It is not death that alarms me, but dying. – Michel de Montaigne
xxx
Knock knock knock!
Sweeney grunted and rubbed a hand over his eyes, struggling to untangle himself from sleep. Who the hell would be knocking on his door? The only person who ever came by to see him was Eleanor, and she certainly never troubled with the formality of knocking. Besides, it was currently pumpkin – a completely unreasonable chord of the morning for any sort of visit.
Knock knock knock!
Heaving a sigh, Sweeney pulled himself out of bed and shuffled towards the door. He was greeted by a man he did not know.
"Benjamin?" The stranger's mouth parted in a cross between a smile and a gasp, further creasing the lines of an aged face. His hands sprang out towards Sweeney as though to embrace him, but pulled back at the last moment.
Sweeney's eyebrows drew together. He found himself reaching for the fettling knife on his nightstand, more out of habit than concern. The old man, thankfully, did not notice, for his eyes remained fastened on Sweeney's face.
"I prefer Todd, actually," said Sweeney. "Can I help you?"
"Todd . . .?" the man echoed, an expression of bafflement replacing the tattered happiness and heartache. "But no – you're definitely – I would know – you're changed, but I know – "
"I don't . . ."
The man reached out again until the fingers of his left hand brushed Sweeney's cheek. Sweeney was too shocked to jerk away.
The old man's dark eyes filled with tears as his mouth pronounced two simple syllables: "My Ben."
The fettling knife dropped from Sweeney's numb fingers and landed on the ground just before he was pulled into an embrace, his face pushed against graying hair. It smelled of leather and smoke, just as Sweeney had remembered, but the wiry locks had been a deep brown back then, like his own.
"Nineteen years," Matthew Barker, the father of Benjamin Barker, whispered. "Nineteen years since we . . ." He pulled away, but kept his hands upon Sweeney's shoulders, looking suddenly upset. "But you're so young – were you in prison when . . . when it happened?"
Sweeney forced the fingers on his left hand to flex, then his right hand, trying to recall the human ability of movement. "I . . ."
Recalling the ability of thought was even more difficult. After a moment, he realized that his father was asking when he had died. His father did not know he had ever returned to London. His father thought he had died in Botany Bay.
He usually did not bat an eye when telling the life story of Sweeney Todd. He had chatted up many customers with a half-fabricated history about himself – a clever weaving of lies and just enough truth to make the lies believable – lulling them into a sense of security, making them believe in Sweeney Todd, the friendly barber of Fleet Street. And yet now, he couldn't form his lips around the familiar tales. Lying to his father seemed different.
All humans are filled with shit. He's no different.
And, true though this was, he couldn't shake away the sudden torrent of memories, blurry around the edges yet still blinding –
his father regales them all at the dinner table with that day's mishap with the horses
strong hands tuck unruly curls behind his son's ear
tugs at his hand
a sandpapered voice reads a Grimm fairy-tale, its rhythmic flow beckoning him to sleep
throws back his head and laughs at his child's joke
He could not tell the usual lies of Sweeney Todd's life to his father. He could not pretend that he had never been his Ben. It was not that he believed his father better than the masses; he had dirtied his hands as much as any other human. But that couldn't erase their blood ties. Whatever else could be said ill of him (and there could be things ill said of him – bad memories surfaced with the good), Matthew Barker had done everything he could for his family. He deserved more than his eldest son pretending as though they had never met.
He also deserved more than knowing the demon his son had shriveled into.
"Yes," said Sweeney. "I died in the colony."
It was true. Benjamin Barker had died in the colony. It was not false to withhold the fact that Sweeney Todd had risen from the remains.
Dancing around the truth, eh, Todd? You're no better than her.
No. This is different. It's better for him not to know.
That was her reasoning too.
His father's fingers dug deeper into Sweeney's shoulders; Sweeney wanted to twist away from the grip but could not find the strength to do so. "Ben – I'm so sorry – "
Sweeney cut him off: "It isn't your fault I went to prison."
His father shook his head, gaze again moistening. "I could have done more to prevent you from being sent there had I known before. I didn't hear you'd been accused until after the trial. . . . All I ever wanted was to support my family, see my children out into the world and watch them lead successful lives – and I had come so close until – "
"Father." The word sounded strange on his lips. Sweeney took his father's hands and removed them from his shoulders, squeezing the fingers for a moment before letting them fall. "Not even the best testimony could have prevented me from being shipped off to Australia. The judge was determined to get rid of me no matter what those on my side said."
His father again grazed his fingers over Sweeney's cheek. Sweeney had not remembered him being so affectionate. When he strained through his memories, Matthew Barker was a reserved man: loving and supportive, but quiet, introverted.
"So young . . ." his father murmured.
Sweeney stepped back, away from his touch, pretending not to see the hurt flash through his father's eyes. "Not that young."
His father grimaced, curling the fingers that had rested upon Sweeney's face into a fist as he lowered his arm. "No parent wants to outlive their child."
Sweeney knelt down to retrieve his fettling knife from the ground. "I don't – mean to be impolite – but it's a little after pumpkin, and I have work tomorrow . . ." When he received only a blank stare in response, he continued, "Did you arrive on Is recently?"
"Just a few minutes ago, I think," his father replied, unintentionally revealing how green to Is he truly was with his use of the word minutes rather than points. "After that officer fellow went through an explanation of the afterlife, I made him scour the records for my family." His brow creased. "Seems you're the only one here."
"Actually, dear Doreen is here too," Sweeney tried to jest.
This earned a wan smile from his father. "Ah, yes, I saw that. My charming sister wasn't really high on my list of people to see again."
"She's the opposite of wine, unfortunately – only worsens with age."
His father laughed at that, and Sweeney managed an expression resembling a smile, but then an uncomfortable silence clouded over the moment of mirth.
"Well . . ." Sweeney fidgeted with his fettling knife. "As I started to say, it's currently after pumpkin, which is a chord in the very early morning here on Is."
"A – chord?"
"An hour, essentially. Technically speaking, time doesn't pass here. But the spirits here like to keep a semblance of normalcy."
"Oh, yes . . . I understand." From his expression, it was clear that his father did not understand. He would though, Sweeney knew, with time.
"Well, I suppose that's my cue to leave," said his father. "Should start adjusting to this schedule, I suppose . . ." He took a step backwards, considering his son with a tilted head. "I – Ben, I'd like to . . . do you want to have dinner together tomorrow evening?"
Sweeney didn't respond.
His father fumbled to explain further. "It's just that I don't – you're not – well – I haven't talked to you in so long . . ."
"Yes," said Sweeney. "I'll – I'll come to your room at purple."
His father's worn face cracked into a grin. "Great." He peered down to the end of the corridor. "Now the only question is how to find my room – walking these halls is like a navigating a labyrinth."
Sweeney stepped towards his father. "Here – I have an easier way."
Sweeney showed his father the preferred Is method of travel – that of walking through walls – before returning to his own room for some well-deserved and well-needed sleep.
Sleep, however, was apparently still irritated at being slapped away at the ridiculous chord of pumpkin, for it refused to return to him. Soon pumpkin passed into orange and orange began to near sunrise and he still could not get a damn wink of sleep because his muscles refused to soften, his mind refused to silence, and the only thing that could ever soothe both his muscles and mind was . . .
"Good bloody God, Mr. T," Eleanor grumbled as he slid down next to her on her cot. She shifted over to make room for him even as she scowled through sleep-starved eyes. "Did you really have to wake me up in the goddamned middle of the night?"
"You do realize He cares not one whit about your sleeping habits, don't you, pet?"
She rolled onto her side, propping her head on her hand to look down at him. "Don't detract from the subject. I'm serious. I need to be awake in two and a half chords and it's going to be bloody impossible to fall back asleep now with you here taking up all the room – "
"You weren't asleep before I came in."
Her scowl deepened. "I'll have you know that I was sound asleep, thank you, and now that you've interrupted that – "
"You never lie perfectly still when you sleep, and your eyes don't move beneath their lids – both contradictions to when I entered your room. And you snore," he added.
"Bloody overly-observant arse," she complained, but did not resist when he tugged her head down against his chest and flung an arm across her back.
"You also swear like a sailor when you're either enraged or lacking sleep," he went on, and she groaned, clearly tiring of this subject. "Since you're not currently furious – "
"What makes you so sure?" she growled, suddenly playful, biting his collarbone.
" – you must be sleep-deprived." His tone lost its sardonic tenor. "What's troubling you, pet?"
She shrugged, snuggling further into his arms, rolling over until she lay half on top of him. "Too many thoughts, I s'pose. But 's'not unusual. I never sleep well – you know that. Neither do you." She lifted her head to peer at him, eyebrows drawn. "But it's unusual for you to ask – "
"I'm trying to be amiable. You told me it was a skill I needed to work on."
" – which means you're searching for something. So what's troubling you?"
"My father just arrived on Is," he told her.
"Oh! Well, that – that wasn't what I was expecting – but that's great, love – I mean, no, not great – it's not great that he died – but great that you two can now spend more time together, y'know – the both of you always got on fairly well, after all. . . ."
Sensing his sudden desire for quiet (and for once being kind to it), she closed her mouth. Absent-mindedly, he began to pull her hair pins from her curls. She sighed and again rested her head over his heart.
He missed being a barber, he realized. Missed assembling hair to his will, missed the smell of shaving cream and the texture of stubbled skin, missed shaping, chiseling, creating . . . he enjoyed pottery and sculpture, but it was not the same. Thank God Eleanor still had a full head of hair. Fiddling with her locks was not the same as barbering, but it was still a chance to craft with his hands. An escape.
"Have to get up now, love," Eleanor murmured in his ear, kissing his lobe as she unknotted their limbs. "Clock just struck maize."
"Impossible," Sweeney grunted, rolling onto his side, refusing to open his eyes. "I just got here."
"You drifted off to sleep, love," she informed him, the cot creaking and lightening as she stood up.
He cracked open his eyes. "Your hair. It's only half-braided."
She smiled at him. "Like I said, you dozed off a while back."
He beckoned her back to bed. "Let me finish it."
Normally, he hated lingering in bed in the mornings. Today, all he desired was to lie there with her body breathing against his and his hands shaping her curls. It baffled him.
Eleanor's foot jerked forward, towards him. Then she stopped herself, backpedalling, shaking her head and letting the half-braid unwind. "No, love, I can't – we've got to get going – shop's got to be open in a chord – and I can't work if my hair is falling down my back and not pinned to my scalp . . ."
Reluctantly, he stood up from the cot. She assured him she'd be by his shop soon with breakfast as soon as she'd freshened up, knotted her hair into the usual up-do, and rose up on tip-toes to place a kiss on his lips before stepping through the wall.
xxx
The chord of purple found him knocking upon the door of Matthew Thomas Barker. His father received him with a radiant smile; Sweeney averted his eyes as his father inquired, "Where are we off to?"
"I usually dine on Mrs. Lovett's food – "
"Sounds fine – you're the expert here."
" – but she's only my – " your what? Your friend? Your lover? Just another person you murdered? " – she's just an old acquaintance of mine. We could go elsewhere."
His father shrugged and smiled again. "So long as we can talk."
They eventually wound up at an Indian restaurant.
"So," said Sweeney, taking a sip of wine, "how was your first day on Is?"
"Strange," his father confessed, "but it could have been much worse, I'm sure. I'm still trying to figure out what to do as my profession – all I've ever been is a carriage driver, but I was told there are no animals here. But I walked around the halls today, met a few people, got some ideas. . . . Are you still barbering?"
"No. Hair doesn't grow here."
The lines in his father's forehead rumpled even deeper. "Why's that?"
"It is what it is," Sweeney recited. His father sighed, indicating he'd already heard this saying more than enough. Sweeney continued, "That's what I was told when I arrived . . . but I think it's because spirits cannot age. Our bodies never become old: our bones never weaken, our skin never wrinkles. . . . Hair growth signifies aging, the passage of time – and we aren't capable of that."
His father mulled this over for a moment, stirring his lentils around his plate with a piece of bread, before asking, "So what is your job nowadays?"
"Artist."
"I'd love to see your work. Do you have a studio?"
"Yes. Come by tomorrow, if you like."
"So you're doing well on Is, I take it?"
Sweeney prodded a tomato with his fork. "I'm adapting. Sometimes it's difficult, knowing what to live for when you're not alive. Trying to live without life – live without purpose."
Abruptly, he shut his mouth and watched the silver glean of his fork as he twisted it this way and that. He never talked so openly about his feelings; what was wrong with him?
"I think you can still live with purpose here," his father said softly. "It seems many of the people do, from what I've seen."
Sweeney jerked his head to one side in acknowledgement. "So – on Earth – how is everyone? Our family, I mean. Were you – the last one to go?"
"No." His father took a gulp of ale. "Your siblings are still alive." His eyes darkened. "But your mother passed away eight years ago – consumption," he explained in response to Sweeney's wide eyes. "I had thought I would see her again when I passed away . . ."
He steps through the wall again and again and again – Lucinda Roselyn Barker, Lucinda Roselyn Barker, Lucinda Roselyn Barker – he will find her door, he will find it – Lucinda Roselyn Barker, Lucinda Roselyn Barker – he must find her – Lucinda Roselyn Barker – but he could not, he cannot, he will never see her again – Lucy –
"I'm sorry," Sweeney muttered.
His father nodded in acknowledgement and cleared his throat. In the silence that followed, his father ran the edge of his knife along the prongs of his fork and Sweeney requested a refill of his wine glass.
"If you don't mind me asking . . ." His father put down his silverware and placed his full attention upon his son. "How – how did it happen?" At Sweeney's blank look, he clarified: "Your – your death."
Sweeney's fingers tightened around his fork. These were exactly the sort of questions he had most wanted to avoid. He did not know what to say to his father. He did not know who to be for him.
"I'm sorry," said his father before Sweeney could think of a reply, lowering his gaze, "nevermind – I shouldn't've asked that. It isn't appropriate."
His father then changed the subject to mundane things, trifling events and happenings that had taken place over the last twenty years. The conversation flowed, but the amiable, light atmosphere of before was gone.
"Can I see you again?" his father dared to ask at the end of the meal as they were paying the bill, revealing his discomfort beneath the frothy babble.
"Of course," Sweeney said, because he knew he could say nothing else. "Come visit whenever you like."
"I would like to see your art studio sometime . . .?"
"Yes. I open at yellow and close at either purple or violet, depending on if I'm teaching a class that day."
His father gave him an appraising look. "You're a teacher now too? Hmm. Perhaps I'll stop by sometime – if you don't mind having such an old man for a pupil, that is."
"You'll find that age means very little here." Sweeney stepped out into the corridor, and his father followed. "Well – good-bye, Father." He stuck out his hand, but his father pulled him into a hug.
"G'night, son," he whispered, and it was only as his father was stepping through the wall that Sweeney realized he had not told his father that, if he were to visit his art studio, he would need to think the name Sweeney Todd, not Benjamin Barker, as he stepped through the wall.
("only lied 'cause I love you . . .")
xxx
"Sorry, we're closed," said Nellie drolly as she opened her shop door. "That's why the sign's up. Or did dying make you forget how to read?"
Judge Turpin's mouth twisted, and he reached up to stroke his clean-shaven chin. "My, we're ill-tempered tonight, aren't we?"
"No, we merely do not want to host unpleasant company," she returned, mocking the way he used a royal 'we' so casually.
"I promise I will not be long."
"Fine. What d'you want?"
"Might I come in?"
Nellie scowled. For God's sake, it was afterchords – and even if it hadn't been afterchords, she was sick of her existence revolving around this bastard. She wanted nothing further to do with him. She didn't want to talk about him, think about him, waste any more energy comforting her lover about him, and she most certainly did not want to fucking deal with the man in person.
But on the other hand . . . well, Turpin was scheming something . . . what he had in mind, however, she hadn't a clue. Perhaps if she let him in and heard out whatever he wanted to say, she could deduce his plot . . .
Nellie stepped back and allowed Turpin to pass inside.
"Thank you," said Turpin, a hint of amusement in his tone. Oh, he found her humorous, did he? He took a seat at one of the many tables, looking severely out of place in the way he held himself so stiff and straight-backed in the chair, hands clasped on the table.
Nellie flounced to a nearby table and sat atop its surface. "Well?"
Turpin twiddled his thumbs. "We've known each other many years now, Mrs. Lovett."
"Unfortunately."
"And I realize we have never had a warm relationship."
"Took you this long to realize?"
"But I want to change that," Turpin continued, and he leaned towards her, features avid. Nellie's stomach coiled. "I told you some time ago that I would like to mend my broken bridges. You are one of them."
"Death's really changed you, hasn't it?" she remarked sarcastically.
"Yes," Turpin murmured, "it has."
Nellie frowned.
"Hasn't it changed you?" he inquired.
Uncomfortable by this change in subjects, she shrugged one shoulder. "I s'pose. Yes. In some ways. Though not as many as I would've hoped."
He waited, as though hoping for her to elaborate on this thought. When she didn't, he nodded and continued speaking. "Dying . . . it puts everything in perspective. What matters, and what doesn't. The mistakes we made while we were still alive. How we can fix them now."
Don't. Don't let yourself get sucked into his lies. Don't let yourself believe him. The man's corrupted to the core, and dying doesn't change a thing like that.
Turpin cleared his throat and fastened his attention to his thumbs as he resumed twiddling them. The noise pulled her back to reality and she swung her feet back and forth over the ground, folding her arms across her chest.
"Yes. Well," he said. "As I was saying. I would like to strengthen our relationship, Mrs. Lovett. You are a smart, strong woman." She raised an eyebrow. "I'd like to know you better, bolster our ties . . . and perhaps, in time, earn your forgiveness in regards to Todd's – Barker's – sentence to Australia those many years ago."
"And Johanna."
"Pardon?"
"You'll also need to earn my forgiveness in regards to taking Johanna away from me after her parents were gone," said Nellie. Her tone betrayed no emotion save for a splinter of ire as she parodied his pompous way of speaking. "I was going to raise her myself, but then you stole her away."
"That was for the best, Mrs. Lovett. I gave her a lifestyle of devotion and love that you never could have. But I should not have abused my power so," he amended hastily at her withering glare.
"And Lucy." Her anger spilled over for a moment and her natural way of speaking returned: "Violating a woman what'd never done anything to you."
He surprised her by wincing at this accusation. "You are more correct than words can ever convey."
"And also for that time when – "
Turpin held up a hand. "I understand your point, Mrs. Lovett. You hold grudges against me for many reasons – many just reasons. This only furthers my statement: we do not have a fantastic relationship. Which leads me to my proposition."
Nellie held her breath. Whatever he was about to propose – and she couldn't think what he possibly would propose – it couldn't be good.
"I would like to take you to dinner with you tomorrow night," said Turpin with his usual overconfident smile – yet his eyes betrayed an intensity, a fire for which she could not identify the source.
She blanched.
"For strictly platonic reasons, of course," Turpin fumbled, apparently flustered by her reaction. "I would never attempt to – erm, usurp – Mr. Todd's place."
She couldn't help a bubble of satisfaction well in her stomach at that. She knew that most citizens of London, back when she was alive, had gossiped about the affair they believed the barber and baker of Fleet Street to be having. The whispers of hussy and whore she could have done without, but that aside, she loved the hearsay, loved having all of London know that Sweeney Todd – in however frowned-upon a manner – was hers.
"But I – desire to know you better . . ." He canted his head, waiting for an answer.
Her instinct was to say no. Whatever Turpin had up his sleeve, it would lead to no good. Going along with his plan would only make it easier for him to carry out. But if she went out to dine with him . . . perhaps she could find out what his plan was – or even better, turn it upside down.
Wait. Was she actually considering this? She must be mad. His contrivance would eventually hurt she or Sweeney – or both of them. If she were to accept his offer, she would willing walk into his trap, and why the hell should she enable him like that?
"Mrs. Lovett?"
Nellie hopped off the table and marched to the door. "Sorry, love, but I'm afraid I'll have to pass on the offer."
"I – why?"
She thrust open the door. When she turned to Turpin, he had half-risen to his feet, mouth rounded in shock and eyebrows drawn together in befuddlement. "Because – my lord – I'm through with deluding myself. You haven't changed at all, and I'm not going to try and tell myself otherwise."
Turpin pushed his chair to the side and strode towards her. "How can you know that I haven't changed if you don't take the time to – "
"I've spent all the time I want to on you." She opened the door wider.
He shook his head, bewildered. Apparently, her rejection had shocked him to the core. Well, that wasn't a surprise, really: the man wasn't used to being denied. "Why can you not spare me another chance?"
"Another chance?" Her calm front cracked; harsh laughter clawed from her throat. "Did you ever give Benjamin Barker another chance at his trial to defend himself? Did you even give him a single chance?"
"Mrs. Lovett, I'm sorry that I cannot change the past. The future, however, is an open book to fill with whatever new chapters – "
"Oh, stop spouting rubbish, will you?"
"It isn't rubbish," Turpin snapped, beginning to flush with anger, stepping closer to her and forcing her to tilt her chin up to glare into his eyes. "I'm aware of my wrongs, and I want to amend for my former missteps – "
"Missteps? That's what you'd call raping a woman?"
His lips curled, revealing gritted teeth. "I would appreciate if you did not keep quibbling over my word choices. Perhaps I am not at my most elegant right now, but you could at least understand that I am doing my best."
Nellie simpered, lips twitching wildly from being forced into the false smile. "Oh, I do understand that you're doing your best – and your best isn't cutting it for me. That's why I'm showing you out."
Turpin was breathing hard now, body coiled tightly with anger and hands shaking, flexing, itching to hurt something, and she knew she should stop now, leave the room herself, before his temper cascaded over and she could do nothing to halt its effects. The man may have been her elder by a good twenty years, but she had no doubt that he was still as strong and vicious as he had once been.
He growled, "You should be delighted that I'm showing a woman of your standing any sort of attention – "
She threw open the door all the way, shoving it away from her so hard and fast that it shook on its hinges and emitted a trembling bang as it hit the wall, and stabbed a finger towards the doorway, pointing him out. "Fuck off."
His hand jerked into the air, fingers splayed as though to strike her, and she cowered – shit Nellie why didn't you just leave why can't you control your temper just once when it really matters – but the blow never came. When she dared a glance at him, his fingers had curled into a fist, and he was lowering his arm to his side, a strange look in his eyes as he drank her in, seeing her yet also beyond her.
"Fine," he breathed. "If that's the way you would like it to be – " And then he disappeared through the wall so fast she could have blinked and missed it.
Leaving her with nothing to do but lean against the doorframe and catch her breath and pray to nonexistent gods that this encounter would not come back to haunt her in the future.
xxx
"We're going to try something new today – sculpture."
"Isn't that what we've been doing since we started?" the sneering adolescent girl inquired. "Sculpting?"
"Sculpture and pottery are two different mediums," Sweeney informed her, pacing in front of his pupils. "Pottery deals with clay. Sculpture is made from materials such as stone, metal, bronze, or wood. Both are about shaping matter as you wish, but sculpture relies on carving away material – as opposed to pottery, which requires one to add material. Understand?"
"No," replied the girl with a scoff. "Sounds like nonsense."
"I think it makes sense," declared the pimpled young man, throwing a dirty look to the girl. Ever since creating a pottery piece worth looking at some classes ago, he'd gained a good deal of confidence. "So what are we doing today?"
"Today, I just want you to familiarize yourself with the tools used in sculpture. Take your resper block and use whatever tools you like. You have to be comfortable with these apparatuses in your hand before you can use them correctly."
The spirits all made their way towards the materials table, some rushing to select theirs first, others moseying over at a leisurely pace. Once the class was settled in their seats, Sweeney took to his usual slow pacing about the room, occasionally stopping to help a student.
As he'd expected, his pupils attempts at wielding chisels and mallets were awkward at best. Some part of him wondered if it was wise to shift away from pottery just when they'd actually begun to produce decent creations. But pottery was all he'd taught since becoming a teacher, and that was over two Earth years ago. It was time for a change of pace.
Besides, Turpin was absent from his class today, and this fact had placed him in an oddly buoyant – and oddly relaxed – mood.
"Need any help?" Sweeney asked, pausing beside the desk of one of his pupils, the one who always stared at him. Sweeney hated to admit it, but the persistent stares made him uneasy.
The man's dark eyes flickered with disgust. He sneered a little as he picked up a wooden mallet, switching it from palm to palm. "Have to be comfortable with these apparatuses in our hands before we can use them correctly, do we? Is that what you were taught too?"
Sweeney's eyes narrowed. "I taught myself sculpture."
"I'm not talking about sculpture. I'm talking about barbering."
Sweeney did not reply.
The man's sneer widened, lips parting to bare his teeth, resulting in an ugly, mirthless amusement. "You don't remember me, do you?"
("why should you? I was just a little nipper you hired for a couple of weeks")
"All this time, I thought you were just pretending you didn't recognize me . . . but you really don't know who I am."
The man's volume was rising in anger and Sweeney's muscles were tensing with comprehension.
"But I suppose that makes sense," the man continued. The mallet no longer jumped from palm to palm, and the hand holding the mallet trembled. "I was probably just one of many, wasn't I? Just one of many who had their throat slit in your barber chair, just one of many that you murdered in cold blood without a second thought."
The man's words were nothing but the purest truth. He was just one of the many murdered because he was just that: one of many. People were not entitled to live just because they had been born. They had to earn that right by living justly – and very few, if any, humans ever did. So why did Sweeney feel a cold, sticky trickle upon the back of his neck, as though a cracked egg were dribbling upon his skin?
The mallet fell from the man's grip and smacked the desk. "I had a family, y'know – I told you I was a sailor, going place to place all the time – but that didn't mean I had nothing to return home to. And you took all that away – "
"What do you want from me?" Sweeney asked, looking straight into the fires of the man's eyes. "I can't give your life back to you."
The man stared at him, palms flat and fingers splayed on the desk, wild-eyed, fury and repulsion bleeding as freely from his skin as rubies had from his throat. Ramsey, Sweeney suddenly recalled, this man was Lysander Ramsey: the one who had departed Earth with a downward diagonal swoop from the right across his jugular; the one who had tried to say something as blood torrented from his neck but only managed to garble two nonsensical syllables; the one who Eleanor had complained barely contained enough meat on him for four dozen pies, why couldn't Sweeney be more considerate when selecting his targets, they both needed to make a living somehow, and if all his slaughtered bodies yielded so little meat, they'd be high and dry before you could say 'coriander.'
"An apology?" Sweeney continued. "Remorse?"
"Bastard," Ramsey snarled. He shot to his feet. Now eye-level with Sweeney, they stood nearly nose-to-nose. "You, standing there – thinking you're superior – you still don't get it, do you?"
The sticky cold feeling dribbled further down Sweeney's skin, worming beneath his robes and tracing along his spine. He leaned backwards, away from his victim. "I don't get why you're confronting me now. What you hope to gain from this."
"Gain," Ramsey spluttered, "gain – this isn't about gain, this is about – you – I want you to feel something, realize what you did – what you took from me. . . ."
At the time, I thought I was giving, not taking away, Sweeney thought but did not say aloud. At the time, I thought death was a respite from life. At the time, I envied that I still had justice to serve, that I could not yet renounce living as you did.
Ramsey shook his head. "But you still don't understand what it means to harm someone. Not just to tear into a body, but a soul, something with an identity, a family, a history, feelings – something living – "
His words halted, and he swiveled around to face the wall, breathing heavy and erratic as he tried to fight back sobs. The sticky cold infused Sweeney's whole body, gluing him to the floor, making movement of even his lips excruciatingly painful and slow, like a torturous ballet:
"I understand that you're angry," he said at last.
Ramsey snorted through his tears.
"You should be," Sweeney continued. "You should want to destroy me the way I did you."
That made Ramsey turn back around.
"But I – I've learned destroying someone else only leads to your own destruction in the end."
Were they words that Sweeney believed? Were they convictions that he held? Did it matter so long as Ramsey left him alone; so long as Sweeney was allowed to keep this pathetic imitation of life that he deserved no more than any man, yet nonetheless stupidly desired to live; so long as this sticky cold trickle licking down his spine disappeared (was it shame? guilt? remorse? he could not recall what any of them felt like and did not want to, but a thing unnamed never had to be real)?
Sweeney picked up the mallet Ramsey had dropped on the desk, running his numb fingers over the crack that had resulted from the impact. "Do as you must to me . . . but keep what's left of yourself."
Ramsey shook his head, not bothering to battle with the tears this time: they freely ran down his clean-shaven face. "You stole it all – there's nothing left."
Sweeney placed the mallet back on the desk. "You'd be surprised," he muttered.
For a long moment, Ramsey did not move. Sweeney, too, stayed where he was, facing his former victim, waiting for a punch to the stomach with a fist or a smash to the head with the mallet or some other violent outlash.
None came.
Not everyone tries to hide their old wounds by creating a fresh one as you do, Todd. Some people understand that destruction is not the gateway to salvation.
Without a word, Ramsey stepped around Sweeney and disappeared through the wall.
In the sudden throb of silence, Sweeney remembered that he was standing in the middle of his classroom, surrounded by pupils. For the first time since the altercation, he looked at them. Each expression staring back at him was different: eyes bulging in horror; disgusted curled upper lips; cheeks blanched and sickly; eyebrows drawn together. Each expression mirrored one he had seen as he was shoved towards the ship that bore him to Botany Bay – except this time, the expressions were just.
But he did not care what they thought. He did not care as they silently gawked at him, did not care as he sunk down into his desk chair (he no longer trusted that he could support his own weight), did not care as the pudgy boy rose upon shaking legs and marched out of the room in what was likely the first courageous and initiative action in his lifetime. He did not care as, in twos and threes, the rest of the class followed his lead. He did not care that his stomach flip-flopped when Eloise's hurt gaze darted towards him then away as she too left the room. He did not care when every desk was deserted except one –
But he did forget to breathe.
When their eyes met, Benjamin Barker's father rose to his feet and slowly made his way to the front of the room.
Sweeney had not known his father had attended his art class, had not seen him come into the room. Of all the circles for him to take up his son's offer to sit in upon one of his classes . . .
His father did not stop walking until he was a foot away. With him closer, Sweeney could see the tears leaking from the elderly man's eyes.
His father's lips struggled over silent syllables for a moment, each sound failing to be discernable to human ears until, finally, he managed to whisper: "What did I do wrong for you, Ben?"
Sweeney rose to his feet and began to approach his father, then hesitated and remained where he was. "Nothing. You did nothing wrong." He instinctually felt for the outside of his pocket, not for bloodlust but for comfort; the weight of his fettling knife sat inside and sifted between his fingers. "You aren't responsible for what I am."
Ramsey's words echoed in his ears: "You stole it all – there's nothing left." But as he watched his father – an already broken soul – crumble into something beyond dust, he thought again how wrong this was.
"You'd be surprised," he'd replied to Ramsey.
You'd be surprised what a person can lose even after they think they've lost everything. You'd be surprised how much you still feel.
You'd be surprised how alive a dead person is.
"Did I not give you enough attention?" his father asked; it was almost a plead. "Enough love?"
Sweeney gripped his fettling knife and felt the blade slice through his skin even through the cover of fabric. "Father – my childhood was fine." His blood seeped into the material of his robes, but it wasn't visible; the black masked the red. "You aren't responsible. You didn't raise a monster."
His father wiped at his eyes, trying to recover his last bit of dignity. Sweeney hid his bleeding hand inside his pocket, watching and waiting for nothing nameable. His father looked at him for a solid, hallucinated heartbeat, before stepping through the wall and vanishing.
Sweeney hadn't noticed, but Eleanor had entered the classroom. She stood immobile by the far wall, gazing at him with unbound pain and love that hurt to gaze back at for too long. Her hands were clasped tight in an upside-down prayer.
He swallowed. "I . . ."
"Shh." She approached, sliding her hands onto his shoulders and rubbing them. "Don't talk now, love – it's alright – "
He jerked away from her. She was wont to pretend that all was well in the world, but he was not going to let her, not tonight.
She didn't so much as blink at his curt behavior. "I'm going to go make dinner," she announced brusquely. "Why don't you come with me to my shop while I prepare things?"
"I'll stay here." He sat down atop his desk, still clutching his bleeding fist around the fabric that made up his pocket.
"I don't think you should be alone right now, Sweeney," she said, her tone softer than before.
He snorted and looked up at her. "Why? Afraid I'll go on a massacre in my 'unstable state'?"
She stepped up to him and removed his hand from his pocket, not seeming at all surprised at its profuse bleeding – as though she'd already known he'd accidentally cut himself. How was it she knew him so damn well?
"No," she said as she attempted to staunch the bleeding with her own sleeve, "I'm not worried you're going to go on a massacre. I know those times are over for you. I'm worried that you'll be massacred."
"By who?" he asked, to humor her.
Closing her eyes, she brought his wounded hand up to her face and brushed her mouth against the knuckles. Even after the kiss, her eyes remained closed, her mouth resting on the back of his hand. Her lips burned like fire.
"Yourself," she whispered.
"I'm fine, Eleanor," he muttered. She released his hand so she could look around the room for linens to wrap his injury with. "As fine as I can be, at least." His eyes trailed each of her movements as she rummaged about the cupboards: the swish of her robes, the tilt of her chin, the sweep of her hands. "I didn't want for this to happen . . ."
Locating cloth, she returned to his side, perching beside him on the desk as she began to dab at the wound with a wet piece of fabric; he winced. "With your father, you mean?"
He nodded. "He shouldn't feel responsible for what I've become, but I knew he would if he found out."
She frowned down at his hand. "This probably isn't what you want to hear right now, dear, but him finding out was inevitable. You couldn't've kept up the fabrication about you dying in Australia forever."
He winced again as she continued her ministrations. "I didn't want to hurt him."
She glanced up and met his gaze. "I know, love," she said, and he doubted if they were still talking about he and his father.
Her gaze returned to his hand, and she began to wrap the injury. "But it doesn't matter what you did or didn't want – it's all out in the open now. I don't want to lie and say that I know he'll eventually come 'round and forgive you, 'cause I don't know any such thing. But I do know that love is a strong bond and it can't usually be broken . . . even when we most want it to."
"Do you regret it, Eleanor?"
The question fled his lips before he could bar it from escape and he silently cursed himself for his weakness.
She lifted her eyes to his, her hands continuing to bind his cut. "Regret what?"
"The pies. The murders. Our . . . businesses."
Her eyes crinkled at the corners. "Sometimes I do. I know that I should . . . but I usually don't. I don't think they all deserved it – was never certain they did – but I never thought twice about it at the time. It was just what I needed to do. And even though it'd be harder the second time 'round, I'd do it all again in a heartbeat." Her eyes widened, as though she had shocked herself by admitting it aloud. "That makes me a terrible person, doesn't it?"
"No. Maybe." He was becoming rapidly uncomfortable and wished he had never mentioned the subject. "I don't know. I think it just makes you human."
She grimaced, her fingers lingering on his hand even after she finished bandaging it. "I think it'd be human to feel remorse about killing someone. To feel nothing about it seems decidedly inhuman."
"You didn't kill anyone," Sweeney tried to assuage her, in the hopes that she would cease talking.
His plan failed; her chatter was even more feverous than before. "I appreciate you trying to comfort me, love, but I might as well have killed them. I soiled my hands just as much as you in the name of what I loved, and lost just as much of myself because of it.
"What about you?" she asked. "D'you regret it?"
He watched his blood seep through and stain the white bandages, flowers of crimson that would soon turn brown. "No," he said, noting the contrast of her pale hand against the cloths soiled with rubies. "I don't."
A/N: Reviews are love.
Anonymous review replies:
Guest: I absolutely love the image of you doing a fist pump and high kick while sitting at your computer chair, reading one of my alert e-mails. xD You are really too kind. Thank YOU for R-&-R-ing, and I do hope you enjoyed this latest chapter!
Thelovelyflorencelovett: Hey, don't let Sweeney hear that you're calling him adorable. xD But yes . . . –ahem- . . . he is, haha. Thanks for reviewing!