The crow soared over the quiet town in Pennsylvania, with its early morning sereneness. Its feathers reflected the suns light, casting rainbows across it. Then it landed, swiftly and gracefully on the soft plush ground. The bird shifted, changing shape, forming into a male human's body. Once transformed the man was gorgeous. He had looks to stop cars going 60 miles an hour on a freeway.
With thin, shiny black hair the same color as the bird's feathers, exquisite black eyes that seemed to go on forever and at an average height, the man was perfect. High cheekbones, a perfectly shaped nose and gently curving lips, on a face that revealed no emotions.
He was built and wore a simple black short sleeved shirt, black jeans, a pair of expensive looking black boots and to complete it all a black leather jacket, which he had picked up off the hood of his black Ferrari. The jacket wasn't his old one. This one was new. He'd given the old one to Elena, the woman he'd once loved.
Opening the door of the driver's side, he slipped in, shutting the door and turned on the ignition. The purr of the finely tuned motor was the only sound as he drove slowly down a block.
_Elena._
Her face appeared in his mind's eye and he sighed. Her lithe body, sleek legs, golden hair, amazing eyes, her curves in all the right places. She was so beautiful, with a fire inside equal to his own. She was the most special woman he'd ever met.... She was his brother's.
"Damn it!" He cursed, hitting the steering wheel with his fist. He was letting her get to him again and he knew the consequences of that. She was the only one he'd let get that close to him and every time he let her in...well, to say the least, he was through with getting close to people.
That summer night last year in the clearing when Elena had come back from the dead flashed in front of him. When she had run to Stefan, and not him. When she had made her choice clear that she'd wanted Stefan the martyr, the saint, the _good_ brother.
It'd made him sick to his stomach.
They had put out their hands, an act of acceptance. Well he didn't want to be like them! He wasn't like them! He was Damon Salvatore. No one else. He preferred it that way.
He'd stormed off, so angry with Elena, with Stefan, with the world. He hadn't seen anyone from Fells Church since then. He'd wanted Elena for himself. There was so much potential in her that would be gone is she was with Stefan
He'd won the round but Stefan had won the game.
He'd known Stefan and Elena had moved to Pennsylvania, he'd watched them since the night in the clearing and made a note of their location.
Damon looked around at his surroundings. House after house, tree after tree, lawn after lawn. Then he spotted it.
It was a house on the corner, a Victorian house, with a manicured lawn, and a driveway with not a single crack in it. On the driveway parked was a black Porsche.
_"Stefan's. So they are home."_ He thought to himself.
The front door wasn't opened, but through a window, with his vampire sharp senses, he could see into their kitchen. Standing by the sink was his brother, arms draped around his wife's body.
Then, angrily, he realized he was jealous.
He made his way up the driveway then over to the front door, slowly and silently. He stood before the large oak door, raised his hand and rang the doorbell.
With thin, shiny black hair the same color as the bird's feathers, exquisite black eyes that seemed to go on forever and at an average height, the man was perfect. High cheekbones, a perfectly shaped nose and gently curving lips, on a face that revealed no emotions.
He was built and wore a simple black short sleeved shirt, black jeans, a pair of expensive looking black boots and to complete it all a black leather jacket, which he had picked up off the hood of his black Ferrari. The jacket wasn't his old one. This one was new. He'd given the old one to Elena, the woman he'd once loved.
Opening the door of the driver's side, he slipped in, shutting the door and turned on the ignition. The purr of the finely tuned motor was the only sound as he drove slowly down a block.
_Elena._
Her face appeared in his mind's eye and he sighed. Her lithe body, sleek legs, golden hair, amazing eyes, her curves in all the right places. She was so beautiful, with a fire inside equal to his own. She was the most special woman he'd ever met.... She was his brother's.
"Damn it!" He cursed, hitting the steering wheel with his fist. He was letting her get to him again and he knew the consequences of that. She was the only one he'd let get that close to him and every time he let her in...well, to say the least, he was through with getting close to people.
That summer night last year in the clearing when Elena had come back from the dead flashed in front of him. When she had run to Stefan, and not him. When she had made her choice clear that she'd wanted Stefan the martyr, the saint, the _good_ brother.
It'd made him sick to his stomach.
They had put out their hands, an act of acceptance. Well he didn't want to be like them! He wasn't like them! He was Damon Salvatore. No one else. He preferred it that way.
He'd stormed off, so angry with Elena, with Stefan, with the world. He hadn't seen anyone from Fells Church since then. He'd wanted Elena for himself. There was so much potential in her that would be gone is she was with Stefan
He'd won the round but Stefan had won the game.
He'd known Stefan and Elena had moved to Pennsylvania, he'd watched them since the night in the clearing and made a note of their location.
Damon looked around at his surroundings. House after house, tree after tree, lawn after lawn. Then he spotted it.
It was a house on the corner, a Victorian house, with a manicured lawn, and a driveway with not a single crack in it. On the driveway parked was a black Porsche.
_"Stefan's. So they are home."_ He thought to himself.
The front door wasn't opened, but through a window, with his vampire sharp senses, he could see into their kitchen. Standing by the sink was his brother, arms draped around his wife's body.
Then, angrily, he realized he was jealous.
He made his way up the driveway then over to the front door, slowly and silently. He stood before the large oak door, raised his hand and rang the doorbell.