Southern Nights {The Originals Shorts + Preferences}

3. The Night Tourist

Summary: Both you and Kol knew that the news of your nature would spread through the Supernatural community like a wildfire. Your time had run out. You couldn't stay in your home, you couldn't finish school, and you couldn't even mourn your father's death. Now was the time to run. But where in the world could you run to? Was there anywhere you could ever be safe?

Warnings: Descriptions of blood, self harm, alcohol consumption, violent, frightening images, a lot of talking about death, and language. Two very derogatory terms for women are used - one in a humorous way, but still - this is your warning.

A/N: Please note that the Other Side in this story does not even attempt to resemble the one in TVD canon. The Other Side portrayed in the show was a lame, low budget TV show rendition of the land of the dead and I intend to make mine 300% more epic. Also, this is low-key inspired by the novel of the same title by Katherine Marsh. Thanks for reading!

***

Death was to you like the humidity in Florida. It clung to you, it seemed. It coated your skin in a nasty, unwanted film and lingered around you in the air, weighing almost painfully in your lungs every time you took a breath. Perhaps that was why your chest hurt so much. Death surrounded you. It always had.

As for everyone around you? Same story - all dead. Your mother had died the day you were born; you'd killed her to come into this world. Kol was dead, but he'd been that way since you'd met him. Now your father was dead too. And come on now, really, how was that not your fault? He was dead because of you. Because you were some stupid supernatural freak who couldn't make up her mind on wether to be dead or not! You should have just died in that car crash.

Oh wait. That's right. You had.

You were dead, how funny was that? So why weren't you laughing?

Death clung to you. You had escaped it and it wanted you back so it was taking your life away one little bit at a time.

That wasn't very fair. But then again, life was never fair. Why should death be any different?

You scowled, glaring down at the tiles of your kitchen floor. They sparkled and shown. Clean. Immaculate. Kol had done a good job; no one would have ever guessed that a man had bled out on those tiles just last afternoon. You shook your head and raised the bottle in your grasp to your lips. Tipping it back, you took a long, painful swig and decided that those tiles were too damn clean. You weren't gonna act like nothing had happened so you stumbled over to the knife block and withdrew the biggest one. Standing over the place where you'd seen your father's body lying dead, you tucked your bottle under one arm and slit your palm with the knife. You held your hand out over the pristine tiles and clenched it in a fist, letting the crimson liquid ooze between your fingers, dripping to the ground.

The stuff burned your throat but your expression was blank as you took another sip of whatever alcohol was in that bottle. Your vision was too blurry for you to read the label, but it was probably brandy... or bourbon... or whiskey. Probably just wherever that stupid ghost could get his hands on. Kol had a tendency to swipe the stuff at pretty much any opportunity - he'd been slowly building a stash in your basement over the last year. You didn't care much anymore. You had attempted to reprimand him for his rash of thefts when you'd first caught onto him, but he would always just flash you that stupid smirk, pairing it with some off-the-cuff comment about how alcohol apparently helped with his cravings at which point you'd roll your eyes and forget about it until your next shopping trip where he would undoubtedly do the same thing. It never mattered what you said, Kol just did whatever he wanted.

You weren't a stupid person, and you weren't a trusting one either. People didn't hurt you because you didn't give them the chance to do so. The story your kidnapper had told you was more than likely true. After all, people don't seek revenge for nothing and seven hundred years is a long time to hold a grudge. You hadn't told Kol of your conversation with Christianna Galkin when he informed you of the bounty hunter's name and reputation. He hadn't told you anything more about her, neither confirming nor denying anything she'd said to you. The more you thought about it, the more you began to believe her words as they echoed in your mind.