VI: Thy Life Destroy
i've been dreaming.
i was lucid.
i was dreaming blood was seeping from my pores.
who'd believe that it was all my own decision?
cracked faces and medicated smiles. set fire to my home before i turned and walked back in.
for every needle, open my chest and insert ten pins.
i just anticipate what awaits when i awake....break... i die in my daydreams.
the gardens have all been overgrown.
i pushed my hand through the thorns just to crush the final rose.
a deadly secret only i suffer to know,
i can't eradicate what awaits when i awake...break.
...i die in my daydreams.
-AFI, No Poetic Device
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Vincent watched from the shadows, unnoticed, the ever-present guardian. His eyes were crying, his soul was crying, his heart, his bleeding, gushing heart was crying. He was so, so empty, and she... was so very full. He watched her smile, could almost cry out. In her womb she held the moon the stars, an angel-child, a revolution. Though pained, Vincent's eyes saw all. Didn't she see how pale she was? Her skin was as light as gauze, translucent as moth's wings, pale as porcelain. Didn't she see that what grew inside of her was draining her, was eating her alive? Her lips were so unnaturally red in that alabaster face: fallen rose petals in the snow. The white would consume the red soon, Vincent knew.. Soon, it seemed, the white rose would win. And then she would die.
Vincent's eyes
burned at Hojo. His inner cries were desperate. Didn't Hojo see any of this? Didn't
that damnable Professor see how precious, how fragile, how beautiful she was, and her child would be? How dare Hojo use
them for his experiment. To him, she was just another little white lab rat, to
use and dispose of. If only Lucrecia would let go, unsnare herself, before her
'husband' took everything she had. If only she would let herself fall away from
this science, this practical reality. If only she would let go and do so...
Vincent would catch her. But...she was smiling.
And he let her be.
Tseng watched as the child was brought in by the lab intern. Something in him stirred. The infant had been born no more than half an hour ago. He should have nannies, not scientists and soldiers about him. But..wait. That's what he was here for, thought Tseng bitterly. To be a nanny. The young Turk had been overjoyed when his leader Vincent had called in for reinforcements in maintaining Nibelheim security. Even happier when President Shinra had picked him, the rookie of all people to assist. But when he was told of his charge, the crestfallen Tseng realized that, stereotypically, the teenager's job would be to babysit. Apparently, thought Tseng dryly, as he watched the tiny baby study its surroundings, apparently tactics, traps, stealth were essential for watching children. But as the miniature Sephiroth swiveled humongous, eerie green eyes to study Tseng, the rookie Turk comforted himself by telling himself he was guardian to the key to the Jenova project, Shinra's second largest scientific investment. Tseng turned back to watching the babe. That was, after all, his job. The infant, though just a newborn, was already dragging, dragging hisself towards the exit. Barely an hour old, and already recognizing his prison. Silver fluff of hair alighted in an occult halo as a moonbeam cut through the window like a curved, steel blade, lighting up the room. And the eerie smell of late roses wafted in.
Flash.
Tseng dragged himself doggedly towards the exit, trying to flee this prison. A pain from his bloodied torso racked his body, and Tseng knew he was going to die. As if confirming him, the deep, malevolent voice of Sephiroth, disembodied, rolled out from some faroff corner of the Temple of the Ancients that he couldn't see. Tseng rested his dark head for a moment on the stones, and he couldn't believe Sephiroth could do this...yet he so could. Then, as if seconding the voice of the great, insane warrior, another voice, one from the past came, though higher-pitched, the voice of the same Sephiroth...
"I'm never going to die," the child Sephiroth had said to Tseng that day, gazing up intensely at the Turk from his 'toys' of old gun parts. "Everybody dies," Tseng had stated matter of factly, silencer in between his teeth as he cleaned his guns. "I'm not everybody," Sephiroth had said, mako green optics still huge. "That so?" Tseng had mummered, half-ignoring the 4 year old boy already articulate beyond those 10 times his age. Sephiroth had looked down unsatisfied at his jumble of deadly playthings, and had stood up, walking for the door. "My father's expecting me," he had announced imperiously. "It's not on my schedule," Tseng had pointed out, never stopping his work, and still not paying close attention. "So you're not moving an inch, buster." Sephiroth had unstuck the older man's dagger from his boot, had run a child's finger down the blade caressingly.
"My mother's expecting me."
Tseng had stopped greasing his gun's barrel, stared at the tiny figure so commanding. "That's sick. Your mother's dead." And he had kicked the door shut from his seat, unnerved. Sephiroth had clutched little babe's fist, taken a deep breath. Then he had spoken, ringing toddler's voice an omen. "You're going to die, Tseng." Tseng had made no answer. "I'll be alive, my mother will be alive, but you'll be DEAD. And as you crawl to your deathbed, all you'll do is wish you were me. Because I'm not going to die." Then the boy had tiptoed on little black booties, twisted the doorknob, opened the door himself, and walked out.
Tseng gasped for breath as he finally reached the portal, his flashback over as he collapsed against an aged pillar. Sephiroth had been right, even at the boy's young age so long ago. He was dying and Sephiroth was alive and it didn't seem that Sephiroth would ever die. The band of people he recognized as AVALANCHE walked in, and the flower girl approached.
Aeris...
Oh how he wished he could open his mouth to tell her it all. Tell her how he loved her, how he was sorry, how...how...oh...oh...A frantic splash of dizziness flooded his senses.
He had so much to do still...he needed to tell Aeris...he needed to atone...he need her to forgive him and tell her that he...The girl in pink warbled something, and he mumbled back, blurry. He didn't hear her, and he didn't hear himself.
Sephiroth had been right. He was heading for his deathbed and he so wished he was Sephiroth right now, alive, if only to have that lost time to finish his business. But it was not be so, and darkness rolled in on Tseng, all too soon.
Unflash.
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O Rose, thou art sick!
The invisible worm
That flies in the night,
In the howling storm,
Has found out thy bed
Of crimson joy:
And his dark
secret love
Does thy life destroy.
-W.Blake
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The day came too soon. In her fevered, diseased rantings, one day the name that slipped out from between cracked and fevered lips was "Vincent." But he couldn't hear her. So she screamed it. She screamed so that the room resonated with "VINCENT!" and the whole mansion heard and knew. Everyone in the town knew, save Vincent himself, who sat in the charred remains of the monastery and silently, stoically shot bulletholes through every icon, bible, and tapestry he could get his hands on. Far away in the crags of Mt. Nibel, the mountain hid her pleas. Nightfall brought Vincent home to Hell, and as his footsteps dragged wearily in through the iron wrought gates, he noticed the eyes. They gathered in plethoras and furies, chattering and whispering in hushed tones, all watching him, examining him. Sad wistful nurses clucking as he passed by, Scientists who looked down and away, Shinra executives who harrumphed apologetically...and Vincent still did not know. Thumping, dragging, walking as if he had a ball and chain, Vincent was making his slow progressing way to his room when...He stopped. Lucrecia's door was finally open. And standing sideways, he could barely bear to turn around and look. Achingly, step by step, Vincent turned and stepped in. He crossed the long walk to the other side of the room- she was sleeping, he thought, and even in sleep, her back was turned to him. He sat down on the bed and stayed still for a long while, simply sitting quietly in her presence. Then in a burst of initiative, he touched her shoulder to turn her over to face him.
In a howl of anguish, in a howl of disgust, Vincent recoiled, falling away from her dead cold skin and her blank, empty eyes in a panic. Dead. Without her love to catch her, she fluttered to the ground, wilted, hitting the floor in a sounding of dove's wings, her hair splayed out, her limbs sprawled limp, lifeless. Vincent did not recognize his own voice. Strangled, it tore out of his throat of it's own volition, sounded out hollow and tortured. He collapsed to his knees, picked her up and rocked her, crying, sobbing into her shoulder smelling of roses. Roses, oh God, roses. He looked up, saw the red rose in its vase, wilted, its petals falling, drooping forlornly. With a cry, he swung out his arm, letting it crash to the floor. The crystal cut through his arm, cut through the rose petals, they bled, bled together in a puddle of sweet smelling red. The rosy glass tinkled as it hit the floor. Like it just as much when it hurt. She was dead. He had loved her, loved her more voraciously than he valued his own soul: he would give up eternity to have her back, but now she was gone. Standing by like a fool, he had let go of her hand, let her slip, slip, slip, fall into the gray, fading, she was lost, she was rose petals for the lover, disintegrating into the mud.
As long as she's happy, but she wasn't. And the blind fool he was, he hadn't
noticed, blocked it out with his stupidity and denial. They were too
pale the petals that scattered on the floor, just like her, they had bled out all their blood, their red. He
hugged her close, ignored the blood pulsing from his arm, like he gave a damn anymore
like he gave a damn about anything anymore. He sobbed, held her hand, her
beautiful smooth slim hand, seeing the blood trickle down her arm, then cursing
himself for staining her. The guilt swallowed him with a horrible sucking sound
that drowned out all senses. Then, a
flash of gold band upon her finger. Hojo. Vincent stood up. The rosary beads lay on the
floor. No more prayers for
Vincent, Lucrecia. God is love, but their love was dead. God is Caring
God is Peace God is buried 6 feet under a snowbank in the middle of Nibelheim
with the rest of the roses-turned-compost.
He sprinkled her with bloodied roses, eyes streaking
with tears. With a swish of dark coat, he exited. The candle tumbled, toppling,
it hit the roses, alighting in a stifling, blazing flame, enveloping the
entirety of the room in smoke and incense and fire. Let it burn. Let it all
burn.
The door slammed open, Vincent stood bloodstained, dripping with crazed eyes, empty rosary chain in his hand.
"Ah. Mr. Valentine. I've been expecting you."
Vincent could do nothing but sob, guilt enveloped in grief cutting through his heart, his lungs.
"Pity you didn't wash up before you visited. You're hardly sanitary."
Vincent stared at him with animal's eyes, unblinking, shoulders heaving. He threw a limp bundle at Hojo, contempt evident.
Hojo shifted his glasses on his nose. "Eh? What's this?" He examined the bundle. "Wilted rotting white roses. So?"
Vincent's voice was low, deadly. "You never knew her you b*stard. She hated white roses."
"Hmm. Too late now. She's dead, isn't she?"
"You killed her."
"And you let me."
Vincent cursed him with his eyes.
Hojo laughed. "Actually, she let me too. Her idea, oh yes. She had to be in control: sometimes I didn't know whose experiment it really was." He laughed again, but this time, it seemed fake and forced. "She did it because of you, you know. You drove her absolutely loony. All she would talk about, shriek about actually. You know, the birth, just lately, in her sleep, in her nightmares, on her deathbed. That woman had lungs like a banshee. But then, you'd know that. You've probably slept with her."
"F*ck you."
"Hmm? What's that again?"
"F*ck you."
"Oh yes. Well, articulate, aren't you?"
"You never loved her."
Hojo rolled his eyes. "Love. Tell me Mr. Valentine, who would you love? A gorgeous specimen who'd give you the world, make you a God, or a weak 2nd rate scientist who was screwing the hired muscle?"
"There's no such thing as a God."
"Oh-ho, how our ideas change. 'God is love', didn't you say? No, don't look surprised, Lucrecia told me. There is God: that's Jenova, and that'll be me. Y'see, together we are Science, and we've beaten down your old God of Love, your Goddess Peace. Science is the new ruler in town now. Love's obsolete. I'll admit I was fond of her, my lovely Lucrecia, but as you so eloquently put it my dear," he patted the glass tank. "She was just a pawn. Lucrecia...was nothing. Love, is nothing."
"You never loved her."
The scientist's eyes flashed. "Why do you insist on repeating that infernal phrase? I tell you, Love is a figment of one's imagination, the materialization of some obsession, hormones, sentimental nightmare, really. There's no such thing, so just drop it. There's no point in pursuing the matter."
"You never loved her."
And something went distant in Hojo, he seemed to snap, or return to sanity. Whoever knows the difference. The hand of the tank went limp, and he spoke softly, though his voice increased in volume with momentum. "Oh, but I did," he whispered, dangerously, then louder. "Yes, I f*cking loved her. I loved her, okay? I loved her, but I always knew she loved you. I loved her, but then she ran off with you so I ran off with another woman too." He stroked the glass caressingly, his voice returning to its normal lull, eyes refocusing. "Though Jenova's more than a woman. Yes, yes, she's a God. Don't you understand? Perhaps I did love Lucrecia some time, but she never let me really touch her, even when I... when I... she never let me in, never let me close never... responded. Jenova gave back. She gave me my Sephiroth experiment, my PROJECT, a life. She's going to make me a God, you know," he repeated. "A God. You see Valentine, Lucrecia just took everything away and she never, not once gave back."
But Vincent loved her, and he never tired of giving.
"And then Jenova, she wanted something, and I had taken so much, what could I do but give back, give her the tiniest gift of Lucrecia?" The rims of his glasses lined with tears. "Don't you see? Don't you see Valentine?" Hojo began laughing maniacally. "No, no you can't see, not with those disgusting pits of eyes. " He sighed. "But Jenova is God, and Lucrecia...she's nothing. Lucrecia who did nothing but drain me, suck me dry: the whore. "
"She never drained you, you drained her. Would you like to go upstairs and take a look at her, almighty Science? She's a shell, a white sheet. I may have been a fool, stood by watching and not moving, but you, you and that monster who's the only true whore, you sucked her life out, her blood out, you disgusting, repulsive vampires. You can call yourself Science, Hojo, call yourself God, but you're still just a f*cking monster. And monsters go to hell." Out came the match that lit the candle burning Lucrecia to gray, gray ashes. Out came the match that was held by strong hand now hovering and wavering so close to the open barrel of gasoline for the burners of the lab. "Monsters go to hell... So burn."
But too fast, Hojo pulled out a gun from under his lab coat. "Too bad you won't get that luxury," said the scientist evenly. And he aimed the gun. And shot him.
Under beaming florescent lights, Vincent was dimly aware of Hojo speaking aloud to his Mistress and his son, both in cells of glass. "Can you imagine little Sephiroth? He called your mother and I vampires. Really, the nerve. When it was so obvious he was the bloodsucking fool. Here, I have a good idea Sephi. What say we make our friend the Turk a vampire?" He giggled inanely. "Oh, of course it'll be hard but I can do it. I'm an 'artiste', I'm Science." The florescent lights were burning, somewhere he could hear her singing, calling his name. Vincent. All he could see was the Mako green eyes of the perfect silver child stare back at him, and all he could notice was that the eyes weren't blinking. Over him with his shining scalpel, Hojo hummed a morbid tune to himself. "Oh look, there's a nasty cut on his arm. A few injections of Jenova cells (yes you love) will do the nice little trick. See? Another game piece for you. And since he was so intent on wearing a gold band about that horrid finger, let's make the whole hand bronze, better yet the whole arm. Too bad gold wouldn't work, so heavy, it'd be quite amusing. But ah, one has to make sacrifices even for Science. But now he's got that burden he'll enjoy carrying oh, so much for the rest of his life. And ugh those eyes. you really have the most abhorrent eyes Valentine. There's no end to them, big black vortexes, sucking in, like a vampire, yup, that's you. You know what, let's have them red, like roses and blood; you do seem to love them so." And suddenly everything was rose-tinted. If he could have, Vincent would have cried. "Hmmm...remember what he called us Sephidear? Monsters. He's the monster, no matter what he says. And I'll prove it. I'll make him a monster. Better yet, 3. And I'll stick in a demon for good measure since we're all going to Hell anyways." Hojo's voice lilted cheerily, delirium obvious. Vincent saw pigeons wings, fluttering sheets, wilting flowers rolling rosary beads. And then tearing tooth and fang, flames bursting from the monster, flames in Lucrecia's room, blade gritting against flesh and bone, cutting like glass, like crystal, and he saw himself, a person pieced together from spare parts, not even a true person, broken, electrified and shocked with his pain, in truth, a demon. He was the being of true agony, true Chaos. Hojo clapped twice. " A new outfit and we're done. I didn't give the vampire fangs, love, because he doesn't need them. Remember? He's taken enough blood for quite a while now. But we musn't let them know that. Give him a mask, to hide the missing fangs, the impotence, the incapacity, the uselessness, shall we?"
And Vincent felt the uselessness, for he couldn't even save the one he loved.
"A mask and a cape, yes that's it. Ah, a masterpiece. Do you see little Sephiroth?" Watch Daddy carefully: you're next on my magic table. I'll take him down now, Jenova, to what he deserves. Be back soon, don't stay up."
Vincent was moving, how he did not know. But the world was fluid, rolling like rosary beads, and it was getting darker, and darker. Was this the basement? Just as well. No pigeons to distract him from atonement, the dove had already fallen from her glorious perch. Only bats, blood sucking monsters like himself to keep him company. He felt himself eased into his coffin, his resting place, grateful for the gray, but when his eyes closed, agony came in. So this was the luxury he was denied. Even with eyes closed, no restful gray came. Even in sleep, the red tint stayed, stayed to haunt him for eternity. So he settled back in crimson velvet, Hojo's cackling somewhere off in the corridor far away. The coffin lid clapped shut, and he awaited his judgment, his nightmare. For though he was alone in a dank dark basement, trapped in a stone cold tomb, he swore, that somewhere off in the distance, he could still smell the roses.
