She can't remember the last time she slept soundly through the night. Sometimes it's a noise. Sometimes it's a nightmare. Sometimes it's nothing identifiable. Tonight it's the latter.
For some time, she lies awake, staring into the black volume of the unlit, windowless room.
And then she hears it. It's quiet at first, barely audible. A sort of stuttering murmur...
Just as she begins tiptoeing to the door, grappling with curiosity and concern, the sound changes, revealing its identity.
Laughter.
She finds him in front of the television.
"V, what on earth..."
"No one expects the Spanish Inquisition!"
She giggles.
II. Fear
Fear is the one thing they did not try to take from him and the one thing he gave up willingly.
He has spent the past twenty years not merely tempting fate, but brazenly seducing it; not simply knocking on Death's door, but kicking it in.
Now he gazes into brown eyes once clouded with fear, now clear, strong. His creation. His companion. His love.
She is leaving, taking flight on newly formed wings.
"If I had one wish, it would be to see you again, if only once, before the fifth."
His heart pounds. He trembles.
He is afraid.
III. Anger
He'd decided to start with the guards. The first four had been nameless faces. Their deaths had come swiftly, at the point of a knife.
For the fifth, he'd made a bit of an exception to the order. It was only appropriate.
He entered the small, spartan flat through the bedroom window and found his target in the front room, gazing out the window, glass of red wine in hand. The perfect opportunity. Swift and simple. Cold and merciless. Justice.
Rage.
Drowning. Begging. Burning. Sobbing.
Slicing. Stabbing. Tearing. Rending.
Disemboweling. Dismembering.
It was the last time he fully expressed himself.
IV. Awe
He smiled slightly as he thought what an odd image he must have presented--sitting on the floor in the back room of the abandoned movie theatre, an old kerosene lantern lighting the room as he sorted through a dusty stack of posters.
"Well now... That's appropriate," he said with a somewhat self-deprecating chuckle as he added Son of Frankenstein to the already large and ever expanding stack of "keepers."
Several posters later he found himself staring, awestricken at a name--a name he knew well.
Valerie Paige.
He wept, painfully; laughed, joyously. For now, at last, his savior had a face.
V. Tenderness
He often hears her. Murmurs and moans. Stifled screams. Choking gasps and sobs. And he wonders if her nightmares bare any resemblance to his.
His book is cast aside, and before he fully realizes where his feet are carrying him, he is standing outside her door, heart aching at the anguished sounds of uneasy rest.
He wants nothing more than to fling open the door and wake her from her torment--to hold her close and whisper sweet assurance. To offer her the comfort he has never received.
Masked face in gloved hands.
A voice scoffs. "Comforted by the Devil? Ridiculous."
VI. Shame
Like fear, he did away with useless emotions such as shame, guilt, and regret long ago. He does precisely what is necessary, regardless of the consequences or conventional morality.
So it is with Evey. Most would consider his actions immoral--she certainly will--but in his mind, it would be far worse to allow her to remain forever shackled by fear.
He goes about his task diligently, fervently, striving for the utmost realism.
And all the while, a small, terrible voice whispers in his ear, "You are enjoying this, aren't you?"
And there lies the true ignominy of the situation.
He is.
VII. Obsession
There are four hundred ninety-one entries for the letter "V" in the 1951 edition of the Merriam-Webster Pocket Dictionary--from "vacancy" to "vying." He knows them all by heart.
He sometimes recites them, almost like a mantra. At this very moment, for instance, as he is putting away the laundry.
He drops the towels he had been putting away--all five of them--and spins to find a madly giggling Evey looking very pleased with herself.
This fic was originally published in 2006 at fanfiction.net under my penname, Dead Poet. The fic belongs to ME and any unauthorized use and/or distribution shall earn you an unpleasant meeting with the Spoon of Doom. But seriously, if you want to do anything with it--archive it on your own site, whatever--just ask.
