[ his eyes are only for caroline, and not at all: he is not seeing her, not even this emptied version of her. if he would meet elena's gaze, perhaps some semblance of his tenuous grip on sane thought might hold, but he has already dropped into that consuming abyss with hardly a tether at all. he shakes, inside, down to his core. his hands start to shake, trembling slightly at caroline's knees. he sees her eyes and the blinking of her lashes; his own drop down and away from the movements of her lips — he hears the words they speak from far away; the meanings behind them like an inconsequential telling of a script he already knows.
he cannot grasp his part in it. he doesn't know what they could do; how he could possibly — what could be done, to soothe her of this agony she escapes? to ask her to feel it? (how does he escape his own, clawing forward?) he doesn't want to listen to this farce of a conversation anymore; he can imagine how it will end as it's ended time and time again, and with that he won't listen —
(time. he needs time. a pause. respite. to figure this out. that shaking turns to anger, borne of his helplessness, of the grief that is caroline's coursing through him, colliding with his own — )
he's a blur, moving to his feet, his hands reaching to twist caroline's head to the side with a resounding crack that fills the room. neck snapped, she crumples back onto the bed, blonde hair a halo; his lashes flutter and eyes widen and round with the horror catching in his chest at the sight. a weight lays on his chest.
he feels his throat close. the heel of his hand reaches to press against the side of his temple as if to push back and contain the tumult of remorse and resolve and fear that brings the world into harsh focus and slides down into him. klaus turns away to hide from those terrors and to temper himself; he paces away from elena and from caroline's body. her body. his fingers still shake. they tremble anew. ] She's going to hurt herself or somebody else. [ there is a waver in his voice. he says the words as flatly as he can, despite that. he says them trying to be detached: because they are true.
because he feels sick for what he's done despite them. because no truth would ever be enough. ]
no subject
he cannot grasp his part in it. he doesn't know what they could do; how he could possibly — what could be done, to soothe her of this agony she escapes? to ask her to feel it? (how does he escape his own, clawing forward?) he doesn't want to listen to this farce of a conversation anymore; he can imagine how it will end as it's ended time and time again, and with that he won't listen —
(time. he needs time. a pause. respite. to figure this out. that shaking turns to anger, borne of his helplessness, of the grief that is caroline's coursing through him, colliding with his own — )
he's a blur, moving to his feet, his hands reaching to twist caroline's head to the side with a resounding crack that fills the room. neck snapped, she crumples back onto the bed, blonde hair a halo; his lashes flutter and eyes widen and round with the horror catching in his chest at the sight. a weight lays on his chest.
he feels his throat close. the heel of his hand reaches to press against the side of his temple as if to push back and contain the tumult of remorse and resolve and fear that brings the world into harsh focus and slides down into him. klaus turns away to hide from those terrors and to temper himself; he paces away from elena and from caroline's body. her body. his fingers still shake. they tremble anew. ] She's going to hurt herself or somebody else. [ there is a waver in his voice. he says the words as flatly as he can, despite that. he says them trying to be detached: because they are true.
because he feels sick for what he's done despite them. because no truth would ever be enough. ]