Wandering stars
For whom it is preserved
The blackness, the darkness…Forever.
PORTISHEAD
Chapter 3
Boredom is the predominate burden of immortality.
After awhile, nothing is shocking. You've been there, done that, smoked this, had a taste. Living becomes bland, even for one who isn't really alive at all. Your entire existence becomes a search for the latest distraction from the monotony of eternity, something to stir any humanity that is left within, because that is all that is separating you from any other predatory animal. If not fulfilling, it's at least a little amusing.
Damon thought so anyway.
It took a great deal to attract his interest anymore. Through centuries, continents, populations, one would think it would take a very long time to exhaust all the possibilities. Unfortunately, it seemed it really was a small world after all. There would always be beautiful men and women to devour, and in so many different ways. Coming up with anything original, however, was becoming harder to do.
Really, it was only ever good for a laugh, or rather a smirk, and then, well, dreadful ennui crept in, and the cycle would begin again. He sometimes imagined his existence to be a broken record, stuck in the same groove; all things were essentially the same, save for the names. Occasionally, though, chance would give the needle a good flick, and he would be off on a new path, in which the outcome was delightfully unpredictable.
Case in point: Fell's Church, Virginia.
The memories implanted from the events that occurred in that sleepy little town still gave him pause from time to time. He reveled in the emotions they evoked, emotions that he'd felt had died long ago with a sword through his chest. They reminded him he still had a soul, and, surprisingly, he'd found that mattered a great deal, though he wasn't prepared to consider why.
Inevitably, his thoughts would shift to Elena, and then to Stefan, and then to all the "what-ifs" spawned by his ruminations. He wouldn't go so far as to admit that he was wallowing in self-pity, but he did tend to admonish his inability to let it go. He'd lost her to his brother. She didn't want him. End of story.
Oh, if only it were that simple.
After the summer of 1992, Damon had become familiar with regret. So maybe he had a conscience after all, only seldom used, overwhelmed by his thirst for passion, for blood. He was no saint, but he always had his reasons. And although his drive was rooted mainly in self-indulgence, he had come to find that altruism, at times, could be just as good as hedonism—sometimes better…
"Monsieur?"
Damon cocked a brow, his train of thought derailed by the tentative interruption of a female from behind. His fathomless black eyes remained directed out over the glorious view of Paris he had from the balcony of his current temporary domicile, a decadent penthouse suite with help that catered to his every whim. He made no other movement to acknowledge he'd heard the girl, his arms crossed lazily over his naked chest, barefoot and wearing only a luxurious pair of black satin pajama pants. A gentle night breeze carried to him the scent of skin, sweat, and anxiety, tainted with a light perfume, and involuntarily, his canines lengthened. He closed his eyes, the ache in his jaw a welcome reprieve from his quiet contemplations, and for a moment, he was able to forget what had prompted him to conjure up the past.
He finally turned to look, the girl now stammering in French, standing awkwardly in the dimly lit doorway…and suddenly wished he hadn't. The bemused smirk he wore so well melted as his eyes took in the fair, translucent skin, the wide, almost innocent brown eyes, and, most devastating of all, the abundance of red curls that framed her delicate face.
What luck.
He fought the urge to laugh out loud for the sheer lunacy of it all. In times such as these, he fancied that there indeed was such a thing as Fate. He wasn't about to get sentimental, though. No, if circumstances required that, then he'd save his efforts for the real thing.
His intentions must have been painfully obvious, for the girl had fallen silent, muscles relaxing, her eyes becoming hooded and cloudy. He unfolded his arms, locking his gaze with hers and crooking a finger seductively. Wordlessly, and without the slightest hesitation, she moved toward him, the material of her skirt whispering softly over her stockings with every step. She stopped when she was but inches away, and only because his eyes had moved to appreciate the gentle curves of her neck.
He'd indulge this one fantasy, chase away the burning in his groin as well as in his veins. Perhaps then he wouldn't dream of her again. But he knew better.
Bonnie had reawakened the connection. And this time, he didn't think he'd be able to ignore it.
****
"So, you'll call me during break, right? Let me know how everything goes?"
Melissa was leaning against the side of the car, one hand on the open lid of the trunk, watching Bonnie unload her luggage.
"Yes, I'll call," Bonnie replied with a sigh, standing on tiptoe to slam the trunk shut. "You sound just like my mother."
Melissa grimaced, gloved hands fumbling anxiously with her car keys. Both girls took a moment to look each other over fondly before exchanging hugs, patting and rubbing each other's backs to stave off the chill.
"Promise you won't lose your nerve?"
Bonnie chuckled, pulling away and hefting a suitcase in each hand as she stepped up onto the curb. "Missy, it's no big deal, really. It's not like it's a bad thing, you know? I finally feel like I'm getting somewhere."
She waited for Melissa to grab the remaining luggage and fall into step beside her, careful of the frozen slush covering the sidewalk. She suddenly wished she'd chosen to go to college in Florida. Then again, she might never have found a friend like Melissa. Long, cold winters were a small price to pay.
"Besides," she added optimistically, "my parents might be okay with it. I don't know why I'm even worrying about it, really. How could they be anything but happy? Right?"
"Of course," Melissa replied a little too quickly. "I mean, this whole repressed trauma thing might have been, you know, a little overrated."
Bonnie pulled up short, canting her head towards her with a look of disdain. "Gee, Miss, thanks a bunch."
Turning her back on Melissa's stuttered attempts at a retraction, Bonnie entered the bus station, going through the motions with the attendant and doing her best to maintain her calm façade. She knew her friend had meant no harm, and even conjured up a knowing smile when she glanced back in her direction. Still, there was truth to her words; bringing up the past had always been a touchy subject with her mother and father. She'd always been reluctant to press, not fully understanding all that they'd had to endure those few months that had resulted in the loss of her memory. Asking questions seemed to bring it all back for them, and she hated reminding them. But it had happened. And whether they liked it or not, she needed to remember.
"Departure will be in twenty minutes, Miss McCullough."
Bonnie smiled her thanks, accepting her boarding pass as Melissa handed her luggage over to the bus clerk.
"I'm really nervous, Missy," she murmured then, no longer wanting to conceal her apprehension.
Smiling reassuringly, Melissa draped an arm around her shoulders and gave a squeeze. "I'm nervous for you. But, like I always say: Everything will be—"
"Okay," Bonnie finished for her with a lengthy sigh and a lop-sided grin. She'd hoped saying it would make her believe it, but the odd foreboding that had steadily grown since that first dark dream still weighed down on her. She didn't know if it would be okay. She wasn't sure why thoughts of trudging forward with her plans to interrogate her parents made a queer tingling travel up her spine, forcing the tiny hairs of her nape to stand on end. But nothing was stopping her. Sultry, haunting images of the same man, this Damon, had grown clearer and more incessant since she'd stopped taking her medication, and not only in her dreams. It was unsettling, but at times, it seemed as though she were seeing the world through a different pair of eyes, visions of different places, of complete strangers. None of it made any sense.
She had to know why.
****
Daniel McCullough sat across from his wife of nearly thirty years, elbows resting on the kitchen table, his hands cradling a lukewarm cup of coffee. He'd joined her nearly an hour ago, and although he'd made efforts to belie his worry, he knew that there was no point denying it any longer.
He'd been looking forward to seeing his daughter, having only received an occasional phone call since the previous spring semester. She'd chosen to live out her last summer at the university in Erie, and neither one of them had thought anything of it, although, understandably, they'd been uneasy. It was pointless to stifle her, though, and they both knew it. She still had a life to live, regardless of what had happened. And it appeared that she was happy to move on, to push forward.
His wife, however, seemed to think otherwise.
"Are you sure about this?" he ventured quietly. "I mean, it's perfectly natural for her to ask, anyone would. It doesn't mean anything, Sarah."
Gauging the look his wife gave him, he had a hard time believing his own words. He averted his gaze to his mug, his brow furrowing pensively.
Earlier in the week, his wife confessed to having lingering doubts, trudged up by Bonnie's recent requests for photos and other memorabilia. She'd complied, of course, sending along what she deemed appropriate, doing what she could to ensure Bonnie of her unconditional support. Still, it was hard not to be afraid for her daughter.
It was a fear they both shared. Neither one of them were prepared for, nor wanted to endure what had happened before. Once had been quite enough.
He sighed, running a hand through his graying red hair as he pushed himself up from the table, tossing the contents of his coffee cup into the sink and giving a cursory glance to the watch on his wrist.
"I've got to go. She's supposed to be at the bus station by six."
He sat his empty mug upon the countertop, bracing himself against the edge with his back to the kitchen, waiting for some sort of response. But there was only silence, and an invisible tension that weighed down on him, causing his shoulders to droop and his head to fall forward. After several moments, he turned, the sight of his wife simply staring blankly into the dregs of her wasted coffee spurning a sudden rush of anger.
"Just stop it. It's not going to happen again. The doctor assured us of that."
At last, his words yielded a reaction, her deep brown eyes meeting his, awash with apprehension. "I'm having a hard time placing all my trust in a pill, Daniel."
Once again, he sighed, knowing that statement reflected his own reservations. He moved around the table, lowering himself beside her chair, one hand reaching out to squeeze her knee. He summoned a reassuring smile, knowing everything he said and did was as much for his own benefit as his wife's.
"It'll be alright, hon. You'll see." He straightened smoothly, pausing to give her a quick peck on the cheek, his fingers reaching out to lovingly caress her hair. He lowered his voice, his tone soothing. "But we have to stop worrying like this. You know how she is. She'll pick up on it in a heartbeat. We don't want to give her anything to stress about. We both know all to well what that can do."
She nodded solemnly, staring up at him with tears in her eyes and a wobbly smile. "I know," she whispered. "I'll be fine. We'll all be fine."
Both of them hoped that would be true.
