Vlad was pissed. Vlad was beyond pissed. He couldn't see straight he was so angry. And hurt. And kind of just resigned somehow and a little jaded. He was used to this fury. He'd known it for a very long time. It was part of a constant in his life, he'd felt it for so long. And it was back again now, a sharp spike of fire in his stomach to go along nicely with the deep ache in his chest.
He was angry at the memory behind that one little comment and he was angry at himself for being so weak to that same little comment.
Is your mother home? Is your mother home? Is your mother home?
No. She never was. She never is. She never would be.
Vlad stormed into the house like a hurricane, all snarling growls and bared teeth, his fists clenching with pink fire after slamming the front doors shut with an echoing bang. He hated this house. He hated that it was so empty. He hated that he hated it so much. And most of all he hated Danny Fenton for being the most annoying person on the planet.
He delved further into his house as he stormed and snarled, reaching towards the depths of it before coming to an abrupt stop in front of the grand fireplace. He usually avoided this room at all costs. It was the worst room in the house and the most painful to be in. But his blind rage brought him here anyway. Above the fireplace was the old family portrait.
He was young in the portrait. A baby still, so young his memory couldn't reach back to the time it was painted. He looked like a happy toddler and he yearned to remember that time. When his mother was still alive and his father still came home on occasion. She looked beautiful and serene— or maybe that was the romanticized version he saw— with delicate features, deep blue eyes that perfect conveyed her warm smile, and light brown hair flowing over her shoulder in gentle curls. She looked the epitome of a loving mother. She had been for the most part until she'd been killed. His father beside her was all hard lines and stern features, light green eyes and thick black hair, a prominent nose and a sturdy chin. He looked rough and austere but the soft spark in his eye as he looked at his wife was still there. Vlad didn't think he'd ever seen it in person, it hadn't been there in years. Mikhail Masters, business man extraordinaire, wasn't ever home long enough to love his family. His son.
He wanted to burn it to the ground. He wanted to never see it again.
The fire in his hands grew hotter and brighter, the heated ectoplasm near burning his still-human skin. And he was so close. So close to raising that fist and blasting that damned portrait to oblivion. But he didn't. He couldn't. His fists stayed white-knuckled at his sides. It was the only picture of his mother he had left.
He snarled and punched the fireplace instead.
The brick gave way under his knuckles like he was punching a cloud; crumbling from the force and smoking from the heat. Chest heaving and arm embedded in the hole he created, he stood there with his thoughts tumbling over themselves in a messy, angry tangle, before his breathing returned to normal and his eyes could focus properly.
He shook his head and sighed. He shouldn't have lost control so intensely like that. Especially from such a little thing. And most especially in front of Mrs. Fenton, even if she'd left before she could see it. She was much too nice and much too soft to ever have to witness a temper tantrum from him, she didn't deserve that. She was everything a mother should be, everything his mother no longer was. He admired how much she was willing to show her love to her son, even if that miserable wretch never appreciated it. It was one of the reasons, among a very long list of many, that he absolutely hated Danny Fenton to the very depth of his core.
His core that writhed and throbbed with pain in his absence. His core that made him feel like he was dying, again, when he wasn't in physical contact with the person he hated most in the world. It felt like his own body was betraying him. Just like it did when he was twelve; when his own stupidity had made him into this strange half-dead hybrid freak. When his own stupidity had cost him his mother.
He yanked his arm free of the fireplace. His thoughts were jagged and useless and circling. He didn't want to think about pain or mothers or Danny Fenton anymore or ever again. He needed to focus on something else. He needed to find out why this pain kept appearing and disappearing so he could make it stop. With his school suspension it's not like he had anything better to do.
It made no sense. Both he and Danny have had their powers and known each other for nearly four years now. They'd been in contact, they'd been half-ghosts together, for four years. So if this pain in his core, and likely Danny's as well with the amount of times he mutually sought out fist fights, really was because of their weird halfa-biology, then why was it happening now? What caused the change?
He stared down at his hands blankly.
Was he dying again?
Was the ecto-acne from six years ago back again?
He clenched his fists again, bones creaking and muscles tensing. No. It wasn't the acne again, he wouldn't let it be the acne again. The pain would've been much worse anyway. No, this was something new entirely. He'd have to exhaust all his resources to find out what it really was.
But first, he had to find the shithead impersonating his mother over the phone and take out the simmering, leftover anger out on them. He was pretty sure he already knew who it was, it was just a matter of finding them.
