Gift

9

The little splotches of blood seemed to multiply in the palms of her hands. Uncurling her fingers, she gasped sharply. She couldn't get control of her breathing or her elevated heart rate. Her hands shook as she fumbled with inserting the key in the lock, but her fingers kept slipping.

Finally, she was inside.

She was grateful for the darkness. It was easier to melt in the shadows and to move about undetected. Not a single light was turned on, which was just fine by her. Light would have made everything more real. A few moments later she locked herself in the bedroom then the bathroom.

She lit a single candle, turned on the bathtub faucet and stripped out of her soiled jeans, T-shirt, and toed off her shoes. Discarding her undergarments with it, she stepped into the tub. She had forgotten to turn on the cold water and what awaited her would have surely melted skin. But she didn't care. She held in her cries as the scolding hot water pricked her skin. Biting her bottom lip, she sank until she was fully submerged.

She shut off the water once it reached her shoulders. Her breath rippled the top as steam covered her in a halo. The mirror was foggy, a haze engulfed the room as she sat for a while—thinking. She brought her hands out of the water, water that was now a very pale pink. They were still stained with blood. Grabbing the sponge and a bottle of body wash, she began to scrub maddeningly.

Her movements were feverish as she cleaned herself again and again and again until miraculously the water had grown cold. She stepped out, grabbed a towel, dried herself, and went back into the bedroom.

She dressed in a short loose nightgown and climbed into bed. She hugged her knees to her chest, something she hadn't done since she was a little girl. Unconsciously, she bit her nails as she blocked out the images that assaulted her, pricked her like needles. A groan tried to climb out of her throat but she forced it back down. A tear fell and then another and soon her cheeks were flooded as mucus covered her top lip.

Dahlia said her training would be cruel. Bonnie wished that had been a lie.

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Hours ago....

With the moon half hidden behind a patch of dark clouds, her mind wandered to previous adventures in the woods. Playing hide-and-go-seek when she was little, the parties. Little by little her childhood was pushed aside by bodies. Bodies and blood draining into the ground.

Bonnie's mordant thoughts clashed with anticipation. She could feel the subtle change in the air. It was becoming weightier, heavier, infused with magic. She hardly thought of Mystic Falls as a magical place in the sense of dreams coming true. It was a harbinger of death. Anyone to enter its city limits never left out alive. Yet Bonnie drew power from this place since it was the epicenter of her ancestors. Or so she had been led to believe. Dahlia said someone had been negligent in telling her who she was. Grams hadn't lived long to tell her, and her mother never cared. As usual she was left to figure out what came next on her own.

The woods curved and Bonnie begun to see the faint glow of light. Candlelight, perhaps torches. Inhaling, she smelled hickory, pine, and oak burning. She was getting close and her hands, which were already a bit clammy to start with, were now drenched. Bonnie walked faster despite wanting to run in the opposite direction. But it was too late to fold. She was there.

Dahlia stood with her back to her in front of a rock formation of some sort. Bonnie had no idea what it was. She looked closer. It wasn't a haphazard rock or boulder jutting from the ground, but carefully arranged large slabs of stone constructed into an...altar? Bonnie gulped and forced her feet to move. As she did, the torches flared higher. She stopped abruptly.