Note: This is HEAVILY filled with mature content. Read at own risk, sorry for long delay of update.

He never knew what it meant to cry.

However, late at night, his body would freeze.

Everything would be cold.

Everything tasted like blood, warm blood, a hot secret at the edge of his tongue, waiting to spill.

Late at night, his legs would become stiff, as so his arms, and the cold winds that steeped though the crack in his door would feel gentle and warm, a light laughter sprinkled in a world of lies and darkness.

Late at night, he didn't need his knife to crave his emptiness into the vastness of his skin, or the chiming of empty bottles striking concrete wall to lull him to sleep. Because, sometimes, at night, he felt, he knew, his mom was there.

And that was enough for him.

Chapter Two: The Sin

Of all the chores Vincent had to do, the one he dreaded was cleaning up the Master's bedroom, Now, though slender and barely feed, Vincent actually enjoyed cleaning. He loved making dusty things shine again, and wiping the mirrors until his reflection could be seen, glistening with polish and elbow grease, a reflection undisturbed and pure. But when it came to cleaning his Master's bedroom, Vincent hated it. And he would

[and he often did] trade whatever he could, with other servants so he could avoid the room with its double doors and huge floor to ceiling windows.

But today, no one was free. Vincent had no idea what to do, even when Mara bared her teeth at him, filling his hands with mop and bucket. The day was cold, he felt a breeze left the corner of his shirt and steep into his bones as Mara turned back into the supply closet. The sounds of her rummaging through the stuffed closet sounded like bed sheets being ripped off a bed, and Vincent felt lightheaded. He didn't want to go back there, ever again.

"Mara."

His voice sounded like a stone pitched against glass, a scamper of sound rough against even his own ear. The woman didn't even look over her shoulder. Vincent squeezed the handle of the mop with his fist, so hard that his baby fingers turned red, as the cold winter wind continued to blow in from the cracked window.

"Mara?"

Just a bit louder, but no, Mara didn't even lift her head. A servant from the kitchen walked by, his hands loaded with a steaming dish, and knocked Vincent slightly to the side with a jut of his hip. Against the hallway's wall, Vincent could feel the cold that emitted from the window, and the sounds of yelping and cooking from the kitchen down the hall. Scents of food he never had, food he couldn't even name, drifted heaven-like towards his small body, the savory warmth wrapping around his body like Mab's embrace.

"Mara! I don't want to clean Master's bedroom."

There. He yelled.

Her shoulders straightened up, rigid almost and she turned around to face him. Her face had no anger, nor any sadness, only an odd, closed scowl. Vincent instantly lowered his eyes, he couldn't stare at Mara's watery hazel eyes without feeling some sort of guilt. Mara barely spoke to anyone, only the men in suits like Tseng's. who came to her room with cuts to be bandaged, or the men in brightly color robes who made Mara's shoulders lower in defeat. The other servants didn't like Mara very much, Vincent suspected because she was taking care of him, and all the servants went out of their way to treat Vincent savagely, though he never knew why. Her eyes were always teary, as if she had tears she couldn't cry, and Vincent believed it was his fault - who else would make Mara cry but a little orphan, not even good enough to be given food - only crusts and leftovers that no one else wanted.

But no matter what Mara said, he won't clean his Master's bedroom. Too much went on there that Vincent didn't want to remember. So no matter what Mara said, he wouldn't go.

But Mara didn't say anything. Instead, she took him by the hand - the first time she ever touched him outside their shared room - and walked him down the hallway and into the little servant's bathroom. The dim lightbulb was not enough to hide the cracked floor, or the tub filled with a liquid that smelled like strong, bitter alcohol. The toilet overflowed with paper and cigarette buds and it smelled like human urine. Vincent took a deep breath and closed his mouth. He didn't want to breathe in anything, the smell always made him feel as if he was going to vomit. But Mara had no problem with the pungent smells. It was as if she couldn't smell them.

"Vincent, he hurt you too didn't he?"

Vincent opened his mouth to say something, but he resembled that he didn't want to breath and stood there as Mara let his little hand drop from her own. She took a step back, letting her hands clutch the side of her shirt. And before Vincent could close his eyes, she lifted her shirt and let the dirty blouse fall to the floor.

"Look, Vincent."

Above her left breast was a long jagged scar, not clean, like the scars Vincent gave himself with his knife, but rough, as if cut by glass or a mirror. Mara took a step closer to him, her body hardening with the cold that washed into the room, bruised with cold and the shame that danced in Mara's eyes. Her hands reached out to Vincent, but he took a step back . He never saw a naked woman before, and he could feel Mab's hands wrapping themselves around him. His imaginary goddess and Mara before him - who was real and who was not?

"Vincent, look at me."

Mara covered herself with her hands as she bent on one knee, her face cold and sad, a beautiful sadness that almost took Vincent's breath away. And the tears started to fall from Mara's face.

"FUCKING! Look."

Vincent had a dream like this once before, but he was the one crying. He didn't know why, but in that dream, even the light was sad. He didn't know how he knew, but the light was crying, leaving soft patches of almost there, but not quite, silvery wisps upon his bare arms. The tear of light - Vincent recalled this dream sharply in his mind, like the bitter taste of salt rubbed against a wound, as Mara lifted his hand and laid it against her scar. The beat of a heart made Vincent's eyes widen as Mara closed her own.

"I am not as beautiful or as strong as your mother."

- My mother? -

"You will be just the same."

And arms took the child to her, hugging his head to her bosom, as a mother should, as a mother would if she did not die. If she knew the face of a child who knew never to cry, never to smile, who she left behind in this empty world - would she hasten back to this reality to reclaim him? But Mara was so soft, and so warm, and Vincent let himself be lulled into a dream like state within Mara's arms. Fingers brushed against his hair and for the first time, Vincent felt warmth, a gentle warmth that spread from his heart all the way down to his feet. Oh, and how real and how sweet was her warmth and her tears.

It was different how Mara held him, tenderly now, as if nothing could separate him from her touch. Her heart beat softly, as well it should be, or else, Vincent would know that this was only a dream. A dream far better then the darkness that took him, almost every night, shallowing whatever glimmer of light or joy the small child felt that day. Chilled hands and a deafening silence, that was the darkness that claimed him. It was Mara's touch that could save him. If only she would.

"Will you be my mother?"

Why? What would be accomplished now, those were the words, so real, what can be changed?

That was what her eyes said as Vincent lifted his face to meet her own. Staring into the depths, he found no answers, just tears, hot as they fell against his upturned forehead, the drops of a blessing he should not receive. But how eagerly he licked his lips, waiting for the taste of a human love to enter into his cursed self.

"What did he do to you, Vincent?"

Her hand against his thinly clad back - was this how his mother would have touched him?- eased the trembling of his shoulders, the tremor that resounded throughout the whole stretch of his small body. The darkness that tore into him and bind him to tell his secrets to stones and cold sky reached for him now, cold hands covering his open mouth.

- What did Master do to me? Didn't I do it to myself? -

To be silent, like how he was that night when the snow fell in rivers down the window. If he cried that moment, he would be hurt, maybe killed. But was it worth all that silence? Nothing could break the seal upon his closed lips, even when pushed roughly back on Master's silk covered bed. The ripple of sheets and his clothes being torn off by seeking, crude hand, they sounded like the moans of the dead. He was silent, so quiet. If only he screamed, if he just said something, but his silence was like the thick locks of hair that Master seized with his fist, muttering with pleasure. His silence was as smooth and as steady as the skin that Master stroked, raw and young, Vincent was so young. He didn't know how to laugh or cry when Master's hands found what they seek and grunted that when he grew up, Vincent will be so beautiful, this wouldn't have to stay hidden.

But Vincent was so young, and that was why Master touched him here and there, bit and nibbled him where it pleased Master the most, as his hands encircled, like steel rings, Vincent's own fleeting innocence. Something that he'll never touch nor find every again, as Master placed his weight on Vincent's small hips and the bed creaked and groaned under the heavy load. The sound of silence in Vincent's ears took everything away. He was floating above this pain, above this sin. Master said when Vincent grew up, in excited breaths as his lips bit itself raw into the nape of Vincent's neck, he will be Master's favorite toy. Because he's so beautiful, and how smooth was his skin, eternal youth.

He did this himself, Master grunted as he lifted himself from Vincent's curled self, he won't have been tempting if Vincent's wasn't so goddamn pretty.

Your ma, you got it from your ma.

So goddamn pretty.

To this, Vincent meet with silence, silence as heavy as the sounds of Master pulling on his clothes, and the door slamming shut, sealing Vincent's misery and pain. This was the beauty of his silence. He could float above it all, including this sin.

"Did he hurt you, Vincent? Just tell the fucking truth."

Mara's eyes, they along could be Vincent's mother. The light and love they held, yes, she should be spared any more grief. This will be dealt with. He will not always be the child that Master calls his own, raven haired toy. The silence, the safe silence that caged in his hatred and shame, will break, Mab will die and from her ashes, who shall be born?

- I will. -

"No."

====

- I should die. I'm a lair.

It hurt me so bad, Mara. I'm still in pain.

Master calls me his slave. That I'm lucky he's letting me live here. Mara, I'm scared.

Maybe I'll never grow up and be

Be the man that can kill him, make Master go away so you and me can live in this house

Just like the stories

of you and me and a mom that should have been.

This silence will break. It has to, or else, I'll die. But I'll take you with me, Mara. I promise. I won't let Master hurt us anymore, one day. -

"Mr. Tseng?"

"You are?"

"Can you make me.."

"Make you, what, my child?"

"Unsilence me, Mr. Tseng. Help me."

"It'll cost you."

"I have nothing. Nothing to live for, nothing to give."

"Oh, that's our price."

"Help me, Mr. Tseng. Please."