The Last Weapon

23: Going Out In The Storm

Damon's POV

When I woke up, Annice was lying on the couch across from the one I was in. She looked troubled, even in sleep. The muscles on her face were pulled taut, and her upper lip was turned downwards in a saddening frown. She shouldn't have to frown. She shouldn't have to have a reason to.

But exhaustion seemed too much for me, and I fell back to sleep. It was a dreamless, unfulfilling sleep, dreary and dark, as it had always been. It seemed just another vampire curse. I missed dreaming.

* * * * *

As I woke once more, I noticed instantaneously that Annice was no longer across from me. The couch and its old, fancy pillows were all aranged perfectly in their places. It was a rare occurance for things to be truly perfect nowadays.

As there was no one else in the house, for Rick had probably left with Jenna and Andie with some crap excuse, I followed the only sound there was. It was the steady scratching of pen on paper. I passed the table where a bloody dagger, my cell phone and several bottles of alcohol lay. For once, I didn't want a glass. Instead, I checked my phone. There was a missed call from Stefan, the phone told me, but I could call him back later. I had things to take care of now.

When I found Annice, she was in her old guest room, back from when she was still my Briana. Mine. She's not mine anymore. She wants me to go to hell. How could I? I am her angel. Angels don't go to hell. 

Sometimes I think hell would be better than this.

So I followed the soft scratch-scratch of her pen until I stood by the edge of her bed, and she sat at her writing desk, writing away on what looked like a letter. There was only ten feet between us, but it felt like miles.

"Yes, Damon?" she said, and there was no warmth in her voice. There was no cold in it either.

Her voice used to be so sweet. Like sugar. I guess I'm a fly, and I licked all the sugar out of it. Almost all of this was all my fault after all. Enough to make my insides burn. There was poison in the sugar.

She called me sweet once, when we were still at the beginning of everything. 

"Why'd you come back?" I asked, just putting it straight out there.

Her shoulders drooped and one of the straps from her dress fell down her pristine white shoulder. She had too much on her mind to bother to pick it back up. I suppose she had a lot on her plate. We all had this. But we all had glass plates. She had a styrofoam one with more on it than the rest of us. It would break soon.

"Because John lied to you. Or at least he didn't tell you the whole truth. You would've died." She said this all like she still had the heart to care, but she just wasn't trying to put her heart into it.

Hearts keep us living. When our hearts break, it can kill us. When they are torn out, we're dead for sure. When something important and otherwise bad happens, people look for someone to blame. In frequenting cases, it's the victim. But if someone's heart is torn out, it's no one's fault save for the person who did it. I can carry guilt. But I don't know if that has kept her from taking some of the load as well.

"But that would mean you still cared enough to save me," I replied, but not in a snarky way like I usually would. This was just a statement of fact. A laugh that had something certain but definately not humor in it bubbled from her perfect lips.

It was a rare occurance for things to be truly perfect nowadays.

"Of course I care, Damon." She turned, though she did not leave her chair, and looked at me with a mix of regret and old memories and said, "You always were kind of dense."