Untapped Potential: his greatest disappointment.

Kill of the night

The world was cold- and dark. Grey walls devoid of color and personality encircled Klaus as he glanced around the room with terror creeping in his chest. A tremble running down his spine as blood dripped down his face- as if it was tears- and not a gaping void in his head. His hands were sacrificed and split from the concrete- his knees stripped straight to the bone as blood poured onto the floor. While it should've panicked the man, he was more entranced. It was the only thing giving the room color. It was... entertainment.

Despite that- another wheeze escaped Klaus as he felt his eyes flutter and dart around the room. He saw bugs on the floor, the blood seeping over them like a tidal wave and drowning them in Klaus's misery. He shouldn't be in here. He's an adult. He hasn't been in this place since he was fifteen. It wasn't Klaus's prime concern- even if it should've been- since; there was nothing he could do about it.

"Number Four. You are pitiful! If you continue with this... childish behavior- I will be forced to leave you here."

"You would love that," Klaus spat.

"Hm," his father ticked through the tiny opening in the door, "I suppose another hour or two wouldn't hurt you."

"This doesn't scare me anymore. I have control."

"Do you?"

The slamming of the door made Klaus's body jerk without his consent. It made the cracks in his knees feel like they were falling off- his hands to fall back into place with a powerful sting. Klaus groaned, feeling tears mix in with the blood on his face. He felt the liquid coming from his ears, nose, head- he had no idea why it was there. He didn't remember hurting himself.

Nothing about this made sense. He was hurt. There were no ghosts. His father was there. Pogo wasn't. Not to even mention the fact that Ben wouldn't let his father bring Klaus back here. Right?

NO.

He pulled himself back until he fell onto his butt stiltedly. The sight made nausea swim in his stomach.

Two large holes where his knees should've been- just a white bone sticking out against the pale skin surrounding it. He could see right around it- right to the grey concrete decorating the floor. Blood seeping from the sides, but it was as if the skin had never existed there in the first place. A couple of marks scratching against his stomach in an oddly familiar setting. Oh. Self-inflicted. Nice.

His fingers were red and inflamed, the skin ripping from around his nail beds- their natural color unsettling. It was a rarity for Klaus's nails to be plain. He liked a bit of color. But even then, there was no trace of polish. His palms were cut from the hard surface, bleeding with little to no show of stopping.

"Hello?"

He found himself speaking.

Who was he trying to talk to? Reginald? Reginald was long gone.

Like, long- long gone.

"Are you guys there?"

Who was he trying to talk to?

"We're always here,"

Oh.

That's just great.

Mangled bodies emerged from the shadows, yet- no screaming filled the silence. It was worse that way- than when they were upfront about it. Klaus never knew when the silence would end.

A man with a hole in his stomach. A girl with her head falling from her neck. A couple of bodies with no noticeable wounds- probably internal injuries. A young girl with a knife in her chest. Another teen boy with an ax in his head. Women with large stomachs who died during childbirth. Men with their privates chopped off with fury- bled out due to their own arrogance. How could he forget the age-related deaths?