An Unwilling Third Party
He paced -- a caged lion with no where to go, eyeing the outside world with inner fear, jealousy, and contempt through the bars of its cage. He strode purposefully and with needful resolve. He felt if he stopped, the very thoughts in his head would betray him, twist about on their heel and shoot him dead. He was without a breast plate this time, not that it would matter. He moved, around and around, almost in circles -- mimicking the ill-trusted electricity lightning through his mind. V's wig swished about, his boots thudded loudly as he walked. Light flashed across the ivory of his mask before casting it in innumerable shadow once again. V suddenly stopped and straightened. This was nonsense. The only good pacing did was ease Irritable Leg Syndrome and he certainly had nothing of the sort. He found the couch and slowly sat down. After a while, he felt his leather-clad fingers drumming upon his legs in nervous zeal. Frustrated with himself, he drew his fingers into his palms and quickly stood up and resumed his pacing gait.
It was either sit and fidget, or pace and calculate. V liked calculating, no matter how trivial or personal the matter was. This time, it was personal with a hint of fear over everything that had been built. This was not an empire of stone or a forest of trees; this was the very idea of a figment given form and solidity. "Stone crumbles, wood rots ..." He did so love that quote. It felt a life time ago since then. Things remained as they were, it was neither good nor bad but an end was coming faster than he cared to admit. He stopped pacing physically; letting his mind do all the strenuous exercise as he raised his face to the ceiling of the Gallery. Up above, the streets would be alive with noise and life, people walking, chatting, having fun, arguing, crying, stealing, killing ... She was up there somewhere ... He swallowed hard and nearly wobbled on the spot, blinking back a sudden wave of emotions. He was clearly unstable. And a world already unstable certainly didn't need his glaring flaws added to the chaotic vichyssoise. Down here, he felt safe but trapped -- the architect of his own prison. He wrung his hands together and resumed walking, heading out of the main chamber and into corridors far less traversed.
Torn in two ... He knew his mind was fragmented, but did that mean the same for his heart? No, he quickly scoffed. Not at all! Darkness engulfed him and he gladly let it. It eased the growing pressure in his temple. He merely lost sight of things sometimes -- the bigger picture ... Consonants and vowels only made up a sliver of an idea, not the whole of it. A book included a back and a cover and a spine. Words were the organs -- life giving, important organs -- but a body was more than just the individual parts -- an equation more than its numbers and lettered variables ...
He was so lost in his mind, he hardly registered what his body was doing anymore as a hand struck a match and lit a candle on a nearby desk. The warm glow blanketed the room, sculpting and shaping itself with the shadows -- not chasing them away. V swallowed again. Was it so impossible to not be garrulous all the time? But if he wasn't, was he even himself anymore? The blackness hovered over the light while the soft glow nestled to the pitch's chest, opposite and yet the same. V finally ripped himself from his stream of consciousness and stared at the symbiotic relationship between ebony and ivory before his eyes. They could co-exist together, mingling and molding within and without each other, the way water hugs to the earth and the earth, in turn, opens up to embrace it. It reminded him of a symbolic picture that personified water and rocks as woman and man. A deep sigh passed from his lips, the breath escaping from the slit in the mask. Inadvertently, he raised his hands up and unbuckled the solid veneer and propped it against the wall on the small desk. The air was always colder to his newly exposed flesh. His skin tingled suddenly and he rubbed his face with a hand. He felt every bump, ridge, and crevice rise and fall from the friction and V let out another breath of despondency.
His eyes were drawn to the mask, staring at the black pits of its eyes – his eyes. For a long while he stared at the face that his enemies were well familiar with and the face that she would forever know. No wonder she would constantly get frustrated having to stare into a void of blackness. There really were no discernable traces of human emotion to be found within. He felt glad for it. 'Why', his heart asked? 'Because that's the way things are supposed to be,' his mind replied stubbornly. 'You're only human,' his heart continued. 'Mistakes are a natural occurrence.' 'They shouldn't be,' he thought bitterly. 'This isn't what this is entirely about.' A growl escaped him and a deep frown creased his brow. It wasn't. Long ago, that wall had been breeched. This was far more tangible than mere veneers of vanity.
His eyes wandered over the desk and settled upon a piece of old parchment. The fountain pen lay upon it at an angle. V stepped near and reverently caressed the tips of his fingers over the yellowed paper, fingering the familiar shapes of letters coupled together to form words, strung together to make sentences, and compacted together to form vast passages of work. He drew in a shuddering breath, finding himself at the heart of the matter. Words were only given meaning by the person behind them and the person who reads it, personalizing it and interpreting it for themselves. "I'm so sorry," his cracked and charred lips whispered to the thin air. "I'm so sorry …" Words were the conceiving of his entire being and existence. They gave him life that would've otherwise been denied him anywhere else. Of course he would speak so venerably of it. 'More than you should,' his heart interjected through his thoughts. 'Words don't feel. They don't want, they do not love.' V suddenly slammed his fist on the desk, causing the pen to fall to the ground and the mask to slump on its side. 'There is … someone else,' his mind said scathingly. 'You're very well aware of that serpent that eyes you voraciously. There can only be so much scorching and then what will you do?' 'Killing yourself from the inside out,' his heart continued coolly, not even moved by the prior outburst or idle threat, 'is not the wisest thing to do nor is holing yourself up in your personal monastery. Selfish.' A growl escaped him, his brow furrowing deeper. 'You'll have flights of fancy, your bursts of passion, as you like to call it, and you'll be left with less and less of yourself than you started out with.' When his mind had no retort, his heart continued, 'and what of her? You can't deny yourself the one thing you secretly dreamed of for years, far surpassing any vendetta or anger or words.' His hands gripped the back of the old chair in a vice grip. 'It couldn't be more noticeable,' his heart chortled on. 'It's so obvious. You finally got what you wanted --' "Shut up!" His deep voice pierced the silence and nearly caused the flame of the candle to grow still in shock. He rubbed his face again before snatching the mask from the desk and throwing it back over his face. The flame shivered as V drew near and choked it with a forefinger and thumb. Darkness hovered heavily like a morose fog but he was too frustrated to notice as he left the room, forcing a stalemate between the ceaseless bickering of his heart and mind and settled upon immediate gratifying amusement on the telly.