Mystic Falls. Maybe the place would live up to its name? A quiet, humorless laugh escaped me as I discreetly shook my head at my ridiculous musings, a wry smile twisting tinted lips. With a heavy sigh, I directed a darkened whiskey gaze to the quaint town that idly passed by in an unfocused blur as we drove through, nothing but the cozy looking bar and grill, and the clock tower that held a sort of grandeur to it catching my eye. It's not that we moved constantly, but moving in the middle of high school wasn't something any teenager wanted. Starting at a new, bigger school was hard enough when you're starting from the very beginning. First impressions were suddenly everything; the way you dressed, the way you presented yourself, what you were good at, what you were bad at, your likes, your dislikes. Every single excruciating detail isn't just brushed off once you're thrown into the dog-eat-dog world of stereotypes. The first week or two was always an insufferable Spanish Inquisition as everyone decided what clique you belonged in. Were you a jock? A cheerleader? A nerd, a skater, a musician? It was ridiculous, but that's the way things were. Difference is, I have to go through it again when every 'position' is already established.
"Give it a chance, chérie. You might enjoy it here."
The familiar sound of my mom's voice snapped me out of my vacant reverie, and I directed a careless glance towards her through the rear view mirror, giving her nothing but a dismissive shrug and a meaningless "mhm". Before continuing to speak, a small sigh of her own escaped her, slender fingers drumming rhythmically against the steering wheel, the silence shared between us making the sound of the steady tapping seem louder than it was. Clearing her throat, her gaze danced between the road and the rear view mirror as she addressed me, her attempt at optimism to encourage me evident as the words she bestowed upon me were laced with enthusiastic tones.
"This town has a lot of history. You'll like that, right? I heard something about an important historical battle taking taking place near here, uhh.."
I knew she meant well, trying to engage me in conversation and trying to increase my regard concerning our move, and yet all I could manage was one, disinterested sentence.
"The Battle of Willow Creek.."
She parked our car in front of a house that had an air of lavishness to it despite the cozy exterior, and on the porch was my dad, his signature grin etched onto his features. His greeting fell on deaf ears as I gazed upon the street I was now to reside in. White picket fences, swings on porches - a perfectly painted picture of undisturbed bliss. As I tucked an errant jet black lock behind my ear, the idea that maybe, just maybe, this wouldn't be so bad flitted through my crowded thoughts.