Chapter 5

"So, what exactly did Mom tell you?"

Meredith felt a small smile teasing the corners of her mouth, keeping her face turned towards the window, her eyes closing briefly against the blur of the world passing them by.  She'd been floored, relatively speaking, given that reactions of any sort tended to be muffled ten fold by her naturally blasé demeanor, when Matt had casually suggested that she have dinner with him and his mother that evening.  Christmas Eve was the day after tomorrow, but the Honeycutt clan was apparently celebrating a little early, although Matt hadn't divulged why, and she, not wanting to seem even more intrusive, hadn't pressed the issue.  She'd accepted without hesitation; after all, reunions like this didn't happen every day.  Her family could wait a few more hours.

"Sounds like there's something you don't want me to know," she chided quietly.  Matt gripped the steering wheel a little tighter, his jaw clenching as he focused on the stretch of road ahead, but relaxed as Meredith went on, mentally admonishing himself for getting so tense over an innocent speculation.  "I only spoke to her for a few minutes, and that was a couple of months ago.  In September."

There was a slight pause, and Matt snuck a glimpse out of the corner of his eye; his effort yielded no insight as to what she might be thinking, her hands resting quietly in her lap, cradling her beret, looking out the window with indifference.  The moment was gone before he had the chance to contemplate anything further, her voice smooth and soft, perhaps a little sullen.  Same old Meredith.

"I know she's really proud of you.  She told me where you were, what you were doing.  Even gave me your phone number."  They'd stopped at an intersection, and Matt canted his head, brows raised.  She smirked, giving her shoulders a shrug and meeting his gaze; if Matt didn't know better, he'd have thought at that moment, she seemed almost embarrassed.  "I didn't think it appropriate to just call you out of the blue."

Matt smiled, averting his attentions as the light changed.  "I don't think I would have been bothered too much," he murmured with a note of light-hearted humor.  She said nothing in response, merely studied his profile as he drove, her own smile lingering.  A thought suddenly occurred to her, dampening her mood.

"I…I asked her about—"

"Bonnie?"

Meredith blinked, her surprise evident in that one motion, dark brown eyes narrowing slightly as she forced herself to look out the window instead of at him.  "Yes."  Her voice was barely a whisper, somber and reverent.  A grim silence settled between them during the last lengths of the drive to his mother's house, and Meredith regretted having broached the subject.  She could feel a lump rising in her throat in spite of herself, struggling to gather her composure even as they reached their destination.  She kept her face turned away from him, her eyes closed as she took slow, deliberate breaths.  Being in control used to come so easily, but even she could only live through so much…

"Meredith?"

She summoned a small smile, glancing over to see that he'd put the car in park and turned off the ignition, and was waiting with one hand on the door.  When she lifted her gaze to his face, she had already mentally prepared herself to respond to any idle inquiry into her state of mind.  She wasn't, however, ready for the knowing look that was now fixed on her, his blue eyes easily piercing the calm exterior to glimpse the uncertainty that swirled beneath.  She should've known better.  The corners of her mouth sagged, her smile replaced with a frown as she looked down at her lap.

Matt had the sudden urge to slip a finger beneath her chin and tilt her face towards him, but instead let out a long-winded sigh and gestured towards the house.  "C'mon.  We'll talk inside.  After dinner."  She only nodded, slipping on the beret as he got out of the car.  He was at her door before she had the chance to open it, taking his proffered hand as she stepped out into the evening chill.  She shook her head, chuckling softly as they trod the flagstone path to the front door.

"Still the same old Matt," she explained endearingly in response to the questioning look she was given.

****

There's nothing to be afraid of.

"That's easy enough for you to say.  You've nothing to lose."

Neither do you.  You just don't know it.

"Then show me."

Bonnie, it isn't that easy.  This is something only you can fix.

"But…I can't…"

Yes, you can. You have to.

The world shifted beneath her feet.  Everything was so dark, so black, save for his image…He seemed so strong, and when she looked at him, it was as though his strength was transposed upon her, steadying her, chasing away the doubt, clearing her view.  She felt the tears pooling in her eyes, and withered beneath his scrutiny, ashamed that she could not live up to his expectations.  It was just too hard…

And in an instant, he was standing so close to her, the scent of his cologne surrounding her, his presence buffering the turmoil, comforting in and of itself.  One hand reached out to cradle her face, and she found it ironic how someone so powerful could be so gentle at the same time.  She tentatively shifted her gaze to meet his, black and fathomless, but not like a void…no, not that cold, not that empty.  More like the endless darkness of space laden with millions and millions of stars…each with its own secret, each giving off its own heat.  A tear escaped to leave a wet trail down her cheek, and he wiped it away with the pad of his thumb.

"It won't always be this way."  He seemed so sad when he said it that she couldn't help but wonder if the statement should appease or worry her.  Wearily she closed her eyes, chin quivering, feeling helpless and alone with the burden placed upon her, wishing he could help her carry the weight.  She heard the wind howling eerily in the maelstrom of her bleak dreamscape and shivered, holding her breath as she felt his face nearing her own, lips parting in anticipation as a puff of air caressed the corner of her mouth…

The kiss never came.  She opened her eyes slowly and gasped, now staring into a mirror.  The grayscale wasteland was gone, replaced with the surroundings of a rather expensively decorated bedroom.  But it was not her reflection that was staring back at her.  It was his.  He was leaning into the mirror, the muscles tense beneath the smooth skin of his chest and shoulders, black eyes narrowed and menacing.  In that one moment, she can never remember having been so frightened—and only by a look…

His voice was no longer soothing, but ominous.  "Get.  Out.  Of.  My.  Head."

She choked, too terrified to even scream as his image pitched closer, a threatening sneer promising death when only moments before, she'd itched to feel those lips on hers.  The world went black, and all that remained was the sound of breaking glass and a swift, searing pain…

Bonnie awoke, finding her voice as she sat up, reflexively clamping both hands over her mouth to muffle her cries.  She kicked at the blankets with her legs, pushing herself against the headboard, the solid surface painfully pressing into her back.  The pain from the dream had followed her into consciousness, reduced to a dull throbbing that radiated from her furrowed brow and settled behind her eyes.  Blinking frantically, she scanned the darkness, her groggy brain fighting to ascertain just where she was.  Recognizing the now sterile décor of her old bedroom, she closed her eyes, still holding her hands over her mouth as she slumped forward, her panicked cries turning into sobs.

Nothing made any sense.  She knew that if Melissa were there, she'd tell her that dreams never made any sense, and not to worry about it anymore.  But these dreams…

Tonight was the first time that she'd ever been terrified of Damon.  That wasn't what troubled her, though.  What was vexing was the certainty that she'd felt that before; that the fear evoked by him was more real than any other feeling his image had ever conjured.  All this time, she'd been desperate to know the secrets lurking within her past, holding on to the picture of him above all the others, needing to know what it was that held them together.  She'd been feeding off the unspoken promise behind his secret smiles and spoken assurances.

And now this.

Prone upon the mattress, hiccupping against the sheets, soaking the threads with her tears, and clutching the material in her fists, she fought against the unknown, a nearly suffocating pressure that compounded the ache that, along with her fear, was the only remnant of her latest ethereal encounter with the ghost of her missing past.  Surrounded by relics of her youth—stuffed animals, portraits, and keepsakes--she suddenly felt foreign, a stranger in her own house.  She didn't know what was true or false, real or imagined.  And for the first few hysterical moments upon waking, she'd been too terrified at the prospect of finding out.

Who are you, Damon?  And why does seeing you hurt so much?

Gradually, the tears subsided, her senses returning, though dulled by a need for dreamless slumber.  She turned her head, squinting at the clock, and sighed.  Just a few more hours until morning.  She couldn't put it off any longer.  In spite of her fear, in spite of the alarms sounding in the back of her mind, raising the hairs at her nape and sending a chill through her body that made her chest ache in protest, she knew that she could put it off no longer.  She'd planned on waiting a few days, going through the motions through Christmas, at least, before she went digging for dirt, but…

Tomorrow, she'd confront her parents.  Tomorrow, she's demand the truth.  To hell with consequence.

****

Damon felt a growl reverberate deep within his throat, feeling the mahogany wood of the vanity splintering as he gripped the edge, his mouth contorting into a snarl as narrowed eyes glared at the myriad of jagged reflections staring menacingly back at him, polished shards scattered about, some still dangling precariously from the ornate frame.  A little over a month, and already, it seemed, he was being driven mad.

He closed his eyes, squeezing the lids tightly against the pounding in his brain as he stood, supporting himself against the vanity.  He felt something warm and wet trail slowly between his lowered brows, tickle the side of his nose, and finally reach the subtle curve of his upper lip before his tongue snaked out reflexively to capture the precious drop.  The taste was soothing, and he savored every last essence, shoulders tense as his head bowed, his breaths ragged but deep.  Where's your indifference now, sciocco*?   You can't be allowing some pathetic human girl to force her way under your skin again…are you?

A soft gasp erupted from behind, the muscles of his jaw clenching as his canines lengthened instinctively.  A sleepy voice soon followed, and he blinked, ebony eyes fixed on the partial image of the bed that dominated the suite, and the beauty that occupied it, fiery red waves spilling over silky smooth shoulders.  "Você está sangrando…Que é acontecido? É você aprovado?"*

The inquiry was innocent enough, but the implications of his situation, coupled with the remnants of this most recent nocturnal assault upon his mind culminated into an overwhelming tidal wave of self-loathing.  Frenetically, a slideshow of ghastly yet disgustingly arousing images played out before his mind's eye, portraying the random redhead's gruesome and, from a predator's point of view, altogether artistically creative demise by his own hand.  He could feel his body readying for the kill, his breaths quickening, veins burning, demanding to be quenched with violence.  A weaker vampire, younger and far more inexperienced, would have let go in an instant, easily overcome by the primal desire that burned within the heart of every killer.

Damon, on the other hand, shook it off like an idle nuisance, rolling his shoulders once to ease some of the tension as he pushed away from the mangled furniture piece, hips shifting to balance his weight predominantly on one leg, his gaze no longer searing as it shifted to stare down upon his hands.  He fancied he could see the blood of thousands etched deep within the grooves of his palms, dried and caking beneath jagged nails…he blinked, cocking his brow curiously when met with the sight of immaculate skin, uncalloused…the hands of a nobleman…

"Get out," he murmured monotonously, still examining his hands, as though searching for traces of what certainly must be there, his momentary homicidal tendencies now forgotten as his fickle mind entertained the beast with thoughts of another kind.  Several seconds passed before he realized she was hesitating, and, with a guttural growl tossed over his shoulder, he balled his perfect, smooth, soft, playboy's hands into fists, raising them over his head and bringing them down to further damage the already fractured vanity, the sounds of tinkling glass and cracking wood mingling with a deafening roar of fury that seemed to shake the plaster from the walls.  It was all the motivation the girl needed as she rolled from the bed and tumbled clumsily to the floor, not bothering to get dressed as she fetched discarded clothes on her way out, whimpering as she disappeared from his view.

He waited until he heard the door to the penthouse slam before unleashing the brunt of his rage, hefting the hardwood beneath his fists as though it weighed nothing, gathering some small satisfaction at seeing it smash against the opposite wall, sending splinters and plaster dust flying.  And so it went, until there was nothing left to break, his latest retreat reduced to rubble in a matter of minutes…without a scratch, without a sprain, without a drop of sweat to testify to his efforts to purge himself of all that swam just beneath the surface, drudged up by a slip of a girl who never should have mattered in the first place.

Did she ever?

He dressed quickly, pausing only to wash his hands and face of the dirt and grime, the only evidence on him of the destruction that lay in his wake.  Kicking open the door to the penthouse as he donned a leather trench coat, he plowed through the barrage of employees and curious on-lookers that had been alerted by the cacophony caused by his rampage, adjusting his collar and waving a hand at the protests of a balding elderly gentleman, most likely the concierge, as he passed him by with a muttered, "Bill me."

He didn't know exactly where he was going, letting instinct take over, giving himself up to the hunt.  He had a score to settle.  The witch had gotten his attention.  Whether she'd live to regret it was another matter entire.

I feel you

Your sun it shines

I feel you

Within my mind

You take me there

You take me where kingdom comes

You take me through

Lead me to Babylon

I feel you

Your precious soul, I am whole

I feel you

Your rising sun, my kingdom comes

I feel you

The truth you make

I feel you

Each breath you take…

DEPECHE MODE

A/N:  1.)  sciocco:  fool (Italian)

    2.)  Você está sangrando…Que é acontecido? É você aprovado?:  You're bleeding…What's happened?  Are you okay? (Portuguese)