Vernissage
A single, pure note permeated the silence of the spacious room. It was not absorbed by the thick crimson tapestries, or devoured by the high vaults. It simply sang sweetly, then exhaled and disappeared.
The hand that had played it was no longer hidden in black leather, but was rather free, exposing red, raw skin that shone slightly in the dim light. Tentatively, the other fingers followed close behind the first, stroking the ivory keys and producing a resounding minor chord.
With soft, measured footsteps, V circled around the piano bench and sat, the tails of his ebony cloak trailing behind him. Without so much as a preemptory cough, he began playing a slow, sad melody, minor chords all, as if he was pouring out years of degradation and pain into one song.
Perhaps I am.
He turned his head slightly, trying to catch even the faintest sound of approaching footsteps. There were none. It suddenly struck him just how empty the Shadow Gallery was when he was the only soul in it.
For fourteen years, he had endured the loneliness, had never questioned it or despised it. Now, it hung around him like a damp cloth, stifling him.
" This vicious cabaret," he whispered, hanging his head. He let one more chord echo, an A minor, full of angst and macabre energy. It, too, faded and died away to nothing. He sat, staring at his hands. They had not felt pain in years, he had taken care to make sure of that, but the sight of them still sent a shiver up his spine.
He detested looking at or thinking of himself. Every bit of him looked like this, raw, covered in a waxy skin that wasn't his own, damaged. He was broken, physically.
But not emotionally.
Though he could not remember who he was, Evey's presence had ignited a flame in him. It was the need for human contact, the need to be heard, touched, understood. There was nothing judgmental in her gaze, nothing punishing. She never came into his room with needles and vials, ripping off his clothing to examine his lesions. No. She treated him as a human, as a man, as someone he had not been treated like in fourteen years.
The time between Larkhill and Evey's arrival seemed like an eternity, full of shadow and pain, endlessly plodding on through blood and manipulation. When she had arrived, it had felt like he had opened his eyes for the first time, drinking in the world until he was intoxicated.
Now, she was gone.
He had loved her, had wanted to be with her every day until the fifth. He wanted to spend his last moments knowing she was safe, was promised a world far better than the one she was dwelling in. And yet, every morning when he made her tea, standing alone in the kitchen, he knew that morning could be their last together. Or every night they watched an old film, for nostalgia and for comfort, he slid himself closer, wanting to absorb every molecule of her. For when she left, he did not know how he would cope.
She had called him a monster. Don't I deserve it? For all I've done?
" How can the world judge me?" he whispered, not bitterly, but instead without any emotion. Few people had been through his torture. Yes, people had lost family, Evey had lost her entire family in the span of several months. But no one had lost who they were. No one had forgotten everything they knew about the one person they were closest to: themselves.
He would walk the streets at night, shortly after he had healed his burns alone, trying to stare at faces in windows, sitting on the steps of houses. Was this where he lived? Did he know that woman? Familiar things tugged at him; the material of a curtain, a rosebush, the sound of a creaking gate in a picket fence. Yet they never occurred together. He was listening to a soundtrack to a film he had never seen. The pieces never fit.
Evey had made the pieces fit.
She didn't mind that he didn't have a name; "V" had sufficed. He knew she had longed to see his face, but she had never betrayed his trust by sliding it off in the dark, or reaching a finger underneath the cool metal to touch the delicate skin of his neck. She had kept her distance.
Now the distance was even greater.
He did not know where she was going; he would not be able to watch her, or protect her. Every alarm that would sound, every police report he watched, would be tinged with a gripping horror, flashes of her face. He had cured her of her fear, but he had not quelled his own for her.
He suddenly felt an emotion he had not in many years.
Loneliness.
He stood, angrily thrusting his wrists down upon the keys, producing a harsh and cacophonous chord. He turned, stalking toward a small room with purpose. He loosened his mask as he walked, feeling hot, bitter tears well in his eyes.
What good am I?
He threw the mask at his mirror, shattering the pieces, which shimmered and fell like sharp tears. He sank into his chair, sobbing into his hands, openly, ashamed of who he was, ashamed at his behavior, and yet feeling completely justified.
His sobs echoed painfully throughout the Shadow Gallery. They were heart-rending, anguished cries of regret, of pain, of fear…of shame.
He lifted his head to look in the mirror.
Oh, God.
" This visage…" he whispered, his voice hoarse, his lips barely moving, " No veneer of vanity…" He clenched his jaw. " But rather that of a man with no soul, no heart…without the ability to feel, to touch…to love." He bit his lower lip, if what remained there could be called such.
His face was pink and muddled, stretched taut from the ill-healed burns. He had no hair, not even a single eyelash, and though his eyes were virtually unharmed, his nose was flattened, waxy and melted. His lips were thin; the barest traces remained. The burns reached down below his collar, enveloping his entire body, cloaking him in a vile robe.
His eyes were a piercing hazel and gray; were sharp, focused, when they were needed. Now, they were full of hot, blistering tears.
He couldn't feel them as they fell down his face, couldn't even remember what they felt like. How long had it been since he had felt touch there, just there, below the cheekbone? Since he had allowed anyone to become closer to him than his mask?
He flexed his fingers, removing the gloves one finger at a time. He held his hands up next to his face. The same pattern, the same chemical and flame burn, the same agony. How long had he lain here, draping gauze and bandages over countless sores and scars, using various ointments and salves to ease the pain? How many nights had he lain awake, screaming here, below the streets of London, where not a soul could hear him? The pain had been so real. And now, with tattered nerve endings and a less-than-optimum sense of touch, it seemed as if his entire body was numbed with an analgesic. He couldn't feel anything.
" I can't feel anything anymore!"
Baptism by fire. Healing through solitude.
And still nothing gained.
Truth be told, he knew his death was inevitable, but he did not wish it was that way. He wanted to live to see the world he'd created, shaped, and transformed. He wanted the country to pick itself up off of the dust and breathe, as one.
Breathing was something he could not seem to do right now.
Hanging his head, closing his eyes, he concentrated on breathing through his nose, to calm himself. As he suspected it would, it did not work. He could not breathe through it; it was simply not possible.
When he had first realized the situation, it was terrifying. It felt like breathing underwater, with someone holding him down, only being able to breathe through his mouth. He dreaded sleep, wondering if when he paused in his respiration to simply close his lips, he would die. It was a silly thing, a trifle, really, to worry about when he had so many other pains and concerns. But breathing was elemental. It was necessary and vital; it was pure.
His visage, however, was not.
Gingerly, he touched a finger to his face.
" Can I feel it?" he whispered.
No.
He pressed harder.
" Please…"
No.
He knew this futile experiment would fail, but every so often he tried it again, to see if he had healed, to see if he had not lost all of what he had known.
He arched his finger, pressing the nail into his skin, choking back a sob.
Nothing.
With a groan, he began breathing rapidly, scratching his face all over. Nothing. Nothing. Angrily, with tears blurring his vision, he clawed at his face, ripping at whatever he could, begging for the tiniest nerve-ending to respond.
He had simply cut himself, once, below his eye.
Wretchedly, he lay his head down, throwing his mask to the floor. It was not the man he was, truly. He had no idea who he had been, of course. Those memories had been washed away by chemicals and toxins, had been destroyed in flame. Something as simple as his own name was beyond his reach.
" You may call me V…"
Was this all there was to life? Waiting for the end?
He knew this bitter taste of loneliness was nothing like the intense depression and insanity he had felt at Larkhill. Nothing compared to that hell.
He thought he had healed, had been able to move on past that glimpse into the past and recover. But he still cringed at the sight of flames, still balked at needles, still slept with his door completely unlocked so that he could escape.
" Escape…from what?" he whispered.
A small voice in his mind answered, " From yourself."
" There is no escaping this!" he cried, leaping to his feet. " There is no remedy, there is no salve for this kind of pain…Rejection of one's self, one's own blood…it is unnatural, it is unfeeling, it is…shameful." He ran into the middle of the Gallery, dropping to his knees.
" Why is there no play written of this tragedy? Why is there no epic poetry devoted to the man who loathes all that is within him?! Beauty through art, life through art…Art imitates life! Why do you not imitate me? Am I filthy? Am I unsuitable? Is this not…not wretched enough for you?!"
The bust of Shakespeare sat silent. The suit of armor glowered at him with metallic, impassive stoicism.
Taking deep, uneven breaths, V staggered back, lying flat on the floor, gazing up at the ceiling.
I only have to wait until the fifth…
Then I can see her…
Then he would feel complete.
For now, he was alone.
He stood, walking slowly back into his room and picking up the mask. He blew off a speck of dust. Other than that, it was unmarred.
He reached back to tie the leather strings to hold it, adjusting it to fit. Tilting it roguishly, he sighed and gently rested one hand on his daggers.
"There's place and means for every man alive."
Quote courtesy of the brilliant William Shakespeare. More V fics to follow. Any and all reviews are appreciated. Thank you.