Klaus can almost hear his father’s words in the back of his mind: Such a waste. What a disappointment. You will achieve nothing at this rate, Number Four, you are wasting my time. He grips the counter top, knuckles white with tension. If he could squeeze every particle of stone from the surface, he would, what with his hackles up and the bite of desperation in the back of his mind.
“Yeah, aye aye, mon capitaine,” though it lacks heat, instead coming out as a sigh. He shuts his eyes tight, sucks in a careful, slow breath, and tries to muster some semblance of control, even if it’s only for this conversation.
“I want to stay,” his voice stays level, though he sounds hoarse. “I want to stop. But every time I close my fucking eyes they’re there, Allison. It’s like dad shows up, kicks me in the teeth and dumps me in the mausoleum all over again. Getting high eliminated that. At least I could sleep then.” He laughs, an edge of hysteria to the sound when he finally releases the counter, scrubbing his palms over his face, fingers dragging along his jaw and neck before he curls his arms around himself. If he hadn’t chewed his nails down to the quick already, he’d dig his nails into the delicate skin of his arms until they bled.
Maybe he has a roof over his head, maybe he has his sister, but the fact that he could not survive on his own if he was thrown out right now makes him feel as low as the grain on the wood flooring. Maybe lower, if he could press himself into the foundation, into the dirt, disappear beneath it. Six feet under doesn’t sound so bad, sometimes- nice and cold, quiet. The ghosts would find him there, too, no doubt.
“Can I at least convince you to buy me a pack of cigarettes?” He sounds defeated, and the dejected look on his face only mirrors how shitty he feels. “I won’t smoke inside.” A snort of a laugh follows and he shakes his head, looking out to one of the other rooms, unable to meet her eyes.
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Klaus can almost hear his father’s words in the back of his mind: Such a waste. What a disappointment. You will achieve nothing at this rate, Number Four, you are wasting my time. He grips the counter top, knuckles white with tension. If he could squeeze every particle of stone from the surface, he would, what with his hackles up and the bite of desperation in the back of his mind.
“Yeah, aye aye, mon capitaine,” though it lacks heat, instead coming out as a sigh. He shuts his eyes tight, sucks in a careful, slow breath, and tries to muster some semblance of control, even if it’s only for this conversation.
“I want to stay,” his voice stays level, though he sounds hoarse. “I want to stop. But every time I close my fucking eyes they’re there, Allison. It’s like dad shows up, kicks me in the teeth and dumps me in the mausoleum all over again. Getting high eliminated that. At least I could sleep then.” He laughs, an edge of hysteria to the sound when he finally releases the counter, scrubbing his palms over his face, fingers dragging along his jaw and neck before he curls his arms around himself. If he hadn’t chewed his nails down to the quick already, he’d dig his nails into the delicate skin of his arms until they bled.
Maybe he has a roof over his head, maybe he has his sister, but the fact that he could not survive on his own if he was thrown out right now makes him feel as low as the grain on the wood flooring. Maybe lower, if he could press himself into the foundation, into the dirt, disappear beneath it. Six feet under doesn’t sound so bad, sometimes- nice and cold, quiet. The ghosts would find him there, too, no doubt.
“Can I at least convince you to buy me a pack of cigarettes?” He sounds defeated, and the dejected look on his face only mirrors how shitty he feels. “I won’t smoke inside.” A snort of a laugh follows and he shakes his head, looking out to one of the other rooms, unable to meet her eyes.
“I can’t even pay you back. What a deal, right?”