Resurrection | Damon Salvatore [2] DISCONTINUED

Chapter Seven

   Freya stared at him, lips slightly parted as she listened to him. And he stared, at every little thing about her that his eyes caught. He could remember how her kisses felt, how her lips fit so perfectly with his and moved together in a synchronised dance. He could remember her laugh, how cheery and loud it was at first, and then with a little squeak when she got more comfortable with him. He could remember the ways she would tell him that she loved him, how the words glided from her lip and sunk into his ears as if they were the most beautiful symphony in all of the universe. He could remember her as she was, and it pained him.

   "Sorry," Damon said, looking down at his drink and shaking his head. "I'm just, you know, rambling."

   "No, no," she chuckled, shaking her head. "So, tell me about this girl." She leaned her head on her hand, watching him with a small and playful smile.

   He smiled, softly, painfully. "Do you want to know everything or just the basics of this girl?"

   "Maybe I know her," she said. "I can help you."

   "Fine," he nodded. "She was born in Provincetown, Massachusetts, in late summer of oh so many years ago," he began, watching her carefully as he spoke. "I met her at a bar in New York after grabbing a, um, a snack with a friend. She was a bartender, and gave me bourbon for the first time. Ever since then, I've drank it just because. Anyway, she was named after a goddess, and she didn't like pickles, and her favourite book was Fahrenheit 451 by Ray Bradbury, and her favourite drink was a Greyhound." He had repeated what she told him all those many nights ago, while dancing to jazz. He hoped it would somehow help her memory, maybe she would remember him. 

   Freya nodded. "She sounds interesting," she said as a smile formed on her lips. "Okay, so what goddess was she named after? Greek, Egyptian, Ancient, Medieval, Classical, American." She raised a brow and slightly pursed her lips. 

   He could see the anxiousness in her eyes, how she wanted to know more about the mysterious girl he had spoken about. It was obvious that she didn't know that it was him, and it pained him to see that. He wondered if something more than her memories had changed when she was resurrected. 

   "Guess," he said. He had wanted his words to have some kind of affect on her, but they didn't. His words had only gotten her to think about another girl, not herself. He wanted her to remember so badly, his only wish at that very moment. 

   "It's too much," she sighed, sitting up and waving her hand. "And, I'm working. Give me a few days and I'll come up with a list of names."

   Damon let out a small laugh and shook his head. "Yeah, you work on that," he said with a small smile. "We'll see with what you come up with." He drank what was left of his drink and cleared his throat. "So, tell me about you, Freya."

   "What about me?" she asked, wiping the counter with the rag and quickly eyeing him with a raised brow. "What do you want to know?"

   "What's your name?"

   "Freya," she chuckled. "I thought you already knew that."

   "Full name," he said, eyeing her carefully.

   "Freya Beauchene," she nodded. She stopped wiping seconds later, furrowing her brows as she stared down at the wood with confusion. "My name is Freya Beauchene..."

   "You sound surprised," he noted. 

   She shook her head, a smile forming on his lips. "No, no," she said, a laugh falling from her mouth. "Why would I be surprised at my own name?"

   Damon knew her too much, he knew that she was lying. She looked confused, with brows furrowed and eyes cast down at the wet rag in her hands. Just like when she had died, her fingernails were painted a pale sepia colour. Unlike when she had died, the colour and her nails were slightly chipped, smaller than they were when she was alive. It was an obvious sign of struggle, and he wondered if she had tried to claw her way out of her coffin.