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The Ripper, they call him. They call him as he pushes a stake into their chest and watches the life drain out of their skin, following Klaus' orders as usual. The Ripper. It's said with horror and fascination, spoken softly and out of breath as they waste their last moments parroting a name.
What do you get out of it? they ask, the others, the ones Klaus allows to live. Is it some sadistic pleasure?
Stefan shrugs his shoulders, indifference pulling his face into an emotionless mask.
A monster amongst monsters, they say, hiding their fear behind bravado and false admiration. They pretend they feel no fear, they pretend they do not care, they pretend they've flipped the switch.
Stefan knows better than anyone that there is no such thing as a switch.
He feels every kill, he tastes every fear and spike in adrenaline and he lives every one's last moments on the earth. He and they are the same.
He's clawing at his own flesh, breaking his own bone, tearing himself limb from limb until the blood puddles on the floor turn into a still lake where he can see his own reflection, still in one piece, still immortal, still bloodthirsty.
So he drops what remains of himself and grabs another one, pulls muscle from bone and feels ligaments snap as he twists his own arms off again, breaks them into pieces he can manage, breaks them so he can't hurt anyone anymore. He lets the parts fall to the ground when he's done sucking them dry and he stares.
(The remainders of the bodies are women. They are in pieces on the floor and Stefan is standing whole in the place where he killed them, flexing the muscles he thought he tore apart as he looks down at the lives he took.)
They don't understand.
Stefan rips himself apart every time.
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