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❛ 𝘾𝙃𝘼𝙋𝙏𝙀𝙍 𝙁𝙄𝙁𝙏𝙀𝙀𝙉 ❜ ════ ⋆★⋆ ════
One week. Seven days and nights stuck in the Salvatore cellar, chained to a wooden chair. Rory's lips felt dry, chapped. The inside of her mouth felt even drier—like she just swallowed cotton. She didn't have even the slightest bit of strength to lift her index fingers; every movement felt like shrapnel against her tender skin. The wound on her head had healed, but the scratches that littered her body were still open. She hadn't fed on proper blood in the amount of time she was in captivity, Stefan coming in once or twice to let her sip from a cup containing blood from various animals. Rory spat it out as soon as he left, the taste making her lips curl in disgust.
The first day, she was conditioned with good old pain. A poker through the stomach every time she would ask for human blood, another through the thigh if she even craved it. It went on like that for hours, Stefan's taunting words and poor attempts at convincing her that she shouldn't drink from the source falling on deaf ears.
On the third day, they started burning her with sunlight. Her daylight ring was tucked away in Damon's pocket, and they dragged her upstairs. They conditioned her to fear human blood, that craving it would set off an intense burning over her body that would ultimately kill her. Every time she would refuse to swallow animal blood, they'd part the curtains and let her skin bubble. She would heal, but only just a little—there was barely any blood in her left to do so.
On the fifth day, she gave up. She couldn't fight; not anymore. She was exhausted and in pain and hungry. She suddenly loathed both human and animal blood, she suddenly loathed being a vampire in general. She hated that she had to be cleansed like this—she hated that her life force depended on taking others'.
On the sixth day, she didn't even bother responding to Stefan's questions or Damon's sad attempts at jokes. When the Salvatores would press the rim of a cup against her lips, she'd hold the animal blood in her mouth and spit it out after they left. Despite her hunger, she couldn't keep it down. It tasted like tar on her tongue, it burned like flames going down her throat. Their conditioning had worked backwards—she didn't just fear human blood, she feared blood in general.
"Good morning, sunshine," Damon's voice was jarring to the complete silence and isolation she was left to stew in. She flinched at the volume, shrinking back in her chair. Her nose picked up the smell of blood—thick, revolting. She resisted the urge to vomit despite having nothing in her system. "Time for breakfast."
Rory turned her head away from the cup poised under her chin. Damon let out an annoyed sigh. "Seriously? You know what happens when you don't drink, Rory," he insisted. Rory pursed her lips in response. "Come on, you're almost done. Just a few more days and you'll be okay. This is what Stefan went through with Lexi—it's tough, but it needs to be done. You can't go ripper on just anybody, Rory. You're going to risk exposing yourself."
