TVD fic: Fake
Notes: Written for razycrandomgirl's prompt at the TVD Free-For-All Ficathon
Word Count: 616 words
Fake, Jeremy - A counterfeit disposition, can't be good for my health
So Jeremy finds himself living in Denver now. He is staying with old friends of his parents who, perplexed at his sudden visit, can’t stop asking questions. Just as their questions remain the same, his answer never varies: It’s just like Elena has told them over the phone. Jenna’s had a knee surgery-not to worry, she’s fine, she’s fine!-and things have been a bit crazy lately, he’ll head back to Mystic Falls once she’s feeling better. It’s just like Elena has said. A tiny part in him winces at this answer, wants to say: It is not fine, Jenna has been dead, dead for months; no, it’s not like Elena has said. But this is just a small thorn in his side pressing against the overwhelming feeling that everything is as it should be, that the puzzle pieces have fallen into place. And eventually the questions stop coming.
(He doesn’t notice the questioning glances they keep exchanging in his presence. He is unaware of the whispered conversations taking place once he leaves the room. He doesn’t hear them voice their consternation at his strangely impassive responses.)
***
So Jeremy finds himself living in Denver now. There’s a distinct rhythm to his life now, a rhythm that washes over him and never lets him stand still and look back. He goes to a new school, he joins the school’s art club, he goes to parties where he drinks a few beers, he takes the neighbors’ dog for a walk in the nearby park, he plays baseball with his new friend Kol. There is always something for him to do. Keep going, keep going, a voice in his head seems to say and he obeys. That’s how it is supposed to be. And he is content, isn’t he? He smiles when his history teacher hands him his test back and he sees his result. He laughs at the jokes Kol likes to crack when they are hanging out. He enjoys the sunshine on his skin when he is jogging in the park. Life is good. Isn’t it.
(And yet, there are moments where he suddenly feels uneasy, as if something isn’t quite right. It happens when Kol asks him how things are going at home; it happens when Elena calls him one day and tells him that she misses him; it happens when he flips through his latest drawings and all he sees are shadowy creatures with piercing eyes. These are brief moments where he gets the uncomfortable feeling that there is something just out of his reach, something important he can’t quite put his finger on.)
***
And then there are the nights in Denver. The nights where he wakes up all of a sudden with his chest pounding, his mouth dry and all these images in his head. Blood on the front porch, a double set of fangs, and two unmarked graves in the cemetery. And there are also these sensations. The rush of adrenaline pulsing through his body, the familiar scent of dewberry perfume in his nose, and a finger softly brushing against his lips. But these impressions, both somehow real and unreal at the same time, are fleeting. The more he regains consciousness, the fainter they become-and an undefined feeling of loss settles in him. He tosses and turns, trying to fall back to sleep.
(After a while, he switches the bedside lamp on and opens the second drawer of the nightstand, reaching for the small metallic object hidden beneath a pile of drawings. The razor blade feels cool between his fingertips. He gasps when it cuts into his skin.)
Word Count: 616 words
Fake, Jeremy - A counterfeit disposition, can't be good for my health
So Jeremy finds himself living in Denver now. He is staying with old friends of his parents who, perplexed at his sudden visit, can’t stop asking questions. Just as their questions remain the same, his answer never varies: It’s just like Elena has told them over the phone. Jenna’s had a knee surgery-not to worry, she’s fine, she’s fine!-and things have been a bit crazy lately, he’ll head back to Mystic Falls once she’s feeling better. It’s just like Elena has said. A tiny part in him winces at this answer, wants to say: It is not fine, Jenna has been dead, dead for months; no, it’s not like Elena has said. But this is just a small thorn in his side pressing against the overwhelming feeling that everything is as it should be, that the puzzle pieces have fallen into place. And eventually the questions stop coming.
(He doesn’t notice the questioning glances they keep exchanging in his presence. He is unaware of the whispered conversations taking place once he leaves the room. He doesn’t hear them voice their consternation at his strangely impassive responses.)
***
So Jeremy finds himself living in Denver now. There’s a distinct rhythm to his life now, a rhythm that washes over him and never lets him stand still and look back. He goes to a new school, he joins the school’s art club, he goes to parties where he drinks a few beers, he takes the neighbors’ dog for a walk in the nearby park, he plays baseball with his new friend Kol. There is always something for him to do. Keep going, keep going, a voice in his head seems to say and he obeys. That’s how it is supposed to be. And he is content, isn’t he? He smiles when his history teacher hands him his test back and he sees his result. He laughs at the jokes Kol likes to crack when they are hanging out. He enjoys the sunshine on his skin when he is jogging in the park. Life is good. Isn’t it.
(And yet, there are moments where he suddenly feels uneasy, as if something isn’t quite right. It happens when Kol asks him how things are going at home; it happens when Elena calls him one day and tells him that she misses him; it happens when he flips through his latest drawings and all he sees are shadowy creatures with piercing eyes. These are brief moments where he gets the uncomfortable feeling that there is something just out of his reach, something important he can’t quite put his finger on.)
***
And then there are the nights in Denver. The nights where he wakes up all of a sudden with his chest pounding, his mouth dry and all these images in his head. Blood on the front porch, a double set of fangs, and two unmarked graves in the cemetery. And there are also these sensations. The rush of adrenaline pulsing through his body, the familiar scent of dewberry perfume in his nose, and a finger softly brushing against his lips. But these impressions, both somehow real and unreal at the same time, are fleeting. The more he regains consciousness, the fainter they become-and an undefined feeling of loss settles in him. He tosses and turns, trying to fall back to sleep.
(After a while, he switches the bedside lamp on and opens the second drawer of the nightstand, reaching for the small metallic object hidden beneath a pile of drawings. The razor blade feels cool between his fingertips. He gasps when it cuts into his skin.)