~6~


~Chapter Six~


You can't wake up, this is not a dream
You're part of a machine, you are not a human being
With your face all made up, living on a screen
Low on self-esteem, so you run on gasoline

~Halsey, Gasoline~


The sun is setting when Damon and I exit the house, the sky several different hues of pink and blue. The lampposts have switched on, illuminating the sidewalk. It's cooler now, the temperature dipping low enough for me to need a sweater.

"It's not that cold," Damon says, stepping off the porch. "It feels nice."

"Maybe to you," I snip, throwing a look at the front door. I'm seriously thinking about going back inside to swap my shorts for pants.

But Damon is already halfway down the driveway, having dismissed my claim entirely. So, I hurry over to him, turning to face him once I get a few steps ahead. "You are so annoying!"

"Chill out, Judgy. I wasn't ditching you; I knew you'd catch up… eventually."

I'm still walking backward, not wanting to let him have the last laugh by falling in line beside him. I like to glare at him disapprovingly when he irritates me. Not that he really feels I'm all that intimidating. I think it has to do with my height—or rather, my lack thereof. Damon insists that it's because I'm cute when I'm angry, but I know he says that because it enrages me more.

"Are you going to tell me where you're taking me yet?"

"No," he scoffs. "That would be anticlimactic."

"Why does everything have to be a movie… why is everything such a big, grand deal?"

He ponders this, tapping his finger against his lips. "Mostly because of the actual movies you make me watch are horrible."

"The Bodyguard is not a bad film—it's a great story."

"Yeah… and that's why I think you have bad taste."

"I resent that statement, especially since your pick was Interview with a Vampire."

He stares at me for a moment, before shaking his head, as if there is a joke buried in my statement that I'm just not getting. "I thought it was funny."

"It wasn't a comedy."

"Eh," he says, still bemused. "Things can be funny without meaning to be."

"… you're such a weirdo," I tell him, slowing my pace so I can bump him in the shoulder with my own.

"I'm taking that as a compliment."

"When don't you take everything, I say as a compliment?"

"Very rarely," he concedes, taking me over to a winding path surrounded by nothing but trees.

He holds his hand out, and I grab it without thinking. Maybe there's something to Damon's logic, a method to his madness, so to speak. Still, I can't quite shake my nervousness… can't wrap my head around how Damon is so fearless about everything…

And, yet I allow him to pull me along, keeping my eyes trained on the ground. The last thing I want to do is fall face-first in the dirt because I missed some obstacles in my way. Damon, of course, navigates the terrain as if it's a completely flat surface.

We aren't trudging through the darkness for long. About five minutes later, we break into a clearing, a wrought iron fence off in the distance, separating us from whatever is behind it. On our left, there is yet another walkway, this one on an incline—and a steep one at that. The trail climbs upward, the change in elevation so sharp that I get tired just thinking about the stamina it would take to reach the top.

"Calm down, we aren't going up that way."

"Good," I say, trying to mask the relief I feel. "Not that I couldn't do it…"

Damon scoffs, uncapping the bottle of bourbon and tossing it back like he's drinking water after an intense workout. "Go on, tell me more about things you think you're good at… enough of this stuff and you might get me to believe you're a world-class chef."

"So," I begin. "Is this it?"

I take a step back and soak everything in. At first glance, there doesn't appear to be anything particularly special about this field. Long grass that brushes against my calves, wildflowers scattered in little clusters all over the ground, a long stream of moonlight bursting through the little wisps of cloud cover. It's a sight to behold, for sure, but as I stand here, I'm caught by the churning of pull distress it brings on. My palms get clammy, my forehead breaking out in a cold sweat. My breathing becomes heavier and my head aches as I try to make sense of it all—

Damon grabs my hand. "This place gave me the creeps, too." His voice is low, almost like he doesn't want me to hear him. "But my brother and I used to come here all the time when we were younger."

I take the bourbon when Damon holds it out, bringing the lip of the bottle to my mouth with my free hand. It sloshes a bit, and some of it dribbles down my chin because I can't stop shaking. After my first sip, I take two more, hoping that I'll get used to the burning sensation in my throat.

"How do you remember that? Honestly. I want a bullshit-free answer."

"I don't know," and when he sees the pointed look on my face, he says, "no bullshit. I woke up in the boarding house—which is up there—" he nods toward the giant hill. "And when I went into the dining room, I ran into that horrible painting of my family… there was even a placard underneath of it. How fucking pretentious is that?"

"Pretty obnoxious," I concur, taking another small sip before passing the bourbon back to Damon.

"And I didn't need to read it; I just knew. I saw me and my little brother sitting on our parent's laps… we were toddlers… and I got this picture of him and I growing up, like a bad movie montage, except it's missing something… like I couldn't remember everything… still can't, but I've got the gist of it all."

I sign in frustration. "That's better than what I've got. It's like there's a roadblock in my mind. Like, I know I should know certain things, I just can't figure out what they are. I really am crazy!"

My hand slips out of his and I sink to the ground, knees burrowing into the dirt.

"No crazier than me," he says, placing a reassuring hand on my shoulder. "I don't know why we're here, or why we're alone, but I'm sure there's a reason for it."

"Why are you being so… understanding?"

He waves the bourbon. "This stuff does wonders to your inhibitions."

I don't like how disappointed his reply makes me feel. "You're drunk… got it."

"That just means I'm not as worried about impressing you," he explains, words flowing out of his mouth like a waterfall.

"You want to impress me?" I ask, peering up at him hopefully. I'm pretty sure the rare instance of vulnerability on both our parts has a lot to do with the mostly empty bottle of Woodford Reserve, but I'm too buzzed to act otherwise.

"Sometimes," he admits, meeting my gaze straight-on. "I can't help but feel like I've got something to prove—like I did something wrong and need to make up for it."

"Well, you're an ass, but you're not a bad person… I think there's a distinction between the two."

"You're cute when you try to use big words when you're drunk," he teases.

But I don't back down—the hazier my head gets, the more brazen I become. "That's annoying, but you could do much worse than make fun of me."

"I have," he says ruefully, but he doesn't elaborate.

"Nobody's perfect." Though, I'm not really sure what he's trying to tell me. It sounds like there might be some other message I'm not noticing.

"I don't think many people would do some of the things I've done. The thing is, I know that I can't recall the half of it—I've probably done even worse than I think I have."

"So… don't do those kinds of things anymore," I say.

"It's not that simple," he protests. "How can I make up for everything if I don't have the full story?"

I shrug. "I don't know, but we'll figure it out together."

"We'll need a lot more bourbon, then."


The nightmares are getting worse.

And I'm worried that I might be losing my mind over them.

But dreams are just that—dreams. They aren't real and they could be influenced by all kinds of different factors: the foods you eat before going to bed, a TV show you watched, a book you read, or something that happened during your day.

I have no reason to be this shaken up by them. Once my eyes shoot open, and I feel the silken sheets underneath my fingertips and collection of throw blankets balled up at my feet, my breathing begins to slow. I take stock of my body, drenched in sweat stemming from a highly irritating combination of overheated and freezing—it feels almost like I have a fever with no other symptoms of illness.

And I always have to peel my shirt off of my torso and brush my hair off of my face, where it clings to my cheekbones and forehead, kept in place by the clamminess of my skin.

Usually, I can get away with changing my clothes, turning the ceiling fan on, stripping the case from my pillow, and throwing all but one blanket on the floor.

Tonight, however, I'm paralyzed with… not just fear, but a strong sense of disorientation. I'm lying in what feels like a puddle of perspiration, back pressed against the mattress, legs bent at an uncomfortable angle, a fleece blanket caught on my ankle.

My pulse beats frantically, throbbing in my wrists and neck, heart thumping so fast I'm actually afraid it might explode. My breathing is shallow, and it's like it's doing absolutely nothing. I feel like I'm slowly suffocating.

Everything comes in flashes.

I love you, Bonnie. Stay strong.

Warmth. Comfort. A hug from the woman in the picture frame. A feeling of relief I'm desperate to hang on to, ripped away from me, leaving me all alone.

Blood.

The thick, coppery taste filling my mouth, dripping down my chin as it pours from my nose, staining my fingers scarlet red, drying on my skin, leaving me sticky and weak.

Agony.

As I clutch at random, shadowy silhouettes in front of me. The rough fabric of denim, skin, leather…

Screams. Tears. Crushing sorrow.

Some girl yelling Damon's name over and over again, voice tinged with betrayal and grief. Over and over again his name echoes in my ears. It makes me feel things I don't know the name of. Possessive and guilty, as if I'm doing something horrible to my only friend… and this disembodied voice…

Do you think it will hurt?

I don't kn—

The nightmare always ends there, and I feel like I'm falling, slamming into the bed at breakneck speed. Like I'm not bound to the Earth by gravity; until the very moment, I am, forced downward before I can fully appreciate the lack of pain.

The total absence of fear.

Only, tonight, my dream felt far more intense than it typically does. Nothing changed, I still felt and heard the same things, but they were stronger this time. More pronounced, the picture the tiniest bit clearer.

Usually, I can only see darkness, can only differentiate between where one shadow stops and the other begins. Now, they seem to be taking on more of a shape, looking more like people instead of floating spirits.

Floating spirits… what am I thinking?

Maybe I should cut back on the sugary snacks before bedtime…

I turn on the light, peeling my pants off of my body and kicking them aside. It is the same thing as my shirt.

I've done this little song and dance enough to do these tasks robotically like it's just a normal part of my nightly routine. Grab clean clothes from the drawer, run the brush through my hair before I get dressed…

But I freeze when I catch sight of my reflection in the mirror. I'm not just sweating; I'm bleeding.

A streak of ruby-red cascading down my face, dripping onto my chest. I cast my eyes to the floor, finding the shirt I'd worn to bed completely covered in it.

My hands are coated in it and I'm getting more terrified by the second. Those things I felt in my dream… the pain… it's real. Maybe not all of it—the scene that plays out doesn't even make sense—but the blood, the metallic taste, the way I choke on it, drown in it before everything disappears, and somehow gets worse simultaneously.

I'm in a fugue state as I make my way over to the door. The logical voice in my head is telling me to take stock of the damage. What, if anything, hurts? Did I hit my head while I was sleeping? Did I scratch myself? Is this a sign of a serious health condition?

But I ignore it.

My only concern is cleaning myself up. Damon can't see the mess I've made. He'll make fun of me and I'll never get him to stop. Or worse, he'll be worried. He'd have every right to feel that way, but the idea makes me uncomfortable. It's making my head hurt.

As soon as my fingertips close around the brass doorknob, I'm pushed backward, stumbling as I try to stay on my feet, shocked by the sudden force of the door swinging open.

Damon stands in front of me, in a t-shirt and black sweatpants, taking in his surroundings.

I suddenly feel even sillier for thinking he'd react frantically because the words that come out of his mouth are anything but.

"What the fuck happened in here?"

"I got a papercut."

"It looks like you tried to recreate the prom scene from Carrie!" Okay, he sounds mildly shocked now.

Good. "I didn't get to that part in the book yet."

"It's a good thing I made you watch the movie first," he comments, peering around my shoulder. "I can't say the same for your bedroom, though…"

"I'll clean it up."

"No, no you will not." He states it so matter-of-factly that I don't know what to say at first.

Damon—the man who complains about the chore chart I made without lifting a finger to help—telling me that I won't clean up a mess that is of my doing is ridiculous.

I scoff, momentarily forgetting the way my nose is still dripping like a faucet. "And if I don't, who will?"

"Me."

"You?"

"Um, yeah. You've somehow managed to get a papercut in your nose. I can't let someone who gets into a fistfight with a tissue box use bleach. That would be irresponsible of me."

"I don't appreciate the obvious sarcasm."

"If only that was the most important statement made tonight…"

I pause, chewing on the inside of my cheek, "… you aren't scared I'm dying?"

"You aren't dying," he says confidently.

"And how do you know that? Stealing a stethoscope from the hospital doesn't make you a doctor, sweetheart."

"I wouldn't let you die," he insists.

I fall silent. I believe him.

If I were in any danger, I'd probably be dead already. And I have this pain in my stomach that makes me think that this isn't the first time Damon has seen me with a major nosebleed.

Wracking my brain, I go over the past few weeks. I'm sure it happened before; I just can't come up with the exact day an event like this occurred.

"Here, let me help you to the bathroom."

I look from Damon to the blood smeared across my body, turning my head to survey the horror movie scene behind me. Even the change of clothes I picked out and set aside are stained red.

Okay, so this is just as embarrassing as I predicted it would be. Not for the reasons I thought, though. It has just dawned on me that I am half-naked, and Damon is right there, ignoring that particular fact.

I wrap my arms around my body, cheeks flushing. The camisole I wore underneath my white t-shirt left me with some modesty, but not much.

"Great," I mutter under my breath. This night just keeps on giving gifts I do not want to take.

Damon holds his hands up in a sign of surrender. "I'm calling a truce. For the next two hours, I will do my very best not to be a complete asshole."

"I like that loophole you gave yourself," I crack a smile.

He shrugs. "Sometimes I can't help myself."

"I know."

Without another word, he scoops me up and carries me into the bathroom, refusing to let me go until he is sure my knees wouldn't buckle.

I see that there is now a Bonnie-sized splotch on his shirt.

"It's a good thing you do the laundry," he remarks, body halfway out the door.

"Lucky me," I roll my eyes as I turn the water on.

He smirks and I drop my gaze, trying to suppress the feeling of comfort it brings me.

It's normal. Sure, nothing may actually be normal, but Damon is still himself.

Stepping under the spray of hot water loosens my muscles, calms me down. I look straight ahead at first; at the white tiled wall, wishing that I could distract myself from the little glimpses of the dream that lingers in my consciousness.

My eyes slide downward, landing on the red-tinged water pooling around my ankles, mesmerized by how it doesn't run clear, how it swirls around the drain. It's a river of blood, flowing off me, and I wonder if it will ever come to an end.

I get my answer a few moments later.

The water slowly gets lighter and lighter in color until it runs clear, the temperature gradually going from hot to lukewarm to cool. A chill runs down my spine as I turn the faucet off, rushing to wrap myself in my trusty embroidered bath towel.

I sink to the floor, suddenly very tired. Exhausted. My limbs ache, my head hurts, and I can hear the steady thump of my heartbeat in my ears.

I feel like I've been run over by a semi-truck.

When the fog on the mirror begins to fade, I push myself upward, legs shaking as I try to stay upright. I can hear Damon puttering around in the kitchen, moving pots and pans, intermittently running the sink, and the beeping of the microwave.

Using the bathroom fixtures—the towel rack and the edge of the counter—I inch toward the door. I don't want Damon to have to stop whatever he's doing to check on me. My pride has already been damaged enough for one night.

But I can't even have that.

Damon opens the door, appraising me. I can feel his eyes travel from my toes to the top of my head. I avert my gaze, unable to withstand his scrutiny. How crazy do I look? Arms bent; legs wobbly, desperate to regain balance as I cling feebly to the porcelain countertop.

Pathetic.

I risk a glance in his direction.

He's shaking his head, closing the space between us before I can inform him that I don't need his assistance. He places something very warm on my shoulders—his gray flannel—and I slide my arms into the sleeves. It's one of his favorite shirts and it always smells like fabric softener and Damon. He wears it so often that it ends up in the laundry every single time I do it.

"I put it in the dryer for a few minutes," he explains. "Figured you'd be cold."

"Thanks," I say quietly. I make him step outside so I can button the shirt and meet him in the hallway. He escorts me to my bedroom, looping an arm around my waist, hand clutching mine firmly.

I look at him in confusion as I walk to the middle of the room. If I hadn't been the cause of it, I would never be able to tell that it looked like a crime scene not that long ago. The hardwood floor has been scrubbed clean, the ruined clothes are nowhere to be seen, and the bloody fingerprints I left in my wake have been washed away. My bed has also been remade with fresh blankets and sheets.

Sure, the scent of bleach hangs heavy in the air, but I'd take it over the alternative.

"I don't like cleaning, that doesn't mean I can't clean," he says simply.

I nod slowly. "Noted."

~~X~~

Damon is full of surprises tonight.

He's made me soup and has insisted on staying by my side until I finish the entire bowl.

"It'll make you grow up big and strong," he teases. "You could use some help in the height department."

I shoot him a withering look, begrudgingly spooning some into my mouth.

It's tomato soup. Usually, I'd prefer to dip my grilled cheese sandwich into it, rather than eat it plain, but it tastes different tonight.

"You changed the recipe," I accuse.

"Only a little bit," he holds his thumb and pointer finger up to demonstrate how little the difference matters.

"What did you do to it?"

"Nothing—I just added an ingredient."

"Which is?"

He grins deviously. "Can't tell you. It's a Salvatore family secret."

"Are you poisoning me?" I wave the spoon in his direction.

He rolls his eyes. "I thought about it, but then I said to myself, "Damon if you kill Bonnie… who's going to complain about everything you do?' So, I decided to be nice and make you something my mom made me when I got sick—it's supposed to help. Though, the kind of help you need probably requires a straight jacket and a padded room."

"That's not reassuring," I say.

"Well not yet," he intones, watching me with amusement. "You interrupted me—again. I was going to say that doing morally questionable things would be way less fun if you weren't around."

"And why is that?"

"Because," he says, leaning back in his chair. "What's the point in doing anything if there's no one to disagree with me? Who's going to make things interesting?"

"Is that your way of saying you like having me around?"

He doesn't answer. Instead, he laughs as my spoon clinks against the ceramic bowl. Casting my eyes downward, I see that there isn't any soup left. I hadn't even realized I had been eating it as Damon and I conversed. Though, I will say that I do feel much better.

Maybe that's because Damon has this way of distracting me from my worries. Maybe it was the soup. Either way, I'm rejuvenated. It's almost like nothing happened in the first place. The fatigue I experienced due to the blood loss has disappeared, my muscles don't ache, and I actually feel as though I could run a marathon.

"It's my way of saying that you're an okay drinking buddy," he concedes with a smirk.

I purse my lips. "Got it—you think I'm amazing."

"If by amazing, you mean amazingly irritating, then yes—you are the most amazing person I've ever met."

"I only heard the last part."

"And I'm the arrogant one?"

"I might reevaluate that determination for a small fee…"

"Why do I get the feeling I don't want to pay this fee?"

I smile at him. "I don't know… re-watching The Bodyguard isn't torture."

"It's worse," he whines, getting up and clearing the table. I expect him to complain even more as he places the dishes in the sink, but when he turns around—still pouting—he says, "fine… go put it on before I come to my senses."

I'm surprised to find that I hop to my feet with ease and even more puzzled when Damon doesn't rush to my side to help me—he'd been so adamant about doing so upstairs that it's weird to see him so relaxed now.

I try to push the bewilderment away, however, because something in the back of my mind tells me that stranger things have happened.


Place: The grocery store
Date: June 3rd, 1994 ~ Damon and Bonnie time


Mystic Falls is in a constant state of sunshine.

The weather is always perfect. The sky bright blue, with only a few wispy clouds to be seen. The grass a lush green despite the absence of rain.

It's a tad bit unsettling. Today even more so than usual.

I have this awful feeling in the pit of my stomach. The routine Damon and I have fallen into is second nature now—we are almost always together, aside from the time Damon still spends roaming the night, ransacking medical supplies from the tiny hospital.

I tell myself I'm agitated because we are very rarely apart. And sure, once a week we have an argument that leaves one of us walking away to get some space, but we always come back home.

It feels worse today, however, as we move up and down the aisles, bickering as we go over our shopping list for what seems like the billionth time. I know most of the anger is on my part. I'm on edge and my paranoia has grown. I long for the days when it felt like we were only being watched; when I woke up this morning, I got the sense that someone (or something) was breathing down my neck.

So close that it could reach out and touch me…

Damon doesn't quite get it—he proclaimed I just had PMS and threw a box of tampons into our shopping cart.

"We still need strawberries, milk, eggs… and candles," I pull a small, thick, white candle from the shelf beside me.

Damon peers at me, one side of his mouth quirked up. "I know it's been a while, but have you forgotten that you're a pyromaniac that sets things on fire without meaning to?"

"I'm getting the candle," I deadpan, grabbing ahold of the cart, keeping it in its place.

"Bad idea," he mutters, yanking the cart from my grasp and steering it to the end of the aisle.

"I'm not a pyromaniac!" I call after him, watching as he goes off in search of the strawberries.

I intend to follow Damon, but for a moment, I can't go anywhere.

My feet are rooted to the ground. No matter how I bend my legs or how forcefully I try to raise them, they will not budge. I'm seized by panic, desperate to propel myself in any direction, as I try to shake the sensation of hot breath on my skin.

As I make another attempt at freeing myself, I'm released by whatever was holding me. I tumble to the floor, knees, and palms smacking into the white linoleum. I quickly scramble to my feet, rushing to where Damon has parked our cart—the frozen foods section.

As I approach him, I gather myself, hoping that the weirdness of the minutes past went unnoticed.

"Are you trying to ditch me?" I sound breathless.

"Was it that obvious?"

Ouch. That stings. "… I don't know."

I probably shouldn't take his jab personally (it's not like I haven't been snappy with him) but I can't help it. It hurts. I don't act like it, though. Giving him the satisfaction of knowing he got to me will only dampen my mood further.

"Milk," I remind him, taking a pair of sunglasses from a nearby display, examining my reflection in the mirror, as Damon passes me, I hold out a pair for him, hoping he'll see it as an olive branch of sorts.

"Eggs," he says, putting the glasses on his face.

I grab them from the fridge and hand them off to him.

We round the corner silently, both of us too proud to admit we pushed our bickering a little too far in the past couple of hours. I'm more than ready for our excursion to be over, but I halt when I catch something out of the corner of my eye.

"Pork rinds."

Damon stops walking. "Isn't on the list… and ew."

"No," I say, folding my arms across my chest. "They aren't here."

"So?"

"They've been right here—" I point to the shelf, which is now stocked with bags of Doritos. "—every single shopping trip we've been on for God knows how long!"

"I haven't noticed."

I huff in exasperation. "Well, I have! Isn't this proof of what I've been saying?"

Damon looks up at the ceiling. "I don't know. I just want to go home. I'm tired, hungry, and I've decided that you really are the most annoying person I have ever met."

There it goes again. The feeling of having the wind knocked out of me. My best—and only—friend has called me annoying many times, but I never thought he truly meant it—he always had a hint of affection in his voice, a slight grin on his face…

But those tells are absent now.

His mouth is drawn in a line, eyebrows furrowed, and he cannot look at me.

"Fine," I say after a beat. "I'll go then."

That should have been the end of it—no other words should've been spoken, but Damon has this horrible compulsion to drive his hurtful words home. He is famous for telling me that I don't always get to have the last word—only, he's just as guilty of needing it as I am.

"Thank God—I thought you'd never leave me alone!"

I freeze, flinching, cursing myself as my eyes begin to fill with tears. I open my mouth, but I don't really have anything to say back to him. I'm floundering.

So, I march out of the store.

At first, I don't see anything out of the ordinary, don't hear anything aside from the song blaring from the speakers above my head.

One of Damon's guilty pleasure songs—Tiffany's I Think We're Alone Now.

I hated it at first, but whenever he put the CD in, I inevitably begin to bob my head and hum along with Damon as he sings.

But it sounds off—there's another beat under it. Quiet at first but getting louder and louder. And then I turn, slowly, apprehensively, toward the little carousel. I assumed it was broken because Damon had tried to put a quarter in the machine the last time we had to get groceries and it didn't move.

Now… it's moving in a lazy circle, the painted circus animals moving up and down in time to the cheery tune.

That's wrong… something very bad is about to happen. The hairs on my arms are standing up, my flesh covered in goosebumps. I know, deep down, that I should go back inside, get Damon, and book it to 22 Broken Arrow Road. Lock all the doors once we are safely inside and draw the blinds.

I shrug off the suspicion.

I really don't want to interact with Damon. Right now, all I want to do is cry, weep until I can't any longer. So, I trudge down the street, moving in the opposite direction of home.

As hard as I try, I can't get rid of the nagging urge to turn around. It's as if I'm tethered to Damon and trying to prove otherwise is futile. The greater the distance I put between us, the more resistance I feel trying to go forward.

I'm being pulled back, my gut twisting, toes curling in my sandals, fingertips itching, forehead pooling with nervous sweat. Before I know it, I'm standing in front of the store again.

The merry-go-round is still going.

I re-enter the building, unsure of what I might be greeted with. At first, I don't see anything besides baskets of fruit and the little scale hanging above them. I venture deeper into the store, past the sunglasses, the fridges full of gallons of milk, cartons of eggs, and bags of shredded cheese.

It's here that I spot him, about halfway across the room. Damon is sprawled out on the floor, behind a box of patio umbrellas, blood leaking from what appears to be a wound on the top of his left hand.

It's easy to see how labored his breathing is, how much pain he is in. Damon's groans bounce off the walls and echo in my ears. My heart lurches in my chest. I can't stand seeing him writhing in agony. It makes me feel like I'm going to puke.

That isn't the most surprising thing about the scene playing out in front of me, though.

Hovering over Damon is a young man with dark hair and crazy eyes, holding an umbrella above his head, wielding it like a sword. The wooden handle is snapped in half, broken end splintered and jagged—and poised to run right through Damon when the mystery man brings it down. Broken bottles of bourbon, vodka, and white wine are scattered across the floor, most of the shards piled up by Damon. I wonder if the assailant did that purposefully, as a way to cause the man crumpled at his feet more discomfort as he waits for the final blow.

The itching in my fingertips turns into a burning, that soon overwhelms me entirely. I don't know what makes me think a burst of adrenaline will be enough for me to take this asshole down, but it's what propels me forward, straight into the mayhem.

"Oh, look," the guy says to Damon. "It's the useless one."

Damon grunts, unintelligible words slipping from his mouth.

"I've been watching you, Bonnie…" he continues tauntingly. "How can you be so fucking oblivious?"

I cock my head to the side, a silent gesture of encouragement. I want to keep him talking for as long as possible—that'll give me time to come up with a solution.

I glance down at Damon briefly. He's in worse shape than I thought—his skin is covered in unsightly burns. I can only hope that his shirt protected the rest of his torso from whatever caused it.

"… I mean, I get that you don't remember anything from before, but my God, I thought you would've at least opened Emily's grimoire by now."

Okay, so I'm not the only delusional one… what the hell is he talking about?

"It's kind of obvious, don't you think? Never mind… it's not like you'll figure it out in time anyway… why don't you take a seat and relax… enjoy the show." The sneer on his face repulses me.

"Don't touch him!" I warn although he's right… what can I do?

"What are you going to do about it?"

The feeling of adrenaline in me explodes—the exhilaration in me feels so wonderful, so freeing, and I suddenly feel so strong—like I can take on the entire world.

It doesn't feel like I'm the one speaking when I look down at Damon, "run."

He's gone in a flash. I literally blink and Damon is nowhere to be found.

Which is good, I think to myself, because in the next moment our surroundings burst into flames.