Disclaimer: I own nothing. Though who wouldn't like to own Hugh Jackman?
Room of Angel
The
room was dark, as rooms without the lights on were wont to be. Barren,
too, without much more than curtained window, bed, table, wall-based
cross, weapons rack, and two dusty chairs to grace its humble space.
But that was keeping in character with the man who sometimes lived in
it. No memories of the distant past, and no desire to remember the day
to day made for little in the way of memorabilia decor.
Upon
first walking into the dismal space, others had often likened its stark
interior to a jail cell, minus the expected wall shackles, rats, and
general dank mildewy nastiness. Tact (and a certain fear of retribution
the insult might bring) kept them from voicing their opinions aloud
where the room's occupant could hear them, however.
He knew
their thoughts anyway and did not mind. The analogy was apt enough.
This room was indeed his cell, and the Church his jailer, but the
invisible manacles upon his hands were of his own choosing. No matter
how the issue was viewed, it was still his decision to return here when
he'd completed his assignments; his decision to drag himself
back here and hide from the world that branded him murderer, outlaw,
untouchable; and his decision to leave again the next day, like
clockwork, and reenter that world to kill another of its denizens. A
vicious cycle, and yet one he had made no definitive effort to halt. A
person could hardly be called a prisoner if he had chosen the
incarceration himself.
His leather coat had been slung
carelessly over the back of one chair, its ragged and mudstained end
brushing the floor. The weapons normally concealed inside it were
arrayed on the table in precise order, as if he'd been to inspect them,
even in the dark. A tiny shaft of light had escaped the drawn curtain
and was gleaming dully on the butts of the twin pistols. His haunted
gaze avoided them. He sat in the dim murk, unmoving, watching the dust
motes dance.
He was a shadow in this room, when he visited here
at all, leaving it as he had found it without mark or imprint upon its
reality save for a stirring of dust. That was how he liked it.
For
someone who could not die (or rather, would inexplicably not stay
dead), it was the closest he would ever come to feeling like a ghost.
Gabriel
Van Helsing lifted his eyes to the cross that hung on the wall. There
were bullet holes outlining it, some still smoking from an earlier bout
of rage that had lapsed into current brooding depression. So much for
passing without a trace. He smiled suddenly, a humorless little quirk
of the lips, and spoke to the cross. "Forgive me, chunk of wood, for I
have sinned," he told it softly. "I have killed more people than I can
count, including the woman I think I loved and her innocent brother. I
have defied holy orders by letting the Frankenstein monster live, and
by letting my own self live after becoming tainted by the werewolf's
curse." Pause. "Though I assure you, I am quite cured at this time but
for an occasional urge to bay at the full moon." He waited again, not
really expecting any response but pausing politely just in case one was
somehow made. After a moment of unbroken silence, he continued on. "I
also dragged an inexperienced monk out onto the field, exposing him to
corruption and danger and pretty Transylvanian barmaids and all sorts
of other terrible things. Forgive me, I have sinned."
The wooden
cross was silent in the aftermath of this confession, as crosses had a
tendency to be. Van Helsing shrugged and picked up the gun closest to
him, beginning the meticulous process of reloading it.
"Just thought you'd want to know."
Carl
would have reproached him for such irreverence, but probably not very
loudly since Carl also had a healthy sense of self preservation.
Cardinal Jinette would have given him that condescending
holier-than-thou look he was so fond of, as if Van Helsing were nothing
but a troublesome schoolboy given to pranks. And Anna would have....
Anna.
A
silver bullet fell to the floor, nearly followed by the gun itself
before he lowered his shaking hands to his lap. His shoulders hunched,
dark hair slipping forward to hide his face, and powerful muscles
strained under the effort of keeping sudden anguish internal. His lips
moved, but he did not cry out.
A long moment passed. Then
another. When Van Helsing finally straightened and brushed back his
hair with calm detachment, there was no trace of sorrow left about his
eyes or expression. Only blank emptiness, to match the void he felt
inside.
He finished reloading the revolver. Sighted down along
it. Clicked the safety off, on, and off again. Closed his eyes and
pictured Anna's face.
The barrel was cold against his temple. He
would have liked to say something again to the cross, or to Anna, but
there were no more words. So he settled for letting out a deep breath
and pulling the trigger.
Van Helsing opened his eyes. Closed them again, seeing only darkness in both. Sat up in the huge sticky lake of blood pooled around him and looked about rather dejectedly. The cleaning staff was going to have an absolute fit over the mess.
He rose stiffly, got washed and changed, and went down to dinner.