I started writing this at one-thirty and it is now 2:55. IN THE MORNING. Sorry about this, but my mind takes me to strange destinations when I'm not tired, so I thought I'd put off homework and ... you know, sleep, and inflict it on you lot. Tee hee, enjoy!
Wicked
It hurt.
The disappointment was almost like a physical ache, radiating throughout his whole body, rendering any other feeling incapable of measuring up. All he felt—all he was—was that frustration.
He had been so bloody close. So close that he could see the delicate pattern of blue veins under the thick ruddy skin of the judge's neck, just begging to be slit. For a moment, he had felt something other than the numbness he had endured for fifteen years. He was excited, anxious, almost joyful. He was alive.
Then the sailor boy—damn him, damn him, damn him—burst in and destroyed everything. For a moment, he had held the most precious thing in the world, only for it to be snatched away, shattered by an idiot boy. Watching his prey storm out, escaping a fate he was not even aware of, was like watching a butterfly be crushed by a child's clumsy hands.
Far away, an unfamiliar voice hissed at Anthony and despite himself, he winced. He didn't want to talk, yet he could not make sense of what he did want; a pathetically vulnerable part of him wanted to curl up and wait, like his doe-eyed landlady suggested, for this inexplicable agony to end—for a second chance. Another wanted to race from the room, down the stairs, and grab the judge like a lion catching a deer, before ripping into him not unlike a lion catching a deer. This part wanted to hold his silver friend up in the weak sunlight, admire its menacing gleam as it tore the judge's neck wide open for the world to see. This part wanted to see the filth of London, splattered with treasured rubies and exposed as what they really were.
No part of him, he noted, wished to deal with irritating sailors.
Once again, that strange voice sounded, but this time it was a coherent phrase … no, a shout. A scream that almost echoed throughout the tiny room and so brilliantly mimicked the cry of his own anger, the desperation he had kept hidden in the deepest recesses of a heart he assumed long since dead. "OUUUUT!"
The boy rushed from the room like a bolt of lightning, only to be replaced by that of Mrs. Lovett. Oh, what was the difference? Were not all people essentially the same? Did they not all suffer, and inflict sufferance upon others? Only his girls were any different—his Lucy, Johanna, the only people who had brought any semblance of happiness or hope into his worthless life. But even they, if indirectly, forced him into some torture.
His baby girl, his daughter, who was raised by a monster, stranded in a monstrous world of which he was not a part would put all her trust and future in a stranger because he offered some form of salvation from her life of horrors—knowing that he had not been there for her, nor saved her from the nightmares as a father should, sliced the innermost parts of him like a blade even more daunting and sharp than his silver beauties. And Lucy—oh. His beautiful wife, so desperate and scared, that she could not hold onto even some hope that he may someday return? Was she so dependent on his presence that she could not stay strong even for Johanna, the proof of their shared intimacy and love? No, of course she couldn't. The judge, with his evil frauds and deception, had ripped her of her dignity and sweet innocence, and she had rid herself of all she felt she no longer deserved: her husband's love, her daughter, even life.
For fifteen years, he had dwelled in his cell, longing for the bravery to provoke the guards enough that they aimed their rifles and ended it—oh, it would be so quick, Ben, one quick bullet to the head and the pain will be over, your life blood will be like jewels, like rubies, and red is Lucy's favourite colour after all—but no. He had held onto hope, only for it to die when he discovered that his beloved wife had achieved what he so yearned for.
The need to avenge her death was all that anchored him to this sorry spit of land.
The phantom voice—for it could not be him, could it?—growled once again, and this time, he could make no sense of the words. Mrs. Lovett stared at him with almost fearful eyes (why, surely she knew she was the last person he would kill!) and suddenly he was at the window, overlooking the streets of the city. His city. But he was almost ashamed to call this hole, the place of his life and times. London was nothing more than a stony grey prison. The occupants were born into captivity, trapped by the iron grip of society, and the tangled web of rumours and trickery woven by the rich and powerful. No person in this city deserved happiness or love, luck or riches. They hardly deserved life.
"They all deserve to die."
Something clicked into place then—oh, how glaringly obvious it had always been, how blind he had been! His eyes flickered to the looking glass in the corner of the room. It had been shattered years ago, perhaps when the law had raided his home like he was some common criminal, but left to reflect on the darkening world, a last portal into happy times. His reflection was fragmented, distorted by the broken glass, yet it seemed almost accurate. Gazing back at him was a broken man.
Only a man who can accept his brokenness can fix a city which can't.
Yes, it was appallingly clear now. London was a wicked city, and Judge Turpin was a wicked man, but both masqueraded behind masks of honour and justice. Wicked people only destroyed the good, for their own purposes, and did not deserve anything they got. He, however, could help. Bad people did not deserve long lives; they needed to be dealt with quickly. After all, no one would miss them, or mourn them. It was as simple as that.
But what to do when the entire city was corrupt? Was he expected to rid the world of all of them?
That he did not know. But, staring back at the splintered reflection of a man once known as Benjamin Barker, he knew that the wicked had to be punished and no other man was willing to undertake this task. Finally, he had some life's purpose.
Unfortunately, Sweeney Todd would never achieve this purpose. In a matter of months, he will cradle the body of his dead wife, the screams of Eleanor Lovett still clouding his mind, and he will not have gained this aim. However, it will be Toby Ragg, crawling from the sewer, who will finally reach for the silver razor and slay the wickedest of them all.
It's strange. I actually love Sweeney and Nellie and can't understand Lucy's reasons for killing herself and just cannot stand Toby, but like I said: mind, weird places, bla bla bla. But I'm actually pretty happy with this. It may be a little scattered and confusing, but bear in mind that Sweeney isn't exactly sane. I hope you guys understand, so please let me know what you think! :)