The Girl

Well, my sister asked for this. This is angst and it was painful to write.

He watched her as she moved through the crowd easily toward him. He lifted his drink to her, downing it in one swallow, as he watched the other men in the bar watching her. Jealousy stirred in him, and he clenched his now empty class tightly.

The girl flashed him a smile. He returned it, watching as she spun away from him, all blond hair and curls. Walking away from him as she always seemed to be doing. And he followed her, as he always seemed to be doing.

He didn't see his siblings shoot each other worried looks as he walked out of the bar and after the girl. Didn't see the questioning look Marcel sent him as he walked out the doors. Only one thing was on his mind, and that was the retreating figure that was walking in front of him.

Klaus was surprised when she offered him no witty comments, no snide remarks, when he finally caught up with her. Instead, she was the one that leaned over and kissed him. She was the one that asked him to take her to his place. And he did, oh he did. But something wasn't right. Something was off, and he couldn't quite place his finger on it, but it was there, nagging in the back of his mind, something he was supposed to remember, something important. But she smiled at him again, and he put his doubts to rest for the moment.

When she told him she loved him for the first time months later, he wondered why he didn't get the satisfaction he had hoped the words would bring him. Why he still felt like something vital was missing, a crucial point. Something he wasn't altogether sure he wanted to remember.

Little things, little things that might have gone unnoticed had he not known his girl so well. He would do something, commit mass murder or the like, expecting a reprimand of some kind from her, and she would act as if she didn't know. He never saw her drink blood. And she never brought up her old life, never called her old friends or her mother.

Then the dreams started. Horrible things, his girl's broken mutilated body on the bloody battleground where they had found victory, but at a high cost. Her heart torn from her chest, the necklace he had given her to protect her from magic fixed around her neck, mocking him with it's presence. She had died anyway, though he had tried to protect her. He would wake then, always then, and the blond hair beside him in his bed would reassure him.

She wasn't dead, she couldn't be dead. But the same dream, every night, over and over and over, started to plant doubt in his mind. There was something off about the girl that he was for lack of a better term dating. It wasn't a little thing anymore. It was everything she did. The way she looked at him, the way she talked to him, the way she touched him. Nothing was right.

And he didn't know what it was until the day he angrily shouted "Caroline!" only for her to turn around, anger in the eyes that were not quite the right shade of blue, and respond with venom in her voice, "My name is Camille, Klaus. You'd think you'd know that much after all the months we've been together."

The illusion shattered. The illusion he had wanted, the illusion he had built up to cope with the pain, was gone. And so was Caroline; the girl he loved was dead, and he didn't know how to deal with that. Didn't know how to deal with the image of his girl lying dead in his arms, bloody and torn, forever removed from his life.