Chapter Five: Someone Else's Eyes
The hallway was too narrow.
Stefan recognized it immediately: the upstairs hallway of the Salvatore estate. The floor creaked in the exact way it had when he was nine and tried to go downstairs and sneak cookies from the kitchen at night.
But it was all… wrong.
The wallpaper was warped, peeling in places. The candle sconces flickered with no flame. The air smelled like pipe smoke, bourbon and old roses—his father's scent and his mother's perfume, mixed in a way that made his stomach twist.
He heard shouting from behind a door to his right. Damon's bedroom. He moved toward it as if compelled forward, his footfalls silent on the old floor.
As he passed the mirror hanging crooked in the hallway, he glanced sideways, but the reflection he saw there wasn't himself.
It was Damon.
The bedroom door swung open before he could touch it, and there it was again. The same scene from before.
Damon, young, maybe thirteen this time. Kneeling on the hardwood floor, head bowed, hands clenched into fists against his thighs as Giuseppe stood over him, red-faced, a half-empty glass in one hand and that damned belt in the other.
"I told you what would happen if you disobeyed your mother." Guiseppe sneered.
"I didn't," Damon whispered, voice shaking. "I didn't do anything."
"Are you calling your mother a liar?" He roared. "She said you looked at her. Like you wanted something you weren't meant to want."
Damon flinched. "I didn't."
"You are a liar."
Giuseppe raised the belt.
Stefan tried to move. Scream. Intervene. But again—he couldn't. He stood frozen in the doorway, watching as the belt came down.
Once.
Twice.
Three times.
Damon didn't cry out. He didn't move. He just knelt there and took it, jaw clenched, tears tracking silently down his face as the skin split open on his back.
Stefan's heart pounded in his ears.
He remembered this. Vaguely. A woman's scream. A slammed door. Their mother's voice, cold and cruel.
But he hadn't known what happened behind that door. Either of the doors.
He hadn't asked. He had been afraid to.
And now he was being forced to see.
The dream shifted.
Flickered like a skipping reel.
Now Damon sat on a stone cellar floor. Shirtless. Arms limply resting on his knees, pulled up in front of him. Blood smeared across his chest and jaw. His eyes were wide, vacant. A single drop of blood staining the edge of his cheekbone.
In front of him, two bodies lay twisted on the floor. A man and a woman. Human. Young. Drained. Their necks torn ragged.
The woman's blouse was ripped open, breasts exposed. Her wrists were bruised.
Stefan felt nausea coil in his gut.
A man crouched beside Damon—a vampire Stefan didn't recognize. Older. Elegant. Wearing a bloodstained suit and a satisfied smile.
"You took her," the man said softly, tapping Damon's knee. "She begged me to stop. You didn't."
Damon flinched, but didn't speak.
"She cried, you know," the vampire continued. "Until the end. Then she just stared."
"I didn't mean—" Damon began, voice quiet, strained.
"But you didn't stop me. You wanted to see what it felt like."
Damon turned his head away.
The vampire leaned closer.
"Did it hurt when you fed from her after I had her? When I made you keep going?"
Damon's voice was barely audible. "I couldn't feel anything."
"But you watched," the man whispered. "And when she screamed, you drank."
Damon's eyes filled with tears, but he didn't look up.
"She liked the pain," the vampire added, grinning. "Didn't you?"
And then the Shadowborn came. It didn't speak. There was no need. Damon's own mind had plenty of ammunition.
"You didn't stop him."
"You didn't want to."
"You became her."
"You became him."
"You let it happen."
Stefan woke with a ragged gasp, drenched in sweat.
He sat up too fast, the sheets tangled around his legs, the breath in his chest coming in short, panicked bursts.
The room was still dark—early morning, just a thread of blue light bleeding through the curtains.
But the images were still there.
The cellar. The girl's torn blouse. The dead weight of Damon's eyes. That vampire's voice like venom poured into a wound.
And then—Stefan felt it.
The shame. The guilt. It wasn't his own. It was the quiet, aching truth buried inside his brother.
He pressed the heels of his hands into his eyes, trying to erase it.
It didn't work.
He could still feel the cold of the stone floor. The iron in the air. The wet slap of blood against skin.
What the hell was he seeing?
And more importantly—why did it feel so real?
He got up and moved quietly down the hall toward the stairs. He needed caffeine.
The floor creaked beneath his feet. He walked by the stairs that led to the first floor as if his feet were leading him right to his brother of their own accord.
Damon's door was closed, but Stefan paused in front of it anyway.
For a long time, he just stood there.
He remembered the dream before—the first one with Giuseppe. The one he'd chalked up to subconscious guilt or old memories twisted by stress.
But this?
There was no way this had come from his own mind.
The girl in the dream—the bruises, the fear in her eyes—he'd never seen her before. But he could still picture her now.
And Damon's face. Haunted. Hollow.
Stefan placed his hand gently against the wood of the door.
"Damon," he said softly.
No response.
He considered opening it, but something stopped him. Fear, maybe, but not of his brother.
Of the truth.
He let his hand fall.
Back in his room, Stefan sat on the edge of the bed, staring at the floor.
He remembered the times—too many times—when Damon got hurt and he had looked away.
Their father's belt. Their mother's cold disdain and biting words. The nights Damon would disappear, and come back quieter, bruised, wild-eyed.
He'd never asked. Not really. And now? He was seeing what Damon had never told him, and he didn't know what to do with it. But he knew this: Damon wasn't just dangerous. He was wounded. Deeply. Horribly. And Stefan had ignored it for too long.
Damon stood under the cold water for so long it stopped feeling cold.
The bathroom seemed steamed up anyway. Not from heat, but from the way his body burned beneath his skin—like something was trying to claw its way out from the inside.
The dream. Another one.
His voice.
"She liked the pain. Didn't you?"
His jaw clenched. His nails dug into his palms again, reopening the half-moon cuts from the previous night.
He didn't cry. He never cried. But he wanted to scream.
He turned off the water and stood dripping, naked, motionless, as if moving would make it real again. The cellar. The girl. The voice in his head telling him he'd wanted it.
That he needed it.
The Shadowborn hadn't even spoken last night.
They hadn't needed to.
His own shame had done the work for them.
In the mirror, his reflection looked the same.
But it wasn't.
He saw the shadows under his eyes. The faint tremble in his hands. The tension in his jaw like steel plating stretched beyond its breaking point.
He toweled off, dressed in silence, and left the bathroom without looking back.
Downstairs, the house was still. He walked past the fireplace without lighting it. Past the bourbon without drinking it. And sat in the same chair he'd dreamt in two nights before. This time, he didn't close his eyes. He stared at nothing. At everything. His mind wandered to her. Katherine.
He remembered her lips. Her voice. The scent of rosewater and wine. The way she made him believe he was wanted—just long enough to break him. And how afterward, he sought out pain on purpose, because at least pain felt like something.
He ran a hand through his damp hair and pressed his fingers to his temples.
"Get out of my head," he whispered.
But the voice he heard next? It was his own.
"You let her do it."
"You liked it."
"You stayed."
His eyes burned. He didn't fight it. He just sat there in silence and let the memories consume him.
She hadn't meant to come to the boarding house. She told herself she was out for a walk. That the rain had finally let up and she just needed fresh air. But her feet knew where to go.
And now she was standing in the open doorway, one hand on the wood, unsure if she should knock or speak or just run.
She stepped inside quietly. The house was dim and quiet. No music. No fire. Just the low hum of silence and the faint creak of old floorboards under her boots.
Then she saw him.
Damon. He was slouched in the armchair by the cold fireplace, half in shadow. He wasn't drinking. He wasn't reading. He wasn't doing anything at all. He just sat there, staring into nothing. His jaw was tight. His hands trembled faintly against the arms of the chair. And his eyes—normally so guarded—were hollowed out with something between exhaustion and grief.
"Damon?" she said softly.
He didn't move.
"Are you okay?"
Still nothing.
She stepped closer. "You look like you haven't slept in days."
He laughed, low and broken. "What gave it away?"
She eased down onto the edge of the coffee table, not too close, careful. "I was worried."
"You shouldn't be," he muttered. "Worry's a waste of time."
"Not when it's about someone who's hurting."
That pulled his gaze to her—slowly. And she saw it. Just for a second. All of it.
The pain. The shame. The grief. The weight of something he'd been carrying so long it had become part of him.
Then it was gone.
He blinked. Looked away.
"You need to go."
"Damon—"
"I mean it." His voice was sharp now. Not angry. Scared.
She didn't move.
He stood abruptly, pacing toward the fireplace, running a hand through his hair like he could tear the thoughts out of his skull.
"I don't want you to see me like this."
"I already do."
"That's the problem."
She stood too, slower.
"You don't have to hide from me."
He turned, and the look in his eyes stopped her in her tracks. It was raw. Unmasked.
"I've spent over a century hiding from everyone," he said, voice low. "Don't think you're going to change that in a week."
"I'm not trying to change you," she said. "I just want you to stop pretending you're fine."
Damon looked at her like he didn't know what to do with that. Like no one had ever offered it before.
He stepped back, letting the space grow between them.
"Please, Elena," he said, softer now. "Just… go."
And this time, she did, but only because she knew she'd come back. And next time, maybe he wouldn't push her away.
Damon stood alone in the darkened living room long after Elena left.
The silence pressed in like a hand on his throat.
He didn't light the fire.
Didn't pour another drink.
He just stood there—empty, exhausted, and afraid to sit down again, because if he sat, he might fall asleep. And if he slept… he knew what waited.
But his body was giving out. His limbs felt like iron. His thoughts slowed. And eventually, without ceremony, he collapsed onto the couch and lay still, one arm draped across his eyes like it might block out the things behind them.
Sleep took him.
Not all at once—but like the tide.
Slow.
Inevitable.
Bonnie jerked upright in bed, gasping. The candles on her dresser—unlit—flared to life. Every crystal on her desk rattled against the wood. A mirror cracked, just slightly, at the edge. She clutched the necklace her grandmother had enchanted years ago, feeling it burn cold against her chest.
Something had shifted. Not around her. Around them.
She closed her eyes, steadying her breath, trying to listen. She didn't hear words. But she felt it. A surge of pain. Shame. Something feeding on it like a leech.
Damon.
And something else inside him.
Watching.
Whispering.
Waiting.
Bonnie opened her eyes, breath shaking. This wasn't just magic. This was something ancient. And it had found a home.