White Blood | Klaus Mikaelson

SPECIAL CHAPTER

ONCE UPON A DREAM
NEW ORLEANS, LOUISIANA — PRESENT TIME
NONFICTION BY K.WILL

   Klaus Mikaelson loathed to dream, to the point where he stopped himself from sleeping. Dreams to the Original Hybrid were doltish, little doltish things that he thought he didn't deserve. They weren't actually dreams to him, but nightmares. Because each of them had one small figure that he could get rid off; the same golden haired, blue-eyed girl that he first met one gruesome night. And each time she appeared, she wore a different outfit that she had worn throughout the moment she met him.

   The first time she appeared, she wore the white nightgown she appeared on his doorsteps with. The nightgown was dirtied and bloodied from beneath her waist, her legs with covered in a bit of blood as well. When he saw her like that, his breath caught in his throat. He knew what had happened, the reason her legs and dress were stained with blood. He helped her kill the man that had done that to her, allowed her to drink from him and take his head. His only regret was that the man wasn't tortured, wasn't allowed to feel the pain she had felt. If it were on him, he would have mutilated the man, broken his bones, ripped his fingernails—kill him in the most slowest way possible. But, she had killed him. He had ripped her innocence and gave her two gold coins for it, and she had killed him. She took her own revenge, ripped his head from his body as she drank the blood.

   The second time she appeared to him was in a ship, with her new blue dress and her hair falling down her shoulders. She sat on the sofa, her legs up besides her and her hand resting beneath her chin. Her blue eyes followed him as he moved around.

   The third time was in the Governor's mansion, where they had a welcoming party for her. She wore the deep blue dress, the necklace he had given her resting prettily on her pale neck. The golden ringlets on her hair fell perfectly down, held back by pearl pins and making her look years older than she actually was. Her blue eyes followed him as he moved between others, further from him as he tried to get closer. When he thought finally got close enough to touch her, she disappeared. 

   The fourth time he saw her she wore that tight blue dress and stared at him from across the alley in Paris. He would blink and her appearance would change. She stood in front of him with her dress ripped, her mouth and neck bloody, her hair wild, and her eyes dancing with a glint of mischief. He knew what happened for her change of experience, could practically feel it happening at that very moment. He would take a step forward and she would disappear, and he would wake up.

   The fifth time he saw her, she was wearing that Grace Kelly dress that made her waist smaller and her chest bigger. Her hair was darker, a soft brown with parts of the blonde coming out. He knew that dress well, had wanted to rip it from her and take her on top of the table the moment he saw her in it. This time, she was in front of him. And when he reached for her, his hand landed on  the small of her waist and the other on her cheek. He pulled her to him and kissed her, hard and rough and passionate. Like he wanted to do that very night. The way her lips moulded with his made him shiver, made his blood heat up and his dead heart beat. 

   "What is this?" he heard her ask, even though they were kissing.

   "A rose," he had replied."I hear it's a thing for men to give flowers to a woman... I'll see you tomorrow night, Eleanor."

   He knew that night, had memorised it and played it over and over again in the dark of the night. It was the night he first saw her after eighty years, the night her lips were the most kissable in that red apple colour.

   When he pulled away from her, she disappeared.

   The sixth time he saw her, she wore that lace-up baby pink dress that made her waist appear even more smaller. He knew that dress because he had ripped it from her body, allowed it to become shreds on the floor of his bedroom. That time, she smiled and walked to him, had laid her hand on his cheek. But she said nothing. He woke up before she disappeared. Elijah stood before him with his eyes filled with confusion. He had told him that he was shaking in his sleep, had been muttering a name. The Original Hybrid lied and said it was nothing—a lie too common for him.