Tears of Gold | Klaus Mikaelson (3)

To New Beginnings

Is that really all you have? My mind taunted me as I sprang my leg forward, sending the boxing bag no more than a foot or two. I felt anger budding in my gut as I placed my hand to my forehead, my once straight, tight pony tale now a mess on my head as the elastic slipped further and further down.

I took a deep breath, lowering my body into a defensive stance. My front knee was bent only slightly, my legs separated about as wide as my shoulders. I sat into the stance and took a moment to collect my strength. My eyes zeroed in on the bag. I reeled back my leg, before letting it spring back out onto the bag. A loud bomb echoed across the now emptied out St. Anne's church, which Marcel had counterfeited into a gym.

To my dismay, I still hadn't managed to do anything more than cause the bag to sway a few feet. I was irritated, yes, but not angry. I'd only ever been able to really hit the bag when I was angry.

My irritation was almost constant. Especially now that I didn't have anyone to really talk to anymore. The last few months had been painfully lonely, and each night alone in my apartment seemed to be more and more daunting.

I missed my work-out buddy. Ever since Klaus had forced Hayley back into her werewolf form, only changing back on full moons, I'd been doing all the things I used to love all alone. Rebekah had left too, off to find any way possible to save Kol. Davina had almost completely shut me out. She was disgusted by my hybrid nature, something that made me feel even worse about myself.

Elijah and Klaus were at odds. It made sense, for he'd taken away both of Elijah's estranged lovers. But that only made it worse. I wasn't close enough to Elijah to hang out one on one, and Freya was almost constantly busy. And with everyone but Klaus out of the picture, things had become increasingly worse. Klaus would come over ever so often to discuss whatever drama was going on in the compound. I'd listen, provide him intel, he'd ignore it. And it happened over and over.

My life had become conditioned and timely, something I'd grown to hate with a strong passion. The days passed slower and the nights crept by, each seeming lonelier than the last. With that, came strange bed fellow. Three-four times a week I'd wake up with a stranger in my bed. Somehow, though, that made waking up easier, along with going through the courses of the day.

I spent a large amount of my time at the gym. Mostly on my own. Occasionally with Marcel. I'd spend hour after hour going over any new fighting technique I'd learned of. Anything to keep my mind busy and my body healthy. That, and to keep at bay the hellish urge to tear into each and every person that walked by me.

I'd realized that, should my mind not be otherwise occupied, blood rushing through the bodies of the living seemed more and more haunting. So each day, I walked the streets timidly, keeping my eyes down and my hands crossed over my body as I rushed to the gym, hoping with all my might I wouldn't one day lose control.

I collapsed onto the worn bench that sat two or three meters away from the bag. I wiped my gloved hand across my forehead, which had collected beads of sweat throughout the course of my exercise. I sighed and glanced around the empty gym, resting my back against the cool, chain-link fence that surrounded the boxing ring. I closed my eyes as I felt my back cooling down, a small frown etched across my face.

___________

I was still in my workout clothes when I entered the emptied-out Rousseau's parking lot. My gym bag was wrapped around one of my shoulders as I opened the door, light flooding into the darkened street, and disappearing as I closed the door behind me.

My eyes widened as I studied my surroundings. Perched around almost every empty space in the room were magnificent paintings. Some were full with colors, others dull from age. Some of them depicted landscapes, whilst others held people, cultures, and objects drawn in awing detail. It was almost enchanting, the way the lights so perfectly encapsulated each and every painting. There had to be at least thirty of them.