Saints and Sinners
December 21, 2012
December 21, 2012
The wind blows his hair from his eyes, and he steps atop the very edge of the rooftop. A crystal glass full of whiskey is clutched in his hand and he watches the rising sun. It’s muted by billowing smoke, but the sky is ablaze with the glow of fire. Fire everywhere the eye can see. On the street below people shout and argue, frantic to prepare themselves. Afraid of what they know. It’s inevitable, but they’re fighting it off with every atom in their beings. He can taste the denial radiating from their bodies.
From the distance an explosion rings out, shaking the building he’s perched on. The patrons of Mystic Falls go silent below, their heads turned towards the sound; a sound of – and related to – death. Damon gazes at the horizon, stares with mute wonder and fascination at the new column of smoke.
To be vampire is much the same as being a cockroach – virtually indestructible, with the exception of wooden stakes and vervaine. If it weren’t for the woman slumbering quietly in his bed some miles away, he would have left Mystic Falls; would have followed his cowardly brother to Europe.
The news reporters say that Europe will be the last to fall. Finally when he can see the sun hiding high in the sky behind dust and smoke, he drops his glass uncaringly to the sidewalk below. Nobody bats an eyelash; nobody pauses to wonder where it came from.
Elena is awake and alert when he gets home, a remote held limply in her hand as she watches the news. From the television screen the destruction he was just watching seems worse, more horrible than anything he’s ever done in his long lifetime. She glances at him with worried eyes.
“The offer still stands Elena. We can go to Europe.” Damon says quietly, his gaze hard and searching.
The girl with the thin frame and endless brown locks, the one who was so irrevocably in love with Stefan when they first met, stares back. Her eyes are defiant, angry.
“Why run from something that’s inevitable? Have you turned into such a coward that you follow…” she pauses, and Damon forgets to turn his emotions off. Anger and jealousy buzz in his head like angry wasps. “…his example?” the words are whispered quietly.
“I am not a coward, Elena.”
He turns his back to her, the television, and the bedroom at whole. Inside the living room a fire is burning slowly, dying quietly. He fills another glass with whiskey. Elena joins him shortly, uncertainty following her like a foul stench. Her arms wrap around his waist, pull him tight against her small body. He breathes with her, even though he hasn’t taken a breath in centuries.
“What’s happening to the world?” she asks, her words muffled by the cotton of his t-shirt.
“Somebody somewhere, someone with a greater power than anyone I’ve ever known, has decided to turn fiction into reality.” Damon replies dryly.
“So you’re saying the Mayans were wrong? They lied? That a supernatural being is ending the world as we know it?”
He turns in her arms, grasps her face in his large, cool hands. “Your world Elena, not mine. My world is you. My world ends when you end, I can survive whatever this dick is doing.”
Elena pulls away, slightly angered. She furrows her brows and plops on the couch, coughing slightly at the dust that goes up in a thick cloud around her. “Why aren’t you doing anything to stop this?” she demands.
“We don’t have time for this Elena. We don’t have time for petty arguments and blame. I can feel it getting closer, I can feel…” he trails off, not wanting to alarm her.
Instead, he wraps her tightly in his arms and kisses the top of her head. She breathes deep, her nails digging into his skin. Her heartbeat is loud and fast, like a hummingbirds wings. A bright light looms outside the window, and he tucks her face against his chest. Elena resists, pulls back and stares at his face with newfound fierceness. Brown, muddy color meets shining blue liquid.
“Promise me you’ll kill him. Kill him before you kill yourself, because I don’t want him on this earth alone.” She shouts urgently, a deafening noise having come over the house.
Damon stares at her, a look of incredulity flickering across his features. As the noise gets louder and the light gets brighter, her heart slows drastically. He can feel each breath leaving and entering her lungs, can feel that it’s a struggle. A lone tear slips down his cheek, and he brushes a thumb across her face to wipe away her own. A soft, self-hating smile graces his lips.
“I promise,” he replies, knowing he just signed his brother’s death certificate.
The light washes over them shortly soon after. He loses all sense of sight, sound, and smell. He feels nothing beneath his body, under his wandering fingertips. When it’s gone, he finds himself holding nothing. Sitting on nothing but the dirt beneath what used to be his home.
With bitter anger and regret he crawls against the ground, tears flowing in a steady stream across his dirty face. A sudden overwhelming sadness shakes him from the core, a sadness he’d never experienced after 1864. When he finds a stick, pointed like a gift, he stabs it through his own heart with trembling hands. After all, he’s Damon Salvatore. He never keeps promises.
In limbo, in his death after death, he sees Elena briefly; watches her while she weeps with abandon, they connect eyes from across a sea of souls.
And then she’s gone and shortly after, he.
The wind blows his hair from his eyes, and he steps atop the very edge of the rooftop. A crystal glass full of whiskey is clutched in his hand and he watches the rising sun. It’s muted by billowing smoke, but the sky is ablaze with the glow of fire. Fire everywhere the eye can see. On the street below people shout and argue, frantic to prepare themselves. Afraid of what they know. It’s inevitable, but they’re fighting it off with every atom in their beings. He can taste the denial radiating from their bodies.
From the distance an explosion rings out, shaking the building he’s perched on. The patrons of Mystic Falls go silent below, their heads turned towards the sound; a sound of – and related to – death. Damon gazes at the horizon, stares with mute wonder and fascination at the new column of smoke.
To be vampire is much the same as being a cockroach – virtually indestructible, with the exception of wooden stakes and vervaine. If it weren’t for the woman slumbering quietly in his bed some miles away, he would have left Mystic Falls; would have followed his cowardly brother to Europe.
The news reporters say that Europe will be the last to fall. Finally when he can see the sun hiding high in the sky behind dust and smoke, he drops his glass uncaringly to the sidewalk below. Nobody bats an eyelash; nobody pauses to wonder where it came from.
Elena is awake and alert when he gets home, a remote held limply in her hand as she watches the news. From the television screen the destruction he was just watching seems worse, more horrible than anything he’s ever done in his long lifetime. She glances at him with worried eyes.
“The offer still stands Elena. We can go to Europe.” Damon says quietly, his gaze hard and searching.
The girl with the thin frame and endless brown locks, the one who was so irrevocably in love with Stefan when they first met, stares back. Her eyes are defiant, angry.
“Why run from something that’s inevitable? Have you turned into such a coward that you follow…” she pauses, and Damon forgets to turn his emotions off. Anger and jealousy buzz in his head like angry wasps. “…his example?” the words are whispered quietly.
“I am not a coward, Elena.”
He turns his back to her, the television, and the bedroom at whole. Inside the living room a fire is burning slowly, dying quietly. He fills another glass with whiskey. Elena joins him shortly, uncertainty following her like a foul stench. Her arms wrap around his waist, pull him tight against her small body. He breathes with her, even though he hasn’t taken a breath in centuries.
“What’s happening to the world?” she asks, her words muffled by the cotton of his t-shirt.
“Somebody somewhere, someone with a greater power than anyone I’ve ever known, has decided to turn fiction into reality.” Damon replies dryly.
“So you’re saying the Mayans were wrong? They lied? That a supernatural being is ending the world as we know it?”
He turns in her arms, grasps her face in his large, cool hands. “Your world Elena, not mine. My world is you. My world ends when you end, I can survive whatever this dick is doing.”
Elena pulls away, slightly angered. She furrows her brows and plops on the couch, coughing slightly at the dust that goes up in a thick cloud around her. “Why aren’t you doing anything to stop this?” she demands.
“We don’t have time for this Elena. We don’t have time for petty arguments and blame. I can feel it getting closer, I can feel…” he trails off, not wanting to alarm her.
Instead, he wraps her tightly in his arms and kisses the top of her head. She breathes deep, her nails digging into his skin. Her heartbeat is loud and fast, like a hummingbirds wings. A bright light looms outside the window, and he tucks her face against his chest. Elena resists, pulls back and stares at his face with newfound fierceness. Brown, muddy color meets shining blue liquid.
“Promise me you’ll kill him. Kill him before you kill yourself, because I don’t want him on this earth alone.” She shouts urgently, a deafening noise having come over the house.
Damon stares at her, a look of incredulity flickering across his features. As the noise gets louder and the light gets brighter, her heart slows drastically. He can feel each breath leaving and entering her lungs, can feel that it’s a struggle. A lone tear slips down his cheek, and he brushes a thumb across her face to wipe away her own. A soft, self-hating smile graces his lips.
“I promise,” he replies, knowing he just signed his brother’s death certificate.
The light washes over them shortly soon after. He loses all sense of sight, sound, and smell. He feels nothing beneath his body, under his wandering fingertips. When it’s gone, he finds himself holding nothing. Sitting on nothing but the dirt beneath what used to be his home.
With bitter anger and regret he crawls against the ground, tears flowing in a steady stream across his dirty face. A sudden overwhelming sadness shakes him from the core, a sadness he’d never experienced after 1864. When he finds a stick, pointed like a gift, he stabs it through his own heart with trembling hands. After all, he’s Damon Salvatore. He never keeps promises.
In limbo, in his death after death, he sees Elena briefly; watches her while she weeps with abandon, they connect eyes from across a sea of souls.
And then she’s gone and shortly after, he.