~10~


~Chapter Ten~


And so I finished up my prayer, rose slowly and I stared
But I was empty as a grave and ghostless was the air
Laid back to bed and dulled my eyes and searched those fruitless skies

~Bat for Lashes, Lilies~


My hands are shaking as I tear the front page of the newspaper.

I haven't read the entire article. Just the first sentence, the one directly below the headline:

One unaccounted for as the investigation into the grisly murders of a local family begins.

I couldn't go any further than that. It feels like the floor has dropped out from underneath me. This is huge. This could be the key to understanding why all three of us are stuck here, and if I can figure that out, I am one step closer to getting us back to before.

I gather everything in my hands—each book, magazine, and newspaper, and stuff them inside my bag. My heart pounds in my chest as I zig-zag through the labyrinth of shelves and books. It feels like all the air has been sucked out of the room, leaving me dizzy and scared.

Very scared.

As soon as I'm within a few feet of the exit, I thrust my arms in front of me. My legs are going so fast that I nearly topple into the doors. Luckily, I use the handle to regain my balance and I don't smack into the pavement.

My heart is still going as fast as a hummingbird, my lungs begging for oxygen. I gasp, sputtering and coughing, still hanging onto the library door. Green eyes burning, I blink a few times, struggling to adapt to the change in lighting.

The world around me looks just as it did before—the sun is still shining, puffy clouds high in the sky, which is still its everyday shade of light blue. I try to reconcile Mystic Falls and massacre, and at first, I can't get them to fit together. But the longer I think about it, the more it makes sense. The nightmares, the dread that I experienced when Damon took me to the field behind the Salvatore Boarding House, the lack of townspeople.

I wonder how many residents died as the Parker family had. All of them—though, that seems highly unlikely, given that Kai told us we were the dead ones. Could he have it backward, though? What if everyone else died and we are the last ones standing? I physically recoil at the thought, stumbling over the lip where the sidewalk meets the carpeted flooring of the library's atrium.

If that is true, then that would mean that Caroline and Elena had passed away. That I allowed myself to go there—to such a depressing place—makes me want to throw up. This line of thought goes against everything I've been led to believe. Kai said I sacrificed myself for them… my friends… and I'm vaguely aware of how crazy that is. I only know those girls from a photo. A few snapshots of moments that I can't recall. Had I really given my life for theirs? If they are that special to me, why can't I remember them?

All I know about them are things I've conjured up in daydreams.

And yet, that tugging sensation in the pit of my belly says otherwise.

I straighten up, hiking my bag upon my shoulder.

I'm a sitting duck right now, standing here like a scared little girl, unsure of what's around the corner. And I feel stupid. That's ridiculous—there are exactly two other people here with me and I've almost burned one of them alive (or dead, I guess).

Damon, too, I think ominously, fighting against the urge to relive that horrid fantasy sequence. I squeeze my eyes closed and think of anything but Damon on the ground, screaming as the flames get closer and closer…

I take off down the street, speed-walking as I cut across the road, hoping to reduce my travel time. I take exactly seven minutes to get home—I broke my personal record of 9.5—something I wish I could feel proud of.

But I don't.

The house is empty, which I had been expecting, but I really wish Damon stayed in (and not just because I wanted to go to the movies, too). It would've been nice if he were here to calm me down, to remind me I need more information before I worry about whatever else might be going on here.

I climb the stairs and go into our bedroom, snuggling under the covers, and pulling the newspaper article out. Smoothing out the crinkles and folding back the jagged side, I begin reading once more.

Josette Parker returned home to find six of her family members lying dead in their home. Josette, twenty-two, had been living in the dormitories on the campus of Hartford College before she returned to her hometown of Eastwick (a small suburb located just minutes away from Mystic Falls).

The semester had just ended, and she planned on spending her winter break with her parents and three of her siblings. "… she was so excited to come back," her friend, Wanda M., tells us. "Jo was very protective of her younger sisters and brothers."

Joshua Parker grew up in Mystic Falls before meeting his wife and moving to Eastwick at twenty-one. His mother, Colette, still resides here. His father is buried in Mystic Falls cemetery. Joshua had a younger brother, Phillip, who went missing a year after he moved out of town.

Joshua Parker and his wife, Sydnie Parker (nee. Laughlin), were found stabbed to death on the first floor of their two-story home on Westview Road. Their children, Joseph (19), Poppy, (17), Marceline (16), Charles (14), were in their respective bedrooms when police arrived on the scene. Each teenager had been bludgeoned to death with various items from each individual bedroom. The names of the murder weapons have not been released yet.

Joshua and Sydnie's other children, Lucas, and Olivia (12), and Malachi (22) were not in the home. Luke and Liv—the younger set of Parker twins—were at a friend's house at the time of the murders. While we cannot confirm their current whereabouts, we are told that they are both alive and safe. Malachi (22)—Josette's twin brother—has not been located at the time of this publication.

The investigation is ongoing. For details on how to contact the Mystic Falls police station, turn to page 7b.

I silently curse myself for not bringing the second page home with me, but what I do have has provided me with more information than I know what to do with. The newspaper is damp and torn due to how tightly my fingers are gripping it.

My first instinct is to ball the article up and toss it across the room. Thankfully, I stop myself before I carry those actions out. Damon should read this, too, because I can see him not listening to me if I were to tell him about it. Logically, I feel I should find Kai to be more sympathetic—losing so many loved ones at once would turn anyone into a jaded asshole—but I don't. Closing my eyes and breathing in deeply, I attempt to conjure up a reasonable amount of empathy.

It doesn't work.

Something about the entire story is off. It's quite unsettling—like whoever wrote this piece either missed something big or hid it, desperate to squeeze a second front-page feature out of the situation. Although, something inside me knows it's the former. I doubt the journalist would keep out any of the juicy tidbits if it would reel more readers in.

I place the article on the side table. If I forced myself to look at the eerie photograph of the Parker's home for a second longer, my brain may have short-circuited.

Okay, so Kai experienced a horrific tragedy. Maybe we did, too. Maybe my "witchy juju" as Damon so affectionately calls it, brought us all here because we endured horrible things. Now, think Bonnie! What would have caused my magic to bring us to a version of Mystic Falls with no residents?

Well, I guess it's time to break out the spell books.

Hanging off the side of the bed, I feel around underneath it until my fingers brush against the worn leather spine of a Grimoire. I heft onto the mattress, grumpy that Damon stashed them in such an awkward spot. Since it's now an unspoken rule that we share the master bedroom (despite having only done so for two days) he insisted on keeping them somewhere out of the way.

Because apparently, at some point during that first night, it ended up on the floor by his side of the bed and he nearly fell over it when he got up. I honestly don't remember carrying it into the room with me, but it might have been something I did without even realizing it. Half-awake and spooked by your own subconscious does not a rational person make.

This time, when I open it, I don't have to wonder where I should look. The page I land on is exactly what I'm looking for.

Unintentional Magic.

How à propos! I have bypassed this section more than once, having had enough unintentional magic incidents to last an (after) lifetime. Today, however, I couldn't ignore this chapter if I wanted to. My palms are burning, excitement buzzing throughout my body. It's as if something has clicked. Snapped into place after trying to force it to fit a certain way. A lightbulb moment—one that leaves me thinking duh. I should've looked here the very first time I began flipping through this massive pile of nonsense.

According to the first paragraph, a witch's emotions can strongly affect his or her ability to control magic. Anger and sadness being the major ones. Happiness could, too, but it doesn't bring about negative consequences like the other two. In times of distress, it says, a witch's reaction to a certain event could alter the intended outcome.

Hence, the time I turned my former room into what resembled a swimming pool in hell.

"That movie wasn't as good as you said it would be."

I glance up, smiling, as Damon waltzes into the room. I was so engrossed in my research that I hadn't heard the front door open.

"Why not?"

I set everything aside, listening to Damon rattle off critiques. "… The only interesting part was when the bad guy loses his head."

I glare at him. "I told you not to ruin it!"

"Believe me," he says, sitting on the edge of the bed. "I didn't."

"Damon, some people like to form their own opinions about—"

"What did you learn, Nancy Drew?" he nods at the mess of papers strewn across the comforter.

I gather them up, closing the Grimoire and placing the periodical atop the cover. "You tell me."

"That sounds like the last thing I want to do," but he takes it from me, anyway. His eyes scan the page, brow furrowing as he gets further into the story. "No wonder that guy has a few screws loose."

"Do you know what this means?" I prompt, hoping he will fill in the blanks for me.

"That I wasn't too far off about the ax murder thing? I listened to my gut instinct… hey, does that mean I get to join your witchy club? I can get us matching t-shirts."

I roll my eyes and groan. "It means that we probably went through a traumatic experience, too! And it landed us here… away from whatever hurt us."

"And?"

"If we get our memories back, maybe we can fix this!" I throw my arms out. "I don't know about you, but I'm tired of feeling trapped by my own psyche."

Damon's expression darkens. "I don't know if I want to remember all the shit I did."

I instantly feel guilty. I know Damon wasn't lying about not knowing all the sins he felt he had to atone for, I just didn't know how… uneasy… it made him feel. Looking at him now, it's clear those "bad things"—whatever they were—plagued him more than he let on.

"Damon…" I fling my arms around his neck, pulling him close. "Whatever you did, it doesn't change who you are now. You're my best friend, and I can't imagine what would've happened to me if you weren't here. The awful things you did before… you can't change them… but you aren't your mistakes."

He takes a deep breath and when he exhales, goosebumps form on my skin. I try not to react as he squeezes me tighter, burying his face into the crook of my neck. "And you thought my pep talks were cheesy."

"I can't help it," I say lightly. "I guess you're rubbing off on me."

"That's what she said."

"… You are such a pain in the ass!"

"That's what she said."

I wriggle out of his grasp, pushing him playfully. "Damon!"

"Don't 'Damon' me—you're the one who says the innuendos."

"I don't mean it that way!" I protest, trying to hold back the laughter bubbling in my throat.

"Uh-huh," Damon says with a smirk. "I don't blame you. It's got to be difficult living with the sexiest man on the planet."

"Until now, you were the only man on the planet," I remind him.

"You can deny it all you want, Bon Bon, but one day you'll have to admit it."

"Admit what? That you have your head shoved so far up your ass that you'll need to have it surgically removed?"

"Funny, I said the same thing about your broomstick."

"Shut up!"

"What are you going to do about it if I don't?" he challenges. "Nag me to death?"

I think this over. Supposedly, we are already there. It's so easy to forget that there is a possibility we aren't alive. I always pictured death in two ways—either you are granted access to heaven (or hell) or you cease to exist, and in that case, nothing would matter. It's impossible to truly know what happens when your physical body conks out, but never did I picture being relegated to a place that is both so real and unreal at the same time.

As I continue to become more in-tune with my powers, and as comfortable as we are with the way we live, it seems crazy to think that we aren't. Besides, with so many ways to manipulate the world around me, how could I not undo this?

"I'm going to nag you back to life," I say finally. "And that's a promise, Salvatore."


Date: June 20th, 1994 ~ Damon and Bonnie time
Place: 22 Broken Arrow Road (Damon and Bonnie's room)
Time: 2:02 in the morning


It comes to me in the middle of the night.

The realization smacking me so hard in the face that I feel dazed.

I blink, the edges of my vision blurred, trying to hold on to whatever I'd been dreaming. Only my mind is blank. I don't know what I was thinking before I figured out what we—or rather, I—need to do.

I need Kai.

His name flashes before my eyes and I'm revolted by it at first. I don't trust him, not one iota, but if I intend on keeping my promise (because Damon will never shut up), I need to act as though I do.

He lost everyone he loves; I remind myself, Damon's right—he's bound to be a little fucked up because of it.

And that doesn't mean I have to trust him completely. He just knows more about the supernatural than I do. Or more about the witch aspect, at least. Something deep inside is telling me that Kai is my only option.

It's going to suck, but I can deal with it. As I come to terms with the unpleasantness of the matter, I become disoriented. I feel like an old television; my picture is static-filled and distorted. Then, it's like someone has pulled the plug on me. All of my jumbled thoughts slip away from me in the blink of an eye.

What was I so upset about a second ago?

It feels like a knife is being run through my head, the pain sharper on my left side. My hands fly to my temples. I'm hissing in agony as I curl into a ball.

"Bon?"

I hear Damon's body shifting, feel his hand as he grips my wrist. I can't see him, though. My eyesight is spotty again, dark splotches intermingling with the darkness of the bedroom.

"I'm fine," I assure him.

"You sound like me after I ate those cookies you baked the other day," he counters.

The pain goes away as suddenly as it came. At first, I'm relieved. I lie there quietly, processing what just occurred. One second, I was on top of the world. I felt so close to my goal that I could practically reach out and grab it. Now, I'm empty. Like the moments prior were just a cruel prank.

And to make everything even more embarrassing, I ruined Damon's night with my weird sleep issues. Again. The guilt that washes over me far outweighs the severity of what I did. I know that. But I want to cry… what if he gets sick of this? What if I lose the only person who understands me?

It occurs to me that my best friend is waiting for my witty quip. Only, I'm so emotional that I can't come up with a solid reply. So, I eventually settle for a more standard approach.

"… They weren't that bad."

"I'm lucky I didn't spend the entire day throwing up!" he jokes lightheartedly.

I inch closer to him, burrowing my head into his chest. "Sorry."

"For what?"

"For waking you up… for the crime I committed against baked goods." I sound pitiful. If I were in a normal state of mind, I would shut up. Push all of this nonsense aside, "Bonnie" my way out of this, and wait for Damon to relent and go back to sleep.

"You say that like I'm upset about it," he murmurs. I can tell he's smiling.

"I'm a shitty friend," I insist. "I constantly deprive you of sleep!"

"I'm the one that said you could sleep here," he points out.

I sigh, worn out and defeated. "Do you think I'll ever get a decent night of sleep?"

"At some point," he muses, running his fingers through my hair. "I figure eventually you won't have a choice—everyone's got to rest sometime—even the dead."

I lift my head up, studying his facial expression. He still sounds like he's kidding… but part of me knows that there's a grain of truth to be found in what he's saying. Even cloaked in the darkness, I can tell he's serious by the way he clenches his jaw. "Being dead sucks."

"Not all the time."

That, I'm sure, is sincere. I want to say something just as poignant, so I open my mouth to answer him. But my reply slips away from me as soon as I try to speak. All that comes out of my mouth is a garbled, "argh."

"Point for Salvatore," Damon announces smugly.

I decide to let him have this one. I can't remember what we were even bickering about. I know I should probably be more concerned about my lapse in short-term memory, but it's much easier to pretend it never happened.

So, I close my eyes and try to go back to sleep.


Date: June 23rd, 1994 ~ Damon and Bonnie time
Place: 22 Broken Arrow Road


I'm in the kitchen, opening and closing cabinets, sifting through drawers, and flipping through the little container filled with recipes. The entire room looks like a tornado hit it—flour coats the countertop and the front of my orange apron, mixing bowls are spread out atop nearly every available space and I can't find the cap for the gallon of milk.

Damon is out of the house—getting more blood bags and perusing Blockbuster. I puzzled him when I informed him I didn't want to go, and I trusted his judgment with the movies he chose. I can't blame him—I don't easily give up what little control I have. But he figured it wouldn't happen again, and he'd better take advantage of this golden opportunity.

Then I set to work.

I started my day with a goal. To do something special for Damon. Our days have become even more monotonous, especially since I've hit yet another roadblock on the "getting us out of here" front. So, I thought it would be fun to shake things up a bit. I don't know what's gotten into me. To make this idea work, I should probably plan a menu, shop, and then execute this at a later date. My impulse was too strong to fight, though. That's why I look like a mad scientist, covered in various splatters of food. The dinner portion of our meal is still in the oven: a pot roast with veggies. That part wasn't difficult—at least, not compared to baking.

Our dessert is supposed to be a chocolate cake.

Right now, it looks like Willy Wonka projectile vomited everywhere.

I don't care what Damon says, cookies were a piece of cake (pun intended). Sure, they didn't taste the best (I may have mixed up the salt and sugar) but at least you could tell they were cookies. I don't know how I'm going to turn this catastrophe into something edible.

The oven beeps, signaling that dinner is finished cooking. When I open the oven, I see smoke.

"Damn it!" I hurry to grab the pan and shove it between the carton of eggs and the salt shaker.

After inspecting the food, I realize it isn't burnt, but the oven needs to be cleaned. Unfortunately, the smoke alarm still goes off and I sprint over to the smoke alarm in the living room. Since I'm so petite, I have to bring the broom along with me. I jam it against the button, the horrible beeping stopping a second later.

When I turn around, I'm met with the true scope of my culinary disaster. The oven door still hangs open, the roasting pan teetering dangerously close to the edge. I see now that the chocolate batter has splattered in various places on the walls. If Damon walks in and sees this, I'll be ridiculed for eternity.

I groan inwardly, trudging back into the kitchen. At first, I clean as I go, wiping up bits of raw egg, clumps of sugar, and dried chocolate flecks. The finished dinner is placed on the dining room table and I am finally realizing that I won't be able to fix everything before he gets back.

I'm irrationally disappointed with myself. I just wanted to do something nice, why did I make things so difficult. The thought of Damon laughing at me every time I walk into the kitchen makes me want to scream.

… And then it comes to me.

I don't have to feel like I've failed at a seemingly simple task—I can make all of my mistakes disappear within seconds!

The image of the broken clay pot from Elena Gilbert's house pops into my head; all it took was a single word to meld the pieces back together again.

I steady myself, closing my eyes, breathing in deeply. The smell of spices and cocoa overwhelms me. I imagine cupboards slamming shut, counters shiny and free from debris, bowls put back where they belong, and a dish rack filled with clean plates, pots, and pans.

"Reparium," I open one eye and look around.

Nothing has changed.

This is particularly frustrating. I think about the TV show Damon and I watched a few days ago; that witch wiggled her nose, and everything flew back to where it should be.

I try again. This time, I use a different variant of the spell. I've never attempted it, but the principle is similar: instead of mending something broken, you just start with a clean slate. Since nothing needs repairing, there's a decent chance this one could work.

"Purus intemeratus!"

I don't have to physically look at the scene to know that this spell is doing what it should. I can feel the magic thrumming throughout my body, euphoric and intense. When I do risk a glance around the room, pride swells in my chest. Damon won't be able to tell that I was even in here. Walking past the once-dirty island, I nod in approval. Something is off, though. One of the handles on the cabinet door doesn't match the rest of them. Instead of the glittering brass knob, there is now an iron handle. I shake my head and brush off any nervous energy I'm feeling.

Just an after-effect of the spell, I assure myself.

As I exit the kitchen, I look over my shoulder, just to make sure I wasn't imagining the change.

Except I must've been, because nothing appears out of the ordinary now. All the cupboards match, right down to the brass doorknobs. I guess that's the price I have to pay for using magic when I'm so tired.

I just hope it ends up being worth it.

~~X~~

When Damon returns, I am in the dining room, leaning against the back of one of the chairs. The table is set, and I managed to make the cake look like a cake (it doesn't look like the one you might see in a bakery, but it's passable).

He pauses in the entryway, a flash of bewilderment in his eyes. "Who are you and what have you done with Bonnie Bennett?"

"It's me," I tell him. "In the flesh."

"No way—the real Bonnie Bennett burns toast. This is way above her skill level."

"I'll prove it. I'll tell you something only the real me would know."

He smirks. "This should be interesting."

"Your favorite song is I Think We're Alone Now—covered by Tiffany."

Damon's blue irises darken. "Okay, it's you. What's with the elaborate table setting?"

"I just wanted to do something… I don't know, special," I feel my cheeks grow hot. I don't know why I'm suddenly so embarrassed, I'd been pretty excited about it up until this moment.

"Why?"

"Because," I intone, exasperated. "All annoying faults aside, I kind of—sort of—like you."

"I'm flattered."

"You should be."

I watch as he hangs his jacket on the rack by the door, and strolls over to me, a half-smile pulling at the corners of his lips. "I don't think anyone's ever done something…" he pauses, searching for the right words. "Genuinely kind for me before."

"Well, you can be an asshole. But you're a damn good best friend when you want to be."

"Ditto."

I freeze as he swoops down and gives me a peck on the cheek. Little warning bells go off in my head, shrill and hard to ignore. You're getting too close, they say, but I'm having difficulty agreeing with that sentiment.

When Damon straightens up, a smirk replacing the small grin, I wonder if he thinks the same thing.