Death opens || Vampire Diaries [S1]

Chapter 7: Night Shift

It was not a heart, beating,
That muted boom, that clangor
Far off, not blood in the ears
Drumming up any fever
To impose on the evening.
The noise came from outside

⁂

NADEZHDA

The sun shines down on a bright new morning in the small Virginia town of Mystic Falls, streaming through the exposed window between the heavy brocade of drawn curtains. The birds are chirping merrily outside—my Hugin no doubt grumping from his own nest out back—and even Damon is walking with a bounce in his step. It's shaping up to be a beautiful day, and I couldn't be less pleased.

It's not that I necessarily begrudge Damon his good mood, inspired as it is by an erroneous interpretation of the damning facts I laid out so carefully for him yesterday. On some level, I can even allow him the time to smile in blissful, willful delusion while he denies the truth staring him in the face. It will certainly hurt more when reality crashes down around him, but that's hardly my problem anymore, is it? No, the problem is all those resentful little glances he keeps directing at me between long bouts of disturbingly dewy-eyed (and wholly unnecessary) sentimentality. Like it's my fault Katya is as clever as she is cruel and even her accidental breadcrumb trail is duplicitous.

And I wish I could say I understand. That based only on reason, circumstantial evidence, and someone else's unique experience, simply accepting such a terrible truth—the sort that could irreparably damage the foundations of his very self—is too much to ask without firsthand, definitive proof. That maybe he just needs time to get there, even if it's time spent enclosed behind glass walls of comfortable lies. But I can't say I do.

Maybe that's because I've never had the luxury of such a thing myself. After all, all of my uncomfortable revelations (the truth of my family's death, the existence of monsters, that an oath I made as little more than a child would forever punish disobedience with excruciating prejudice) were of the sort to see me dead if I refused to believe them. Any time I ever spent in denial was spent knowingly working toward the goal of acceptance.

So, watching him smile so brightly, practically skipping down the stairs with the rising sun and all the while glaring balefully at me like I've threatened to dump Jell-O powder in all his favorite bourbons and blow up every distillery in Kentucky for good measure, has me as frustrated as I am confused. It's clear I'm missing something here. If only I knew what.

I've had nearly 900 years to catalog experiences emotional, physical, and psychological against which to compare my acquaintances' often inexplicable reactions, and yet I still sometimes find myself at a loss. Why do people have to have so many feelings?

As I follow him down the stairs, I can already hear today's episode of Salvatore sibling drama about to begin. Speaking of feelings.

"So, any idea where you'll go?" Stefan prompts, and as I round the corner, I see him pacing like a caged animal. No doubt he's terrified that Damon will find a reason to stay.

"London, maybe," he replies, as I creep around them quietly, eyes zeroed in on the wet bar. "See some friends."

London? Really? That's somewhat surprising. I would have thought that place held too many bad memories for either of us for at least another decade. Though maybe he and Enzo caught up again after I left. Not like he would have told me at that point.

Something wispy black and grey flickers in the corner of the room.

"You don't have any friends, Damon," Stefan scoffs. I pause mid-step. Not even for the siren song of morning booze can I ignore that statement.