fic: half the seeds (tvd; elena, ensemble)
title: half the seeds
character: elena; ensemble
rating: r
summary: she doesn't need someone to tell her to turn it off. her mind does that all on its own, because see, the mind can only take so much.
author's note: au for 4.15 because really, elena could have easily done this on her own with having her agency taken from her. for confetti_storm. also for the prompt: "The good thing about being dead is that you don’t have to/go through all that dying again. You just toast it."
There is a room. It once used to be full of people and pictures and laughter and tears and funny stories and family and people and noise or sometimes it used to be full of quiet, that type of quiet and silence that came from people being comfortable in a setting such that words didn't need to be spoken. The point is, it used to be full.
Now the room is broken glass and cracked picture frames and an emptiness that is stifled by the ghosts and memories of those who used to make it full.
This is our scene.
And, reader dear, here is our heroine:
A girl with tears on her face, so thick that her cheeks shine from wetness that just won't stop, and a voice that chokes out as her screams mix with the crunching of shattered things beneath her feet. You watch as the three people across from her stare and debate, talk in low murmurs that really talk over her. You can't be sure if you're watching her sadness from one thing or merely a culmination of things; or if it's a lesson in just how much one person can take before they break.
You watch at these three talk and discuss and neither one of them notices the girl, not directly, and you watch as her eyes close and then open, widen as if she realizes the noises and cries in the room are from here.
And then you watch as she stops.
The girl's face goes still where before it was like looking at a too intimate glimpse of a person's soul. Painful but unavoidable, a classic example of that car crash bystander effect they teach you in driver's ed class.
It's only when the other three realize their voices can be heard over where she'd been previously screaming that they too pause. They stare at her, startled, unsure, worried; you match the faces to each pair of eyes and know who is who.
"I'm done." Her eyes are dark and glassy, but clear as she faces them.
The stench of alcohol pervades the house.
You watch as she flicks the match to the floor.
Whoosh and the fire ignites.
You know all about the fairytales. The ones they tell you as children to make you go to sleep at night because you begged for one like you did that glass of water too and you won't go to bed till you get a story. So they tell you those fairytales.
And dear reader, you know the princess.
The darling heart child that has the shiny hair and the lovely parents that everyone in town knows. Everyone in high school knows the girl. Has watched her grow from knobby knees and sticky elbows to a girl that wears a pair of shorts over the curve of her ass that everyone wants to touch. She's got that smile that's bright and a voice that's always polite in mixed company.
The princess always wins is what they told you at night.
(you forget till now that the princess was also the one that snuck out at night to go hang by the creek, who was the one who stole the bubblegum from the drugstore, the one who watched with sly eyes and a bitter smile, the one who could chug a beer faster than the boys, the one that stole her brother's weed only to toke up behind the bleachers with her friend)
(or maybe you didn't forget at all)
The house goes up in flames and burns to ash.
The others look at her later when she's sitting on an old antique couch, breathes held in, cautious, scared, waiting.
"What," the girl says, fingers holding a high ball of amber liquid. "It smelled of Death anyway."
She goes to school and practically skips through the halls. Steals a pack of smokes off a kid, lifts it straight from his back pocket and lights one up after taking a sip from the freshman girl's neck in bathroom. She rubs a finger under her eye, smudging stray liner.
The bathroom door opens and she turns her head to see someone she's entirely not here for. "This is the girl's bathroom, you know."
The boy frowns, heavy lines on his face that nearly droop with disappointment. You can feel it in the air. "This isn't you, Elena. You don't want to be this."
Her knuckles twirl the clove cigarette and she cocks her head. A perfected look you've not seen since middle school bratty years of boyfriends that only lasted a week and cheerleading tryouts. "You mean, you don't want me to be like this."
She blows the smoke directly in his face as she walks past, a warning growl on her tongue. "Don't worry, Stefan, I'm nothing like you."
You can taste the cheap clove smell as she waltzes past.
(you forget too that this princess never wanted to be a princess.)
(who's the fool now)
"Elena, I'm only worried about you."
"Why?"
A little laugh and a disbelieving shake of blonde curls, perfect curls that make you want to fuck them up, drag your fingers in them and grip them tight and throw the girl to the ground that just will not leave you alone.
"Because you drank from Missy Gardner in the gym bathroom this morning."
"Is she dead?"
"No."
"Alright then. You don't have anything to worry about."
"Elena,"
You watch the showdown between the two girls that have always circled around one another. The two that are friends but ones that have just as much insecurity and jealousy binding them together as they do love and glue.
"I was hungry, Caroline. She's fine," an exhale and a regal head tilt that meets every definition of the adjective. "Besides, you wanted me to be fixed right? Now I am."
Once you wanted to be this girl forever. To be with her. To be her. You had life planned out. College with the girlfriends, marriage to the boy, job with the writing detail and pen name, carrying on that Gilbert line, and Sunday dinners every other week with the parents and brother.
Then the monsters came to town and you learned about the things that went bump in the night.
Then you woke up and realized you were the same thing that went bump in the night.
"Turn it back on, Elena."
She inhales sharply, eyes going wide, unnecessary breath catching in her throat. Her fingers curl in his black shirt, her lips moving, her lower lip trembling.
"Elena, it's okay-"
She curves her fingers like talons then, a snarl on her face, ripping into his skin. "Fuck you."
His blue eyes are wide when she snaps his neck.
You are fascinated by the bloody fingerprints on his skin.
The Grill bathroom smells of lemon and bleach.
She kisses the girl on the forehead and tells her a story about how happy of a day she's had and that dinner with her mother will be great.
"Bonnie," she croons, slipping closer in the woods to slide her fingers over her friend's shoulders. Her eyes are just as hard as her own in the non-existent moonlight.
"I can bring him back, Elena."
It's the best thing she's heard all week from someone.
"This will be fun."
"They deserve it."
Look, dear reader, here is the girl. Her skin tastes of ash and her lips full and red as she holds her friend's fingers tight as they walk through the woods.
Look, you say, here is my pen, here is my page, here is my finest work.
I am the author, you say.
You watch the girl walk away.
character: elena; ensemble
rating: r
summary: she doesn't need someone to tell her to turn it off. her mind does that all on its own, because see, the mind can only take so much.
author's note: au for 4.15 because really, elena could have easily done this on her own with having her agency taken from her. for confetti_storm. also for the prompt: "The good thing about being dead is that you don’t have to/go through all that dying again. You just toast it."
There is a room. It once used to be full of people and pictures and laughter and tears and funny stories and family and people and noise or sometimes it used to be full of quiet, that type of quiet and silence that came from people being comfortable in a setting such that words didn't need to be spoken. The point is, it used to be full.
Now the room is broken glass and cracked picture frames and an emptiness that is stifled by the ghosts and memories of those who used to make it full.
This is our scene.
And, reader dear, here is our heroine:
A girl with tears on her face, so thick that her cheeks shine from wetness that just won't stop, and a voice that chokes out as her screams mix with the crunching of shattered things beneath her feet. You watch as the three people across from her stare and debate, talk in low murmurs that really talk over her. You can't be sure if you're watching her sadness from one thing or merely a culmination of things; or if it's a lesson in just how much one person can take before they break.
You watch at these three talk and discuss and neither one of them notices the girl, not directly, and you watch as her eyes close and then open, widen as if she realizes the noises and cries in the room are from here.
And then you watch as she stops.
The girl's face goes still where before it was like looking at a too intimate glimpse of a person's soul. Painful but unavoidable, a classic example of that car crash bystander effect they teach you in driver's ed class.
It's only when the other three realize their voices can be heard over where she'd been previously screaming that they too pause. They stare at her, startled, unsure, worried; you match the faces to each pair of eyes and know who is who.
"I'm done." Her eyes are dark and glassy, but clear as she faces them.
The stench of alcohol pervades the house.
You watch as she flicks the match to the floor.
Whoosh and the fire ignites.
You know all about the fairytales. The ones they tell you as children to make you go to sleep at night because you begged for one like you did that glass of water too and you won't go to bed till you get a story. So they tell you those fairytales.
And dear reader, you know the princess.
The darling heart child that has the shiny hair and the lovely parents that everyone in town knows. Everyone in high school knows the girl. Has watched her grow from knobby knees and sticky elbows to a girl that wears a pair of shorts over the curve of her ass that everyone wants to touch. She's got that smile that's bright and a voice that's always polite in mixed company.
The princess always wins is what they told you at night.
(you forget till now that the princess was also the one that snuck out at night to go hang by the creek, who was the one who stole the bubblegum from the drugstore, the one who watched with sly eyes and a bitter smile, the one who could chug a beer faster than the boys, the one that stole her brother's weed only to toke up behind the bleachers with her friend)
(or maybe you didn't forget at all)
The house goes up in flames and burns to ash.
The others look at her later when she's sitting on an old antique couch, breathes held in, cautious, scared, waiting.
"What," the girl says, fingers holding a high ball of amber liquid. "It smelled of Death anyway."
She goes to school and practically skips through the halls. Steals a pack of smokes off a kid, lifts it straight from his back pocket and lights one up after taking a sip from the freshman girl's neck in bathroom. She rubs a finger under her eye, smudging stray liner.
The bathroom door opens and she turns her head to see someone she's entirely not here for. "This is the girl's bathroom, you know."
The boy frowns, heavy lines on his face that nearly droop with disappointment. You can feel it in the air. "This isn't you, Elena. You don't want to be this."
Her knuckles twirl the clove cigarette and she cocks her head. A perfected look you've not seen since middle school bratty years of boyfriends that only lasted a week and cheerleading tryouts. "You mean, you don't want me to be like this."
She blows the smoke directly in his face as she walks past, a warning growl on her tongue. "Don't worry, Stefan, I'm nothing like you."
You can taste the cheap clove smell as she waltzes past.
(you forget too that this princess never wanted to be a princess.)
(who's the fool now)
"Elena, I'm only worried about you."
"Why?"
A little laugh and a disbelieving shake of blonde curls, perfect curls that make you want to fuck them up, drag your fingers in them and grip them tight and throw the girl to the ground that just will not leave you alone.
"Because you drank from Missy Gardner in the gym bathroom this morning."
"Is she dead?"
"No."
"Alright then. You don't have anything to worry about."
"Elena,"
You watch the showdown between the two girls that have always circled around one another. The two that are friends but ones that have just as much insecurity and jealousy binding them together as they do love and glue.
"I was hungry, Caroline. She's fine," an exhale and a regal head tilt that meets every definition of the adjective. "Besides, you wanted me to be fixed right? Now I am."
Once you wanted to be this girl forever. To be with her. To be her. You had life planned out. College with the girlfriends, marriage to the boy, job with the writing detail and pen name, carrying on that Gilbert line, and Sunday dinners every other week with the parents and brother.
Then the monsters came to town and you learned about the things that went bump in the night.
Then you woke up and realized you were the same thing that went bump in the night.
"Turn it back on, Elena."
She inhales sharply, eyes going wide, unnecessary breath catching in her throat. Her fingers curl in his black shirt, her lips moving, her lower lip trembling.
"Elena, it's okay-"
She curves her fingers like talons then, a snarl on her face, ripping into his skin. "Fuck you."
His blue eyes are wide when she snaps his neck.
You are fascinated by the bloody fingerprints on his skin.
The Grill bathroom smells of lemon and bleach.
She kisses the girl on the forehead and tells her a story about how happy of a day she's had and that dinner with her mother will be great.
"Bonnie," she croons, slipping closer in the woods to slide her fingers over her friend's shoulders. Her eyes are just as hard as her own in the non-existent moonlight.
"I can bring him back, Elena."
It's the best thing she's heard all week from someone.
"This will be fun."
"They deserve it."
Look, dear reader, here is the girl. Her skin tastes of ash and her lips full and red as she holds her friend's fingers tight as they walk through the woods.
Look, you say, here is my pen, here is my page, here is my finest work.
I am the author, you say.
You watch the girl walk away.