𝐌𝐀𝐑𝐂𝐄𝐋𝐋𝐀 𝐂𝐑𝐈𝐒𝐓 (ANGEL)
Older. Scary. Silent.
Damon Lars was always lurking in the shadows, a sinister presence that scared me. It would be oblivious for me not to notice him even in the darkest areas. He was there. Maybe invisible to ot...
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MARCELLA CRIST
I collapsed to my knees, the weight of Mama's announcement crushing me like the ceiling of a collapsing building. My body shook uncontrollably, and the cold, hard floor seemed to press up against me, suffocating and merciless. My vision blurred with tears that I didn't have the strength to wipe away, and I gasped for air, each breath catching painfully in my throat. The words echoed in my mind, loud and unbearable—a funeral, a death; Lars'—but whose? My heart was tearing itself apart with the possibilities before Mama's arms wrapped tightly around me, grounding me with her warmth.
"Baby, listen to me. Look at me," she whispered, her voice soft but steady, a lifeline in the storm raging in my head. "It's not Damon," she continued, brushing strands of hair from my face as if her touch could erase my panic. "It's his dad. His father's funeral, not him. Damon is okay. Do you hear me? Damon's fine, baby." She held me close, as if her grip alone could hold me together, but the mention of Damon's father only replaced one worry with another. Damon's father was gone. That meant Damon was suffering somewhere, and I couldn't reach him.
Her words softened the sharp edges of panic, but the weight in my chest refused to ease. I pushed back slightly, my breath still hitching as I tried to form coherent words. "Mama," I whispered, my voice barely audible, like I was afraid to say the words out loud. "He must be going through so much right now. Did you call him? Has anyone called him?" My heart raced as I wiped at my tear-streaked cheeks with trembling hands, desperate for some form of reassurance.
Mama's expression faltered for a moment before she nodded. "Yes, baby. Jaxon tried. All of the guys tried. I've called him, too. We've all sent messages." Her hands gripped my shoulders, grounding me as she spoke. "He's not answering anyone. And he's not at home." The finality in her words sent a fresh wave of fear crashing over me.
Damon not answering wasn't like him. Not to me. Not when he knew I'd worry. My chest tightened further, and I stumbled toward my phone, nearly dropping it as I picked it up from my bed. My fingers fumbled over the screen, shaking as I scrolled to Avery's number. If anyone would know where Damon was, it would be her. She was like his sister, his family. She had to know.
The phone rang, and each tone felt like a countdown to disaster, a clock ticking away my composure. Finally, her groggy voice answered, cutting through my spiraling thoughts.
"Hi, Marci," she murmured, her words slow and soft, like she had just woken up.
"Avery," I croaked, my voice breaking as I clutched the phone tighter. "Where's Damon? Is he okay?" The words rushed out in a panicked blur, leaving no room for pleasantries. My fear bubbled to the surface, spilling into my voice.
There was a pause, a long, unbearable stretch of silence that felt like it would crush me. My fingers gripped the edge of the bed, knuckles white with tension, until she finally spoke. "He's fine, Marci," she said, her voice careful, like she was trying not to set me off further. "Is everything okay with you?"
