CHAPTER 2: BURNING DAYLIGHT

Damon was never the same after that day. He did unforgivable things because blood was his first and often his only priority. But there was also something new and different about the icy blue of his eyes. Behind them now was a faint light, a twinge of hope that wasn't there before.

His frozen heart craved the kind of warmth only her hazel eyes could radiate. So from that day onwards, Damon learned how to lock a gaze. He looked into the eyes of every single person he encountered in his desperate search, in hopes that one day, he'd find her - the woman who'd changed him forever.

1865

Damon spent year after year trying to adjust to this new way of living but sadly life, as we all know, stops for no one. Life simply went on around him, forcing him to keep up with its pace. The only thing it never did, was get any easier.

'I must look appropriate.' The thought ran through his mind as he donned his gray breeches and buttoned his beige waistcoat. Choosing an elegant silver tie, he neatly tucked it underneath his collar. That day, there was something he just needed to do. 'Perhaps it's the only way my mind can be put to ease.'

The gravel crunched beneath his feet when he got down from the carriage. His palms were sweating; his hands were balled into fists by his sides. He closed his eyes and exhaled.

-1863 Flashback-
Damon's head whipped towards the sound of an agonized cry. He narrowed his eyes to see, through the smoke, Union soldiers torturing a poor man. The man was a bodyservant, one of the few African Americans left to provide slave labor for Southern forces. He was frail from not having eaten meat in weeks; all the Confederates were. Damon's knuckles turned white as he watched a federal snatch the worn, wool hat from the man's head, throw it on the ground, and spit on it. The others just laughed. War had left Damon a traumatized man, but his integrity was still somewhat intact.

Ignoring the General Officer's command to retreat, Damon found himself beating the Union soldiers to a pulp. He swung his fists in blind fury.

His chest rose and fell as he surveyed the three men that lay unconscious on the ground. To his left, Damon saw the colored confederate, his head between his knees, trembling. He'd already started towards him but then he heard shallow breathing from one of the Union soldiers on the ground. The federal's face was badly bruised and he seemed to be hanging onto life by a thread.

"Have mercy," he begged as he saw Damon's gaze land on him. Though his own irises were cold as ice, Damon would never forget the bleak teal of the man's eyes as he plunged the spear of his bayonet deep into the federal's chest.

Damon's head hung low, his feet, wrapped in fog, as he sought the right gravestone. He felt as if everything was falling apart.

A lock of hair fell over his forehead. His gaze fell to the inscription on the marble gray. His heart fell at the last word.

In memory of
BENJAMIN HILL
1843 - 1863
Valiant soldier
Devoted husband
Loving father

Then Damon fell to his knees on the damp grass, a broken man.

He stared at the wall of his quarters numbly. When he caught his own reflection in the full-length mirror, he had to look away. He hated what he saw. The brief pang of pain, from his fist smashing the glass, was the last thing he felt before he flipped the switch to his emotions. He stared at the shattered mess on the floor. There was no one there to pick up the pieces.

"I can't go home," he murmured, his eyes downcast, "I don't deserve to."

1995; Cape Cod, Massachusetts

The cool breeze hit Damon's face as he drove leisurely through the sleepy town. He was definitely turning heads with the top down on his '67 Chevy Camaro. He was a vision in black, the sunlight glinting off his leather jacket. Each and every woman he passed by directed their gaze at him. He smirked and looked up from his aviators, soaking up the attention.

He drove to the desolate dunes by the shore, got out of his convertible and deeply inhaled the salty air. His sensitive hearing picked up a lot; the noisy seagulls in the distance, the crash of waves on the shore, and - he was in luck - the musical laughter of two girls nearby. His lips turned up at a corner, his eyes immediately darkening with desire.

They gasped, startled, as he appeared in front of them with vampiric speed. He enjoyed scaring them first, it got their blood flowing. Before they even had a chance to scream his fangs had pierced the blonde's neck. He watched as the life escaped her amber irises. He licked the blood off his lips before he sped to the hysterical brunette, tears streaming down her cheeks. He chuckled at her feeble attempt to run.

His eyes locked with hers as his pupils dilated. "Don't move," he commanded in a husky voice. He circled her, noticing how her breathing hitched and her rosy cheeks paled. She was in complete shock. "Are you afraid?" he asked, standing behind her, his hands on her shoulders. She hesitantly nodded in response. "Good,"he quipped, blood vessels lining tracks beneath his eyes. Her bloodcurdling scream was replaced by dead silence as her lifeless body hit the dry sand.

2005; New York

Outside, the snow softly fell, blanketing the ground in a white haze. It was the early hours of the morning and there wasn't a soul on the city streets. But even through the dusty bar window, Damon could see the blur of colorful lights hanging from the street lamps.

The sleazy joint was nearly empty with the exception of a drunk passed out on the floor and a seemingly inebriated man in the corner. He wore a sharp suit but his head was buried in his hands. Damon slouched in his bar stool, swirling the golden liquid - his usual brand of Scotch - around in its glass.

The bartender, who'd been busy cleaning the counter with a dirty rag, stopped to look up at him. "It's Christmas morning, son. Young lad like ya would prolly have somewhere to be." Damon replied with a languid, "Nope," pushing his glass towards the man for yet another refill. The old-timer just shook his head and filled the glass for the eighth time that night. Damon didn't care the slightest bit for "Christmas". He'd spent one-too-many alone, ergo the word "merry" was no longer in his vocabulary.

He was too preoccupied with his drink to turn his head when the bell above the bar door jingled. A frazzled woman in knee-high boots and a faux fur coat took the seat next to him, slapping her purse onto the counter.

She looked Latina. "The usual," she slurred. She sounded Latina. She turned her head towards him. "Hey there, gorgeous." Damon acknowledged her with the slight tip of his head. "You single, baby?" she purred with half-lidded, earthy brown eyes.

A lopsided smile formed on his lips, "Still haven't found the right one."

She woke up the next morning in a seedy motel with dried blood on her neck and no memory of that night whatsoever.

He was long gone.

N/A: Damon felt so much guilt for what he did to the Union soldier because it was his first brutal kill. Moreover, he found out he didn't only have the blood of a man on his hands, but the blood of a father whose child would NEVER see him again. For him, that hit home pretty hard.

"There's only so much hurt a man can take." - Damon Salvatore; Unable to bear the guilt, he chose to go the easy road, turning his emotions off for good.

Tune in for Chapter 3, there'll be some sweet D/E going on in there!

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