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Chapter 17 Would You Notice?
'What killed you soul?'
He snorted.
A little melodramatic, aren't we?
Vincent hadn't said another word to Sarah as they walked back into town. He was just going to get his things at Sarah's and then he'd be gone.
That was all there was to it.
She'd be OK now. His work here was done. Sarah would be safe.
Right.
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What motivates him? How can he live this way? What made him go down this road - so far, far away from anything even close to what most people would call normal?
Sarah needed to know. If she was ever to come out of this experience in one piece, mentally, she needed some answers. If there were no answers, there was no hope. She couldn't keep on living, knowing that this black hole of a man wandered the earth. It would slowly eat her; poison her mind, her soul. He would always be there, because he was a part of her past and now he was responsible for her future.
And if there was no hope… then what was to become of the rest of her life? What would've been the reason for her to live through this ordeal?
She'd be in debt, but to what? To whom?
They walked on, but Sarah needed to stop. A wave of nausea washed over her. Trembling, she gripped for Vincent for support.
She had to be strong; she didn't want to crumble in front of him again.
Get a grip! Straighten up!
Seeing people getting killed before her very eyes wasn't normal. Not to her. Not to anyone. Shouldn't be, at least.
How can he?
"Vincent."
He finally stopped.
"I feel sick."
"Breathe, Sarah." He gripped her shoulders and looked her in the eyes. "You're doing fine. Actually, you're doing great. Breathe, and it will pass. OK?"
Pressing white lips tightly together, she nodded and fought the nausea that threatened to overwhelm her.
"Help me home," she whispered.
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They had made some tea, and Sarah had put on some music. She was sitting on her sofa with a blanket wrapped around her shoulders, sipping at the hot, strong liquid. Vincent's cup remained untouched. He'd been avoiding her gaze since they got back.
She was still cold. The chill on the inside refused to leave her. She knew something was terribly wrong with Vincent, and she HAD to find out what it was, even if it scared the hell out of her.
Vincent sat next to her, obviously uncomfortable, at the edge of the cushion.
"Vincent, what happened to you?What turned you into this?"
He didn't react, and she abruptly put her cup down and gripped his shoulders, trying to make him look at her again. He had the strangest look in his eyes, they were darker than she'd ever seen them, and looked hollow somehow.
Like entrances to hell.
Vincent rose abruptly and began pacing the room in front of her. He looked like a caged tiger, a white tiger, ready to bolt at any moment. He behaved like he was in withdrawal, except that his gaze wasn't dull and dazed, it was razor sharp.
"Tell me, please. You need to tell me!" she pursued. It was unbearable to watch him. Tell me, Vincent; let it out, whatever it is. You don't have to be alone.
All of a sudden he sat down on the low table in front of her. It creaked under his weight. Cornering her in the sofa and pinning her with his hypnotizing eyes, he narrowed them as he spoke.
"I don't need to tell you shit, Sarah. You don't want to know."
"I do," she pushed on. Ignorant to the fact that in front of her sat the most dangerous man she was ever likely to encounter. "I'm not gonna stop until you tell. Come on, you need it too, I know you do!"
"Playing Dr Phil, are we?" he sneered, unexpectedly raising his voice.
She gaped, but snapped her mouth shut again; the venom with which he had said it was a new element in their relation. She'd been the one doing the fighting and screaming. Not him; he'd stayed unnaturally controlled for the most parts. Suddenly he stood, his dark eyes fired up and his nostrils flared in rage. Sarah stood too, backing away from him and maneuvering herself towards the front door, afraid all of a sudden. This Vincent she didn't know, couldn't predict.
"You wanna know? Wanna know who I really am?" he roared, following her, gripping around her throat and making her gasp in fear. "I'll show you!"
He shook her violently and threw her away from him so hard her head hit the wall. Sarah produced a half strangled squeak, bit her tongue enough to draw blood and slithered to her knees.
When he sank down in front of her, the fury was gone as abruptly as it had appeared.
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"I'm sorry, Sarah, I'm so sorry."
His heart pounded wildly in his chest and he had a metallic taste in his mouth. Never wanted to hurt her. FUCK! I gotta leave before… before she makes me do something I'll regret… He'd lost it there for a second, and he was afraid it might happen again. Her presence did something to him; it opened carefully closed and locked compartments within him.
It was dangerous.
Lethal.
He cupped her cheeks in his palms and tried to make her look at him. Sarah gripped his hands with hers and looked up at him with tear-drenched eyes.
Biting her bloodied teeth together, she whispered in a broken voice. "Take me to your world, Vincent. Let me in!" The desperation and need in her eyes told him of painful loneliness, and an understanding beyond his comprehension. He nodded to himself and stood, taking a step back.
In some odd way she knew more of his life, the dark, fearful past he'd been so careful to hide, than she even understood herself.
Yet.
Her past intermingled with his. They were cut from the same stem.
Shredded.
Broken.
Just barely hanging on.
He realized that he could tell her.
Then maybe she'll know she isn't alone…
Vincent let out a deep sigh of both relief and a kind of frightening anticipation he hadn't experienced before; a foreboding of pain.
And finally he told her.
For hours he spoke of the abuse, the violence and the fear. How there had been no one to stop his father when he had gotten angry, when the alcohol had dulled his compassion and sense. How he'd used to beat his son unconscious and then call school the next day and tell them he was sick, to give the bruises some time to heal. How he'd used to come in to his room at night to violate him. How he every time the social services had taken him away had sobered up until he'd had him back and then it had gotten worse.
All until the day Vincent had been old enough to strike back.
At twelve, he'd killed him.
He had gotten a gun from a kid at school. By shooting his father in the groin, he'd started with a place that wouldn't kill him at once. Vincent had watched, fascinated by his new power, how the fucker had writhed in pain on the floor as the pool of blood between his legs had grown wider. Then he'd beaten him.
To death.
After he'd washed himself and got rid of the gun. He'd called the cops, crying, saying someone had broken into their house and that there had been a terrible fight. Something about a woman.
They had never had a clue. He had been twelve.
Going on thirty.
Sarah cried and cried. She had never believed it had been that bad. How had he survived? She asked, and he told her more. Finally they were silent in the blessed knowledge that someone else knew, that someone shared their secrets.
Making them less filthy.
Less dark.
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To his surprise, Vincent felt cleansed.
Yeah, he had told Max once, in the cab. But then he had laughed and joked it away. What twelve year old does that?
But now, this, was different.
He didn't object as Sarah crawled closer on hands and knees. They had remained sitting on the floor, unable to move to a more comfortable position. As if a painful story demanded a painful position.
Vincent closed his eyes as Sarah carefully caressed his cheek, followed the curve of his grayish eyebrows with the tip of her finger, lay her palm against his cheek, leaned over and kissed his eyelids, first one and then the other.
He reveled in the sensation of giving in, of trust, of being close in a way he had never experienced in his whole life. When she gently kissed his closed lips he accepted the gift, knowing she didn't ask for anything back.
Slowly, they sank to the floor; Sarah held him in her arms and rocked his body like a baby, with tender, careful movements.
She didn't stop, she didn't get tired, and she didn't want to talk about herself.
Exhausted, he finally he relaxed in her arms, and as the morning broke on the third day, they fell asleep there, on the floor in Sarah's small living room, with a CD playing on repeat softly in the background.
And the city woke to yet another day.
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