Written for the Fireplace Writing Challenge. Clichéd trends.
Last Will
The dark did not suppress my pain as I lay wrestling with it, although the blackness does provide a certain calming effect for me. There is another kind of darkness, peculiar and so alluring that if forced to explain it, I would be compelled to admit how much I missed being there. And now, here I am in the Gallery, alive once more, waiting in this fraudulent gloom without the hope of an anesthetic to ease my suffering.
The bedchamber that held me remained silent, except for the phantom shots from Creedy's revolver that still resounded in my head. They plagued me as much as the memory of hatred that lingered behind them. A groan escaped my lips. I didn't hear it, but I knew I yelled out, as footsteps answered immediately thereafter. The door creaked open and light bent into the room. I closed my sensitive eyes, but in the small amount of time I did see light, I realized my vision was no longer in color.
The air moved beside my bed and her concern filled the room like a soft blanket. The faint sound of her breaths now mere inches away, still captivated me. I could smell her every emotion; near death could not subdue my acute senses. Even with the intensity of pain that wracked my body with a force strong enough to split me into shreds, I thought of her-- no, I longed for her, and bled heavier when she came closer.
"V?" Evey's voice trembled.
Her fear of death left a delectably sweet flavor on my tongue. I licked my dry lips.
"Are you awake?"
How could she ask? Didn't she know?
"V?"
What a fool I am! She left the mask on my face, choosing my dignity over her curiosity because she knew I wished it so, yet I desperately wanted her to see. My mouth opened, but alas, I couldn't speak--the pain swelled in my chest with the thought of expressing words. Each inhalation was agony.
She lifted my gloved hand to her face and then moved closer to the façade that represented me.
"Why didn't you let me die?" I choked out between each torturous breath and tuned to look at her fearful expression.
"I wasn't ready to let you go," she admitted. The light angled into her brown eyes and changed them to translucent amber. Amazed, I watched as liquid filled them.
"Parliament?"
"Destroyed.
She sneezed and wiped under her nose with her sleeve.
Relieved, I calmed and turned away. I knew she would do it. I never doubted her ability, and yet her pleading words at the entrance to the tunnel,along with my final decision tormented me. "V you don't have to do this, we can run away together." Yes, this is what sparked revival, the chance, the idea of her. I looked to her gaze again and knew it was true, but I also knew that my body could no longer sustain life, and my foolish hope had only postponed death.
"You're not going to die, V." She said this with assurance and somehow she read my mind. Did she condescend? She was so difficult to read at times.
"Finch brought a doctor here to examine you. The bullets didn't damage any vital organs, and the ones that did penetrate, went clean through. The bleeding has subsided a lot. You should be walking around within a few days."
How could this be? The possibility of life seemed unfathomable; after all, I did touch death. Nevertheless, and I can still breathe and I am no specter or spirit.
"Your wounds are not that serious." I felt her words were a lie as I kept my silence, and then suddenly my head flooded with understanding. She meant to make my final moments here bearable with the hope of life and a future. Poor Evey! So much stronger than I had ever dreamed, considering my needs before her own. I pulled her hand and she leaned in closer.
"Norsefire?" I whispered.
"Overrun V." She withdrew. "Every time I see you, you're asking about Norsefire or Parliament! Damn your narcissism! Is that all you bloody care about?"
"I--
"Never mind. Don't answer that." Her words were marred with frustration. Evey straightened and fidgeted with her dress. "I'm attempting to cook some dinner for you. I know how much that frightens you, but you'd better have at it. You need to build your strength." She turned to leave.
"Evey?"
She stopped and waited. "Yes, V." With arms folded and her head tilted, her body language screamed intolerance.
"Can I ask you for something?" I hesitated, but continued, "If I had one wish--
"Don't get all dramatic on me V. Say what you've got to say. I've got bean soup boiling in the kitchen."
"How could you be so insensitive?" I was not dealing with Nightingale, of that I was now certain.
"V, I've been listening to your excessive complaining, your nitpicking, and your dying for three weeks now. You're not dying! Did you hear me? You're not dying and I…I'm tired."
Stunned, I paused unable to speak. It wasn't the pain anymore, that had subsided considerably. It was the notion that despite Death's summons, she sought to persecute me more with her optimism and futile dreams of the future. This doctor, whoever he was, would pay for his misleading information with the worst vendetta I could create.
I cleared my throat while she waited for my request.
"Would you be so kind as to find me a writing implement and some fine paper?" I changed the subject and then attempted to sit up. As I shifted to a more comfortable position, she adjusted my pillow and straightened my comforter. She passed in front of me, and at this close proximity, I could smell the strawberry fragrance in her hair, which meant she had indulged in my fine soaps again. I struggled to contain my anger.
"There's still a wrinkle in the blanket at my feet, could you fix that for me?"
She glared in my direction before complying.
"Thank you," I said.
"What do you need it for?"
"Hmm?"
"What do you need the paper for?"
"Oh that, yes. I, um, I have some unfinished business that I need to attend to."
I couldn't tell her that it was for my dying Will, my written request that everything that I owned would now belong to her; the Gallery, its sculptures and paintings, the Wurlitzer, and of course the floral apron that I knew she secretly fancied.
"Is this more of your vendetta, V?"
"It is." I spoke with the most fiendish voice possible; after all, fear can be a powerful motivator. The proof surfaced in her stance as she took a step back in horror.
Evey slapped her hands at her sides and about faced, mumbling something about nothing better to do. She then stormed out of the bedroom.
No matter, I would not be thwarted. I didn't have very long and it just couldn't wait. I would pen my last wishes and then subject myself to an unbearably inedible last supper.
While I waited, I tapped my gloved fingers (she was taking too long).
"Evey?" I re-straightened the bedspread and wiped some lint off my tunic.
No answer.
"Eve—
"Alright! I'm here!" She appeared in the doorway and hurled the pen and paper at me.
I remained aghast staring at it, the color in my vision returned most vividly. A loud gasp escaped my throat. She must have realized something was amiss.
"What is it?"
"Well, I--"
"What?" She demanded. By the loud bark in her tone, I deduced her patience had faded.
"Why, the paper of course."
"What? What about it?" She edged to the side of the bed and her shadow loomed over me. I tried to ignore the dread that now bubbled in my stomach. Do I dare tell her?
She let out a long stream of air, it was then I heard her heel tapping on the floor. I didn't look up at her-- couldn't.
"What's wrong with it?"
"Nothing," I said, "I wouldn't have minded if I intended using it for a grocery list, or something of that ilk, but this…this is just unacceptable." I tossed the small stack and it spilled to the floor. I couldn't use this tasteless trash for my dying words.
"It's expensive fine quality paper!" She argued and stooped to pick up the pages.
"Yes, but why in the world did you make it pink?"