Forgotten Salvatore

Part 2

My car makes a scraping sound when I drive down the highway. The model is old—not hot ride old— it's the kind of old that when people see it on the road they instantly think the person driving it is either a stoner, or poor.  Only one of those things is true. I'm no car expert, but there's nothing hanging underneath, so it has to be inside.  Like I said—not a car expert— so I drive it anyways.  I've gotten used to the sound.  It reminds me of home.

My home. I don't know what made me want to go to my old town, if anything all it will do is bring back bad memories of heartache and anger. Maybe it's because I miss my brothers. It happens every once and awhile. I'll be fine, or at least as fine as I can be, but a wave of grief and sadness will always drown me out with its powerful current. Maybe I would have lived my life out with them if it hadn't been for her.  The day she showed up and ruined my life.

      "Scarlett!" My hand brushes the railing of the stairwell as I rush down.  The yell wasn't dangerous.  But I still knew who it was.
"What Stefan,"  I sounded annoyed—which I was— but it wasn't on purpose.  He was standing at  the front bay window, holding the blank, lace curtain aside.  I quietly walked up next to him.  "What are you looking it."  He looked over at me and I could tell from his expression something bad was about to happen.  "There's a carriage outside,"  he pulled the curtain further, "I think it's another one of father's friends for you."  My hands gripped the windowsill and my eyes searched for whatever—or whoever— was outside.  The carriage door was still closed, and my father was talking to the coachman.  I watched him, he seemed perfectly okay.  Doesn't he know what he's doing?  My father and the coachman nodded—it made me want to roll my eyes— and he stepped over to the carriage door.  When he opened it, it made a scraping noise. He held his hand out.  "Did he bring his mother?"  Stefan asked.  I snickered, "A mother's boy."  But when a pale hand touched my father's I realized that we were wrong.  It was a lady.  A young one to be exact, she was sun kissed, with dark, curled brown hair and the most smug smirk I had ever seen. I instantly hated her.

         The sputtering sound coming from the back of my car alarmed me.  I turned around to see clouds of smoke fill the air around the it. Quickly, I pull over to assess the damage. 
     What the—
     "Is there a problem here?" a voice spits from behind me.
  I turn to inspect the new voice, "Uh, yeah my car seems to have—" My surprise cuts me short when I see who is staring back at me.
I huff, "long time no see, Rose." The sneer on her face grew when she heard my voice. "Haven't seen you since you were burning alive in the sun, thought you died, guess I got my hopes up." she snapped back.
"Come on Rose, we both know it would take more than pulling my ring off to kill me," my voice sounds lazy, playful even, but in the inside I'm cringing at the memory of my burning flesh. Rose just scoffs.
"Then maybe this will," the veins under her eyes pulse out and turn black while her canines extend pass her top lip. Rose hisses as she lunges toward me at superhuman speed, hands aimed at my heart. I quickly doge sideways, leaving her to almost hit the car. Good thing she didn't, it would probably fall apart. Catching me off guard she socks the side of my face, effectively throwing me a couple feet away on the ground. I feel my own canines extend and know the veins beneath my eyes have become prominent. I stand up quickly, using my own speed to kick her hard in the hip. She grunts but doesn't budge. She growls and tackles me. My back hits the ground hard, knocking the breath out of me. "This is for my brother bitch—" I throw her off of me into a nearby tree. Then before she can recover I run over and snap her neck. Her body goes still and she slumps over on the ground. Her blond hair falling over her pale face. Why is it that people felt the need to talk before they kill someone? No one wants to hear your dialogue, I promise, just get on with it and maybe you would succeed. I stare down at her slim body. I should kill her. I know it would be the smart thing to do. I sigh. I drag her body off the road and into the nearby ditch, then look at my broken down car. Well then, I guess we now have this to fix. I slowly walk around my car, as if there is something to notice on the outside.  Everything looked perfect.   Realizing I have no tools and no smarts to fix a car, I just decide to walk.     
      Almost forgetting, I grab my few belongings and head off.
    The feeling of blood lust in my stomach erupted, and I realized I hadn't fed in a while.  I try to control my hunger as I look for other people who could be watching.  When I see the vacancy of the road I quickly pull out my last blood bag.  Tearing off the seal, I greedily devoured the dark liquid—whilst trying not to get any blood on me. I toss the blood bag and grab my phone out of my back pocket. Looking at the gps on my phone, I see it.  Mystic Falls, 5 miles away.  The thought of finally making it home pushes me further along.

      'Welcome to Mystic Falls.' The sign greeted me like an old friend. A smile grazes my face, rare these days. I take a deep breath and step across the border.  The sign changes, 'Come back Soon,' it now says, oh, but I'm not leaving. 
The walk into town wasn't far.  It felt like when I was younger—before I turned— when I would go and get mother some goods from town.  I always hated doing that.  But the memory is there, and I enjoy it.  My mother died a long time ago, her and I weren't close. She never protected me like I thought a mother should, sure as hell didn't protect Damon. Damon. He seemed to never be in our fathers good graces, he always switched between protecting me to protecting Stefan, never himself. One time, after father forced me to conversate with William, I got angry at some things he was implying that I would have to do with him in the future. We were 13 at the time and he said something along the lines of me carrying his child. Me being me decided a just punishment would be a swift kick to the groin. His father-and mine, were quite displeased with my actions. Damon applauded me and Stefan laughed. But my father had harsher things in mind. I remember him holding the lit cigar inches from the soft flesh of my hand. I was already imagining what it would feel like when the hot ash burned through a few small layers of my skin. Damon stepped in, saying that William, or any suiter, might not want me if I had scars, especially on my hands which were supposed to be soft and gentle like a woman's were intended to be. Being the sexist man my father was, he agreed—but on one condition. Damon had to take my punishment for me. "Someone will have to," he said, "otherwise, no one will ever listen to me."