A/N: I know this isn't what most KCers expect from a story, but I have been wanting to tell this one for a long time. I think one reason it takes so long to compose an update is my fear of alienating an audience. This isn't a happy story. I warned that from the beginning. It's about a lost boy who has had his entire world ripped from him by a man who should have loved him, but never did. It is about his road to recovery, and it's about all of those hiccups in between. This is dark, but I promise you it gets happier. You just have to wait around for a bit.

The title for this part was taken from one of my favourite books, Frankenstein: The Modern Prometheus. History/English lesson: Prometheus was the guy in Greek mythology who created humans in the image of the gods. Victor Frankenstein created "The Monster" in Mary Shelley's novel. While Niklaus Mikaelson is not creating his own monster, what I mean when I use the reference is that Niklaus is turning himself into a monster. As is everyone else around him.

Caroline's 60s getup is inspired by Twiggy.

WARNING: This part gets heavy. There is a brief sexual encounter, lots of underage consumption of alcohol, and general sadness.

Enjoy to the best of your ability.

"Blame everyone but me for this mess."

Part 3 - Niklaus: The 21st Century Prometheus

Three Years Later:

The road is wet. The car's tyres slip atop of the tar, and Klaus can see nothing but blackness ahead of him. Lightning flashes bright, blinding him. Rolling thunder follows. It bursts in the sky, shocking his ears.

He is afraid. Bubbling anxiety roils in his stomach, spiking his brain. He can't think clearly. The road is going nowhere, and yet he knows exactly how all of this will end. Because it is the same every time, and he cannot escape. Ever.

Rain slaps the windshield harshly. All of the noises are deafening the boy. He sits still in his seat, awaiting the headlights that will shine like heaven in his eyes before they skid and become the sole reason for Niklaus awakening in the depths of hell.

It is inevitable, the outcome of this journey. There will be a screech of tyres as they scrape the ground. There will be cries and screams from the lifeless bodies that surround him, their skin already marred with blood—their souls already spilled along the road. And he, he will sit still. Always. He will watch with tired eyes, fear continuing to eat at his gut, as their bodies are crushed. He will feel metal scrape his skin. He will feel the bones in his right hand splinter beneath the weight of the asphalt. He will feel his face burn as glass splits his skin.

And they will die, the bodies surrounding him. His family of old. The mother that loved too much, and the father that loved too little. And his siblings, his brothers and his sister, will fade alongside them. They will be taken from him, leaving him to be the lone survivor.

It is inevitable.

But tonight, on this road in the rain, with the thunder banging against the clouds and the lightning striking the shadowy grass, there is a new body in this car. Her hair is yellow and it hits her shoulders in waves. She snakes a hand around his as if to quell the shaking. She looks at him, and he looks at her, because he cannot look away. Her eyes, even in the darkness, glitter like the ocean just as the sun hits it. And though there is no sun tonight, though there will never be any sun here, he can imagine being with her, alone in the sand, as they together watch the sunset. Watch the sun hit the ocean.

She does not speak. She holds him and she looks at him, but her pink lips remain shut.

He stares at her, taking in her clothes. She is dressed in all white and she is small, so small, with long legs and sharp bones. But she is not small, not really. She is big and she is his rescuer. That is why she is here, to pull him from the burning shards of metal.

The crash happens, as he knew it would. Tyres skid. His mother screams. His sister cries. His brothers—they ignore, they wail, they groan in frustration. But he remains motionless, even as his bones crumble. Even as he is forced to watch their chests slow, their hearts falter and fall. Rebekah stares at him, her once blue eyes bloody and empty.

But there is someone gripping his hand. His left hand, where all the bones are still intact. It is the girl—the angel. She hauls him to his feet and he towers over her. She drags him out of the fiery car, away from the people who once held his love in their broken chests.

They stand side by side, her hand still holding his, as they watch the petrol glisten on the dark road. Each flash of lightning creates rainbows on the ground, and Niklaus thinks, for a moment, that it's beautiful.

The fire starts. It explodes against the black sky. Flames lick the raindrops.

The girl loosens her hold on his hand, and he reaches out for her, but she begins to walk away from him. She floats on the air, her body shrinking as she escapes his sight. He can see her blue eyes still, but that fear is returning. It coils around his gut, squeezing the hot air from his lungs as smoke catches his tongue and billows down his throat.

He tries to cry out. He tries to yell for her, to beg her to come back. To come back to him. Because he is an orphan now, with nobody left. And he needs her. But she drifts further from him, and even his voice cannot reach her.

And he is left there, alone. Standing among the remains of his bones as gasoline sparkles on the tar beneath his feet, its odour mixing with the metallic scent of blood.

He sees the pale bodies trapped under the vehicles, and he wonders if tonight he can be the one to save them. But his feet are cemented to the ground. He cannot move.

He is alone. And all he can do is watch the sparkling flames as they suffocate the black sky.

His body is trembling. Someone is calling his name, their voice loud in his ear.

Niklaus awakens suddenly, his eyes snapping open, the image of fire and pale skin wrapped in blood dancing on the ceiling above his head.

Shit, he thinks as he attempts to loosen his muscles, they're back.

"Klaus," the voice says again, frightened.

He jerks his eyes to the side slowly. Caroline's warm, worried face meets his gaze. Her forehead is crinkled with tension, eyebrows sewn together above her delicate nose.

Looking away, because he will never be able to describe the pain that entangles his bones when he looks at her—when she looks at him like that—Niklaus shifts on the couch. He resumes his sitting position and notices the television is still alive with power, the picture of a young Professor X holding his useless legs, his body laid on a beach, suspended in time on the screen.

He swipes his forehead with the back of his hand. Sweat gathers on his knuckles and he holds in an angry groan.

He had been doing so well.

"How long was I out?" he asks, his voice gruff.

He dares not look at Caroline's concerned face. It will forever be the undoing of him.

"Almost half the movie," she says meekly, and the noise terrifies him. She cares too much for him. "I was going to let you sleep for a bit longer, maybe drag you up to your room after the movie ended, but then you started to . . . to shake." She says the last words softly, almost so quiet he can't hear them.

"I was shaking?" he says, though he doesn't know why. He is aware of how those nightmares—those memories—affect his body.

"Yes," she says, and he can tell there is more.

"What else did I do?" he asks.

He is unsure if he wants to know. If he asks her not to tell him, Caroline is good enough—too good, really—that she will keep the answer to herself.

But he loves the sound of her voice, even when it speaks of his weaknesses and of his faults.

"You were talking too."

Shit. "What did I say?"

Caroline shifts away from him, and he cannot stop himself from reaching out to her. Thankfully, unlike in his nightmare, he can hold her in this world. His hand grasps her thin wrist, warm from the heated air blowing through the television room in the west wing of the Salvatore Boarding House. A shocked, breathy gasp falls from her lips and she turns to face him once more, eyes wide.

He knows he looks a mess. Bags, heavy and purple and bulging, sit beneath his eyes. His cheeks have hollowed out recently, and he hasn't shaved in nearly a week. His hair is too long. It shags and curls at odd places. Sticks up because he hasn't showered in days.

But Caroline's eyes are not wide because of his unkemptness. She has always been gentle with him. Kind to him, even when he does not deserve her kindness. She cares not for his face, but for that cavern behind his ribs. The dark place he swears no heart is.

Her eyes are wide because he is touching her.

He has not touched her like this in months. Has not held her in years. They are too old and changed for things like that now.

"You were saying my name," Caroline breathes, and he releases her arm, satisfied she will stay put and allow him to listen to her soothing voice.

He gulps, though he isn't the least bit surprised. He has been dreaming more and more about Caroline Forbes over the years. It was only a matter of time before she found her place in his nightmares as well.

The image of her from his nightmare—the younger version of her, the her she was when she rescued him from Tyler that day on the playground—paints itself behind his eyelids. She had looked so sorrowful in the demented, twisted world of his unconscious mind. So pained as she drifted away from him.

He contemplates momentarily if this is a sign. Her disappearance from his nightmare. If it is a sign she will leave him for real, and he will be helpless to stop it. To stop her. Just as he was while he slept.

"And you sounded . . . scared," Caroline continues.

He is so unused to the glaring waver in Caroline's voice. It sounds unsure. He wishes he could tell what she is thinking. He wonders if her mind has captured the story he once told her when they were young and tired and frightened of the night Mikael decided to play God, and is imagining her own scenario for his nightmare.

She terrifies him. The hold she has on him—it should not be there.

"I'm fine," he says unconvincingly.

But that reply is so natural to him. His parens are dead, his siblings lying six feet beneath the mud and grass beside them. People day in and day out ask him if he's okay, and every single time he has to say he is fine.

Does it matter if he is lying to Caroline? If he lies to everybody else?

Does it still count as a lie?

Caroline must sense that something is terribly wrong because she changes the subject. Asks him about the Decade Dance happening tomorrow after school. As strong as she is, she has always struggled to get him to talk when he wants nothing more than to keep quiet.

Perhaps when they were younger, and the troubles of their worlds were kept safe behind the closed door of Caroline's designated bedroom in the Boarding House (a room she spends less and less time in these days), he could speak to her. Confess to her all of the horrible things that happened to him before Mikael turned the steering wheel and destroyed Niklaus's already crumbling world. But they are not young anymore. They are old, and his tongue is made of lead.

"Are you taking anyone?" Caroline asks, referring to the dance.

Shaking his head, Niklaus reaches for the remote. "I don't think I'm going."

He has never gone to any of the silly dances held by the school. The simple idea of them reminds him how friendless and alone he truly is.

Niklaus does not dare glance at Caroline as he presses PLAY on the remote, as he is positive she will have an injured look on her beautiful face, and he cannot bear the weight of one of those looks. Sinking further into the cushions, he watches a steel-faced Magneto drive an invisible, metaphorical knife into Professor X's back.

Giuseppe is always telling him to turn on a light. He says the darkness will ruin Niklaus's eyes. But, if anything, the darkness saves him. And his eyes are already ruined, burned with images of his dying family.

He leaves the lights off—all of them. Niklaus walks to his open blinds. One of the maids must have spread them wide as she cleaned, battered them with an odd looking tennis racquet to rid them of the dust that had collected since she cleaned his bedroom last week. Reaching up, he grasps the thick fabric and tugs, banishing any light from the room.

A sliver of sunshine struggles to make its way through a thin crack in the curtains, throwing shadows on the walls in the shape of Tyler's face. Enraptured, Niklaus watches the raven-haired boy's fist as it connects with his stomach.

Angrily, Niklaus lifts his black shirt, revealing his pale stomach marred by the purple and blue and pink of Tyler's solid knuckles. Tyler is not smart, but he his clever. He never hits Niklaus where another will find the mark.

He sees the ropy scar splattered across his belly from the accident. He dares not touch it.

Ribs poke against his skin, but he has never minded being hungry. Too often he dispels the grumbling noises echoing through his insides with a gulp of spirits. It is a fine way to forget ones' emptiness, swallowing your fears and starvation. The bite of whiskey is pleasant now. Sugary.

Across the room, his cell phone vibrates. It illuminates the bleakness of his bedroom. He bets in this light he looks closer to a ghost than a human being.

He walks to his bed where the buzzing continues. Caroline's smiling face meets his eyes, her name flashing on the phone's screen. When was the last time she smiled at him like that?

Thankfully, she is only leaving text messages. He reads them, imagines her thumbs pushing down the keys as her brain hurries to find good things to say to him. Things that will make him feel special and wanted.

Thank you for an amazing afternoon.

We should do that more often.

Come to Bonnie's place! The twins are here. Damon's asking about you…

Please?

I miss you.

She says those things. And those things break whatever is left of his heart.

He does not believe her, that she misses him and wishes for him to exit the Boarding House and go to Bonnie Bennett's home. As he reminds himself every single day, they are not children anymore. They do not swing on the playground. Caroline no longer spends nights in this castle. She is not there when Tyler buries his fists in Niklaus' flesh.

He does not wait for her to rescue him.

There is this thing pulling them apart. Their connection thins more and more each day. He is severing his ties to her, stretching them as far as they will go before they snap.

He is testing her, willing her to leave him. Begging her to stay.

He will be graduating soon. One-and-a-half more years of Mystic Falls and then he will be free to escape this small town. Its citizens still view him as an alien. He hears constant talk of the Salvatore's adopted son, the boy who lives in his bedroom and never graces the outdoors. The rebellious child found with glass bottles smashed across his wooden floors, amber liquid dripping from the shards. Blood falling from his feet and hands.

Rebel. Just another word for mutant.

Caroline will still be in this town when he leaves. Going to class and learning and living, something he has always wished he was capable of.

Niklaus does not reply to Caroline's messages. Instead, he goes to his easel and screws in place a blank canvas. He grabs his paints and brushes. Squeezes the bottles of acrylics onto a sheet.

He doesn't ask for much. Nothing at all, really. There have been Christmases and birthdays and random celebrations, but Niklaus, when the Salvatore's ask him what he desires most, can never think of a proper answer. Maybe it is because in his previous life—because this life is so very different from that one—gifts were rare.

And he cannot ask for the thing he most desires. It cannot be given to him, no matter how badly he craves it.

So, he says he wants paints. And brushes. And canvases in every available size. This way, with these things at his side, he can pretend he has acquired what his soul thirsts for. Because he can paint it, and it can remain by his side for all time.

Over the years, Niklaus has gotten used to seeing in the dark. His eyes are adjusted already to the dimness, and he sets to work mixing the colours together. Different shades of yellows and pinks and blues are lathered on his sheet. These are the colours he mixes the most. The ones his hand knows to create without needing to be told.

Niklaus looks toward the large closet in his large bedroom. Hidden behind its door is portrait upon portrait of Caroline Forbes.

A gurgle of longing rises in his throat.

And he hates it. He hates it. This pull he has to the girl who saved his life five years ago. He has watched her grow up, watched her steadily become a woman. Just as she has witnessed him fall apart, he has witnessed her come together. No longer is she the up-and-down child he once knew. Today, she has a wave to her hips, and her chest is something he struggles to look away from when they are in the same room.

He is not the only one who has noticed Caroline's fullness. Stefan has switched from attempting to drag Elena's affections from Damon to spending as much time with Caroline as possible. Niklaus was lucky this afternoon to not have the hazel-eyed Salvatore panting in Caroline's face.

Tyler is the worst admirer. The boy taunts Caroline with foul, teasing words and stares so riddled with hormonal lust Niklaus feels disgusting and grimy whenever he catches Tyler's beady eyes on his friend's small frame. He comes home after those days and scrubs himself clean in the shower, staying beneath the spray until the water runs cold and the bruises left by Tyler's rough strikes go numb, and the image of Caroline smiling back at his tormentor fades into a nightmare.

Annie, Tyler sneers.

Annie, Annie, Annie. Little orphan Annie with no Mommy and no Daddy, Tyler jeers, cornering Niklaus against the lockers. There is no escape from Tyler. His followers stand back, ready to strike should Niklaus attempt to flee.

Do you know what, Annie? Tyler says. He pokes Niklaus through his clothes, hitting a fresh bruise. Niklaus shuts his eyes and stops breathing.

Do you know what I said to your little girlfriend today, Annie? Tyler says. He pokes Niklaus again, again, again until Niklaus cannot help but whimper in pain.

Tyler only laughs and says, I said she looked beautiful. Don't you think she looked beautiful, Annie? He pokes Niklaus again. Niklaus can feel the capillaries bursting beneath his skin.

I said, Annie, I said to her that I thought she looked stunning, Tyler laughs. He cackles. The noise breaks Niklaus's ears.

And do you know what she did, Annie? Huh? Tyler says. Niklaus does not answer. Tyler pushes his closed fist into the boy's stomach, pressing hard. And there is blood in his mouth. Niklaus can taste pennies sliding down his throat. One after the other.

She giggled. Fucking giggled. Isn't that right boys? Tyler asks his audience. They clap and whoop, but Niklaus cannot see them. His eyes are shut. His eyelids are splitting. Salty water is building.

I'm gonna take her from you, Annie, Tyler spits.

Tyler says, She's going to be mine.

Niklaus blinks at the canvas in front of him. He can still feel the cold metal of the lockers against his back. Tyler's knuckles splintering his veins.

This happens daily.

Every day, Tyler shoves him against school lockers when nobody is around and updates Niklaus on his progress. Informs Niklaus just how close he is to getting Caroline.

He never fights back. Each time his hand tingles and his arm pulls back, he remembers Caroline's ten-year-old face and the tingling immediately stops. He stays against the lockers, lets Tyler jab his already-bruised, broken, bleeding stomach. Listens to Tyler tell his stories. Pretends they are not about Caroline. Prays he can protect his friend—his best friend, with blue eyes and red lips and breasts that look as though they could fit perfectly in his hands—from the monstrous creature that is Tyler Lockwood.

He does these things and he comes home, filled with sickening anger. He punches his pillows, wishing they were the wall. Tyler's face. Damon's face.

He grabs bottles of clear liquid, of whiskey. Suckles the alcohol like a child would suckle milk from its mother. And then he sleeps, and then it starts over.

Over and over and over.

Sometimes he goes into the woods with Damon. With Hayley. He drinks, willing his mind to go blank.

There are currently three full containers of alcohol stashed in his bedroom.

There are bits of broken glass poking through his sock, holding the blood in his feet. When he takes a pair of tweezers and pulls the shards out, sticky, hot liquid will gush from his toes and his heels. Blood will dribble to the floor.

There is one bottle of cleaner underneath his bed along with rolls of paper towels. Once the blood soaks the floor, he will stand and begin to scrub the wooden boards. Then he will find antibiotic cream and coat his feet. Wrap them tight in bandages. Cut off the circulation.

Niklaus slaps himself harshly across the face, bringing himself into the present. With a ringing hand, he reaches to his side and picks up a soft-bristled paintbrush.

He decides not to sketch an outline of his intended picture. He will let his hand decide what to paint.

Niklaus dips the brush into a glob of mixed colours. He blindly strokes the canvass, his right hand twitching in pain. It is cold in this room and the cold upsets his bones and his muscles, because once upon a time his father tried to kill him and he did not succeed. And now Niklaus's hand hurts when it gets cold.

Finishing the painting, Niklaus sees Caroline's face sparkling in the small amount of light in the room. She is pale in his portrait. Her lips blush deep red and her eyelashes are black. She looks like the figure in his nightmare.

It is a sign.

She is going to leave him.

They say that if you consume enough of something, your body starts to build up a tolerance toward it. Take food, for example. Eat enough, your stomach expands. This nifty trick allows you to fill your body with more and more junk. And you just keep on getting fatter and fatter and fatter.

It is the same with alcohol. Drink enough and your body starts to accept it. Expect it. Your tolerance grows and grows until you barely feel a buzz no matter the amount you ingest.

Niklaus has been consuming alcohol of all sorts for two years. He never paces himself. He drinks so much his throat bleeds, as if he's been gradually stripping the flesh behind his tongue and teeth. There is the permanent taste of iron and copper on his tongue.

He is killing himself. Slowly. He knows this, but he does not stop. He doesn't want to stop, because being sober means drowning in his sorrows. And he is tired of thrashing around in that ocean. He would much rather drown in a bottle.

The trees are changing. He notices this as he travels through the wooded area near the Salvatore's. Tiny leaves sprout on branches, giving the woods a strange green glow as the sun shines directly through the trees' limbs.

He would say it looks beautiful—and it probably does—but his mind is already wasted, and he has seen true beauty no wood could ever match. And besides, these woods lie. He knows of their deception. Their hidden secrets, the ones only he and Hayley and Damon know.

In his head, he imagines Caroline walking with him through these woods. Perhaps with her hand decorating his. He pretends she is not with Bonnie and Stefan and maybe even Tyler, but with him. Here. Right now.

He wants her to pull him back to the Boarding House. Forbid him from ever entering these grounds again.

But she isn't here, and as he comes across his regular stopping place, where he swears the scent of alcohol dances beneath his nose, he truly believes she never will be.

"You're late," he drawls incomprehensibly. He has been alone in the woods for close to an hour. The bottles that once were full are now empty, and his head is filled with fog.

He has seen those movies where actors pretend to be wasted as they slosh around with bottles in their hands, but he never believed he would enter into that world. He always thought those scenes were lousy and fake. Nobody acts like that when they are drunk. But here he is, a bottle in his hand, and he can barely move his lips to conjure a sentence.

Caroline would murder him if she were here. If she caught sight of him like this.

No. No, she wouldn't.

She would take him by the hand and speak soothing, gentle words to him until she could sneak the alcohol away. She would delicately loop her warm, long fingers around his wrist and guide him back to the Boarding House. Tuck him under the covers, placing a bucket by his bed in case the urge to be sick overwhelms him.

She is too understanding and kind.

He hates it.

Hayley does not care if he's drunk. If anything, she prefers him when he's wasted.

Like now, she only smiles dangerously at him and reaches inside her backpack to procure a full bottle of vodka. "But I brought you a present," she says, stalking toward him. She wears a tight black shirt with no bra underneath and a leather skirt that looks too uncomfortable to walk in, and he cannot help his body's reaction to such a sight as he feels a dull excitement bubble in his lower belly.

Niklaus, who is slouching against a tree, sits up like a dog expecting a treat. "I already have many presents," he mumbles, blinking.

"Mmm," Hayley says, nodding her pretty head so her luscious dark hair falls around her pale face. Her eyes are coated in black liner, her lips are nearly purple. She is difficult for him to resist. "But that's the shitty stuff Damon took from that old couple staying in the Boarding House. This," she says as she crouches down in front of him. He can smell her perfume, see the wolf tattoo on her bare shoulder staring at him. "This is the good stuff."

His mind is fuzzy, as if moths are flying through his brain, but he sees the bottle in her hand. It looks expensive. He cannot begin to pronounce the name scrawled in fancy lettering down the side, and he does not believe he will be able to when the alcohol wears off either.

He reaches for the drink, but Hayley—cruel, evil Hayley—snaps her hand away. She throws the bottle next to her, and his eyes follow it sluggishly as it rolls further away from him. He is about to stand, to go grab it and consume it and let it numb him, but Hayley's fingers start dancing over his legs. The desire to drink until his mind goes blank subsides almost immediately.

Then she is leaning in, her face inching closer and closer until he can see the scar given to her by her father shining on her cheek in the sunlight. He reaches out to touch it, and then she is kissing him. Her lips are far from soft. Cracked and dry. She chews them when she's angry, and she is always angry.

Her chapped mouth burns his lips, but this is why he is here. For the pain.

They do not remove their clothes, they never do. Hayley tries tugging at his shirt, but he traps her wrists between one hand behind her back and kisses her roughly. All the times they have done this, has never let her get anywhere near his belly. She asks him about it sometimes—most times—when they clean up.

She says, Why won't you let me take your shirt off? Why can't I touch you?

He cannot find the words to tell her the truth. They stick to the roof of his mouth. They lodge in his throat and make it difficult for him to breathe. So he shakes his head, and that is always enough to shut her up.

Since they met, this has been their ritual. Meeting in the woods without Damon, sharing a bottle or two of whatever liquor they can find, and getting lost in one another. Caroline doesn't know about it. Damon pretends not to know.

Niklaus lets her consume him. Allows her access to this part of him, if only because he cannot give it someone else. This, fucking Hayley—because that is all he is doing with her, to her—it is a release for him. As disgusting as he feels afterward, when they're both sticky and panting and unable to look at each other, this is better than getting himself mixed up in drugs. Better than committing crime.

Sleeping with Hayley is safer, and for the few moments he is inside of the Wolf-Girl he can close his eyes and pretend the person beneath him isn't wearing revealing black clothes, but rather is doused in bright dresses that billow like the fluffiest types of clouds. He can erase the dark hair and replace it with golden waves. Exchange brown eyes with blue.

He is the worst kind of hypocrite. He can see what he is doing, understand how wrong and twisted it is, but he does not stop. Not even for Caroline's sake. Not even for his own.

An eerie silence chases after Niklaus as he wanders the empty halls of Mystic Falls High. School had been let out one hour ago, but he stuck around in the art room to finish a project. It is Friday, the night of the Decade Dance. Already he can hear music pumping in the hallway from the gymnasium as teenagers and adults alike prettified the ugly room. 1960s themed posters are plastered to the walls around him. Women show off their Mod clothes and haircuts. Men look bored with life.

"Annie!" someone cries, and Niklaus hates that he responds to the name. He turns automatically and watches Tyler stalking toward him, an evil sneer tearing his face apart.

"What do you want, Lockwood?" Niklaus does not have the patience for Tyler on a good day. Today is the definition of a bad day. He does not want more bruises to join his already purple and green stomach.

Tyler, his hair as black as his barren soul, reaches him and wastes no time in pushing Niklaus against the row of lockers behind him. Niklaus wants to groan. He wants to fight back. But he is weak. From lack of sleep and from alcohol depravation. So, he stays still as Tyler paces back and forth in front of him.

"Guess what, Annie," the boy taunts. He is alone today, no followers in sight. If anything, this makes him more dangerous. More evil and more sinister. "Guess what I fucking did, Annie."

Niklaus says nothing.

Tyler jabs his stomach, presses his knuckles deep into a new bruise. White flame flashes in Niklaus's vision. His body wants nothing more than to curl into itself and banish the pain that is shocking his system, but he stays standing. Stays upright despite the fire.

"Answer me, you fucking pathetic loser. Answer me, Annie," Tyler demands, shoving his bones further and further into Niklaus's dark purple stomach.

Unable to help himself, a small whimper lunges from his throat. It wraps itself around Tyler, making the raven-haired boy stronger.

Lockwood laughs, maniacal. "Does this hurt, Annie?" he asks, applying more pressure to Niklaus's belly. Niklaus wants to die. Tyler leans in closer. His breath twirls around Niklaus, making him cringe. "Can't you fucking speak, Annie?"

The pain clears a little, transforming into a dull ache. Tyler backs away.

"I want you to be conscious for this announcement, Annie," he explains. "I want you to look at me when I tell you what I fucking did."

Fear for Caroline begins whirring in Niklaus's mind.

What did he do?

"I asked her, Annie," Tyler says, snickering. "Guess who I asked, Annie. Fucking guess."

Caroline.

Niklaus says nothing. He cannot move his mouth.

"Fine," Tyler says after a few moments. "I asked Caroline. Guess where. Fucking guess."

This time, Tyler doesn't even wait for Niklaus to think before he is saying, "The fucking dance. I am taking Caroline Forbes to the dance, Annie."

Niklaus does not know how he gets home. Does not remember slamming his fist into Tyler's nose before storming out of the school. The only evidence of the attack is the dried blood sticking to his bruised knuckles.

It aches, his hand. He runs upstairs to his bedroom, the world spinning in quick circles. He feels ill. He feels as though he is dying.

Entering the room, he notices immediately that the blinds are open again. Angrily, Niklaus shuts them. Darkness surrounds him at last. He can breathe in the dark, though blood rushes in his head making it difficult to form clear thoughts.

He is seething. He is in disbelief.

Caroline—his Caroline—and Tyler Lockwood?

The image of the two of them together burns a hole straight through his throbbing brain. She is too young for him. Too good for him. She is an angel, and Tyler . . . Tyler is one of Satan's henchmen. He will corrupt the golden girl, tear her from her pedestal.

Niklaus has been Lockwood's punching bag for years. Though Caroline has never seen the marks, she knows of the torture inflicted upon him at the hand of the mayor's son. Knows of the mental scars he has placed on Niklaus.

The world is a cruel, cold place. Niklaus knows this. He has lived in its brutality all of his life, barely survived when it decided to throw him through its devastating hoop. But this is a different kind of cruelty. This is unknown to him before.

Niklaus has suffered. He has seen the monsters under the bed, the ones that hide in the closet, that the other children only imagine exist. He has been touched by those demons. And yet it is now, with Tyler's words rotating around and around in his head, that he feels the most cheated.

He is a horrible human being. His family is dead, stripped from him by his evil father, and the news of Caroline accepting Tyler's invitation to the school's stupid dance is what gets him the most riled up.

He does not deserve to live.

But it makes sense, he reasons. Perhaps. Caroline—sweet, gentle Caroline—is his guardian angel. She has protected him for years. Held him when the pain became too much for his tiny, weak shoulders to bear. And now she is abandoning him. For that dog. She may not know of his blackened stomach at the hands of Tyler, but she knows how many times Niklaus has been the butt of his terrible jokes.

Without Tyler and without Tyler's childish insults he and Caroline may never have even known one another. The twins would never have thought to put them together. He would never have been brave enough to approach the pretty girl in the playground with the strange name. Does she not see that?

Niklaus cannot breathe. His throat tightens, his breaths stagger. Sweat pools beneath his arms, behind his shirt. His face glows. He falls to the ground.

Why is she doing this to him?

When the panic attack leaves him minutes later he is in disarray. His hair is puled in all directions and he is drenched in sweat.

He needs to see her. To confront her. Niklaus picks himself off of the floor and charges out of the house in the direction of Caroline's home.

Caroline's mouth falls open the second she opens her front door. The tube of makeup in her hand clatters to the ground. She is wearing a vintage pink dress that cuts off right before her knees. It looks like it belongs on a baby doll, but she manages to look stunning nonetheless.

"Klaus," she gasps, face contorting in concern. "What happened?" She moves out of the house toward him, but he steps back. He cannot not stand her touching him now.

Caroline stops, a flicker of hurt flashing in her eyes.

He does not have the time to feel guilty.

"You're going to the dance with Tyler?" he rasps, barely able to get the words out of his mouth.

She is silent.

"You are," he accuses. "I know you are. He . . . he told me."

"Klaus," she whispers. Her voice is so soft and pillowy that he wants to fall in her arms and sleep for the rest of time.

But he cannot do that. He is angry with her.

"Why?" he chokes, knowing full well how much of a lunatic he looks and sounds. "Why are you going with him?"

Caroline sighs, but not in annoyance. She sighs because she cannot find the right words. "Because," she says eventually. "Because he asked me."

Niklaus wants to laugh. "Did no one else?"

Sudden anger flashes across Caroline's pretty face. "No," she bites, "Klaus, no one else did."

"But . . ." Niklaus struggles himself to not say the wrong thing. "He hates me. He's using you to get to me."

"He doesn't hate you. And no, Klaus, he is not using me to get to you," she says to him, and he cannot believe what she is saying. "He's an insecure boy. And besides, I'm always up for giving people a second chance. Just because he's been a bit mean to you in the past, doesn't mean I need to hold it over his head for the rest of his life."

What lies has the Lockwood boy been feeding her when his back is turned?

Niklaus can feel another attack coming on. It is creeping up his spine like a spider.

"Klaus, you really don't look so good," Caroline observes, taking another step in his direction. "What happened to your hand?"

"No," he says. He holds his hand out to stop her, but drops it when he realises that it is now swollen. Thankfully, she gets the message and walks backward so her feet land on the WELCOME mat outside her doorstep. "I have to go."

He turns on his heel and heads back down the Forbes' porch steps. Caroline is calling his name, but rain has started to fall over the town and for all he knows it could have been the wind.

Hayley's high heels clomp behind him atop the school's floor, aggravating the throbbing in his head. He told her not to wear them, but of course she did not listen to him. He pulls her harshly behind him until they reach the long line outside of the gymnasium.

"I don't know why we're at this stupid thing," Hayley spits in his ear.

Niklaus turns his head sharply and shoots her a devilish look. He is no mood for her whines tonight. "I told you," he says, "I wanted to take you out somewhere nice."

She scoffs, her head falling back. Her wet hair slaps against her bare shoulder blades. Niklaus takes a moment to look at her and notices she is violating probably the entirety of the school's dress code. "You wanted to take me somewhere nice? This is not nice. This is torture."

"Then why the hell did you agree to come with me?" he slurs, reaching in his jacket pocket to produce a small flask filled to the brim with some amber liquid. Tipping the metal container, he fills his mouth, a slow, welcoming burn following.

"I thought we could have some fun," Hayley says suggestively, her free hand trailing up his neck and into his hair.

He shivers involuntarily. "I'm not here for fun," he says. Returning the flask to his pocket, Niklaus turns around and starts dragging Hayley down the hallway. "Come on, this line's too long."

"Where are we going?"

"The back way."

Outside the school, Niklaus finds the entrance to the boy's locker room. His breath comes out like smoke. The air is still full of a drizzling rain.

"Niklaus, it's freezing," Hayley complains.

"Then you should've worn some actual clothes." Niklaus extracts a single key from his back pocket, thankful for once that Damon is such a good thief. Ignoring Hayley's further protests, he jabs the key in its respective lock and pushes the door open.

As soon as they are inside the boy's locker room a low thump from the music can be heard. It vibrates the walls. Forces Niklaus's jaw to jump and chatter. For a dance supposedly set in the 60's, Niklaus could pick out Britney Spears blasting through the speakers.

"Come on," he says, grabbing ahold of Hayley's hand once more and walking them into the gymnasium.

He has to give the party planning committee credit, they know how to decorate. He feels, for a tiny moment, as if he has entered into an Audrey Hepburn film. But he is not here to admire the decorations. He is not here to dance with Hayley. He is not even here to get wasted.

He is here for her.

And he spots her, golden hair tied in a long braid that hangs over her shoulder. White tights stretch against her thin legs. Tyler's greasy hands encircle her tiny waist.

Blood runs down his eyes. Before he knows what is happening, his feet are charging through sweating bodies. His hands are shoving gyrating teenagers out of the way. Breathing heavily, like an enraged bull ready for the takedown, Niklaus finds himself in front of Caroline the Lockwood boy. The pair cease their silly dancing and stare at the buzzed young man, whose hair is coiled out of place and whose eyes are sliced with tiredness.

"Klaus, what are you"—Caroline begins to say, face so contorted in confusion.

But Niklaus does not want to hear the rest of her question. He wants to hit something. Looking down at Tyler, he notices the remnants of dried blood clinging to the raven-haired boy's nostrils. Blue and black marks are beginning to form beneath both of his eyes. Niklaus feels a rush of satisfaction run through his veins. Pulling his arm back, Niklaus throws all of the would-be consequences out of his head and rams his swollen fist—hard and fast—into Tyler's belly.

Caroline screams. Or maybe it isn't her. Maybe it is Hayley, or some teacher. Tyler, on the other hand, can make no noise. His face scrunches, pain lacing its way through his features. He falls forward, onto his knees, completely trapped by the force of the punch. The brute is on his feet quick though, pushing Caroline out of the way as she tries to help him.

"You fucking bitch, Annie!" Tyler shouts, lunging for Niklaus.

Niklaus stumbles back, but he is not fast enough, and soon he is the one falling to the floor. Tyler, who is used to these sorts of activities, does not hesitate to knock Niklaus again. His fist connects with the bastard's head, throwing Niklaus completely to the gymnasium floor.

Another scream.

It is definitely Caroline.

"ENOUGH!" someone shouts over the music just as hands are gathering Niklaus up. They pull him to his feet and hold his arms behind his back. His entire body is pulsing. With anger and adrenaline and agony.

Mr. Weber is before him and Tyler, who himself is being restrained by Coach Lymen. "You two." He points to Niklaus and Tyler. "My office. Everybody else get on with the dance!"

Nobody moves. They all stare at the bloodied young men.

Mr. Weber grunts, leading the way through the horde of students gathering to watch the juvenile delinquents as they are dragged into the warden's office.

Niklaus allows whichever teacher it is entrapping him to shove him forward, but his eyes catch Caroline's on his way out.

She looks disappointed. Disgusted. She looks as though she pities him.

Dropping his head, Niklaus watches blood drain from his busted lip and land on the scuffed wood below. His mind is blank. He feels no pain. He feels nothing.

He has done it. He has finally pushed her too far.

Tomorrow she will pretend she does not know him, and their history together will become nothing more than a mistake in her eyes. It will not have happened.

That is the trouble with making friends when you are young. Eventually you have to grow up. Eventually you change. Eventually you turn into someone new. Someone different, someone unrecognisable. And nobody knows when they are children that monsters are not born. It is only when they are older that they discover monsters are created.