Chapter 4

Another convulsion has left me listless upon the stretcher. Daniel and Darlene hover over me now, surgical tools in hand. I don't know where Stuart went and I'm not sure that I care. My current company of blood-jackers are about to sever my major arteries and leave me to bleed-out like a hog on Christmas Eve. It is imperative that they bleed me right now. The UV beads are destroying my nervous system and I won't likely survive one more attack. I am far too exhausted to interact with the jackers and far too distracted by déjà vu to want to try.

Déjà vu is a curious sensation. Curious as in frustrating and creepy. Especially when the source of ones déjà vu-ish-ness drips from memories that should have dried up and withered away like a century-old pea. As I lay here - strapped to a stretcher, waiting to be sliced open—my mind force-feeds my consciousness a memory. As I human I was able to choke down this experience and regurgitate it at the very bottom of my memory stack. Nearly two hundred centuries of experiences buried this one. But, just like that stupid fairytale with the princess who slept on a tall pile of mattresses, my pea was always lying there and rotting at the bottom. No matter how I tried to twist and turn it remained a permanent fixture down there. That pea must be effin' mummified by now but it just won't go away. I don't want to peel those mattresses back but I can't stop them, they are already toppling down, down, down . . . here I am again. Damon Salavtore is strapped and helpless again. Waiting to be sliced open again . . .

The first time was September 19, 1864 after the Battle of Winchester, Virginia in the Shenandoah Valley. I was a very young, naïve confederate soldier under General Early. The Battle of Winchester was a Union victory for General Sheridan and the Confederate losses were heavy - 276 dead, 1827 wounded and 1818 missing or captured – totaling one quarter of our entire army down and out. I was one of the wounded.

This was my first and last time experiencing the frontline wonders of the Great American Civil War. Much to my father's shame I bailed and came home after having a Union bullet carved out of my right shoulder. The medic could only spare a singular swig of whisky to numb my pain – that much alcohol wouldn't even give a toddler a buzz. As I screamed in delirium from blood loss, flailing against my restrains, the medic proceeded to sterilize the surgical knife with the remainder of his whisky.

"Looks like it's guna have to come off, boy," the medic voiced his diagnosis as though he were referring to my bad haircut, not my goddamn arm!

HE WAS GOING TO HACK OFF MY RIGHT ARM!

I begged him not to take my limb. Please, Sir! DON'T! I screamed, I cursed him! My throat burned as though I'd taken a shot of molten lava, but I continued to roar. My voice was my only defense, I could not move - all four limbs were strapped in place. The medic was immune to sympathy – deafened to my desperate calls. He raised his surgical knife and proceeded to operate. What I recall most vividly from that moment is not what I felt, it's what I heard. I heard four-year-old Stefan greedily stabbing a dinner knife into his Christmas Orange - peel snapping, juice and sweet fruit pulp sucking like a boot stuck in the mud. Orange pulp squirted up and onto my face, the medics face . . . but it was hot and sticky like syrup. It tasted like bitter liquid iron . . . not sweet, not citrus . . . oh god. No, no, no, no.

I stopped wailing, entranced as a toy pinwheel spiraled before my eyes, each tear a different hue of red. I was aware of the medic working over me. I could feel his cold metal tools as they continued trolling deeper through my skin and muscle.

"Found it," his voice held triumph. "Let's sing, young man, let's sing and think thoughts of sweet, sweet home. It will distract you from the worst." I thought that he was kidding until he started to belt a popular verse among my ranks. His voice was rough but held conviction, I had not the breath left in me to join him, but I focused on every single word:

"Mid pleasures and palaces though we may roam,
Be it ever so humble there's no place like home!
A charm from the skies seems to hallow us there,
Which, seek through the world, is ne'er met with
elsewhere:
Home! Home! Sweet, sweet Home!
There's no place like Home!
There's no place like Home . . .

Hmmm, it's your lucky day, son, I think I can pick it out. . ."

I was not sure what he meant until I felt his bare fingers inside my shoulder, picking away gobs of my flesh, digging the bullet out with the dexterity of his own hands. I thought of my home, of playing ball games in the courtyard with Stefan and then my world went black.

Three days had past when I awoke from surgery. Both of my limbs were intact, but my psyche was still bleeding. Keeping my arm meant that I was cleared as 'fit for duty'. Instead of joining my troop I ran to my sweet, sweet home. I ran to Mystic Falls. I ran back to my privileged life where I flirted with girls, played with my brother and war was merely a headline in the newspaper. I never should have joined the Confederacy anyway. I only enlisted because I had to – because I was my family's eldest son and that's what eldest sons' did when their country was at war in 1864. I joined because a stupid part of me wanted to impress my father and make my little brother proud. Fail. Fail. Mass Failage times 1,000. The only thing I gained from my army experience was a strong desire never to die – especially not in the pinnacle of my youth, butchered by my fellow countrymen. Screw honor. I knew even back then that I was destined for a much longer, grander life than my peers were.

I returned home a 'deserter'. I never told anyone about the bullet I took for the south. Well, aside from Katherine that is. I let my family and neighbors think that I ran at the first sight of Union guns. I did not care that they thought me a dishonorable coward, Stefan and Katherine were pleased to see me and that is all I really cared about. I recovered fully and my scar was easy to hide from everyone but Katherine. My brush with death inspired my vampire lover to offer me eternal life and I lusted for it almost as much as I lusted for her.

Bah, hindsight can spank my behind.

"Damon? Damon, we're all done. The UV beads are gone, but you need to drink now, you're starting to wither." A Canadian accent piques my senses – it's Darlene and she sounds urgent. Her use of the word 'wither' is enough to disturb me, but I am unable to respond. I feel stiff . . . shit, I think that rigor mortis is setting in, that or I'm mummifying like that pea in my subconscious. Holy hell, I am not in any way prepared to burst apart like a dusty vacuum bag today. "Damon, please . . . drink!"

Can't Darlene see that I am a corpse? That I can't react? Isn't she a dammed scientist? What is she doing . . . wait? Is she crying? What is that? Is she crying over my face?

Something hot and wet begins pelting my lips and chin like rapidly flowing tears. As the droplets begin to fall more insistently upon my mouth I realize that Darlene's eyes are not weeping, it is her skin. Her skin is sobbing thick, rich, delicious blood from a freshly inflicted wound. Drop by luxurious drop drizzles between my lips, unthawing my muscles from their petrified state. Darlene eats an iron-rich diet, full of red meat. I can taste every mineral, every sweet metallic nutrient infuses my system with energy, with adrenaline. Darlene's blood is pure, raw, life . . . I am guzzling from the fountain of youth.

I am able to widen my mouth and I lick the sticky essence from my lips like syrup. My entire body is rejuvenated, every cell aroused as bloodlust consumes me. My fangs are bared, crimson incinerates my eyes. I reveal my true self – Damon Salvatore, Vampire. It feels incredible to be me. I want to seize this foolish woman, press her willing body against my own and sink more than just my teeth into her flesh. I want to devour her inch by inch until I have expressed my gratitude and had my fill, my release from everything that has turned my current world so unbearably wretched.

I snarl ravenously, banging my restraints. Coherent words refuse to form; my lips are too busy lapping up Darlene's gore to communicate. I focus my sight on Darlene's wrist. The woman has slashed it and holds it, hovering several inches above my mouth. I snap my teeth at the air, failing to grip her flesh in my jaws. Wisely Darlene does not loosen my restrains; she does however lower her wrist to my open lips. I accept the invitation and latch on, holding her wrist prisoner with in my teeth, biting just hard enough to elicit a small cry as new wounds release a freer flow of blood.

I grin wickedly into her flesh, guzzling her life away like a frivolous free-refill. Adrenaline continues to ignite my system, the metal restrains enclosing my limbs are about as inconvenient as paper mache now. I could free myself in an instant. I could kill the jackers before they even fired off a single dart. I could grab Stefan and Elena and get the hell out of here. I could be quite the hero. If only I had been vamped-out at the Shenandoah Valley, I could have single handedly won General Early the Battle of Winchester. I could have been the war hero my father wanted me to be if I'd been able to take a bullet. . .

Ah, screw that. My old man was a douche. I'm lucky I didn't die from infection after that medic poked his bare fingers into my bullet hole. It's a miracle I lived through Shenandoah Valley at all. But I did. I lived and kept on living, long enough to keep my stupid brother alive too. Long enough to lose every spec of my sanity loving unattainable women. I am not wasting my second, third, fourth, one hundredth chance on some stupid act of heroism. I am going to get Stefan and Elena out of here. But I am not going to do it with my unnatural vampire strength. I am going to do it with the skills I've always had -– my human ingenuity.

"Okay, greedy boy, that will do," Darlene is breathless; I have drained her dangerously low. The woman can take some serious sucking. I'd love to return the favor - let her inflict some hardcore suckage upon me - but Daniel is at her side and he doesn't strike me as the experimental type.

Daniel guides Darlene's wrist away from my lips. The Canadian is freakishly pale; a stumbling advertisement for anemia. Daniel practically carries her to an area of the room beyond my sight.

I run my tongue over my lips, teeth and gums, savoring every last smear of gore. Canadian cuisine may be my new favorite snack attack. Daniel reappears over my head, tisking at my overindulgence. I guess he thinks that I'm a pig. Well, Danny, maybe you shouldn't have butchered me like one. Oink, oink!

My palate is interrupted as Stefan and Elena enter the room. It's not a daring rescue though; my fellow vampires are being lead at gun-point.

Strange how quickly my ironclad bloodlust and bravado are stomped into particles of dread. I will never get used to seeing Stefan or Elena in danger. A pair of blood-jackers escorts them and, luckily, everyone seems calm and cooperative. Stefan's sight instantly seeks out mine, but I am quick to avert my own. I don't want to look at my brother – I can't look at him. I can't look at Elena either. Not yet. Maybe I'm being selfish for denying my brothers concern—for not returning his worry with a confident nod. A look that says: all is well, Stefan. I've got this situation under control. Don't worry. That is the message which my brother needs me to convey. That is the message which I have conditioned him to expect.

I have no idea why the blood-jackers have brought Stefan and Elena into this room with me. They already drained the UV beads from my body and revitalized me with Darlene's blood. Have they perhaps agreed to my terms? Will they free my brother and Elena in exchange for my cooperation? Why isn't anyone saying anything? I'm strapped to a bed, Stefan and Elena are just standing in a corner and Stuart, Daniel and Melanie have dart guns aimed at all three of us.

"Damon, are you alright?" my brother's voice cracks, cracking the silence and my reserve along with it. Stefan pleads with me to look at him - to assure him that my sanity has endured whatever his imagination thinks that I've been subjected too. I wish that Stefan could understand that I just can't! If I look at Stefan or Elena they might see that . . . that I am frightened. I am frightened for them. I am also . . . embarrassed, I hate that Stefan and Elena must see me like this, as this helpless guy strapped to a bed. I could fight back, sure, but then my brother and the woman I love would be annihilated via UV darts before my eyes. No, it's easier to lay here, to ignore my brother's calls, to play oblivious to every single thing in existence until I know what the jackers next move is.

"What did you do to my brother? Did you bleed him dry already?! Damon? Damon look at me?"

I cringe, guilt gnawing on my brain like a teenie-tiny zombie. I hate hearing my brother all nervous, I hate it when he wastes his energy worrying about me. Ouch! Freakin' little zombie is going to town on my prefrontal cortex. I wonder how that zombie bitch got inside my brain anyway? Probably crawled in through my ear canal, sneaky son of a—whoa, Damon! Am I really having this dialogue with myself right now? Yes, Vampires, Werewolves and Ghosts exist, but microscopic zombies are insane.

Stefan calls to me once more, but his voice is less insistent. My brother finally gets that I am not interested in interacting with him right now. Elean, on the other hand, personifies Silence. I would not even know that she were in the room if I did not see her walk in. Vampire Elena reacts to situations very differently than her human version. The original Elena would have joined Stefan in giving two-shits about my condition. Not that I would have answered her either. Hmm, maybe Vampire Elena just knows me well enough not to waste her breath.

Stuart lowers his dart gun enough to draw our combined sight upon him. "Stefan and Elena, we appreciate your cooperation," the lead jacker addresses them so cordially, it's once again obvious that he's blood-jacked many, many times. This is just business to him. "As promised, Damon is safe and sound albeit a bit cranky. As we already discussed we did preform the initial blood-letting to drain the UV beads from his system. Darlene has fed Damon and he is doing well, currently recovering from his ordeal. We have brought you in here to further explain our plans to you, but also to ensure all three of your continued good behavior as we proceed. If any one of you should so much as twitch in a manner that I dislike, your companions will be shot full of darts." Neither Stefan nor Elena says anything; I can only assume that they are nodding but I don't take my sight from Stuart to check. Stuart has obviously filled them in on the whole UV darts weaponry system while Daniel and Darlene were busy bleeding me dry.

Stuart gauges our undivided attention and continues: "Damon and I had a conversation before you were brought in. He has agreed to stay on as our long-term blood donor in exchange for your freedom. However, we cannot accept the full-terms of his deal. We cannot free both of you for two reasons. One: no offence, but we don't trust Damon Salvatore, we need one of you here as insurance. Two: We need your blood, Elena."

"What? !" my voice comes to life in a great big yell! This is news to me. I had bargained for BOTH of their lives. Stuart never mentioned his 'reasons' before..

"No way!" that's Stefan. "Elena goes free, keep me."

"No, Stefan. We have deemed you to have the least amount of self-control during and after feeding. While you are here you must engage in live human feeding to maximize the healing properties of your serum. Also, your blood type is the same as your brothers; therefore we really don't need both of you. You see, both you and Damon were A-positive types as humans, and as vampires your blood is still most effective and compatible when being transfused into an A-positive human. Elena is a B-negative, a type which is in great demand right now."

"How do you know all of this?" Elena asks, sounding incredibly calm considering the content behind her question.

"Melanie is a hematologist; she tested all of your blood from the initial sample we took earlier today. Therefore, Elena, we pose this question to you: do you agree to behave as Damon has in exchange for Stefan's freedom? Will you remain calm as Damon is now as we bleed you? As a counter deal we will only take three rounds of blood specimens from you and Damon, then set you both free. A reasonable compromise in exchange for never taking another drop from Stefan. I think you will agree."

"I do agree," Elena answers immediately.

"No deal!" Stefan fumes. "If you separate me from them I'll just come back here! I'll break in and kill all of you! I don't care if I have to drink human blood to do it! I won't leave Damon and Elena behind!"

"Dammit Stefan, shut up!" I shout at him, restraining myself from tearing through my restraints and kicking his ass! "Don't you see that Elena is trying to spare you from that fate? That this is what I have been trying to do all along?"

"Relax Damon," Stuart sneers through his moustache - unphased by the show of martyrism in full-production before him. "Stefan, I appreciate the loyalty you feel toward your brother and girlfriend, but you have no idea where you even are right now. Your threats are ridiculous, fueled by senseless passion. We are going to hit you with enough darts to keep you down for days. By the time you wake up we will likely be done with Damon and Elena anyway. This is merely your brother's way of protecting you from a ripper-relapse. You ought to thank Damon."

Stefan looks directly at me and guilt pulverizes my senses like a blood-filled piñata at an Original's Birthday Bash. "Damon, please, we need to stay together . . . please, don't make this choice. I don't want to be left behind."

Deja fuckin' vu.

Those words sting.

A much younger, human version of Stefan voiced those same words once before. Stefan pleaded with his big brother not to go away to war . . . not until he was at least old enough to go along too.

That was the first time my heart broke. Fortunately I have become a dammed expert on handling heartbreak over the past century, so this time I can reject him with far greater conviction. "No, Stefan. Anytime I have sent you away it was always to protect you. You know that. Grow up and grow a pair. I am doing this for you. I would much rather that both you and Elena were set free. But as we both know, I don't usually get what I want now do I? Now you know how it feels. So guess what, be grateful that Elena and I are unanimously sparing you from this hell and stop making this already awkward conversation in front of strangers even MORE awkward. We both know that you won't recover from another dose of human blood. And . . .quite frankly I can't stand to see you destroyed again, Brother."

Stefan's jade eyes go wide, he opens his mouth but his voice fails him. Better his voice than his brother.

I glance at Stuart and nod.

Pop-pop-pop!

Stefan goes down instantly.

Neither Elena nor I so much as flinch as he hits the floor. She does, however, glance at me. Her sight relays her approval. Elena knows as well as I do that Stefan would self-destruct if he stayed. I may not have saved Elena from the old bleed-N-feed, but my brother is going to be okay.

Daniel drags Stefan's limp form from the room. I stifle my reflex to threaten Daniel - to warn that he had better not harm my brother. Strange as it may be, I have to trust the enemy. These blood-jackers have been nothing short of honest this far along. I mostly even believe their claims to free Elena and myself after three rounds of blood collection.

"Well now," Stuart cocks his dart gun, taking aim at Elena. "No sense wasting time. The sooner we get our blood from you two the sooner you can join Stefan and get on with your immortal lives. So, who's up? Damon, do you want to go again, or is it ladies first?"

"Actually," Melanie pipes up, joining Stuart in nudging Elena toward me with her gun, "I think it's best if we drain them at the same time. That way they are both vulnerable at once. We're less likely to have any problems that way."

Stuart tugs at his moustache which somehow conveys his agreement. What's creepy is that we unanimously understand the meaning behind the 'stash pull. "Very well, let's wheel another stretcher in here then."

A much healthier-looking Darlene joins Melanie in rigging up a second stretcher. Stuart's aim redirects from Elena to me. He has determined that Elena, unshackled, is a greater threat than I am, thus he threatens my life. He is probably right, the adrenaline coursing through my muscles has subsided, I'm no longer confident that I could bust through my restrains now. I need more fresh blood to entertain the idea.

I am surprised at how placid Miss Glibert's behavior is. A few hours ago she tried to eat these people. I guess she doesn't want to watch me convulse anymore, thoughtful. I'll try not to let it go to my head.

Darlene arranges the second stretcher along the opposite wall from my own. Elena does not utter a word of protest as Darlene and Melanie strap her into the restraints. But she does utter other words: "Darlene, you fed Damon your blood."

Darlene nods as she padlocks Elena's restrains. "Yeah, and I saved his life ya know."

"I know. I can smell Damon on your skin and I can smell your blood on his breath." Elena makes an obvious sniffing sound to illustrate her point. Elena flaunts about as much emotion as a corpse. I shake my head at her, flaring my eyes with warning - where the hell is she going with this? I need Elena to preserve her self-control so that we can both get out of here.

But Elena ignores my silent pleading and continues, eyeing the blond like a sniper: "I appreciate you helping him, but don't volunteer your services again."

"Eh? Why is that?"

"I do not want you to touch him."

Darlene laughs loudly, raking a well-manicured hand through her short bob of hair. "Well, honey, I hate to break this to you but Damon is going to be feeding on me over and over and over again for the next few days. And guess what? He loves the way I taste. You should have seen him sucking on me, just lapping up every drop I bled. Damon is welcome to sate himself by me anywhere and anytime he needs too. It's shame you're no longer human, then maybe he'd want to taste you too."

"Okay then! That'll do ladies." Stuart mercifully interjects. Melanie and Darlene trade schoolgirl giggle fits. Usually I'd be busy pouring blood on my ego right now, but Elena's behavior is more than a little disturbing. Is she . . . jealous? Protective? Wrought with new vamp PMS? I don't get her at all, but, threatening the jackers who currently have us both at their mercy isn't her brightest moment. I guess that Stefan's cleverness is starting to rub of on her. Yay.

"I don't need you to protect me, Elena. Just relax!" I warn, struggling not to yell. Darlene and Melanie both trail their guns on Elena's chest. Miss vampire further ignores my caution, her sight burning into the back of Darlene's scalp like a renegade flatiron. What the hell? Doesn't Elena realize what we are dealing with here? These jackers could put us both down in an instant.

Stuart takes a stab at soothing the vampire beauty: "I'll tell you what Elena, we will prop your stretchers up so that you and Damon can look at each other. That way you will know 100% of what is going on with the other at all times. When the time comes for Damon to feed you can watch. You'll see that Darlene is not offering him anything more than her wrist."

"I don't see why she even cares. She's Stefan's' girlfriend, right?" Darlene speaks as though Elena were not in the room. The Canadian's blood may be sinful but is not scoring any brownie points with me.

Stuart puts a blunt end to this bizarre cat-fight. "Darlene, you are not banging the vampire, ok?"

"Yes sir."

An extremely awkward silence stifles the room. I am grateful when my bed starts to move as it causes a distraction from Darlene and Elena's bitch-fest. My stretcher has gone completely vertical. I am now positioned in an upright, standing posture being held in place by my retrains alone. Elena is the mirror opposite of me; her stretcher has also transitioned to a spot against the wall. Shackled in only her hospital nighty, Elena resembles a piece of gloriously naughty artwork that I would kill to have hanging in my bedroom. But my x-rated thoughts dissolve into shame as I examine Elena's face . . .

Russet eyes dart everywhere but my own. What is she thinking? What is she feeling? Why won't she look at me? Is she scared? What the hell, Damon, if course she is scared. Klaus almost bled her to death multiple times before, he almost killed her. This is an unliving nightmare.

Melanie scurries around us, rigging up her blood collection tools. Stuart maintains his aim upon me and Darlene's trigger fingers itches beside Elena. I whisper Elena's name at a volume well-below what any of the humans can hear. Elena stirs at my voice, facing me at once. Unruly russet flames blaze behind her lashes; her eyes are a glorious bonfire of auburn and mahogany – of determination and zeal. But the tinder which kindles this unwavering fire is not hidden to me. I can peer through the flames and see what lies below. I would gaze into a super nova and scald my damn corneas if it meant reading a single verse of her soul. And so I do . . . I look.

Déjà fuckin' vu.

Again.

How many times can one heart break? Even an undead, busted heart has its limits. But mine apparently has a few rusty parts left to fail. Elena is not concerned for herself. The tinder to her flame is familiar, it's guttural, and it's a fuel that my human eyes have seen before. The same fire burned within the eyes of my brothers in arms as they fell around me in 1864. This fire - this passion- is what inspired thousands of us to sing of sweet, sweet home as we charged the Union in the Shenandoah Valley. We were immensely outnumbered and knew full-well that we would fall, but we charged on anyway. We had to because we believed that we were fighting to protect those we loved most. Our fires blazed with desperation, because that's what we were - we were desperate to protect what we loved most. Desperation is a powerful motivator, and in our case it was all we had left. My troop would rather perish than watch harm come to what was theirs. This fire is why I ran headlong into the Union army. This fire is why I continued to fight even after I was shot. Why I fought until I blacked-out across the bodies of my comrades. I was standing between the enemy and Stefan back home in his bed. What choice did I have?

My reflection blinks back at me from across the room. My own desperate passion blinding me, my retinas begging me to look away. But I refuse to surrender and neither will she. Our motivator is mutual. We are both warring to keep the other safe.

0o0o0o0o0o0o0 0o0o0o0o0o0o0 0o0o0o0o0o0o0o

NOTE: Hiya! I am still writing! My Muse hit a teensie dry spell, but re-reading all of your previous great reviews recharged her! Yippee! This story is almost complete, please do leave a review. I literally have put 15+ hours into this chapter and I would appreciate any feedback! Thanks and much VD love, Maia's Pen