Saints and Sinners
December 10, 2012
December 10, 2012.
Elena bumps her shoulder against Stefan, who is sitting oddly silent beside her. The bed caves beneath their combined weight, so their bodies are forced together. He places a large hand on her jean clad thigh and lets out a long sigh. Her heart thumps uneasily.
“Just tell me. I know there’s something you have to tell me. You’ve been keeping silent all day.”
Stefan turns his face to her, and she’s shocked to see tears spilling over and onto his cheeks. Her hand lifts to wipe them away, to comfort him, but he turns from her and stands up. The bed feels less soft without him beside her. Elena fidgets with the hem of her shirt while he paces her bedroom, and only when he grabs a framed photo of them does she stop.
“You’re not going to like what I have to say.” he murmurs.
For a split second she wishes he was Damon. The older brother would spit out the words without thought or care to her feelings. He speaks his mind, something Stefan seems to struggle with.
“I don’t care, it’s bothering you so tell me,” she walks towards him and places a hand on the small of his back, furrowing her brows at his tear soaked face. “I want to help you.”
A bitter laugh erupts from his throat, and spit flings from his lips as he bites angry words out. “I’m leaving you, and I'm leaving the country. I can't...be around when the world ends, when you die. I'm afraid for you, but I can't help you.”
The silence is deafening, as if they were standing too close to an explosion or lingered too long next to a speaker at a rock concert. Elena has no words for what he has said; nothing to say to him or anyone, not in the near future. Gently, mutely, she grabs the photo from his hands. There’s fingerprints smudged against the glass and she grinds her teeth, inhaling a deep breath before she smashes it against the edge of her desk. Glass goes everywhere, sticks everywhere. Blood trickles from her forearm, tiny shards stuck into her skin.
Next to her, Stefan’s crying face grows taught and blood veins spread like cracks down his wet cheeks. His nostrils flare at the scent of the blood, but she turns from him and goes to the bathroom. Luckily for her, it locks. She waits for him to leave, for him to give up speaking to her.
When she’s certain she’s alone she re-enters her room, careful to step over glass shards. She was wrong, about being alone. Damon studies her critically from his place on her bed, pulls a teddy bear from underneath his butt.
“Do you dramatize everything?” he asks, an eyebrow quirked.
“Your brother just dumped me,” She replies, slumping against the headboard beside him. "And he's leaving the country rather than spend time with me until, you know, the end."
“Ouch.”
At first she thinks he’s talking about Stefan dumping her, but when she turns to tell him to leave his ice blue eyes are fixated on the shards still in her arms. Carefully, he begins picking them out until all that’s left are shallow holes and small rivers of blood. Elena almost forgets that he’s inhuman, that he’s Damon; cold, ruthless, uncaring. She gets hastily off the bed.
“You should go, I’m tired.”
“You’re lying,” her eyes connect with his, anger and defiance versus skepticism and amusement. “But I’ll leave. Good night, Elena.”
When long last she’s all alone, Elena washes the cuts and doctors them up with Neosporin and Band-Aids. Even she can admit that smashing the picture frame was dramatic and uncalled for, but as she stares at the slightly shredded photo on her bedroom floor all she feels is sorrow, confusion, and anger.
Getting to sleep is difficult that night, and the last thing she remembers is thinking how odd it is that the stars seem to have gone missing from the night sky.
Elena bumps her shoulder against Stefan, who is sitting oddly silent beside her. The bed caves beneath their combined weight, so their bodies are forced together. He places a large hand on her jean clad thigh and lets out a long sigh. Her heart thumps uneasily.
“Just tell me. I know there’s something you have to tell me. You’ve been keeping silent all day.”
Stefan turns his face to her, and she’s shocked to see tears spilling over and onto his cheeks. Her hand lifts to wipe them away, to comfort him, but he turns from her and stands up. The bed feels less soft without him beside her. Elena fidgets with the hem of her shirt while he paces her bedroom, and only when he grabs a framed photo of them does she stop.
“You’re not going to like what I have to say.” he murmurs.
For a split second she wishes he was Damon. The older brother would spit out the words without thought or care to her feelings. He speaks his mind, something Stefan seems to struggle with.
“I don’t care, it’s bothering you so tell me,” she walks towards him and places a hand on the small of his back, furrowing her brows at his tear soaked face. “I want to help you.”
A bitter laugh erupts from his throat, and spit flings from his lips as he bites angry words out. “I’m leaving you, and I'm leaving the country. I can't...be around when the world ends, when you die. I'm afraid for you, but I can't help you.”
The silence is deafening, as if they were standing too close to an explosion or lingered too long next to a speaker at a rock concert. Elena has no words for what he has said; nothing to say to him or anyone, not in the near future. Gently, mutely, she grabs the photo from his hands. There’s fingerprints smudged against the glass and she grinds her teeth, inhaling a deep breath before she smashes it against the edge of her desk. Glass goes everywhere, sticks everywhere. Blood trickles from her forearm, tiny shards stuck into her skin.
Next to her, Stefan’s crying face grows taught and blood veins spread like cracks down his wet cheeks. His nostrils flare at the scent of the blood, but she turns from him and goes to the bathroom. Luckily for her, it locks. She waits for him to leave, for him to give up speaking to her.
When she’s certain she’s alone she re-enters her room, careful to step over glass shards. She was wrong, about being alone. Damon studies her critically from his place on her bed, pulls a teddy bear from underneath his butt.
“Do you dramatize everything?” he asks, an eyebrow quirked.
“Your brother just dumped me,” She replies, slumping against the headboard beside him. "And he's leaving the country rather than spend time with me until, you know, the end."
“Ouch.”
At first she thinks he’s talking about Stefan dumping her, but when she turns to tell him to leave his ice blue eyes are fixated on the shards still in her arms. Carefully, he begins picking them out until all that’s left are shallow holes and small rivers of blood. Elena almost forgets that he’s inhuman, that he’s Damon; cold, ruthless, uncaring. She gets hastily off the bed.
“You should go, I’m tired.”
“You’re lying,” her eyes connect with his, anger and defiance versus skepticism and amusement. “But I’ll leave. Good night, Elena.”
When long last she’s all alone, Elena washes the cuts and doctors them up with Neosporin and Band-Aids. Even she can admit that smashing the picture frame was dramatic and uncalled for, but as she stares at the slightly shredded photo on her bedroom floor all she feels is sorrow, confusion, and anger.
Getting to sleep is difficult that night, and the last thing she remembers is thinking how odd it is that the stars seem to have gone missing from the night sky.