Rage.
Darkness.
Splashes of red.
Empty.
Alone.
Confusion.
Her head hurt. It always hurt now.
Danger. She was in danger.
No, her friends were in danger.
From her.
Because she was no longer Elena Gilbert, she was only a repository of over a century of hate, rage, lust and death.
No.
No more.
No more drugging.
No more hurting her friends as they tried to help.
She was done.
She could do this. This was her last hope to make things right.
She lay still. She never moved as the sedatives wore off. Gave no indication that she was returning to herself. It was hard, at times she wanted to scream, put her fist through a wall, cry that this was not fair.
But she lay still.
Not moving.
And it worked. She was not drugged.
Time crept by slowly as she watched and waited. The old Elena Gilbert would not have been able to do this, but Elena/Damon could.
Silent.
Still.
Plotting.
Damon sat forward on his seat; he desperately wished the plane could go faster.
He had been angry when Stefan had shown up, lurking behind him in the bar.
He did not understand, being connected to Elena and not able to be close HURT. It physically hurt, and the pain never healed. He could not bear it much longer; living with this pain was intolerable. His only recourse would be flipping the switch, turning his humanity off like a tap. There was one problem with that plan. He was still connected to Elena, and if he did that, how would it affect her?
Although from what Stefan said, he could have done it and not made a difference. The girl he loved was going insane.
Now it seemed to him he could not get there fast enough.
Something was wrong, the closer he got the more the cold, sharpness pressed in on him. It almost seemed like she was waiting for him to come. That she knew he was close.
Only an hour more till he landed.
Now.
Everyone was downstairs talking, assuming she was asleep. She saw a baby monitor close by her bed, not a problem, she could easily be quiet enough not to register on it.
Silently she opened her window, slipped out and onto the porch roof, then, down, down the rose trellis and into Bonnie's car. She always left her keys in the ignition, no matter how many times she had been warned against it.
She slipped the car out of park and silently rolled past the block, houses passing ever faster, then, she started the engine and turned on the lights.
When she caught a glance of herself in the rear view mirror, it did not look like her. Her hair had not been brushed in days; there was no color in her face, dark circles hung down around her eyes, aging her.
She was here now. She parked and opened the trunk; she only took out two items. The water shimmered and glistened under her as she walked farther onto the bridge.
She fumbled with one of the items.
Walked to the edge of the bridge, for a moment the wind whipped her hair around her face. Then she stepped off.
Anchored by Bonnie's bowling bag filled with rocks, tied to her with nylon rope, Elena Gilbert sank quickly to the bottom, and the only sign she had been there was a thin stream of bubbles that soon stopped.
The moon reflected serenely over the top of the water.
Yes, cliffie I know!