Ok, guys, we're getting to the pivotal moment. If you read ahead on my site, please check the content warning in chapter one. If you are a sensitive reader, maybe skip chapter 11.
But, if you are going full throttle, a reminder that my image board and a link to this story's playlist are on my site as well, if you're interested. :)
Hope you guys enjoy this one. ;)
Bonnie chewed her nails, eyes darting around the living room. The basket of blankets to the left of the TV, the entertainment center on the wall filled with books …
Books had paper. She cringed at the thought of having to slide her finger along the page.
"I put on extra butter for you," Damon said, carrying a heaping bowl of popcorn in from the kitchen.
The aroma made her mouth water, and her tongue craved the taste of salt after her cocoa puff cereal dinner. Mary was working late, and Bonnie hadn't felt like making a frozen meal.
Damon sat back in his spot on the opposite end of the couch, one elbow propped on the armrest.
Forcing the same smile she'd worn all evening, Bonnie pulled the bowl into her lap. "Thank you."
She popped a buttery piece in her mouth, savoring the taste. It wasn't as good as his lips, too hot to compete with the menthol-like effect of his skin.
Twisting just the slightest bit toward her, Damon stretched his arm along the back of the couch. "What movie do you want to watch?"
His gaze drifted over her, and she felt their black holes sucking at her, tugging at every place they wandered. It seemed his eyes hadn't learned the concept of space his body had gotten so accustomed to.
"Um, something scary." Her fingers stung with phantom cuts as they curled into her palms, dreading the inevitable.
"You hate scary."
"I have you here to protect me though, don't I?" She challenged him with his own words, throwing his gallant complex right back at him.
His eyes narrowed, but he couldn't deny it. "You do."
That was enough to distract Damon as he chose a streaming platform and began flipping through movies.
"You pick," Bonnie said, trying to think of a way to pick up a book, because she couldn't bear the thought of a knife. Nor did she have the skill to use one without potentially slicing her finger off. Then again, maybe that would be more effective …
Still. Paper would have to do if she didn't want to end up in the E.R. That would foil her plans.
But how was she going to do this? What would be her excuse? Would she even be able to intentionally run her finger across the edge just the right way? It couldn't be that hard. She'd done it unintentionally all her life.
Bonnie sighed to herself, crunching a half-popped kernel. Maybe this was a stupid ide—
Warmth gushed out onto her thighs.
Oh, shit.
Pushing the popcorn bowl off her lap, she shot up from the couch.
"Everything good?" Damon asked, but something strange hung on his voice, tossing gravel onto baritone notes.
There was no time to overthink it.
Squeezing her thighs together, Bonnie dashed down the hall. "Be right back."
Shutting the door a little too hard, she shoved her sweats off to a dark red stain on her boy-short panties.
She planted herself on the toilet, and her tampon plopped into the water as she pulled it free, heavy and soiled. When had she even changed it last?
Wadding some paper and stuffing it between her legs, she rummaged through the drawer she usually kept stocked—for emergencies. Scissors, antibacterial ointment, bandages, an old brush, hand sanitizer, and a thermometer. She looked again, reaching all the way to the back to find a few overused hair ties and clips. But no tampons.
Ok. There was no reason to worry.
Bonnie dipped, searching through the ivy-green cabinet under the sink. More bandages, cleaning products, cleaning brushes, toilet paper rolls …
Where was the box? The yellow and pink cardboard container she'd pushed into the back corner where any prying eyes would never see?
Bonnie could swear she'd had it there last time, and—
Shittle sticks.
That was the thing she'd been supposed to pick up. That had been the thing she'd been missing after getting distracted by the fluffy pillows.
Her only other packs were upstairs.
Staring at her stupid forgetful face in the mirror, she gave the sink a few taps with her baby-pink nails. Pondering, pausing for some idea that would get her out of this mess. She could … run up with the paper between her legs?
Another gush warmed the toilet paper as it leaked almost all the way through.
No. Dripping blood through the house sounded so much worse than her current predicament. She'd rather jump from her second-story window headfirst than have blood drops trailing to her bathroom.
Changing out the toilet paper between her legs, Bonnie went to the door and cracked it just enough so that her lips could poke through. "Damon," she called, getting her telepathy ready as a last resort.
She hadn't touched it since that incident. Hadn't wanted to. Just in case something else crazy decided to drift out onto his wavelength.
She couldn't even trust her own brain to keep her secrets anymore.
"Yeah?" he answered.
Thank God he had sensitive ears.
"Could you come here a second?" The edge of the door cut a line in the center of her forehead as she leaned into it, blowing all the breath from her lungs.
This was cutting into her plans, and she was losing the courage to go through with them at all.
"What do you need?" Damon called back from the living room, no hint of movement popping the springs in the couch or creaking the floorboards in the hall.
Was he not … going to come?
"I need you to come here, please." No one else was home. She could've said what she needed through the door. But it was the principle of the matter.
Why would he not come? Was he really trying that hard to keep distance between them?
She swore she caught his sigh as the couch springs finally popped, freed of two hundred pounds. Tears leaked onto her lashes, and she dabbed them, listening to the pad of Damon's bare feet down the hall.
He would've worn shoes if Mary allowed it, kept his attire cordial and equipped to leave whenever he deemed necessary. It'd been one of his newer developments. To keep his beloved distance, she guessed. He'd traded his sweats for jeans and his t-shirts for leather jackets that kept the veins corded around his muscles concealed.
At this point, it might've been a better plan to send him home early.
"What do you need?" Damon appeared against the wall across from her with his leather-clad arms crossed.
She could only see a sliver of his face as she peaked one eye through, using the remainder of the door to hide her half-naked naked body behind.
He looked … irritated.
"I have my, um, period."
"Mhm." His voice was as tight as his posture.
"I usually keep tampons down here, but—"
"Just tell me where they are," he cut in.
Why was he being so mean?
"Upstairs. In my bathroom. They're under the sink in a yellow and pink box."
Damon didn't say anything more, rushing down the hall a little faster than capable for a human.
Closing the door, Bonnie pressed her back into it and let her chest deflate.
He was in such a bad mood already, and this predicament was distracting from everything else. Would her plan even work at this point?
But if not now, when? She wouldn't have the house to herself again anytime soon. She wasn't even sure if Damon's visits would continue as often as he'd promised. He was so hellbent on putting space between them since they'd kissed outside. When he'd said all those naughty things to her that she'd let replay in her head one too many times under the shower water, or in her bed when she laid on her stomach.
Bonnie's eyes shifted around the green-colored bathroom with its oak baseboards. It was now or never. She couldn't lose him to Gemma, or to anyone else.
Something sharp, anything sharp . . .
She needed to act. He would be back soon.
The purple pair of scissors came to mind, their silver blades gleaming in her head.
They would have to do.
Yanking the drawer open, she pulled the scissors out and held the pointed tip to her finger. One stab. One stab and it would be done. She puffed a few breaths, digging the tip in until her fingertip depressed. Just to get a feel for the pain.
On three. She began a countdown.
One—
Damon knocked at the wall.
Damn it!
Bonnie hesitated, catching a glimpse of herself in the mirror. Naked from the waist down, cheeks flushed, eyes watering, a closed pair of scissors poking into her finger …
She looked just as crazy as she felt.
"Bonnie," Damon said, knocking a little harder against the wall.
It annoyed her that he couldn't even touch the door.
"I'm coming," she bit, tossing the scissors back into the drawer and closing it.
The door stuck in the frame a little as she made a crack large enough for the tampon to be shoved through.
"Is this it?" The tail end of the tampon stuck through.
"Yeah." Reaching up to take it, she startled as one black eye peered through, portions of his fingers popping past the crack she'd made.
She brushed them as she gripped the tampon. "Thank you."
There was resistance as she pulled, and her pulse stuttered.
Was he trying to toy with her?
She glanced back up to his eye, somehow darker than before. Bonnie shook against the chill that ravaged her body.
Biting into the inside of her lip, she pulled a little harder, relieved when the tampon slipped from his hold.
"I'll be back out in a second." She pushed the door closed.
It caught, and so did her breath.
"Did— Did you need something?" Bonnie gulped.
Something was off. Something was very off. She could feel it in the air, in the energy engulfing them both. It was all darkness trying to consume her.
"Maybe."
His fingers curled around the door, blocking her from shutting it. Her blood ran cold, ice prickling up her throat.
"What is it?" She needed to know, what was so wrong, what she could do to fix it, but warmth soaked through to her fingers.
Gasping at her crimson spill, she jumped back from the door, rushing to the toilet and grabbing more paper from the roll. She tossed the soiled piece into the bowl.
Click.
She turned, her heart jumping into her throat as she saw Damon completely inside, his broad back to her. One hand had the door pushed closed while the other tipped the doorknob, holding the lock in position.