Chapter Seven
V had not felt this wretched for a considerably long while, possibly even ever. In fact, he could not recall feeling this low at any point in his life. A great sense of melancholy and sorrow washed over him in stormy torrents. His heart was heavy with grief and much anguish.
He was truly miserable.
That shining, smiling, optimistic mask may as well have been grey and frowning. It may as well have bore the suffering and pessimisms of a man who had lost the most precious thing in the world, like the very essence of his life had been sucked from him.
His stomach was in knots with repent; he felt sick to his very core. His brain ached as thousands of images and scenarios whizzed through his heavy mind. His exhausted body longed for rest, screamed at him in painful spasms, yet he would permit himself none. His tormented organs cried out for sustenance, but he denied himself everything void meager sips of water. This was his flagellation, this was his suffering, and this was his cell.
Why did you do it you fool? Why did you let her leave? You should have stopped her, something…anything…you utter fool.
He reconsidered his last thoughts.
To be alone is to be different, to be different is to be alone, he mused with a weary soul
He had searched the streets of London for her. Prowled every alley, stalked every avenue desperately looking for a sign that she had been there, a trace of her, a scent. Passed through the darkness until day break in pursuit of the girl. But his hunt was in vain. He found neither her nor evidence of her whereabouts. If she were hiding, she was hiding very well. If not…well V did not want to think of the other option.
Over the past few days, he had wandered the entire length and breadth of the Shadow Gallery, trying desperately to find some solace in his coveted, priceless artworks.
Botticelli's stunning Birth of Venus gave him no comfort. He found no happiness as he gazed upon Rossetti's beautiful Lady of Shallot. Julie London's heart breaking melodies offered no redemption. Even his beloved Ramayana's Sita head gave him no joy. The single most amazing and truly interesting place on Earth, and he found it as dead and as lifeless as a tomb. The air hung like a veil of mourning and sorrow over the entire place.
He was lost. Helplessly adrift.
--------------------
Eventually, V mooched over to his make-up room with all the gusto of a condemned man walking toward his death. He seated himself lightly upon the velvet lined stool. For what seemed the longest time, an eternity even, he stared. Gazed at his own reflection in the illuminated mirror. Studied every contour and line of his mask, every strand of hair in his black wig.
Inside him he could feel his sadness suddenly change to anger, to pure hatred. It boiled and hissed deep within him with an intensity that made his whole body want to implode. His detestation for himself was so ferocious it hurt. His abhorrence for his sickening actions made him want to scream at himself; into that stupid, smirking mask.
His infuriation was building, rising, wanting to burst from him in a violent stream of decibels. It surged in him, the enraged beast inside thrashing against its restraints. He felt his face heat up, a flush of scorching redness envelop his features. It felt as though he was shaking with a heady mix of pure anger and sheer desperation. Through leather gloved hands, he clenched his fist tightly, trying to harness the rage that was intensifying within.
His anger had finally reached its peak. After days of endurance, he could stand this no longer. He was so livid, so utterly incensed that in a split second he tore his mask from his charred face and flung it at his mirror. The glass shattered and splintered. The smiling, porcelain face beamed at him from the floor. The thousands of irreparable shards threw themselves upon the floor and stared back up at V. They mocked him, taunted him and showed him thousands of tiny replica masks, showing him what he really was.
He was no golden, glittering hero. No champion for righteousness, nor a conqueror of evil. He was not the savior of England who leads its people along the path of freedom. He was no knight in shining armour, charging into battle head first. No, as much as it saddened him to admit, he was none of these.
He was simply a terrorist, a vigilante, an outlaw. He was a political activist, a radical revolutionary, a crazed fanatic hell bent on realizing the potential of his home nation.
But above all of these things, he was a man. Made of the same compounds as everyone else. Flesh, blood, skin, organs. He felt emotion just as millions of others did. Happiness, pain, joy, worry. He did what everybody else in the country did. Eat, drink, sleep, shit.
Yes. He was just a man. A man who had lost the most dearest and treasured possession a man could lose.
His anger had subsided and was transforming into a new emotion, one he had not really known before. One he had never had time or the inclination to bother exploring. One that was, in actual fact, totally alien to him.
Loneliness.
It tweaked at him in hungry pangs. Nipped at his heart and gnawed his soul. He did not like this feeling, not in the least bit. This hurt. More than the red tongues of flames at his melting skin. More than the anger that had consumed him. More than a bullet wound to the torso. This really, really hurt. It was haunting.
Then V did something he had not done in a very, very long time.
Carefully and in a very calculated manor, he rested his elbows on the edge of the vanity table and placed his weary naked head into his gloved hands. He sighed as he began to let his entire emotions leak from him, as his feelings escaped him.
Silently his shoulders shook as he wept.
