TVD Imagines & One Shots

Safe With Me - Klaus

Plot requested by BBCfangirl04 💕

This one is really sad, so if you're having a hard time reading, please don't feel the need to continue!

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I never told anyone about what happened behind closed doors. The screaming, the pain, the fear. For awhile, I didn't think anything of it. I just assumed it was the effect of the alcohol. But every day that passed, my father would come home, drunk off his rocker, and take out his anger on me. In the morning, he would be gone, putting his everything into work, and leaving me alone.

About a two years ago, my mother passed away from lung cancer. The doctors had found it during the start of the second stage, where there was just enough time to catch, where there was just enough time for her to be cured. Making the decision to start chemotherapy wasn't the problem though. It was the money. My father barely made enough to pay our rent and put a meal on the table, let alone pay for cancer treatment. The fact that he couldn't stand letting my mother die sent him into worker mode. He urged me to get a job, the both of us working full time to raise enough money to pay for the chemo. As for me, I still had to manage school and figuring out how to keep up my grades enough to graduate in the spring. My senior year of high school was spent working and worrying over my mom. I barely left the house, only to go to the hospital or work, and I never attended any school activities. I lost most of my friends, who were all too selfish to understand my absence, and I became alone. In the weeks before my mother passed, she became very sick. My father and I knew that the longer it took for us to get the money, the faster she would die. As she became closer and closer to stage three, my father became frantic, making me focus entirely on work. I made sure to fit in school on my breaks, not even worrying about my own health. I became sickly myself. A week before my mother passed, she began to drain. Her face was sunken in, her skin a ghostly white, and every few hours the nurses would catch her in a coughing fit and would have to suck out the liquid that settled in her lungs. Knowing her time was limited, I took the next few days off from school. I spent every waking moment with her at the hospital and my father would bounce back and forth between us and work. My mother's state worsened. I didn't eat. I didn't sleep. All I could think about was how much I wanted to be there for her up until the time that she passed. I wanted to always be there beside her. I wanted her to know that I, her only child, loved her as deeply as she loved me. Two days later, she passed away in her sleep. I had been in the chair next to the hospital bed, holding her hand when the machine went off, indicating her passing. I cried for hours, not having enough strength to leave the bed or even let go of her hand. When my father arrived from work a few hours later, he was devastated. The two of us said our goodbyes and headed home.

That night, my father went out for a drink, probably hoping to drown his sorrows in alcohol. He became depressed, and focused only on work, not wanting to have to worry about money ever again. A few weeks later, I graduated high school, attending the ceremony alone. I was utterly by myself, and I could not wait to leave that campus forever. My father continued to work, drink, come home, sleep, then head out to work again. It was his daily routine. After working endless hours, he eventually got promoted, the company he worked for requiring him to move to Louisiana, which my father so happily obliged given that everything in Illinois reminded him of my mother. Once we settled into our new house in New Orleans, nothing really changed. I stayed home, cleaning and doing chores while my father stuck to his routine of work and going out for a drink. However, after awhile, his behavior changed. My father began to beat me, his voice enraged and his eyes seeming mad. He would constantly tell me that I was at fault for the death of my mother, that because I took those last days off of work, I was the reason she couldn't get chemo. He would tell me, "if only you had worked your pathetic ass off, then maybe she'd still be here." I was hurt, of course, and soon enough, I began to believe him.