Damon is behaving like a foolish vampire.
Oh, wait, he is a foolish vampire.
Set in 4x02
Don't behave like Damon does, it's bad for your health.
And by the way, yes there is going to be some more brooding.
One world apart, part 3: The name of the ghost
Damon had ended up in the cemetery.
Alone, in the cemetery. Which wasn't surprising. He had always been alone. And when he hadn't been, it had never lasted. There were those people who didn't really care, like Katherine. And there were those who just died. Like Enzo. Like Rose. Like Andie.
Like Ric.
It wasn't particularly curious, considering the children had insisted upon holding some sort of ceremony, with flying paper lanterns and everything, to account for the dead. Their dead. Those they had been able to bury, and the others too. Those who hadn't left behind a body. Those who had been buried in secret, with compelled undertakers, and a false name on their grave. When there even was a name.
That, that was Alaric's case.
So now, Damon was sitting next to a grave with no name at all carved on it. There was only one word: "Friend".
What a show of friendship, indeed, to not even acknowledge the identity of the one who was buried there! What kind of friends were they, all of them, and him included, to write that on the hunter's grave? What friends, indeed?
What lover? That was more like it.
He was the one who refused to see that Alaric was dead. He was the reason why there was only written "Friend" on this grave. Him, and no one else.
After all, they couldn't risk someone seeing the grave and the name "Alaric Saltzman" on it, when the man was supposedly away. They could not say "he is away, but he has a grave". It didn't work like that. It wasn't how it was supposed to be.
Rebekah had killed Elena, thus killing Alaric. Esther had made Alaric mad, and even more dangerous, so he had had to be put down. Klaus had taken his family problems to Mystic Falls, causing Alaric to be caught in it.
Really, Ric's death was the Mikaelsons' fault.
But this?
This parody of a grave, this "Friend" that meant nothing, this place with no name, this was Damon's fault. He knew it. It was written there, just behind this stupid "Friend" word. It wasn't written in words, it wasn't something that you could see, but it was written there. Those who knew the truth could see it, Damon was sure.
This... thing.
This pannel that said "it's Damon's fault."
Everybody who knew the truth could see it, he was sure of it. It wasn't written in words, it wasn't visible, but it was there, and it screamed "It's Damon's fault! He's the one who made me like that! He is the reason for this parody of a grave! He's the reason Alaric is neither properly dead nor alive. He's the reason Ric can't be dead, even if he is not alive. Damon made me like that!"
It screamed loudly, and still, Damon remained there, sitting on a bench with three bottles of alcohol. One was bourbon, the other vodka, and the third one, he wasn't sure – but it was strong. And every time he took a new gulp of alcohol, the grave screamed louder.
It was difficult to think, with all that noise.
Good.
Damon took another sip of... of what, already? He didn't remember. The cemetery was too dark to see the color of the alcohol, he was seeing double so he couldn't look at the name on the label, and the taste... At this point, there was no taste anymore. The alcohol had no taste anymore.
Or maybe it did.
Yes. Yes, or no. In a way...
It tasted of fire. And, and of noise. Yes, that was it, it burned his throat, and it made the grave scream.
The vampire reached for yet another bottle, and drank a bit more. He wanted the grave to scream. He wanted it to tell him all that he had done wrong. Oh, it wasn't self-pity. No, not at all. He wanted to know what he had done wrong, not only for the grave to be this ridiculous, but for everything. If he went far enough, maybe the grave could help him know what needed to be undone. If he found out what had gone wrong, he could undo it.
Nevermind that he would have to travel to the past for that. A bottle of alcohol was the best time travel machine in the world.
See? He didn't know yet what and when it had gone wrong, what and when he had done wong, but he was already traveling to the past! He could see Ric just there, frowning at nothing in particular. Oh wait, it was at him. Of course it was at him. He didn't remember what he had done that particular day, nor did he know what particular day he was being remembered of by the grave and the alcohol, but it was surely at him that Alaric was frowning.
He liked Ric when the man was angry. But he liked him too when he was happy. And when he was worried. No, really, he liked all the moods the hunter could get into. There was only one that he didn't like. It was when Alaric was in his I'm-a-monster mood. This one he didn't like. Usually it ended with the teacher saying stupid things about how it would be better if he died during a fight, or if he was the one to be sacrificed for once.
No doubt Damon didn't like this mood.
But, he reflected, It was better than no mood at all. Like when the hunter had gulped down the ring. Or with a dead Ric. Strangely, his vision too was reflecting things, things that shouldn't be here, in his visual field, but that were there nonetheless. Bright lights, and the light of a candle, and...
Right. That was because of the alcohol. It had been long since he had last drunk this much, so much that he was starting to have trouble seeing correctly.
Damon gulped down another glass of... something. Something that was strong. Maybe the vodka. Or... what was the third one, again? He eyed the bottle warily, wondering for a time if per accident he hadn't taken the wrong bottle, the one with the methylated spirits in it, instead of another bottle of normal, drinkable alcohol. But no. It wasn't a plastic bottle, after all.
What was he thinking before these doubts had entered his brain?
Uh... Oh! Something about him being completely responsible for the idiocy of the "Friend" on that grave. Right? And even if it wasn't it, in the end, it was it, right? He was the one at fault for this sham of a grave. He was the one who had refused to acknowledge that Alaric was dead.
It was Damon's fault.
He knew it. The grave had told him so. And the alcohol, too. Let's not forget the alcohol.
He took another sip.
And anyway, what was it with Elena and Stefan and Caroline and Bonnie and Jeremy and, and... all the others? Why had they insisted to do this stupid ceremony with the lanterns and all that? He was very certain Alaric wasn't feeling better for it.
Because Ric was dead, so he certainly didn't care about one paper lantern with his name – no, with "Friend" – written on it.
Ah, there it was again. "Friend." The grave screamed again. Louder. Always louder.
He didn't care. He wanted to hear it scream and tell him it was all his fault, he was the one who had made this even more foolish. He wanted to hear it, for it had to be someone's fault, and the vampire had changed since he had met Elena and Alaric, and he wouldn't put the blame on someone else. Not when it was his fault.
And if it wasn't truly his fault, still, he wouldn't put the blame on someone else who had nothing to do with it. If it wasn't truly his fault, he would still believe that it was. If he didn't, then it meant that all that, that sadness in his heart, that terrible pain that was growing and gnawing at his dead soul, it was there by nobody's fault. He couldn't blame anyone. He'd have to accept and live with it.
He didn't want to accept anything.
He didn't want to live with the pain. He wanted the pain to leave.
But the pain wasn't leaving. And since the pain wasn't leaving, Damon needed someone to blame for it. And since he had changed, and wasn't as selfish as before, he would blame it upon himself.
It was easier that way.
And another glass of the nameless alcohol.
Well, perhaps it was the vodka. Or the bourbon. It wasn't necessarily the nameless alcohol. But since he couldn't tell, neither by taste nor by scent, which one it was, the three alcohols were now recognized as nameless. After all, if he couldn't put a name on it, it was nameless.
Why was he continuing to drink?
For a moment, the question passed by his mind. But it did only that: pass by. It didn't stop. It didn't anchor in his brain. It passed by, and, as soon as it had come, it was gone. As if it had never been there. The ghost of a shadow lurking for an instant in a corner of his mind.
And so he drank, and he drank so much that he was drunk. Truly drunk. Not vampire-drunk. Drunk-drunk. Dead-drunk. Drunk with a hangover for the coming morning. A morning that would surely find him in the cemetery, drunk on the bench, or maybe, on the ground. He didn't care.
Not yet, that was. Once the morning and the hangover would be there, he would care.
But for now, the night was dark, and there was still some alcohol left. So he drank. And drank. And drank. More. And more. And more. And when the first bottle came to be empty, he reached clumsily for the plastic bag behind the bench, where were waiting a bottle of tequila and another bottle, of rhum that one. He truly intended to get passed-out-drunk this night.
At some point, he had said something to the grave, as if it had been Alaric himself. He had talked for a minute, told the grave how much he missed the man whose name wasn't on it. He had said things. He didn't quite remember what. He didn't want to remember, truthfully. If he remembered, then it would mean that he wasn't as drunk as he thought.
And this night, he had decided that he would be drunk like never before – be it when he had been human and alive, or dead and a vampire.
He would be drunk.
He didn't remember his little speech. He was drunk. He had succeeded.
The vampire smiled in triumph, but quickly sobered up. Metaphorically, of course. He was a vampire, but with that level of drunkenness, even his fast-healing body would need some time to get sober once again.
Yet, he sobered up. In a way, which had nothing to do with being actually sober.
He had succeeded in being drunk. Now, he had to keep it that way. To drink, more and more. To drink until he passed out. He had never succeeded at that, as a vampire. Usually, he fell asleep on his own accord, because he was done drinking, and not because he was drunk.
Now was the night when he would see if it was possible, for a vampire, to pass out from drinking too much. See, he was even doing serious stuff as he drank: this, Dear Madam, was a study pertaining to the very important question of, can a vampire get drunk enough to pass out?
Very important research subject.
So Damon drank on, alone in the night, in a cemetery, with a grave that was shouting at him, screaming everything he had done wrong since the moment he was born. A grave, a ridiculous grave with the word "Friend" with a capitalized "F" carved on it. A grave that was someone's, and yet was not, because there was no name on it.
And the ghost whose name had been rejected – that ghost, yes, the one who had a name, but that should not be called by it, for he wasn't supposed to be a ghost, for he wasn't supposed to be dead, he was only supposed to be away – that ghost watched through the night this vampire who was trying to get drunk, so that he would be the one at fault, so that he'd be unhappy, because it was easier to be unhappy, than to try not to be.
The ghost who had been denied a name watched. At first he was worried. Then he grew to be anxious. After that he started being irritated. Eventually he was exasperated.
The ghost was past sighing, when the vampire passed out, some time around one a.m..
He growled something at the unconscious vampire, even if the vampire couldn't hear him – first, because he was unconscious, second, because he couldn't see or hear ghosts. Then he stood up, and went to search for someone who could see him, and who would retrieve the passed-out vampire from the cemetery. Jeremy would grumble, but he would do it.
The ghost had no name, and so shouldn't be named. After all, one who was away could still come back one day, couldn't he? The name of the ghost was booked for that one, who would come back one day.
