will go on as though this never happened. All will be well."

A sigh of relief filled and deflated her lungs. Of course Damon would take care of everything. She nodded and he kissed her lightly on the forehead. "Close your eyes," he whispered.

And she did.

Elena's eyes flew open, suddenly alert. A cold sweat coated her forehead, and she wiped it away with the back of her hand. The dream had felt so real. She sat up to evaluate the room, just in case. The room was empty except for its furniture; the bed she slept on, a small dresser, and a matching desk. In the corner, a cracked white heater buzzed under the window. Damon was not there.

She evaluated the feeling in her stomach. Was it disappointment or relief? They all felt the same.

A car's engine roared to life somewhere outside of her open window. Dusk glared on the horizon and a sliver of orange sunlight bathed her feet in warm light. Outside, she could hear the night coming to a boil. Voices filled the air as people came to enjoy the night, and someone lightly strummed a guitar around the corner.

Her face was swollen and stained bright blue and black from her makeup. A small spot on her pillow was the same color. She had cried herself to sleep. She shuffled to the bathroom and flicked on the light. It was small, barely big enough to hold her and the door open at the same time. Rather than look at her reflection, she dunked her head straight into cold stream of water from the tap.

She felt dirty. Her makeup must have run into her chair, and she suddenly felt angry that she was even wearing any. In her day, anyone could have a nice cry, throw some cold water on their face and move on with their day.

Giving up on her sallow reflection, she drew a bath. She opened the window to let out the steam from the piping-hot water. Someone played Bob Dylan from a radio nearby. She laid in the tub with a cool rag over her eyes and a cigarette between her lips, humming along to the music. Her insides were begging her to move, to get ready and feed, but she was enjoying the peace for the moment. Returning to one's humanity was an exhausting business. Everyday was either dedicated to wallowing either in grief or guilt. Every moment that she wasn't crying was precious.

The sun was long gone and her bath water was lukewarm by the time she rose. She dressed slowly, picking each garment delicately from her neatly folded drawers. She chose a short, shapeless dress with thin black and white stripes. Her jacket dipped just a little below her dresses hem. This was her favorite outfit, not that she appreciated being so bare to the world, but men seemed to like this the most. She put her makeup on thick and her hair was big. She looked like a painting, but not a good one. She was a cartoon character, a doll. Nobody would be scared of her when she looked like this.

That was the plan now. Surviving was easing, but living was hard. No longer did she wander the streets feeding on anyone and everyone dumb enough to stand in arm's reach. Now she waited for her prey to come to her, and they always did.

Without wasting another moment, she flew through the door and down the stairs. The concierge barely looked up from his paper as she walked through the lobby. She didn't bother to say anything; she wouldn't be staying here long. There was not a soul alive in Mystic Falls who knew her name anymore. She only came to see Jeremy and little Goliath. Then she would disappear into the wind once more, off on the usual journey of self-discovery and self-hatred.

Elena walked in no particular direction. Her little heals clacked across the sidewalk in a nice steady beat. She twirled a piece of hair between her fingers and swung her hips back and forth as she walked. There was no more to do on her part. Just walk. However, a long time passed, longer than usual, and nobody came. She frowned. Where had everyone gone?

After almost an hour, she finally spotted someone, a man, leaning against the outer wall of a grocery store. The smoke of his cigarette obscured his face in the artificial yellow light of the store. The smell of smoke filled her lungs and she couldn't tell what she wanted more: one of his cigarettes or one of his arteries.

She approached him carefully, taking an unthreatening stance. "Excuse me, mister?"

He looked up sullenly, not removing the cigarette from his mouth. "Yeah?"

"Do you have a light?"

He raised an eyebrow in her direction. "You look a little young to smoke."

She blinked up at him from under her thick eyelashes. A little smile tugged at the corners of her lips. "I'm not so young."

"No?"

"You'd be surprised."

He dug into the back pocket of his pants and held out an old black lighter. She skipped forward happily, plucking it from his fingers and slipping her other hand into her pockets. She feigned a grimace, and the man watched as she searched through her pockets with false confusion. "Oh," she said.

He rolled his eyes and pulled a half-empty pack of Phillies from his other pocket to offer to her. She suppressed the urge to grimace; of course the one man she happened upon in the whole town would be carrying the worst-tasting cigarettes in the United States of America. "Thanks," she said quietly.

As she exhaled the first lung-full of smoke, she looked the man in the face again. He was morose, silent. His shoulders sagged under his red suspenders, making him look shorter than he really was.

"Quiet tonight," she remarked.

"As it should be."

Her eyebrows drew together, confused. "What do you mean?"

"You haven't heard?"

"I don't suppose so."

A suspicious scowl twisted his mouth in her direction. "You pullin' my leg?"

A laugh twisted its way up her throat, but she fought it back. The man didn't seem to think anything was funny. "No, sir."

He sighed, rubbing the back of his hand over his forehead. "They shot the president today."

Elena's stomach jumped. She hadn't expected that. "President Kennedy?"

"Yup."

"He was shot? With a gun?"

"Yup?"

"Who?"

He shrugged, taking another drag.

She did the same. Her room at the hotel had no television, no radio, and she had slept the length of the day. How long would she have gone without knowing if she hadn't spoken to this man?

Her ears got hot when she thought about it. She could remember the day she found out he was elected. Kennedy was a Catholic. Her father must have turned over in his grave; he was a Protestant. Elena had thought he was so handsome during his campaign. "Did he…"

"Yup."

"Oh."

She stood for a second longer. She decided it would be best to just go home. "Thank you so much for the cigarette," she said. This man was not going to attack her, so there was no point in attacking him.

He only nodded.

As she walked away, though she wasn't sure if she was going in the direction of her hotel, she could feel tears in the corners of her eyes. It felt silly. She never voted. She never paid attention to politics or the news. This was not her generation. These were not her people. This was not her world to get involved in. She was immortal, above it. She had no place to affect their futures.

She wept anyway. In her defense, she cried at everything those days; the result of never crying for a century. The tears came heavier as she began to think of his wife and children. She was thinking of her father again. Then she was thinking of her mother, Jeremy, and of course, Damon.

She looked up at a dim street sign, trying to gather her bearings. She couldn't remember how many blocks she had walked.

"You lost?"

She turned to the voice. It was a stout man with thick arms. His eyes were black as beetles, crawling over the length of her body. That look alone was enough to understand that he had no intention to give a helpless girl direction. "Yes," she sniffled. At lease she wouldn't have to fake her tears with this one.

"Where ya' headed?"

"I'm staying in a hotel," she explained, "called the Paragon."

"Yeah, I know it. Follow me."

She did as she was told, walking a foot away from him to appear skittish.

"What are you in town for?"

She needed to establish a story, lead him to believe that nobody would miss her. "I…" she began, sniffling pathetically. "I don't know. I had nowhere else to go."

He peeked at her from the corner of his eye. "You one of those runaways?"

"I guess so."

"You stayin' with anybody?"

"My boyfriend was with me, but he stole all my money and stormed off. I don't know what I'm going to do."

He reached over to put a hand on her shoulder and she tried not to smirk. This one would be easy. "Sorry to hear that. Maybe you should go home to mommy and daddy."

"I can't go back there."

He nodded and turned abruptly down a street that Elena immediately knew was the wrong direction.

"You're sure this is the right way?" she said.

"Don't worry, baby. Just follow me."

The streets grew quieter with each step and the street lights grew farther apart. Perfect, she thought because now she could really turn it on, crossing her arms in front of her chest and biting her lip. "I feel like this the wrong way."

Sensing her trepidation, the man smiled at her, showing off his long brown teeth. "It's the street right up here." It was a lie, but his heart did not beat any faster, nor did he show any other signs of deception. This bothered Elena. How often had he led girls through the dark streets, calling them "baby" and lying about where he was taking them?

She picked up the pace, walking faster toward the street like any other girl would. There was an electronics store ahead, the last building before the next street, and she could feel his heart beating faster as he prepared to grab her. Just as they passed the space between the store and a pet shop, a strong hand wrapped around her arm and pulled her from the path. She yelped, but allowed him to drag her into the shadows of the buildings. "What are you doing?" she gasped.

He didn't answer. One hand gripped her throat and the other gripped her waist. She allowed him to get comfortable, to think his plan had worked. His hand brushed past her knee and up her thigh, and she pushed him away just enough to free her hands. "Come on, baby," he growled.

Her hand flew up to his neck and she pushed him into the bricks of the opposite building. She could hear a snap from one of his bones under her fingers and he cried out. "Come on, baby," she mimicked. "Don't scream."

His eyes widened in disbelief as he did just as he was told. His mouth shut and tears slipped out of the corners of his eyes. Her teeth slid from her gums and she barred them like an animal. She wanted him to be scared, to struggle. She wanted his blood to be hot, like in her dream. She bit into the crease of his elbow instead of his dirt-streaked neck. Another groan suppressed itself inside of his chest. She drank him slow, drawing out his death as long as her body would allow.

Far from her mind were thoughts of dead presidents and humans. When she fed, feelings did not exist. Only blood.

Outside of dreams, human memories fade. No longer could Elena recall the exact shade of pink of her old bedroom, nor the way the land smelled in the early hours of the day; fresh, invigorating, covered in dew. Damon's smell as a human (fresh linen and the salt of sweat), once so comforting, had faded from memory. She had long forgotten what her mother and father looked like, and Jeremy would forever be a shriveled old man in her mind's eye. Gone were the memories of his youth and unending curiosity. She couldn't recall the name of her favorite horse or the color of her favorite dress. All that seemed to remain was the smell of blood that poured from between her legs when her baby died. Once a vessel of life, she would forever remain a portal of death. The memory and emotion stuck so strongly to her, that even as her strongest and most unfeeling self could not hide it away.

She crawled into bed without even removing her shoes. The scent of blood was still on her lips. Closing her eyes, she waited for the memory to come, and she knew it would. Just as she was on the brink of sleep, she saw a woman, a tall woman wearing trousers. Elena remembered seeing her walking out of a bank, and though she was not hungry, she knew she wanted this woman. She was strong, just as Elena anticipated, and her blood was so warm that steam rose into the cold December air as Elena fed.

Her cheeks flushed at the memory, and she jammed her eyes as tightly shut as she could manage. "I'm sorry," she said, though the woman couldn't hear her now. Even as the last bit of life drained from her face, the woman still fought as much as she could. Her hands were in Elena's hair, lightly tugging as though to pull her away. Elena never knew her name.

She said a little prayer, though she knew that God must have stopped listening a long time ago.

Then another memory came, this time of Damon. "What have you done?" he shouted.

A phantom of pleasure waved through her body at his reaction. "I was hungry," she shrugged. Blood was dripping down her chin.

He glanced around to make sure nobody was watching before heaving the woman over his shoulder. "You can't keep doing this in broad daylight."

"They're warmer during the day," Elena pouted.

"How am I supposed to take her away from here?"

"Just leave her."

He dropped the woman and was suddenly right in front of her. "Why do you do this?" he said through his teeth. "We'll have to leave again."

Elena leaned up to brush her lips against his, leaving a streak of blood in her stead. "She was so strong, Damon. I needed her."

The veins under his eyes were like purple snakes slithering down his cheeks and into his jaw. He was hungry. "Stop."

But she was already pushing him up against the dirty bricks behind him. "I wish I had a modicum of your control," she smirked. Her mouth was just below his, waiting for him to take the bate.

He stared down at her, not breathing, keeping his jaw tightly shut. His eyes were slits and the vein his forehead throbbed. "We have to get out of here."

"Just taste her," Elena purred. "Then you will understand. Then you won't be mad at me." Her lips brushed his again and her strong arms locked around him.

The longer he deliberated, the weaker his will grew. He ran his tongue across the blood on his bottom lip. Elena could see his fangs. This battle was over. His face slammed into hers and suddenly she was the one with her back to her wall. In the distance, she could hear footsteps approaching. Damon could too, for he stopped moving. His face slid away from hers and all of his anger was gone. Damon was gone. He was only a vampire now, and she was too. He took her hand and pulled her down the alley, neither of them making a sound.

Elena forced her eyes open, scared to watch the rest of the memory. They had killed a group of working men. And Damon was right: they did have to leave that town once it was all over.

The sun was high in the sky, but Elena couldn't lull herself back to sleep. She sat up, wiping the black streaks of her makeup from her cheeks. She thought about taking another bath, just as she did everyday when she woke up, but it didn't matter if she looked horrible; nobody knew her here.

The city was still relatively quiet. People must have been mourning, she realized. She walked for a while with her head down, eventually lighting a cigarette just for something to do. Nearby, she heard children laughing. It was a Saturday, but the playground of Mystic Falls Elementary School was occupied by a few children and their mothers. Elena watched from afar, suddenly nervous. She walked slowly across the street and through the grass, taking a seat on the far side of playground on an unoccupied bench.

Watching the children brought an eerie calm to her bones, but she couldn't help but to watch the mothers. Most wore sunglasses and big coats. Some were smoking cigarettes or carrying children that were too small to play. They seemed so comfortable, talking to one another, laughing, occasionally turning to look for their child and shouting something like, "Don't pick that up, Jimmy! It's dirty!"

She felt cold watching them, envious. Occasionally, a child would stroll back to their mother, asking for a treat or allowing her to wipe their nose. Sometimes the mother would lift the child up onto her lap and turn to her friend and say something like, "My little Annie won the spelling bee last week!" and then she would squeeze the little girl and nuzzle kisses into her soft neck.

Elena wanted to do that; to wrap her fingers around a child's arm without having to worry if her grasp was too tight, to burrow into their necks with a smile and not listen to the tiny flutter of their heartbeat in their neck.

"You need'a tissue, Miss?"

Elena jumped. She hadn't notice someone had come to sit on the bench next to her. It was a young boy, no older than nine, she guessed, but handsome. He had a square jaw and round cheeks. His coat looked a little big for him and his hat a little too small; his ears were red. "Excuse me?"

He searched around in his pocket for a moment before extracting a palm full of wadded up tissue paper. He peeled one from the ball and extended it to her, his earnest face peering up at her patiently. She hadn't realized she was crying either. "Thank you," she said quietly.

The boy shrugged. "Mom says I'm gettin' sick. Makes me carry these stupid things around."

His mother was right; Elena could smell sickness in his blood. She tried to rub the new black streaks away from her cheeks, and the boy looked away politely. "Where is your mother?" she asked.

"She's been listening to the radio all morning. She said the president died. She's all torn up about it… told me I needed to get out of the house. She even forgot that I'm supposed to be sick or something."

Elena nodded. "Don't you want to go play?"

He shrugged again. "Tristan's mom said he couldn't come out and Nick has the flu. Playing on the playground isn't any fun without your friends. "

Elena couldn't help but to laugh a little. "Do you come to the park to talk to strangers then?"

He frowned a little. "Mom always told me not to, but you're just a girl. Anyways, I saw you were sad." He snuck a peak at her through the corner of his eyes. "Are you sad about what happened yesterday too?"

She thought about it for a moment, and decided that yes, she was sad, though that was not the reason she was crying. "Yes."

He nodded.

"What's your name?" she asked.

"Elijah," he grimaced. "My friends call me Eli."

"What would you have me call you?"

He looked at her suspiciously for a second, his nose scrunched up at her. "You talk funny."

"I'm not from around here."

He eyed her for a second longer and then turned to face the park again. "You can call me Eli, I guess."

She nodded.

"Aren't you going to tell me your name?"

"Elena, and my friends called me Elena." What was the bigger joke, that it was the same name or that she had no friends to call her either?

"So, what?" he grimaced. "Are you meeting your boyfriend here or something?"

"No," Elena laughed. "Are you?"

"No!" he blushed. "My sisters always come to the park to meet their boyfriends." He rolled his eyes dramatically before looking at her. "They think I don't know, but I see them all the time. I'm just biding my time before I tell mom."

"No one likes a tattle-tale," Elena said, amused.

"Whatever. It's not like they'll get in trouble anyway. They all get away with everything. I'm the only one around here who ever gets in trouble."

"Why is that?"

"I have seven brothers and sisters, and I'm the youngest. It's my curse."

"That is a predicament."

"Do you have any brothers or sisters?"

Elena nodded, trying not to appear tense. "A brother."

"Is he older or younger?"

"Younger."

He nodded his head slowly. "How old are you?"

She smiled a little, but the tears had began to fall again. "Eighteen and some months."

"You need more tissue?"

She meant to say no, but he had already reached into his little pocket and procured another handful. "I didn't mean to hurt your feelings or anything."

Then she really was crying, blubbering almost, as a swell of misery hit her. Usually, she couldn't tell what was worse, guilt or sadness, but now she felt both. The boy looked surprised at first, and another sob racked Elena's body when she realized that she had probably scared him off. Then a small and warm hand was in hers. "I'm sorry," she said quietly.

"It's not your fault. My sisters get weepy sometimes too."

"They do?"

He shook his head, annoyed. "Mom says it's a girl thing."

She laughed through a sob. "Oh."

He went to hand her another tissue and then changed his mind, grabbing the entire wad from his pocket and putting it in her hand. "You need 'em more than me."

"I'm not usually like this. You just… remind me of someone."

"Who?"

"I never knew him."

He raised an eyebrow, "You're a weird lady."

"I know."