Darkest Hour
By Flaming Trails
A Corpse Bride Fic
Disclaimer: I don't own Corpse Bride. If I did, we'd have a commentary track already!
Notes: This has been on my mind for a while now. It's pretty much the darkest moment in Victor's life. After waffling over it in headcanon memes and such, I've decided it's time to properly illustrate it.
Just do it.
The steel was cool against his throat. Victor stared into the washroom mirror, watching the way it shined in the flickering candlelight. The straight razor was strangely beautiful in the dark. Father kept it in excellent condition. "Got to keep it sharp, Victor! A dull blade just won't do for keeping your face clean!"
It was sharp. He could feel how sharp it was. Right now it was just a pinprick of pain, just the tiniest bite into his throat. But he could push it deeper. Oh yes, he could push it deeper. Deep enough to let the blood gush out, run red all over his hands and neck and shirt. . . . Mother would be furious with him for ruining his clothes, but he'd be beyond hearing her yell at him for it. . . yell at him in front of the entire town. . . .
"VICTOR FITZWILLIAM VAN DORT! That was the most EMBARRASSING, most HORRENDOUS display I have ever seen! Do you KNOW who those people were? Do you?! No, of course you don't, because you don't care about anyone but yourself! You don't give tuppence about me and your father, working hard to provide you with a good life! You don't care that we deserve to be as respected and admired as anyone from the old money! No, you just go around with your head in the clouds, never coming down to Earth, never even trying to make a good impression – I should have left you to your room! At least then you couldn't have HUMILIATED me like you just did! This depressed over a mangy old mutt – your dog is dead, Victor! Accept it already and move on! I didn't want that flea-ridden cur in my house anyway! And to get this upset over its passing – you wouldn't care a whit if I died right now, would you? Would you?! Ugh, really, some days you're nothing but an embarrassment to the Van Dort name! No, don't try to apologize, it's far too late for that! Just go inside and think about what you've done!"
Victor squeezed his eyes shut, trying to block the tears that threatened to spill out. He'd thought about it all right – thought about it right through the afternoon, and the evening, and the dinner with the silence and the staring and the muttered comments – She doesn't love me she never loved me I'll never make her happy never nor Father they don't care they never cared and the only creature who did is dead – dead defending me –
Three weeks. Three weeks, and it was still as clear in his mind as if it were yesterday. The furious growling, the teeth-filled lunge, the blur of brown and white and red, so much red. . .and then soft brown eyes staring up at him, a tail half-ripped off still trying to wag, as he stared back and wondered why he wasn't screaming. . . . Why? I know he was getting older, but – why like that? He should have gone quietly, safe and warm in his bed, not – not trying to save such a useless, worthless, loveless lump like me. . . .
Well, now he was going to fix the mistake Scraps had made. A bit more pressure, a swipe of his arm, and the blackness he so feared would come to claim him at last. He forced himself to open his eyes, forced himself to look at his pale, tear-streaked face one last time. Just do it, he told himself. One sweep across your throat – surely even someone as pathetic and clumsy as you can manage that! They won't miss you, no one will. And maybe, if you're very lucky, you'll get to see him again. . . . His hand trembled, the blade nibbling at his skin. Just do it. Just do it. Just –
SLAM!
The steel fell from suddenly-nerveless fingers. Quick as a wink Victor turned and bolted from the washroom, nearly falling over himself in his haste to get back to his bed. He closed his door and leaned on it heavily, breathing hard. What was that? Who could be up this time of night? What –
Oh God, what had he been about to do?!
Victor reached up and felt his throat, all the blood rushing out of his head. The flesh was still there, solid and firm except for a few tiny cuts that didn't even go deep enough to bleed. His pulse was strong and rapid, though slowing now as the adrenaline rush faded. His breath came in quick gasps, but it came, same as it had since he'd been born. No gush of red, no coming of the black. . . . Looking at him now, no one could possibly guess what he'd been about to do.
And no one ever will, he decided, wiping his face. Dear God, was I really – Mother's shouted at me before, why was this. . .all right, so it was far nastier than usual, but that was an important tea, and anyways that's just how she is, how could I think. . . .
He shook his head. It didn't bear thinking about. Or, at the very least, he didn't want to think about it. You didn't do it. You didn't make poor Scraps's sacrifice in vain. That's all that matters, he told himself. Just – just put the razor back where you found it, then go to bed. Sleep will do you good. And tomorrow will be a new day, and – you can try again. Mother will be less angry with you in the morning – Father too. Maybe you can still do something to make them proud.
The darkness whispered that it was a fool's errand, but Victor ignored it. He opened his door and returned to the washroom. The razor lay on the floor, glinting cold artificial moonlight. Victor picked it up and examined it. Still beautiful. Still, in a tiny way, tempting.
He shook his head and closed it with a snap. "Never again," he whispered to himself. "I'll never let myself get that low again." He frowned determinedly at his reflection in the mirror. "I think I deserve the chance to see sixteen."
The End