1993 — Mystic Falls, Virginia

   A snake. It was what Stefan Salvatore reminded her of. The summer in his eyes had been covered by deadly red, reminding her of the rabbit's grey fur darkening with its own blood coming from the snake's fang. There were black veins beneath his eyes, the same colour of the snake. What surprised her the most was the way his teeth were sharp, like a snakes. The boy that reminded her of summer and green and smiles was replaced with someone else.

   "What are you?" she repeated. "Stefan, what the hell are you?"

   His eyes were green again, there were no veins, and the darkness in front of her was replaced with the boy once again. He took a step back and shook his head. "I'm sorry," he said, his voice breaking.

   "Don't apologise and walk away from me!" she yelled. Her breathing came in ragged, just like an anxiety attack, just like after she was done swimming. He stopped moving, shoulders rigid and hands tensed. She wanted to take a step forward, lay a hand on his arm, but she couldn't make herself move. Her hands shook besides her, her heart pounded at her ear, and she knew that he could hear her very heart. "Please, help me understand what you are because right now..." She took a deep breath to calm herself, hoping that her voice wouldn't break. "Stefan, I'm terrified of you."

   Stefan's face was filled with guilt. "Florence, I'm sorry." His voice broke as he spoke. "I can't..." He took a deep breath and looked away from her, the pointed towards one direction. "Charles' house is that way. Keep going straight."

   "Stefan, wait!" She had reached to him, but he wasn't not in front of her. Somehow, he had disappeared. Her eyes darted to every direction, the ringing in her ears getting louder. She sniffed and pushed the thoughts of him away, then headed towards the direction he pointed at. With each step she took, her leg stung. She could feel the dirt going into her skin, moving through her blood just as the thoughts of Stefan did. There were two reasons why she was in pain: because of the cut and because of a boy. 

   She didn't know how long she walked, but she came to Charles' house with red and blue lights flickering all around. There were cops everywhere, voices coming from their radios or them speaking to a few of the kids that were sober enough to talk. Florence stopped walking and stood by the pool, eyes darting around in confusion and breath hitched at her throat. Part of her thought that the cops were around to bust the party. Another part of her didn't want to think that it was because of the pink pool water.

   "Florence!" someone yelled. "There you are! We've been looking all over for—what the hell happened to you?" Cher was standing in front of her, hands on her shoulder and eyes staring down at her in confusion. Eyes resembling road-maps, the blue in them a small ocean. "You're bleeding. What happened?"

   "I fell," she responded. She pushed Cher's hands away and began to look around. "Have you seen Stefan?"

   "Uh, no," Cher said, following closely behind. "I thought he was with you."

   "He disappeared."

   "That's not good."

   Florence stopped and turned around. "What do you mean?"

   Cher looked around with her eyes wide. "Do you see the cops all around here?" she asked. There was no tone of amusement, or joking, or anything that said a laugh would come. "Florence, they're not here because they're busting the party. They're here because..." She bit her lips tightly and glanced away for a second. "Florence, they're here because someone found Rachelle Watson in the pool."

   If there were cops, the knew why. But, either way, she asked, "Swimming?" Her voice broke, her nose stung, and she had to dig her nails into her thigh so she wouldn't do anything else. 

   "Dead," Cher said. "She was too drunk and hit her head against the side of the pool. Broken neck."

   Florence's eyes shifted from her friend to the pool. She could imagine Rachelle's body floating, face down, not breathing, skin cold. And then she imagined the fight between Damon and Stefan, one of them snapping her neck and throwing her into the pool. She swallowed hard. "Did you see Damon around here?"

   "No," Cher said as she shrugged her shoulders. "After the two of you fought at The Grill, I doubt he'd want to come. And, like you said, he's probably like in college, so he's been to better parties than this." A sigh escaped her mouth and she crossed her arms. "Or a party where someone died."

   "I need to find Stefan."

   Cher grabbed her arm before she could get any further. "Oh, no! I'm taking you home, Florence, before you bleed yourself to death. If one of these cops catch us, and call our parents, we're dead. And I mean that in the most literal sense." She pulled her away from the officers, to the front of the house. There were several patrol cars parked in the front, kids walking back and forth with confusion and a hint of fright.

   It was how Florence Gilbert felt as Cher pushed her towards the car. She was full of confusion and fright and she felt the whole world spinning with her head. If she swallowed, she would throw up. If she blinked, she would miss something on the corner of the road. If she moved, she would come crashing down. 

   "Where were you?" Cher asked a few minutes into the drive. She drover slower than the usual, obviously not wanting to get caught by the cops. "You and Stefan disappeared after a while."

   Florence pressed her fingers to her forehead. "We were walking and I tripped," she said, thanking that her voice didn't break. How could she tell her best friend that she saw Damon and Stefan fight? How could she say that she saw Stefan become a monster?

   "That explains that gnarly gash on your leg," Cher chuckled. "Do you think it'll need stitches?"

   Florence shrugged her shoulder. "I don't know," she mumbled. "I guess I'll find out after I take a shower and wash all of the blood off."

   "How will you be able to climb up to your room?" Her best friend continued to question her, like the officers had done to the people at the party. But, her questions weren't about some dead girl, but about her well being. It bothered her, not because Cher meant good, but because she couldn't answer honestly. How could she say that Stefan had blood red eyes and teeth like a snake? How could she say that the boy she had come to like as more than a friend became a monster right in front of her? Those were words that she couldn't generate, words that couldn't even form in her mind.

   Florence Gilbert felt confused, and empty.

   Cher had dropped her off right in front of her house, as dangerous as that could be. Luckily for the young Gilbert, her parents were asleep. She sneaked her way through the backdoor, thankful that the key had been lodged between the bright red roses. The inside of her house felt cold for a cool summer's night, but she knew it wasn't the house. It was cold because of her thoughts, of the memory of Stefan's face appearing in her thought over and over again.

   As she sat in the bathtub, all that ran through her mind was that. Stefan's face. The boy with summer in his eyes, spring in his smile, mouth smelling of mint. Every smile that he had given her was replaced with the fangs, every crinkle of his green eyes turned red. It made her sick to her stomach. She got out of the tub and leaned over the toilet, emptying everything she had eaten and drank. Afterwards, she tried to control her breathing, but she ended up sobbing. A part of her didn't know why, but another part knew that it was because of Stefan and the fright.

   When morning came, she hadn't slept a bit. There were dark bags under her eyes and she could feel the weight of being tired hit her with every movement. During breakfast, she played with the food in front of her instead of eating it. Her mother found it suspicious.

   "Florence," she said, "why aren't you eating?" Mrs. Gilbert had made her favourite, cheesy bacon and egg hash with buttered toast and a tall glass of grape juice. 

   Florence looked up from her plate and shrugged her shoulders. "I'm not hungry."

   "Are you sick?" her father asked, his eyes staying on the newspaper in front of him. "I heard you throwing up last night."

   "Oh, um, yeah." She leaned back on her seat and forced a smile at her father. "I think it was something I ate at The Grill."

   "Sweetie, do you remember Rachelle Watson?" Her mother had dropped her fork besides her plate, her eyes filled with pity.

   Florence swallowed. How couldn't she remember Rachelle Watson? For one, they went to the same high school and had two classes together. Second, they had both auditioned for Mr. Marlowe's rendition of Romeo and Juliet. Third, she was sure she didn't slip and fall.

   "Yeah," she nodded. "We had classes together. Why?"

   "She died," her father said, no emotion in his voice. He said it as if he didn't care, as if Rachelle's death was just a fly being swatted at. "Last night at Charles Fells' party; she was playing by the pool, slipped and broke her neck."

   "I'm glad you stayed home last night," her mother said, reaching over the table and squeezing her daughter's hand. "According to the newspaper, she was drunk."

   Her father let out a chuckle. "I think that's the last time Collin and Peggy will leave the boys home alone."

   "I'm going to make Rachelle's family a casserole," her mother said, ignoring her husband's words. "Do you want to come with me?"

   Florence shook her head. "I don't feel well," she breathed. Before she could say something else, she ran to the bathroom to throw up the few bites she had managed to swallow. All that ran through her mind was Rachelle's body floating on the pool, her head twisted in a way heads weren't supposed to twist. And then she imagined Stefan being the one that killed her. After she finished throwing up, she leaned against the wall and let out a sob. The thought of that nice boy being a monster made her shake, made her heart break, made her feel as if so many things in her life were a lie.

   For several days, it was the same thing for the young Gilbert girl. She didn't sleep, and when she did she would have nightmares about Stefan. She didn't eat, and when she did she would fall asleep. She didn't leave her room, the only time she did was when her mother saw the cut on her leg and took her to Grayson to get it checked out. He, being the caring and too-worried brother that he was, decided to do a full checkup to see what was wrong with her.

   "Well, you're not sick," Grayson sighed as he wrote something down on the notepad in front of him. "But, that cut is a bit infected. If you waited a bit more, it would have to be amputated." He laughed and shook his head, continuing to write whatever down. When his sister didn't laugh, he stopped and looked up at her with a worried look. "Okay, Flo, what's wrong?"

   "I'm tired," she responded, staring down at her hands. 

   "Have you been able to sleep?"

   She shrugged her shoulders.

   "I see," Grayson nodded. "You're giving me vague answers, so that means something's wrong with you." He moved his chair closer to her and gave her a small smile. "You forget, Florence, but you're my sister. I have known you all my life, which means I know when you're feeling sad. So, tell me, what happened?" He stared at her for several seconds. "Ah, is this because of that girl that died?"

   Florence never knew Rachelle Watson. She could count the amount of times they had spoken in one hand. The reasons why she didn't eat and sleep wasn't because of her, but because of a snake. No, not a snake. It was because of a boy that reminded her of a snake. A boy she liked with red eyes, veins underneath his eyes, and fangs for teeth. But, Grayson would think that she was crazy if she told him that, so she lied.

   "Yeah," she breathed, "it's because of her."

   Grayson told her that death was part of life, that some of them left earlier than necessary. He gave her soothing words that soothed nothing, good words for a fake pain. If she could only tell him the real reason why she didn't feel all that great. 

   "Mom's going to pick you up later on," he said after he walked her out to the waiting room. "You should try and get something to eat, keep it down this time." He pulled out a twenty from his wallet and handed it to her with a generous smile. "You'll feel better once you eat something. And when you get home, try and get some sleep. You seriously need it."

   "Thanks, Grayson," she mumbled.

   He stared at her with a hint of amusement in his eyes. "Wow, you seriously are sick if you just thanked me."

   She wanted to flip him off, to give him some snarky remark, but instead she nodded and walked away. It was sunny, with just one single cloud in the sky. The heat of the sun caused Florence to feel weaker than she already was. She walked to the store in the corner, the store that sold slushies and ice cream of all flavours. Instead of wanting something greasy ad tasty, she wanted something easy and cold. 

   Like everyday after school and during the days that there were no school, the ice cream shop was full. There were people sitting at the tables, all with a different type of sweet in front of them. Florence stood in front of the slushie machine, watching each drink spin. She could have pulled off being a walking zombie, dead on the inside but subconsciously awake. It was as if energy had been drained out of her, as though she was leaking electricity.

   After some minutes, she filled a large cup with strawberry lemonade slushie and paid for it, pushing the change into her back pocket. The sweet taste of lemon and strawberry filled her tongue, waking her up a bit, but the tiredness was still there. She walked so she wouldn't fall asleep, savoured the drink slowly so she wouldn't throw it up. As she moved, she bumped into someone.

   "Sorry," she mumbled, glancing up. Her breath got caught in her throat and she choked on her drink. After coughing for several seconds, she looked up at the man in front of her and swallowed hard. "Sorry, I should..." She trailed off and shook her head, deciding to brush by him. 

   "Florence, wait!"

   She stopped and held to her drink tightly, hands slightly shaking. "I need to go."

   "Florence, please." He stood in front of her, his face full of pleading. "Just, let me explain, okay?"

   "Explain what?" she asked, her voice breaking. "How you killed Rachelle Watson?"

   "That wasn't me," he said as he shook his head. "I didn't do that. You know me, and you know I wouldn't kill someone."

   "I don't know you, Stefan." Her voice broke with each word, soft when she said his name. "For all I know, everything you told me is a lie. Is Stefan even your name?"

   "Let me explain everything to you, then." His voice was soft, a soft that she couldn't even imagine. "Please."

   Florence swallowed hard and looked around, her throat tightening. "Fine," she said, avoiding his eyes. "You can tell me, but in public—The Grill."