~3~


~Chapter Three~


One hand breaks another, broken bones can always mend
Loss will be a blessing that will turn us back again
'Cause we don't wanna, we don't wanna, wanna walk alone forever
We don't wanna live without each other in the end

~The Temper Trap, Dreams~


Place: 22 Broken Arrow Road
Mystic Falls, Virginia

(Date and time remain unknown)


I know it's going to be a long night before my head hits the pillows—before I even make it back to my room, actually.

My mind is racing as I try to wrap my head around how the kitchen magically re-stocked itself in my absence. Damon said he believed me when I told him it was barren before now, but… did I believe myself? It doesn't make any sense—not that anything that happened today made sense—but you can't conjure things out of thin air. And you certainly don't make the object of your thoughts appear simply by wanting it.

I'm dazed and even more confused by the time I close the bedroom door behind me. At first, I don't venture any deeper into the room. I stay where I am, back pressed against the door, taking deep breaths. I need to center myself—I can't let my imagination run wild like this. How will I ever get back to wherever I'm supposed to be, who I was before today if I entertain crazy, implausible ideas?

Counting back from ten, mouthing each number as the seconds' tick by, I take in my surroundings once more. The bed is exactly how I left it—blankets bunched up, hanging off the side of the mattress, pillows crooked. And a glance at the bedside table confirms that the picture frame had been taken from its spot—because it's on the floor, right where it fell when I dropped it in my haste to get the photograph.

But something has definitely changed.

At first, I think it must be a minor physical alteration, one so small it's almost impossible to catch, but it isn't something that can really be seen. It's something that is felt.

There's a buzz of… excitement in the air, and electricity that I'm in-tune with—it's almost like I'm breathing it in, thriving on the strange energy as it burns in my fingertips. At first, the experience is rejuvenating, weird, but good.

And then it becomes hot… too hot… as if I stuck my hand into a fire… and I remember how close I had gotten to actually doing just that before Damon stopped me.

The pain goes away, once again, leaving just as fast as it came. Everything is normal again. It makes me sad for some reason, like some vital part of Bonnie is missing. And I'm worried that I won't be able to survive without it.

Don't be ridiculous!

How can a person miss something they never knew they had?

I don't miss Caroline and Elena—the girls I looked so happy to be with, though I know I probably should… and I didn't know Damon until we met face-to-face, so how could I miss him?

Except the gaping hole isn't for a person, really. It came from whatever it is that causes all these weird vibes and eerie intuition and whatever it is that makes my pulse speed up whenever the only other human being, within what is probably a twenty-mile radius, touches me.

I trudge over to the dresser and open the first drawer. I figure I should make use of all the underutilized space in this funhouse and storing clothes—though dirty—where they should go seems like a good way to start.

Only, there isn't any space for my jacket, top, or jeans.

The dresser is now filled to the brim with jeans, shorts, skirts, loungewear, and pants. The smallest drawer contains the bras and underwear I was in desperate need of earlier. A deeper inspection of the closet reveals a rack of dresses, shirts, and blouses.

I pull a t-shirt off a hanger, looking it over. It's black with a picture of a starry night sky on the front with the words Night of the Comet Festival '09 printed in an arch across the chest. On the back, I see a list of dates, the earliest one being September 1864. There is a single date—September 10th, 2009—written in orange, with an asterisk beside it, and every other numeral after that go up in increments of one-forty-five.

I have a sinking suspicion that this is more than just a t-shirt. That it holds some kind of value that I've yet to discover, but right now, it's something comfy (and clean) to wear to bed. It smells like it's been freshly washed, the faint scent of bergamot hanging on the fabric, beckoning to me like a hug from an old friend.

On a lark, I head back out into the hallway, a complete set of clothes in my arms. If the kitchen has all one would expect to find in it, I wonder if there will be toiletries in the bathroom…

I breeze by the staircase, but I stop short right before I reach my intended destination. There's a tugging sensation in my chest, pulling me back to the stairs. I drape my clothes on the banister and cautiously make my way to the front door.

It's locked—no one would be able to get inside—if there's anyone else in Mystic Falls to get in.

Says the girl who illegally entered someone else's house not too long ago.

Still, I'm relieved, though I opt to bring a chair from the kitchen into the foyer to wedge underneath the doorknob for good measure. I go through the rest of the house, repeating the process with the back door, and checking all of the windows to ensure they are locked, too.

Once I secure every possible entry point, the nagging feeling goes away and I'm able to return to my other mission. As I'd hoped, the bathroom is filled with items I don't think were here before my arrival, but I'm happy to see them, nonetheless. The body wash gives off a strong scent of vanilla bean and coconut. The loofah is orange-and-white, and when I head over to the sink in search of a toothbrush, I find it sitting in an orange cup with a giant set of initials on it—B.S.B.

The same thing goes for the towel I got from the tiny linen closet. B.S.B. is stitched onto the hem. In orange letters and it smells exactly like my clothes. My brain gets fuzzy when I think about it all—the perfectly-sized outfits, the familiar scents, the letter B around every corner… it's familiar, but none of it actually jogs my memories.

Defeated, I dress and retire to my room, which at this point, I'm beginning to suspect really does belong to me. I climb into bed, a trial in itself because I'm so short. I have to swing my leg over the side and push myself up.

I lie on my back, arms resting on my stomach, blankets at my feet, trying to fall asleep. The moonlight shines in through the window, creating a pretty pattern on the walls and floor. The wind is still howling outside, smacking into the house with so much force that a few shutters have probably flown off. If I listen closely, I can hear Damon making sarcastic remarks at whatever show he's put on—after a moment, the title is said aloud.

Baywatch.

I roll over onto my side, tuck my hand beneath the pillow. I try to tune out the background noise, thinking that is one of the reasons I can't relax, but it isn't. Not really. I'm a bit taken aback by it, but Damon's commentary is not only funny; it's comforting. It puts me at ease, knowing I'm not truly alone.

That thought spurs minor panic in me. I checked the entire house—except for Damon's room. I reach over, pounding on the wall as hard as I can with a closed fist.

"What do you want now, Judge Judy?" He grumbles, voice muffled by the barrier between us.

"Make sure your windows are locked."

A faint chuckle. "Are you afraid the boogeyman is going to come and get you?"

"No," I answer indignantly. "Your face will scare him off."

"Rude."

I sigh inwardly, rolling my eyes. "… Are you doing it?"

"Nope."

I hit the wall again. If something bad happens because he can't follow basic safety precautions, the boogeyman will be the least of his problems.

"God, if I do it, will you shut up?"

"Yes."

I wait patiently, listening as he goes from window to window, securing the latches, smiling to myself.

"There it's done—you can wipe the smirk off your face now."

"I am not smirking."

"You need to learn to lie better."

"Good night, Damon."

"Sweet dreams, Bon Bon."

~~X~~

I'm awakened the following morning by Damon, who decided it would be a good idea to flop down on the edge of my bed to get my attention.

"What is wrong with you?"

"I would tell you, but I'm not willing to waste that kind of time. I'm starving."

I glare at him, at his smug facial expression and pretty blue eyes. "How am I supposed to solve that problem for you?"

He opens his mouth to respond, hesitates, and finally says, "by being my shopping buddy."

That's right, I say to myself, he thinks I'm willing to go to the grocery store with him.

I can only stare at him. Clearly, he has no reservations about doing whatever it is that he wants. He doesn't seem like the kind of person who would care about having company, either. And yet… he followed me back here and refused to leave when I expressed distaste by his presence.

So maybe, in whatever life he had before now, he had been desperate for friends. Maybe that's why he won't leave me alone and he knows far more about his past than I do mine. Maybe I should try to be a little more open to his suggestions.

Nah, I decide, that would give him too much satisfaction.

"Come on, Bon Bon!" he shakes my shoulder. "I'm bored."

"Fine," I sigh, tossing the covers back. "Get out so I can get ready."

"Do I have to?"

I throw a pillow at his face and he catches it without batting an eyelash. "I'll take that as a yes."

"Good guess," I grumble, hopping out of bed and making my way over to the closet.

"I'm good at a lot of things," he says with a smirk.

I turn around, expecting to find him standing in the center of the room, but he isn't there. I'm alone once again—the only sign that Damon had been here being the quiet click of the door closing. I grab a random shirt and pair of shorts and lay my nightclothes on the foot of the bed.

When I'm done getting ready, I go downstairs and find Damon lounging on the couch, watching yet another episode of Baywatch. He's changed out of his t-shirt and opted to wear a similarly colored flannel button-down.

"You have clothes here, too?" I asked, mildly surprised. The master bedroom is decorated in a feminine way that bore no masculine undertones. As a matter of fact, if I really think about it, the house—minus the guest bedroom—is done in the same style, painted with the same color scheme.

I haven't seen anything to suggest more than one person resided here before we came along, much less two people with completely different fashion senses.

"No," he says, pressing a button on the remote control. The television goes black. "I went out and got it last night."

"From where? Wait… you left me alone last night?"

"A thrift store, I think. I got a whole new wardrobe. And chill… it was only for two hours. I checked on you, so I was sure you were okay, and I made sure I locked the door on my way out."

"You came into my room?"

He groans. "Again—no. I heard you talking in your sleep when I walked by. That's really fucking annoying by the way, you should do something about that."

"I don't talk in my sleep." Though, I suppose I can't really claim otherwise—I don't remember anything about myself.

"Sure, you don't… now are you done interrogating me?"

"I wasn't…" I begin, but I pause when Damon raises his eyebrows. "You should've told me you were going somewhere… that's all."

"I'll keep that in mind for next time."

Why am I so upset he left me in the house? Nothing terrible happened. I wasn't even aware of his absence. But it leaves me feeling vulnerable anyway. Our circumstances are so creepy that anything could go wrong.

"… Besides, I'm going to take your outrage as a compliment."

"Why? Because you're an arrogant, short-sighted jerk?" I quip, hands planted on my hips, fingers curled into fists.

"No—because you were so against me staying here last night. It took me less than a day to get you wrapped around my finger."

I recoil in disgust. "Ugh. Don't flatter yourself asshole. I just know something strange is going on. I realized that there's strength in numbers. Sure, I wish that didn't mean having you hanging around, but there are probably worse things out there than you."

"So, better the devil you know than the devil you don't… interesting."

A chill runs down my spine. It's not Damon himself who puts me ill-at-ease, but his summation of our reluctant partnership. I'm righter than I really understand, I think.

Because there just has to be something else out there, whether it's close by or far away, and chances are, it won't be nearly as personable as Damon Salvatore.

That's the scariest revelation I've had yet.


The only grocery store in town is rather small and just as abandoned as every other building around here. Well, it doesn't have the same level of disarray as that house we broke into. Everything looks brand-new, well-kept, neat, and clean.

The aisles are lined with all kinds of food—there's a section for snacks, spices and herbs, coffee, soft drinks, and bottled water, a refrigerated section, produce, and baked goods. At the corner of each shelf, there's a display for non-food items. Make-up, notebooks, sunglasses, little toys.

I notice that there is an entirely separate area for family-planning. I hadn't considered it before, but I'm going to have to sneak off somehow and grab a box of tampons. Another major downfall of having a bizarre case of amnesia is the fact that Mother Nature could strike at any moment.

Damon wheels a shopping cart over, glancing at me before turning his head to figure out what I'm looking at.

Cue the agitated sigh that I've somehow grown accustomed to in such a short amount of time. He waltzes over to the shelf, picks up a random box, and throws it in the basket. "We should probably find you some Midol, too. Being trapped in a house with you while you're on your period is probably going to be torture.

"I didn't ask you to move in with me," I remind him.

"Didn't have to; it was written all over your face."

"Why would I want to live in a ghost town with a stranger who has no idea what the word boundaries means?"

"You're not a stranger." He states calmly, directing the cart over to a table with loaves of bread stacked upon it.

"We just met each other yesterday!"

"Then why does it feel like you've been nagging me for an eternity?"

Whatever witty reply I'd been planning on giving vanishes. He's right, I admit, it really does feel that way. "I… don't know."

"Me either." Damon gets a package of bagels and a small jar of strawberry preserves.

"I like cream cheese."

"Fine—we'll get cream cheese, too."

We go on like this for the next several minutes, volleying the names of our favorite foods back-and-forth until the cart is almost full. I ransacked the frozen confections fridge for two tubs of ice cream and a box of orange cream bars. Damon loaded the bin with all the ingredients for baking basically anything and those needed to make spaghetti.

"How do we know this stuff isn't expired or something?" I ask, inspecting a container of cookies he hands me.

The expiration date reads May 12th, 1994.

"Because of this," he walks to the front of the store, breaks open the display case encased around a stack of newspaper, and strolls back over to where I stand in the middle of the bakery.

Then he shoves the front page in my face. I take it from him and pull it back to get a better look.

If this printing is up to date, that makes today May 10th, 1994.

Okay, so this stuff is still safe to eat—if we rule out the possibility that it's poisoned.

"It's not lethal," Damon deadpans.

"How do you know that?" I thrust the newspaper back at him, jabbing him in the chest. Of course, a better question would be, how'd you know that was what I was thinking?

"I checked this place out earlier. Ate a few boxes of cookies. I didn't keel over and die or taste anything awful, so I knew we were in the clear."

"You abandoned me this morning, too?" I ask, aghast. And then, "You ate weird stuff without knowing what was in it?"

"Last night," he clarifies, agitation heavy in his voice. "I was going to ransack the place myself, but I thought it would be more fun if we did it together. And yes… I've done far more questionable things than eat suspicious baked goods."

Oh. I hadn't been expecting him to say something so nice. "…Is it?"

He shrugs. "Surprisingly, yeah, it is."

"And you didn't want me to get sick, did you?"

"I guess not," Damon mumbles, almost indiscernibly

I nod, ruminating over his admission. I guess the morning hasn't been that bad. I mean, we ended up figuring out today's date, and that's something. A definite step in the right direction. Also, this kind of confirms my first impression of Damon Salvatore; whoever he's a threat to—and I'm sure he is—it's not me.

"Thank you."

"Don't mention it. Seriously—don't bring it up again."

"I probably will," I inform him with a small smile. Something tells me that I can't let this blackmail opportunity slip past me.

"Oh, then, game on, Bon Bon. May the most devious man win."

"Oh, I will."

The rest of our shopping trip plays out with the two of us trading playful insults until we get close to the checkout lanes. Out of curiosity, I peek around the corner, on the off chance that I will see that someone else has been here with us the whole time.

I don't see anything.

I press down on the silver bell sitting on the counter, next to an ad for cigarettes and a hand-written sign that proclaims: If you were born after… you may not purchase any of the tobacco products we sell.

The appropriate date is scrawled on a sticky note and attached in the black space between the words after and you.

May 10th, 1976.

Below that, in print so small I can barely make out what it says, is the statement eighteen years ago today.

I push the ominous feeling this announcement gives me, locking the date showcased on the shirt I wore to bed away, and ring the bell four times.

Damon's hand closes around my wrist, preventing me from pressing it a fifth. "No one's coming, Bennett."

"Maybe they're just on a break…" I reason.

"It's just you and me, Bon Bon," he says. "We should go."

"And not pay for this stuff?" I gesture to the overflowing cart.

"It's not stealing if there isn't anybody to collect money from us."

"But… are you sure… that it's just us?" I ask, unsure of which answer I want to hear the most.

"Yeah," he answers, his voice hollow and empty. "I'm sure."