~8~

~Chapter Eight~

I know I dreamed you a sin and a lie
I have my freedom, but I don't have much time
Faith has been broken, tears must be cried
Let's do some living after we die

~The Rolling Stones, Wild Horses~

As I walk down the street, turning left on Cedarwood Lane, I tell myself that all the negative energy will disappear once I'm far enough away from my house. Of course, I'll have to keep going until I feel safe—no matter how many avenues I have to bypass in this maze of a neighborhood.

I just have to be resilient.

None of the houses I come across seem like a good fit for me. I'm acting like Goldilocks—one building is too small, the next one too large. I'm mildly taken aback that there's even that much variation between the homes on this road and the ones on every other street I've walked.

Then, my thoughts begin to wander back to Damon before I can stop them. Has he explored this side of town? Does he know how big the residential area in Mystic Falls actually is?

But I remind myself that the hospital is on the opposite end and I am creating a larger gap between us with every step in this direction. I'm rounding another corner (on Morningside Street) when it hits me.

This is the place where I'll sort everything out.

A cute, medium-sized, white house. It has a sprawling yard of lush grass, patches of pink flowers cordoned off in a tiny garden. A spacious porch with a swing situated off to the side. It shares a few similarities with the house I woke up in—the quaint feel, the sense of feeling like I've somehow been here before without realizing it.

I take a deep breath and make my way over to the front door.

Unlike most other private spaces around here, it's unlocked. A relief because I don't need yet another reason to miss my best friend. My goal is to show him that I don't need him to maintain what small modicum of sanity I've been clinging to. Wanting him to break locks won't help me in that department.

It seems like I'm supposed to be here. That, for some reason, this stunning example of the American Dream contains a very important piece to the puzzle. Maybe I'll stumble across a conveniently placed photo album that can shed some light on this vampire/witch nonsense.

The interior layout of this house is almost an exact copy of the other one. The only difference is everything is flipped. The stairs here are off to the right, the dining room on the left, the family room smack-dab in the center. The walls and furniture are warm in color. Deep browns and ivory—a plush sectional with chocolate-colored fabric and dark wooden tables and floors. The television sits atop a stand about the same size as mine, picture frames covering every inch that isn't taken up by the screen.

I bend over to get a closer look at them.

In several photographs, I see some familiar faces.

A blonde, a brunette, and a curly-haired child with green eyes.

I can't be any older than two years old here; Caroline, Elena, and I seem to have known each other since we were babies. A bit of information that gives me a fuzzy feeling. A sense of comfort. Another piece of this convoluted puzzle.

But you're dead, a voice that reminds me of Kai says.

The sense of security vanishes, leaving me cold, nervous, and exposed. This place—Mystic Falls and all of its emptiness—isn't a good one. If I believe my new acquaintance, this is where you wait, desperately trying to figure out who you once were. And then, when you get a glimmer of hope, when you think you might be okay with just being you as you currently are, the guillotine drops, and you're left floundering before whatever you had left is snuffed out.

I flip all the pictures over, placing them face-down on the shelf before I take my belongings upstairs.

Similar pictures greet me in the hall, though I don't see any that feature Caroline or me. Instead, Elena and a couple that must be her parents are the focal points. One of Elena with a bowl of oatmeal on her head, smiling as she smears the stuff all over the tray on her highchair. A picture of her holding a very small baby—wrinkly and wrapped in a blue blanket. One more of the baby alone, dressed in a onesie with the name Jeremy stitched across the front.

It's cute. Heartwarming.

Unsettling.

I hurry into the first room I find.

It's a bedroom, decorated in the same color scheme as the rest of the house. A giant E hangs on the wall across from me. I know immediately who is supposed to be sleeping here.

And I would've realized that even without the huge clue right in front of me.

This is Elena's room. Her house, her stuff, all of it belongs to her.

I drop my bag on the floor, unsure of what to do. I want to turn around and leave. I want to find Damon, but a stubborn part of me doesn't want to think about how much I care about him, how betrayed his secrecy makes me feel, how much I've grown to love being around him. And there is also the issue of the existence of the supernatural (and the fact that I might fall into that category).

So, I reposition the huge books in my arms, stationing myself on the small armchair by the closet. Kicking my feet up on the matching ottoman, I flip to the first page.

The itching in my fingers returns as I scan the entries for familiar words. I have to read through several lists of initials (or maybe they're acronyms—who knows?) to locate the table of contents. The Grimoire, as Kai called it, is split into sections. There are spells for all kinds of things. Healing injuries, causing pain, mind-reading, looking into the past, understanding prophetic dreams, inducing visions, creating potions and elixirs, manipulating nature. Each spell is organized by name, type, and difficulty.

And there are thousands of them, if not millions.

In a single book.

On top of that, is the fact that only some of the descriptions are written in English. Most of it just looks like complete gibberish to me and I can't make heads or tails of it.

I don't know how long I am sitting here, confused, hopeless, and frustrated, until I give up.

It feels like it's been hours, but a glance out the window tells me that it's probably the early afternoon. I wonder why time is moving at a snail's pace—slow and lazy. My head aches and I rub my temples. Maybe buying into all of the craziness was a bad idea, but deep down, I know there's so much more to the story than what was told to me.

If I could just clear my head…

I head over to the closet, which is smaller than mine and jam-packed with jewel-toned tops and blouses. Sneakers and boots line the floor. I sift through Elena's shirts until I land on one that is all too familiar to me.

The Comet Festival t-shirt.

It is the same size as the one I have. In fact, it's identical to mine, right down to the highlighted date on the back.

It isn't a coincidence that I stumbled onto the mysterious girl's block, that I selected her home to take refuge in, and I'm just tired. Of it all. The confusion, the outlandish claims, the paranoia… it's draining me.

And I hadn't quite realized how much energy I wasted until this very second.

I feel like I could sleep for days. My body is so achy, so worn out, that I can't really think about anything else. Well, almost anything else. I'm also acutely aware of the way my clothes reek of a campfire, soot marring the sleeves and hem of my white top.

The smell is somewhat comforting—the memory of how the fire danced both pleasant and thrilling. Scary, too, because of the way it made me feel. I was in control of the flames; they bent to my will. I can't help but wonder how much further I could push myself before I couldn't handle it anymore.

My stomach drops to my feet and I get a horrible feeling that the answer isn't a good one.

I opt to shower, to wash away the reminders of what happened at the grocery store.

I scrub my skin with peach-scented body wash until it's raw and stinging.

Ignoring the angry red scratches on my arms, I stand under the hot water until it doesn't burn anymore. Only then do I stumble out of the tub, wrapping myself in a fluffy pink towel before heading back to Elena's bedroom.

The sky has grown dark and a pinkish-purple light bleeds through the beige curtains, tinging the space with a spooky vibe. I head over to the window and open it. The warm air feels nice on my face and the moonlight gives me a sense of security that I don't quite understand.

And then I look down.

Hanging off the edge of the window sill is a single feather.

A jet-black feather. One that would reflect shades of blue and violet if held under the right lighting. It's soft, undamaged; like someone plucked it straight from a crow's body. I grab it from the ledge, unwilling to let it blow away if a breeze picked up.

Once I've shut the window and made my way over to the bed, I examine it closely, pinching it between my thumb and forefinger. From what little I could glean from those spell books, witches liked to make good use of nature. At least when it came to brewing potions. I find myself thinking about all those strange words, about how they didn't make any sense to me.

Did I understand it before, in my other life?

Were Elena and Caroline witches, too? Or were they blissfully unaware of the existence of vampires and magic-wielders? Were Damon and I close… is that why he doesn't seem like a stranger?

Maybe we were something else entirely…

A surge of renewed anger flows through me.

Whatever we were when we were alive holds no bearing on how I feel about him now. I mean, if I am really that important to Damon Salvatore, then why'd he feel the need to lie about who he was? Why didn't he tell me about anything?

I twirl the feather between my fingers, thinking.

Right now, I decide, is not the time I should be obsessing over the shitshow that was my day. I shouldn't let Damon or Kai take up any more of my time, any more space inside my head. Obviously, I've done all I can tonight (which is not much) and I'll revisit it in the morning.

Setting the feather on the bedside table, I climb into Elena's bed. Her sheets and comforter feel rough against my skin, her pillows are just a bit too soft, her house eerily silent. I can't help but recall the bet Damon and I made, how sleeping beside him would make me feel far less vulnerable now that my hunch is confirmed, that losing to him would be preferable now that I am truly alone.

Even if I am consumed by rage at the moment.

Telling myself that I don't need to worry, I let my eyelids flutter closed, and drift off into what is sure to be a fitful sleep.

I dream of icy blue eyes, a crazy psychopath, and an all-consuming fire.

Date: June 10th, 1994 ~ Damon and Bonnie time
Place: The home of Elena Gilbert
Mystic Falls, Virginia

I've been away from Damon for several days now, and he hasn't taken it all that well.

All week, he's been trying to convince me to leave the Gilbert house, through (mostly) indirect means. On my second night here, he left a bouquet of wildflowers and red roses at the window; along with a slew of black feathers. Then, he tried to catch my attention by leaving all the ingredients for his pancake recipe on the front steps. When that didn't yield results, he stood in the front yard (around midnight) and sang Salt 'N Peppa songs until I got out of bed and told him to shut the hell up.

I'm displeased that I haven't heard from him this morning, though not enough to go seek him out. Chances are, he will make his way over here soon enough. The days we've spent separated has lessened the hurt and allowed me to try to see things from his point of view. I probably would've laughed his claim off, told him he was crazy and changed the subject. I don't believe—maybe stubbornly refuse to think otherwise is a better way of putting it—that he lied about the gaps in his memory. The way he regarded me that night in the clearing—with anguish, uncertainty, and regret—was real.

His pain was palpable, and I remember it clearly.

I stir another spoonful of sugar into my mug of coffee, absentmindedly flipping through the pages of the first Grimoire. Bits and pieces of the strange language have started to come back to me. For instance, any spell where incendia is a part of the incantation means it has something to do with fire. Modus seems to denote movement and plantus encompasses anything involving flowers and foliage.

I lift my gaze from the book, eyes landing on a small potted plant sitting in the middle of the table. It has just begun to grow, green tendrils poking out of the soil. It's been like that since I arrived and I've been tending to it diligently, watering it and setting it under a lamp every so often.

But maybe I could hasten its growth a little bit…

Positioning my hand, palm down, over the clay pot, I close my eyes and take a deep breath. The words ghost over my lips, but I don't put any sound behind them. I'm still pretty self-conscious about the whole thing, always afraid that it won't work, scared that there's a chance it might, confused over which outcome would frighten me more.

I peek at the sprout.

Nothing changed.

"Plantus mi incrementum."

That sweet feeling of warmth and strength overwhelms me. I get lost in the euphoria, the comfort, the knowledge that I'm no longer desperately looking for what I've been missing…

I am watching as the plant grows and grows, leaves sprouting from the stem, flower buds forming until pink petals are visible. It soon becomes too large for its pot, the vines curling around the edges of the container.

Covering the tabletop, causing cracks to form…

The next words tumble out of my mouth, hurried, and frantic. "Mort di plantus."

The petals that were so vibrant in color dry out, shrivel up, turn an ugly shade of brown. Stem drooping and accelerated growth halted. I wrack my brain for a spell I found last night, frustrated that I went overboard with magic that I assumed would be rudimentary. "Reparium."

The broken planter reverts to its original state, leaving the dirt that poured through the tiny openings coating the table.

~~X~~

My coffee is cold when I'm finally able to return to it. It took longer to clean up the leftover soil than I would've liked. There's also the small hitch in my ability to differentiate between hours and minutes when I'm practicing my craft. Time isn't a construct when I'm focusing on how good I feel, the pure, unadulterated power I can wield.

And I'm always tired when I snap back to reality.

I've noticed that I'm prone to headaches and nosebleeds if I overexert myself. I've also realized that overdoing it, pushing myself too far, is fairly easy to do. I wonder how often that happened to me when I was alive… or rather, not trapped in some strange prison with two sociopaths as my only companions (though I'm partial to one of them).

I lean back in my chair, back pressed against the wooden slats as I sip my drink. The fact that I can do so many fantastical things by uttering a few phrases in Latin is astounding. So wildly amazing. And yet… I'm still completely lost on how and why I wound up in a magical purgatory.

My focus returns to the Grimoire.

I bypass sections at a time until I land on the chapter entitled Premonitions and Divination.

A small note, written in extremely fine print, is a warning that the spells and rituals listed here are very complex. Completing any one of them successfully takes skill, time, and very specific conditions. As I scan the first passage—which is located directly underneath the cautionary statement—I realize that I find it intimidating. The words I can't use context clues to decipher outnumber those I can by a landslide. To add insult to injury, one of the terms that pop up every other sentence is not one I'm happy to see.

Mort.

My mouth goes dry.

I am beginning to understand why I was so against opening up this book. It's basically a giant keep out sign. No trespassing, caution, enter at your own risk… and by immersing myself so deeply in reading it, I've essentially acted if those thoughts and warnings don't mean a thing. That they are simply a result of me overthinking everything.

But something tells me that I shouldn't view it that way—I have that sense of foreboding for a reason and I should find out why it's there.

You'll know if you get your memories back…

I shake my head, delving deeper into the chapter, hoping to find a spell that will help me do just that.

When I finally think I'm getting somewhere, there is a knock on the back door. I know who is there before our eyes meet. I have to do my best to suppress a smile, keep my face blank, devoid of any emotion—positive or negative.

Damon is standing on the patio, dressed in his usual t-shirt and jeans, hand poised to knock on the sliding glass door once again.

I slam the book shut and cock my head to the side. He doesn't seem to have anything else with him, no props to bolster his next apology. I wonder what his plan is. Has he run out of ideas already?

"I've decided to approach this the old-fashioned way," he explains, voice muffled by the slab of metal and glass in front of him.

"Oh?" I ask, curious. "And what does that entail?"

"I'm basically just going to keep making noise until you decide to talk to me again."

I narrow my eyes at him. "And what makes you think that'll work?"

"You're easily irritated," he says simply. And to drive his point home, he resumes his steady knocking.

"I'm ignoring you," I cover my ears with my hands and go back to my research.

He takes this as an invitation to create a bigger distraction. "Oh Bon Bon, where for art thou, Bon Bon."

I make it about halfway through his Shakespearian monologue until I crack. Stomping over to the door, I push it open and plant my hands on my hips. The grin he gives me is pretty endearing. So much so, that I have to remind myself not to get too excited… God knows what kind of spiel Damon's cooked up.

"What?"

"Can I come in?"

"I don't know… can you?"

He huffs in frustration. "Not without an invitation."

"Come in… jackass."

"Let's hope that worked," he says, acting as though he didn't hear the last part of my sentence.

I back away from the door. He has plenty of room to walk into the kitchen, but when he tries to cross the threshold, an invisible wall prevents him from moving any closer to me.

"Vampire thing."

So, there are more than a few true myths. I've learned that stakes, vervain, and fire are all good defensive strategies when protecting oneself from vampires, but the book didn't elaborate on much else. Apparently, they can't enter a residence without express permission from the homeowner. His insistence on getting my stamp of approval had very little to do with being polite.

Not that I'm shocked about it.

"So… are we done here, or do I have to break out the garlic?"

"Oh, you've got jokes now. Ha, ha, ha. Tell me, did taking your broomstick out of your ass put you in a better mood?"

"It did. But then my annoying, secret-keeping asshole of a best friend came back."

"… I'm still your BFF?"

I mull his question over. Forever is a tricky concept now that I know we're dead. Or whatever we are. The thing is this all feels so real. The sun's warm rays beating down on us, the soft (occasional) breeze rusting the trees, the way Damon extends his hand my way, silently begging me to take it…

When our fingers touch, I pull away immediately. Such a small gesture shouldn't feel so intimate, but it does and I'm not sure I'm ready to accept it again. Damon's face falls—he tries to hide it—but he perks up when I step outside.

The deck burns the soles of my feet. I awkwardly hop over to the patio chairs and sit down, taking care to keep any unprotected skin away from the wood panels illuminated by sunlight.

Damon saunters over to where I sit, adjusts the umbrella attached to the table, and sits down in the empty spot beside me. I pay special attention to the pretty blue-and-silver ring on his finger. I'd assumed it was a family heirloom until I read something about "daylight talismans" in my Grimoire. It kept Damon from frying during the day, but he couldn't have been able to get it to work without the help of a witch.

Just another clue that I don't know how to interpret, I guess. It is probably something I should ask him about: "who enchanted your lapis lazuli ring?" but I don't want our conversation to be dominated by information. Part of me doesn't even want to know the answer to that question.

"You don't exactly have competition," I say with a smirk. "But if you force me to go to that lunatic for an explanation, I'm going to have to re-think it."

He nods, accepting my conditions. "So, a potential ax murderer is where you draw the line. I can deal with that."

"You can start apologizing at any time now."

"I didn't mean to upset you," he begins, voice low; like he's embarrassed to be admitting a mistake. "I woke up knowing what I am… who I am. My brother, Saint Stefan: The Friendly Vampire, turned when I did. When you told me your name, I didn't put two and two together. I don't remember much about the Bennett family aside from the fact that they are extremely powerful witches and I've met a few of your relatives."

"Which ones?"

"Emily Bennett—your great-great-something-or-other—and your grandmother. Sheila."

I try to conjure up a memory of these women, but other than a strong feeling of affection for Sheila, I've got nothing substantial. I'm trying to work through layers and layers of hazy déjà vu, and they don't want to budge.

"She's the woman in the photograph back home—that's about all I've got."

"Are you sure that's all you can tell me?" I press, hoping he'll recall something else, something that would be of more help to me.

Damon shakes his head. "Sorry, Bonster. I don't know anything else. I swear on the dime bag of marijuana I keep under my bed that you pretend not to know about."

"Okay." I sound defeated, dejected.

As I contemplate the validity of his claim, I tick off the major takeaways from what he has said. "So, you're a vampire, and your brother is, too." I pause, scrutinizing him, studying his face for signs of dishonesty.

I don't see any—not even the mischievous glint in his eyes, the one that tells me he raided the Monopoly bank when I went to the bathroom.

"And you didn't fill me in because…" I prompt him.

"It was fun. I didn't feel like I was evil or an abomination. Just a normal, run-of-the-mill asshole."

"So, your delightful personality has nothing to do with feeling like you're eternally damned?"

He beams. "Nope—I was a douchebag when I was human, too—at least, that's what Stefan says. I preferred to think of myself as confident, but not everyone can handle this much amazingness."

"Your delusions are amplified, I see."

"Along with every other human emotion," Damon says cheerfully. "It's like being on crack 24/7."

"Lovely."

He shrugs one of his shoulders. "Sometimes."

"… Do you think that's why you can remember some things and I can't remember anything?" I ask after a beat.

"Probably," he says with a level of conviction I don't have.

I slump down in the chair. I'm sick of all this crap. I'm tired of not knowing, of feeling alone, scared, and paranoid. And now I have a name for all of the anxiety: Kai. I've tried not to dwell on what he wants or why he's here. After a day or two, I no longer felt like my every move was being watched, so I wanted to put him on the backburner.

"Why so blue, Cindy Lou Who?"

I stare at Damon quizzically. "What?"

"The girl who made the Grinch's heart grow three sizes," he prompts, raising an eyebrow. "Dr. Suess… the VHS tape you threatened me with the last time you accused me of stacking the deck when we played Clue…"

"I know who you're talking about. I want to know why you compared me to her."

"You're short… she's short… it rhymed. Keep up, Bennett. Sheesh—it's not rocket science."

I don't know what to say. So, I just go back to sulking. Talking about our new neighbor will do nothing but put bad vibes in the atmosphere, maybe even cause another fight between us. It's best to just pretend he doesn't exist.

"Cheer up, Buttercup," he goes on as if there wasn't a pointed silence. "I don't think Kai even cares about us anymore—that's a positive."

There's that uncanny ability of his. Apparently, time apart hasn't dulled his keen sense of reading my body language.

I straighten up. "What makes you think that?"

"After you left; he did, too. He said something stupid, smirked, and walked out. Haven't seen him since."

"What did he say?"

"I don't know… I wasn't really listening."

"Damon!"

"What? He tried to kill me, Bon Bon. Forgive me for not giving a shit about him."

I groan. "You didn't think it might be a good idea to use him to figure out what's going on?"

"Yeah," he says, tapping his chin. "No. I'd rather gouge my eyes out. He's the last person we should be asking questions."

"He is the last person," I retort. "We've got no other choice."

"I don't know if that's even an option," he leans back in the chair, lacing his hands behind his head. "We might be stuck."

I shake my head fiercely. "We aren't stuck… we can't be. There are thousands of spells in those Grimoires. There has to be one that can get us back to where we were before."

Damon doesn't say anything for a long time. He's torn. I can tell by the way he refuses to meet my eyes. He stares straight ahead, into the backyard of the house next store. There are times at night, when I toss and turn, unable to fall asleep, that I think about the people who are alive. I imagine different scenarios for them—I always circle back to Elena and Caroline, though. It never fails, I could dream up the backstory of a family that lived on another street entirely and I dream up scenarios where they would cross paths with Elena and/or Caroline and I'd try to figure out where I fit into the story.

And if Damon is by my side.

It's silly; I always lose steam when I get to the part where I have to decide what I want to do. Which could be anything. I don't know who I was before or how satisfied I felt. Theoretically speaking, I could choose from a number of different possibilities, decide what my past looked like, steer myself in the direction of my ideal future, but I never get to the end.

I fall asleep before I can sort that part out.

The only constant is Damon.

When I close my eyes, the first person I see is him. It's never the same dream—it could be sweet, weird, scary, or realistic, but he's there. This particular occurrence is probably only a thing because I went from seeing him the majority of the time to almost not at all. That doesn't stop me from second-guessing myself (because apparently nothing is straight-forward) and the whole "witch thing" complicates matters even more. It leaves me yearning for simplicity.

Normalcy.

And going back to before is the only way I can think to get it.

"You sound confident in your witchy juju," he remarks smugly.

I make sure my tone matches his when I respond. "I'm confident that I don't want to be trapped here with Kai any longer than we already have."

"I can't argue with that," Damon admits with surprisingly little resistance.

"I just need to figure out how to do it."

A slow smile spreads across the vampire's face. "Well, you're in luck, Bonster. I have an unopened bottle of bourbon at home and I'm in a sharing mood…"

"Well…" I draw out the word for a few syllables. "That rarely happens."

"And would you really be the responsible one if you left me to drink it by myself?"

"Yes, but if you are going to get sloppy drunk and embarrass yourself then I want to be around to see it."

"Says the one with the lower tolerance," Damon sticks his tongue out at me. "I'm trying to be the bigger person here and all you care about is me making a fool of myself."

"Is that Damon-speak for 'I missed you, Bonnie?'"

"If I say yes, will you come back home? It's fucking boring playing board games by myself."

"Yes."

Damon rolls his eyes and makes a show of bellyaching about my request. "Fine! I missed you, Bonnie!"

"See?" I laugh. "That wasn't so bad, was it?"

"I'd rather have a root canal without Novocain," he grumbles.

"Doesn't matter, I'll remember this moment forever. It will go down in history as The Day That Damon Begged Bonnie to Spend Time with Him."

"Okay," he begins, still grumpy. "One, I said solitude was boring. That's hardly begging. And two, that is unnecessarily wordy—what holiday do you know with that long of a name?"

"That one," I say simply, making my way back to the door. Before we go anywhere, I want to collect my clothes and Grimoires.

"You are nuts, Bennett!"

"I'll see you back at home, Damon." I close the sliding glass door slowly, waving as he watches me from the deck.

"I better," he calls back with a smile

I'm not sure who is more relieved that we made up, but maybe it doesn't have to be like that. Maybe we are both supposed to be in each other's lives, neither person needier than the other. Perhaps there's no more or less. What if we are on even ground?

That's how it's supposed to be, I think and I am glad that I can at least be sure of that one thing.