Dark Side.
Chapter 34: Acheronta In Empyreus.
"What a life, what a life.
I'm glaring at nothing and
I want that to be okay.
I'm watching my hands
come up ghosts and I—
The loneliness doesn't have to win,
imagine that.
I do. I do.
That doesn't mean I believe it.
That doesn't mean
I can stop staring
At the white walls
And giving them
Voices that make sense.
Voices that are fair.
So this is what hopeless
Looks like—
Like looking through your
Fingers and coming up
Empty."
—A conversation between Girl and Something. Emily Palermo.
Cassandra lies on the floor of her living room, barely aware of the cold sipping through the rug's fabric and into her spine. She taps her fingers against the multicolored rug, a simple one-two-three-four rhythm. The rug is ruined; she wasn't very careful with her last kill, more bothered with trying to prove a point. No. No, she wasn't bothered. 'Bothered' means caring, and caring is an emotion. She doesn't have any. My, is it monotonous.
She thought turning off her humanity would give her some semblance of peace. It did, for a while, but it's now thirteen days later and, not only did Elijah not keep his word and failed to come after her, but life has become a drag. Everything is so… ineffectual. People begged her for mercy and there was nothing. Stefan asked her time and again to return to normal, and there was nothing. She attacked Alaric, and there was nothing. Damon stormed into her home, looked her dead in the eye and there was nothing. Absolutely nothing. Not even a flutter to her heartbeat, a dip to her stomach. Nothing. In any of those instances.
Blame it on the part of her that's a witch, but she's starting to not see the point. At least with her emotions in the forefront of her mind she has something to busy herself with. Not that she can't think of every single thing that's gone wrong in her life since January, but when it presents itself as nothing but cold facts and the hard pill to swallow that she may be a teeny bit more sensitive than she previously would have thought… well, it's not quite the same. If anything, it's a little boring.
Thirteen days. Fifty spells. A hundred missed calls. Two-hundred text messages left unread. Nine deaths. One feeble attempt on her life. Three manipulating, insulting, infuriating attempts at getting her to turn her humanity back on. No, not infuriating because that's an emotion and she doesn't have any. Make no mistake.
All that and it's still so… blah. So empty.
Her drumming on the rug stills. Is 'empty' an emotion? She's not too sure. One may feel empty, but is it a recognized emotion? After all, one may feel hungry, but hunger isn't an emotion… is it? No, it's not. After all, she spent one hundred and ninety something years with her humanity turned off when she was young, and she was plenty hungry during those years. She was plenty empty, too, and it never gave her pause. So, why is she suddenly overthinking this?
She's not too sure, and she can't focus with all this noise around her. That nine might go up to ten, it seems.
"Shut up." She orders, curt.
The quiet sobbing on the other side of the room ceases immediately. She doesn't even have to raise her voice. She goes back to her pointless drumming, to her pointless staring at her pointless ceiling. She could play the piano, but that stopped distracting her on day two. A book seems superfluous. Television lacks a certain je-ne-sais-quoi.
She looks across the room when the crying starts up again. There, cuddled up on himself by the corner farthest from the door is her latest victim. He's a late-teens-early-twenties, blonder-than-the-sun guy of medium built with some healthy tear ducts. She'd be impressed, if she felt anything at all.
"Will you stop crying?" Cassandra requests. She rises to a half-seating position, her hands supporting her weight behind her. "I haven't hurt you so far, have I? There's nothing to cry about."
The guy looks up from his crossed arms, revealing a face that she remembers having been attractive but now appears beet-red and shiny with tears and snot. He rubs his eyes with the heel of his hand, and sniffs.
"You kidnapped me and my best friend and murdered him!" He howls in her direction, hiccupping half-way through as another sob rocks his body.
She supposes he's right. She did lure them to her home with the promise of a fun-filled night, and then proceeded to not let them leave. And she did kill his friend in a way that could be considered overkill, even to her. Still, there's no need to cry about it. He is absolutely fine.
When she does nothing but stare blankly at him, his face breaks into a grimace as his entire frame trembles with irregular sobs. Any doubts she had before over whether she was feeling something vanish. This man is breaking down right in front of her and the sight evokes absolutely nothing in her.
"He was smart, dude! Like a brother!"
She's not sure he's talking to her, more like letting out his anguish. She doesn't know about 'smart', but the brother part she knows to be true. She presented a challenge, aloud, to herself, thinking maybe turning it into a game would distract her from the emptiness. The blond, or the brunet? The tall one or the bulky one? Mr. Blond had started to cry, and Mr. Tall had stepped forward and offered himself up. How wonderful, a friend willing to die for a friend. How foolish, too.
Cassandra, what—? This is—Cassandra, just—look at me. Cassie, please!
She shakes the echo of Damon's voice from her mind, hellbent on not thinking about that conversation. That conversation, and the way his face fell and something vital behind his eyes shattered at the words that slipped past her lips.
Cassandra, listen to me. Whatever it is, we can fix it, Cass. I'll help you. Stefan's leaf-green eyes had been so soft, so broken, she almost forgot it was the twenty-first century and he wasn't human. She'd nearly turned her humanity back on, then, and the way he sent Alaric after her like the hunter was expendable reinforced her decision not to.
Is it because you're scared? Because, well, if you are, I-I-I don't think this is the only option, you know? It doesn't have to be like this. And, if it's another reason, then, maybe… Caroline hadn't even known how to finish that sentence, her hesitant, sweet-toned voice mixing with the static from the voicemail when inspiration failed her in finding the right words to say what everyone thought.
They all think she's done it because of Damon. She picked such a bad time for it. She should have done it when she first thought about it, before he slept with Rose. So people would enquire about all the other reasons that had threatened to drown her just as much. But, alas, she hadn't, and they'd all look at the timeframe and came to one conclusion: that her not-boyfriend sleeping with some floozy was the only possible reason for her to pull the plug on her emotions. That's all she is reduced to, a wretched woman who would die of a broken heart like in some Romantic novel written two centuries past. It is so embarrass—no!
She pushes off the floor, jumping to her feet and shaking that entire thought process away on her way to the bay window. Silly, stupid girl! She scolds herself, breathing in deep to compose herself. The windowsill digs into the heel of her palms, bringing her attention back to the outside world.
"Are—are you okay?"
"Fine." She snaps back at the suddenly brave young man she's keeping hostage.
There's a pause. His heart skips three beats at once before it begins an erratic, unhealthy rhythm. She can still hear him disentangle his limbs and shuffle across the floor, though. She keeps her eyes outside, on the clear night sky and Mr. Featherstone's cat's unblinking gaze on her.
"What do you want?" He asks her with a small voice, like he's afraid she might snap. Unsurprising, really, since that's all she's done. One would think he'd have learned by now not to speak.
"Nothing." She dismisses.
"I-I don't have a lot of money, but my dad lives in New York—"
"I'm not interested in your money." She unwillingly scoffs.
Her humanity is still a flickering light in a deep, deep, dark well, and if she doesn't focus on extinguishing it, not only will she give in to everyone's pestering, but… oh, this one will hurt.
It won't, because she's not about to kindle the spark.
"Oh… is it information?" He lets the question hang. "Because I… I know things!"
That piques her interest.
"What?"
Through the faint reflection cast by the overhead light against her bay window, she catches his repeated blinks, the raising of his shoulders as he takes a shuddering breath in. That's still better than his constant wailing.
"When I pose a question, I expect an answer," she says after ten seconds of silence.
"It's all whispers, right, b-b-but there's talk about," he rushes through his words, "the Mayor embezzling some of the funds given by the government a-a-nd—"
"What are you talking about?" She lifts a hand up, interrupting him.
She thought maybe he had clandestine information on the not-so-secret-but-still-potentially-secret supernatural happenings in Mystic Falls. She may know who belongs to the vampire squad, but maybe Mr. Blond had some intel on who just happens to be a Fae, which is more common than one might think. How wrong she was.
"I did an intern year for the Mayor's office. This is what that's about, right?" Mr. Blond proudly states as his debilitating fear for her takes a step back the longer she keeps a conversation with him. It should be a red flag, the way she's allowing this nonsense, but she's too distracted by the absurdity to notice. "Y-you're some sort of CIA, FBI agent?"
That gets her to turn around.
"I'm—what?"
"MI6, maybe?" He suggests, not so sure anymore.
The laugh that bursts out of her illuminates her brain in a flash of color that shakes her very soul. It's involuntary and genuine and heartbreaking. Her chest feels like it's about to explode, but, my, is it funny. Hilarious.
"That killed me!" She gasps between laughs.
"It did?"
He stares at her from his spot on the rug, eyes wide and arms tightening around his torso like he's protecting himself.
"Yes! Oh, that was beautiful, Mr. Blond!"
"Mr. Blond?!"
The vexation in his voice has her wincing, face contorting into a grimace. Well, that wasn't very nice, was it? Kidnapping this young man and not asking for his name even once. She's sure Mr. Tall mentioned it at one point, but she wasn't paying attention.
The reminder of Mr. Tall has her mind flashing back to his bravery and consequent death until all she can hear is the echo of his screams, until she can smell his blood in the air, and his broken body flashes behind her closed eyelids. Her hand finds its way to her mouth as she breathes in deep, her stomach threatening to implode with a guilt that surpasses any prior hilarity in intensity.
Oh, sweet Morgana.
"Right." She shakes it off and walks forward until she's close enough to crouch down in front of Mr. Blond. When she speaks again, her voice shakes, but she's unsure whether it's due to the clear way he scrambles away from her, or the cocktail of emotions suddenly raging inside her. "What's your name?"
The swift change in her must be obvious, because it only takes three heartbeats of nothing but him observing her for her to get an answer.
"Abe."
"Abe?"
"Y-yes?"
She laughs again, loudly and abruptly. So out of nowhere that Abe, Abe, flinches away from her once more.
"Abe, you've made my day!" She exclaims, all in all sounding completely out of her mind.
She's not even sure why she's laughing. It's certainly not as funny as Abe mistaking her for a spy. Except, apparently, it is, and she can't stop laughing.
"I have?" He asks, eyeing her like she's a powder keg about to explode.
She takes a deep breath in through her mouth, which to her absolute confusion sounds more like a strangled sob, and manages to control the laughter.
"Well, I'm laughing, aren't I?" She challenges with as little bite to her words as she can muster.
"It—it looks more like crying to me."
She swipes at her cheek with her finger pads. Look at that! She is crying. No wonder her deep breath in sounded so jarring.
"Oh, well, more of the same, isn't it?" She shrugs, wiping at her face again.
The realization that she's been crying for longer than she'd realized strikes her right in the chest, and suddenly she's straight up sobbing, heaving pathetic, little gasps and holding onto her own arms like they're a raft in a tempestuous ocean. Oh, Judas, it hurts. Why did she do that? Why?
The question bounces around in her head until she can't think of anything else. She's not sure what she's referring to. All the killing and torturing? The disgusting way she treated her friends? What she so cruelly and heartlessly threw in Damon's face, just because she knew it would kill him? The all-so-brilliant idea of turning off her humanity? She doesn't know, but whatever it is has the onslaught of emotions doubling until she can't discern each one, until she feels nothing and everything.
That makes her laugh again. Wet, broken laughter. How ironic, that she's feeling so much she can't feel anything.
"Are you having a mental breakdown?" Abe asks, eyeing her nervously.
Bless his heart. He probably thinks he walked into American Psycho or some other horror movie. And, well, he's not wrong, which is horrible, really.
"Yes, Abe. Yes, I am." She admits, laughing once more at the bluntness of his question.
Fuck. This is almost like having no humanity, only worse. So, so much worse. Air won't enter her body; her lungs have vanished. Her heart is about to explode; she doesn't remember the last time there was this much tightening in her chest.
Oh, please, please.
She doesn't know what she's pleading for. She does know no one will answer. So, when Abe begins to calculate in his mind the space between where they are and the door—something that would have probably escaped her if he hadn't been so obvious about it—she grabs onto his shoulders, and looks him dead in the eye.
"Do you fear death?" She ignores his frightened, widened eyes, just quietly stares at him. He nods. "How badly?"
They all got to go sometime, she just wants to know if, maybe, he'd like to never die.
"Please." His face scrunches up as he begins to cry again. "Please, don't kill me."
"I—"
"Oh, God!" He closes his eyes tightly as a litany of 'please' and 'oh, God' falls from his lips.
She presses her lips into a thin line, fighting her own tears. This is her fault. She did this. She evoked such deep fear in him. What was it that she told Elena? Something about never wanting her to know fear like that existed. That hadn't just been for Elena. She meant anyone who was innocent. And she'd spent a fortnight embedding that very kind of fear on the souls of innocent, harmless people.
"Abe…" She starts, having to pause to try and swallow the knot in her throat. "Abe, I won't kill you. Forget I asked. I'm sorry. I am so, so sorry."
He sniffs once, and his crying slowly stops. He doesn't open his eyes, doesn't even move. His breathing is this light, quiet thing. Survival instincts are a funny thing, indeed.
"Abe, look at me." She requests. Her hands move from his shoulders to either side of his face. "I won't hurt you. Look at me."
He does. He has very pretty eyes, now marred by his fear.
"You will forget what happened here. You will walk out of my house, go home, and not remember where you were." She compels him. "When they ask, you will tell them you spent four days drunk off your head in Charlottesville, partying with some college friends. You do not know where…"
She trails off when she realizes Mr. Tall's name is an absolute mystery to her. Damn.
"What was your friend's name?"
"George." He answers in that same monotonous tone that shows he's still under compulsion.
"George." She repeats, balancing the weight of his name in her heart. "You do not know where George has gone off to. You spoke to him last on Friday."
"I was drunk off my head, partying in Charlottesville for four days straight. I haven't talked to George since Friday; I don't know where he is." Abe repeats, proving that the compulsion has taken hold.
"Leave now. Don't stop or look back until you get home." She adds.
Abe blinks once, before he rises to his feet and makes for the door. He doesn't look at her once, doesn't acknowledge her presence. Cassandra watches him go. The silence around her is heavy, deafening. Even when the front door closes with a soft click, she doesn't tear her eyes away from the hallway.
Later, once Abe has gone and she doesn't have it in her to clear up the mess she made in the living room, Cassandra sits in the upstairs drawing room, by the fireplace. A fireplace that has never been lit. She sits and stares at the cream-colored wall, tears sliding down her face, unchecked and unbothered. Her head is starting to ache from the pressure, but she can't bring herself to stop. She can't bring herself to do anything. Even staring off into the distance is exhausting, but she can't bring herself to sleep. She can't even move.
Nik would know how to snap her out of it, would figure out a way to give her something else to focus on. She hates herself so much for that thought that she finds herself crying harder, unable to stop it.
The sharp ringing of her cellphone makes her flinch. That flinch gives her a sudden surge of energy strong enough to get her to reach towards the small coffee table, where her cellphone is. She hopes it's Caroline. She could use the company.
It's not, but the name flashing on the screen fills her with such anxiety she jumps to her feet.
Thirteen days. She had her humanity off for thirteen days. Elena didn't call her. She didn't receive a single text from the Doppelgänger. Nothing. Not a peep.
Until now.
Something terrible having happened is the only explanation Cassandra can come up with for this sudden call. The idea of one of her friends getting hurt or in trouble while she was busy playing executioner—more like serial killer—sickens her so much, she needs to take a moment before she can answer.
"Hello?" Nothing. "Elena?"
"Cass?" Elena sniffs. "Please, help! He's in the tomb with Katherine and I can't—I can't do anything."
Her shoulders slump. She sits back down. She wants to help, and she is worried. She is. Still, there's a certain bitterness making its way through her bloodstream. It seems Elena only likes her when she needs something.
"Who's in the tomb?"
Given Elena's franticness, there's only two plausible options.
"Stefan!" She exclaims, tiptoeing the line between shouting and wailing. "Damon won't even let me see if he's okay. You have to do something, Cass!"
It's an order, Cassandra realizes. She's a little stunned by it and saying 'no' is so tempting at the moment. Her brain, however, has other ideas. Stefan's forest green eyes flash in her mind, imploring, assuring her that he would help her. If she needed it, whatever 'it' was, he'd give it.
"Fine."
She hangs up before Elena gets a chance to say anything.
Cassandra made it to the woods without any issues. After showering and changing into clean clothes, she simply got in her car and drove. She spent enough time in the wooded area surrounding Mystic Falls this past fortnight that she can easily navigate it now. A map or flashlight wasn't needed for her to locate the church ruins. Someone pushing her in the general direction of the entrance to the tomb, however, would be wonderful.
It's not that she doesn't know where it is—because she does, she can even see it from where she stands in the middle of what used to be the aisle—it's that she can hear what's going on down there, and she's not ready to face any of the three people currently discussing Stefan's fate.
"We can get Bonnie to lift the spell." Damon suggests.
His tone alerts her that this might not be his first idea, and that many of the already proposed plans have been shot down. She suppresses a sigh and forces her feet to move, one in front of the other, as quietly as possible.
"No, no, last time it took so much, her grandmother died." She doesn't have to see Stefan to imagine him shaking his head, arms crossed, eyebrows furrowed together. "I'm not having her risk her own life."
There's a thumping sound of something hitting fabric, denim, she'd guess by the way the sound fails to travel, and she can picture Damon slapping his arms against his side in frustration. It almost makes her smile.
"You could ask Cassandra." Katherine sing-songs.
There's a stretch of tense silence. Cassandra pauses by the steps leading down to the tomb, wondering if they stopped talking because they heard her approach.
"Bonnie might know another witch, maybe she's in contact with Lucy."
"Lucy's not gonna help you." Katherine snorts, derisive.
"Katherine, shut up." Damon mocks. "Someone else, then. She's a witch! Witches know other witches."
"Damon," Stefan sighs. "I don't know."
Cassandra takes a moment to prepare herself before straightening her spine and descending the last step.
"I can do it."
She uses the four words to announce her presence, not trusting herself with 'hello'. For some reason, even the thought of the simple greeting has her emotional.
All three of them turn in her direction at the sound of her voice, yet all she can focus on is Damon. The way surprise flashes across his face, before his entire torso seems to shift, like some tension there has finally disappeared. Her breath catches when he takes two steps toward her like he can't help himself, and she finds herself desperately wishing he'd gather her in his arms, just once, just for a moment. That yearning is replaced by cold, hard reality when Damon halts in his step, like he's just realized what he's doing. He straightens. Whatever softness had been across his features takes a step back for a stoic frown. She swallows and ignores her disappointment.
"What are you doing here?"
"Elena called me," she says, walking until she's right in front of the tomb.
Stefan and Katherine stand as far away from each other as the space allows. She pretends not to see how Damon takes a step back at the same time she walks, ensuring there's at least six feet between them, and addresses those stuck within the tomb.
"I can lift the spell. It might take me a while, and I'd rather do it with no one around." She shoots Damon a look.
"No," says Stefan immediately.
"Stefan—"
"If you lift the spell," Stefan lifts a hand, interrupting her. "Katherine gets out, too."
She doesn't see how that is such a bad idea. Maybe they could convince Katherine to leave? Her freedom in exchange of never seeing her again. Cassandra is still mad at her, and she will never trust Katherine again, but, and blame it on her recently returned humanity, an eternity in the tomb sounds like hell on earth. She doesn't wish Katherine hell on earth. Ironic, since she basically helped the Salvatores neutralize her, when she knew damn well their plan ended in death. Death, however, is peaceful. It's not eternal hunger and cold and desiccation while still conscious.
No one would be on board with letting Katherine go. Besides, Elijah was right. Cassandra and Katherine are, were, close as sisters. She knows Katherine well. She knows Katherine would end up coming back and becoming a problem, one way or another.
"Fine." She relents.
The four of them stand there, the invisible barrier spell between them, as the most uncomfortable silence they've experience together yet surrounds them. It's worse than when Stefan and Damon got into a fickle piss-match over Katherine, while she and Katherine had the misfortune of being in the room. Well, misfortune for her. Katherine always thought it secretly amusing.
"Stefan—" Cassandra starts when the silence builds until she can't bear it.
This isn't her fault. She knows this isn't her fault. She may not know the sequence of events that ended up with him stuck inside the tomb, but whatever it was, her hands are clean. Yet, she can't look at him for longer than four seconds without feeling guilty. Maybe not about this, but about everything else.
"No, Cass." Stefan stops her before she can find the right words. "You don't have to apologize. I get it. Believe me, no one gets it more than me. It's forgotten."
She smiles, touched.
"I'm not that big of a person." Katherine scoffs beside him walking closer to the entrance so she can send Cassandra one of her trademark smug looks. "Where's my apology?"
Cassandra stares at her, affronted. Her apology? Was Katherine nearly ripping her lung to shreds not enough to even the score? What she did is the least of what she could have done after she found out what Katherine did to her one-hundred-and-twenty-five years ago. It was mellow compared to anything she has done in the past to those who betrayed her.
"Where's mine?" She counters, looking Katherine dead in the eye.
She's not playing. Her nerves are frazzled enough and she's emotional enough that she really doesn't know how she'd react if she got angry. She holds eye contact until Katherine's eyes dart to the left, to the rugged stone wall. The satisfaction that action gives her is short-lived.
It's time to go back home.
She clears her throat, turning to the brothers beside her for a short goodbye only to find them having a silent conversation between them. Stefan shoots Damon a pointed look. One of many, she concludes from the veiled exasperation on his face. Damon raises his eyebrows, eyes widened as he returns Stefan's look with one of his own. Cassandra fights the urge to snort out a laugh. She has no idea what their looks are trying to convey, but neither brother is subtle.
"I better head home, then," she says. Her statement grants her both brother's attention, but she keeps her own on the youngest. "Be kind to yourself, Stefan."
"Bye, Cass." Stefan nods at her.
Breathing in, she finally turns to Damon fully. She doesn't want to look at him, doesn't even want him to be here, actually. This is all too much, too soon. She should have come another day, not the very same day she turned her humanity back on.
"I gotta head out, too." Damon nods towards the stairs before she has the chance to throw a quick 'bye' his way and leave this rotten place. "Brother."
"Damon."
That's all the brothers need: a quick nod with a meaning beyond what Cassandra is in the right state of mind to grasp.
Damon waits for her to start climbing the half-derelict stairs before he does, which is strange and disconcerting. She didn't expect him to be polite. She expected the cold shoulder, an angry look, maybe even a snide comment, not manners.
The trip up the stairs is quiet, so is their walk down the aisle. The church is ten yards behind them when she allows herself to relax. Maybe she dodged a bullet. Maybe he's so done with her shit, he won't even broach the subject. She did worry that was the only reason he left at the same time she did, but it's been at least fifteen minutes of utter, deafening silence, so, surely, nothing will be discussed.
"What made you turn it back?" Damon asks her.
Ah, spoke too soon, she inwardly cringes. None of them mentioned it, and she hoped no one would. After all, it's obvious she hopped back on the humanity train. There's no need to explain.
"My lunch was chatty." She lies.
It's not really a lie. She won't admit she was halfway out of the dark when Abe started his questioning, though.
"Really? That's your trigger?" Damon's tone is filled with disbelief. "Some random person with a big mouth?"
No. Her trigger is Caroline's kind-heartedness. It's Stefan's gentle leaf-green eyes flashing across her mind. It's Damon and the way his voice rings through her mind at random. She isn't saying that, though. She's not making a fool of herself any longer.
"What can I say?" Cass shrugs, teasing. "I'm a sucker for a pretty face."
Damon chuckles at the same time he glances down at the forest ground. Her own lips stretch into a smile.
"You let him go?" He asks after a moment, suddenly so serious the smile on her face evaporates.
"I did."
Damon nods, and says nothing else. His apparent concern over Abe is confounding, but maybe it has to do with how crudely she murdered Abe's friend in front of him only three days ago. Still, she can't help but wonder… is he worried about Abe, or her? She's not sure she wants to know the answer.
They walk, side by side, in a silence that is somehow even more uncomfortable than before, hanging and so tense it's almost visible. Since when are the woods so quiet? She'd give anything for some crickets right now.
"Would you like to hear something funny?" Cassandra clears her throat, awaiting his response with bated breath.
It's a feeble attempt at lightening the mood. One that can fail miserably and make things worse. Still, too late to go back now.
"What?" Damon eyes her, wary.
"His name's Abe."
Damon stops walking.
"Abe?" He repeats, with a tone that suggests he must have heard wrong.
"Abe." She confirms, biting the inside of her mouth.
Damon looks at her for a second before laughing. She joins him, pretending she can't hear the hesitance in his laugh, the way he holds back. The moment leaves them, eyes locked, with an atmosphere that's almost nostalgic. Or maybe that's her.
"We should talk." He suggests after a beat of sighing and hanging smiles that lead nowhere.
Her refusal is immediate.
"No."
"Cassandra," he starts with that same tone she hates. The one that expresses to anyone who will listen that he cares about nothing. "I know why you turned off your humanity."
"No, you don't." She shoots back.
If he did, he wouldn't be bracing himself to ask. Damon frowns, his lips purse as he stares at her intently.
"Why did you do it, then?"
Because I was stricken by the realization I might be dead within the year. Because you asked me to run, and then fucked the very woman who gave me a reason to, she thinks, bitter, because I can't decide how I feel about Niklaus being so near, because I'm starting to think I shouldn't have been born at all. She doesn't say any of that, though. She can't. That's not a conversation she ever wants to have.
"Tell me." Damon requests, gentle, his previous accusation gone.
I need you. He'd sounded so brokenly relieved when he said it, like some deep need had been satisfied when he uttered the words. A memory jumps forward in her mind, clear as water, sharp as glass. His hands on her cheeks, raven hair tickling her forehead as his nose brushed against hers, a Hail Mary when all other resources had failed. Little does he know, it worked. Just not in the way he thought it would. Rage filled her from head to toe, the knowledge that he was using her feelings for him to force her humanity back felt like a slap across the face. For a moment, he'd looked like he truly meant it. Still, she'd seen that flicker of humanity inside her and extinguished it without a second thought. She had ensured he never returned by pushing the right buttons, the ones she knew would cause the most damage. Cass had hurt him and hadn't cared.
"You don't get to know why." She shakes her head.
"I only want—"
"This isn't about you. This is about me, okay?" She interrupts, voice hard, one hand raised in the air. "Me, and what happens to me now. Not you."
She single-handedly destroyed every good thing she built in Mystic Falls since she arrived. Alaric is most likely scared of her. Caroline, disappointed beyond repair. Stefan might have granted her forgiveness, but she's not delusional enough to think they'll be more than mere acquaintances from now on. She doesn't know what Damon thinks of her now, but it can't be good. They're under threat, and she doesn't have a single person in her corner. Not one person willing to fight for her. She's officially expendable.
"We still need to talk." Damon sighs, like he's giving in but isn't too happy about it.
"Yes." She replies, needing a moment to will the lump in her throat to disappear. She fights the inane urge to fiddle with her brother's ring on her finger. Anxiety was not an emotion she wanted returning. "Not tonight, though."
She just wants to go home. She wants to go home and have cup after cup of tea until each step she takes no longer makes her shake. She wants to go home and erase each and every last detail of the last thirteen days from her home, and her mind.
Thankfully, Damon accepts. Not that it was a request. She'll grant him the fact that they need to talk, but the decision on that talk taking place tonight of all nights lies solely on her.
Damon appears to understand that. His face and eyes are unreadable, but nod, he does. Her stomach dips in trepidation. She has a hunch that future chat is not one she will enjoy. It'll probably won't end on a happy note, either.
A/N: Hello! So sorry for the lack of posting, I am just worried that this chapter and the next three will not be well received and so even when I had time I was scared to post. It's one of those cases where the story wants to lead itself, which is annoying because I'm the one technically in control. I will say, however, that this and the next 3 chapters are pretty much the last 'obstacle' between them before things start to work out, so that's good, right?
And I will try to update more often, it's just that we're out of the lockdown where I am and my boss has me working double shifts every week with only one day off, so the very little time off I have is being spent sleeping and making sure my house isn't a mess. I'm sorting some sort of schedule, though, so next chapter won't be too long!
Now, unto reviews:
Eennio: Thanks! Hope you like this one too!
Guest1: There's a little bit of angsty interactions here! No humanityless!Cassie tho. Next chapter there'll be more angst because I live for it lol
AB0918: I'm glad you liked it!
lexicaruso: I'm glad you like it! There won't be a direct expression of feelings quite yet because I want to deal with Rose's whole werewolf bite first (Ugh) and then move on to that, but there will be more drama in the next 3 chapters to look out for. And THEN... well, you'll see ;)
Guest2: I'm so glad the essay went well! So sorry it took so long for this chapter!
Guest3: Not abandoned, just a crazy-busy author lol Thank you for your kind words, I'm always blown away when people tell me they re-read my stories several times, like wow why? I hope you like this one, too!
That's all for reviews. Just wanted to thank you guys for continuing to like this story and thanks to everyone who favorited and followed!
See you soon!
For the record, UPDATED: 13/08/2020.