Weakness: Part one
Disclaimer: I do not own Sweeney Todd or Mrs. Lovett.
There was a hole in his life. Or rather, in the vague, grey state that he referred to as a life. It seemed almost impossible, that a man such as he, an incarnate of the devil, a demon on earth, could have something missing. His 'life' was so miniscule anyway, rotating around a singular goal as sinister as his heart: revenge.
He lived for that thing, breathed, ate and drank to it. But most of the time, he killed for it. That revenge had transformed him, and he let it; after all, what else had he to cling too? It had always been enough for him, watching blood gush from a wound, watching the victim's face turn white in death, his body stiffening as his face retained that oh so pleasurable look of fear. Sweeney Todd lived for that look; it was all he had to survive on now.
But yet…Even with the mistress that was revenge, there was something off, tilted, that even his warped mind could not ignore. As to what it was…He was afraid to know.
He was sure it was a weakness; every mortal was flawed with those abominable things, and although Sweeney Todd did not consider himself to be immortal to such things, he had always thought that he had been too far withdrawn to have them, too dead inside to have anything still alive. And yet…Somewhere, deep inside found underneath the ash of what remained of him, buried beneath the soil of suffering, it was there, a soft point, a glint of feeble light that he trampled on and despised. And no matter how much blood he spilt on it, it never seemed to go away…
It hung there, in the corners of his mind, a white speck amongst the darkness that mocked him. He was only human, but he did not want to be; his only choice now was to eliminate that mark the only way he could…
He'd have to get rid of her. If he ever wanted to live without this weakness, she'd have to be gone, she, the ultimate source of it. Nellie Lovett…
The baker had been on his mind for far too long, and it was starting to affect him. To this he could simply not allow—Sweeney Todd could afford no weaknesses, not anymore. He was not, and refused to be, Benjamin Barker anymore; weaknesses were beneath him.
So rather than be the man he was not and live up to the weakness, accept it as any man would, the demon inside of him took charge—the demon being his true self—and decided to get rid of this nuisance known as Mrs. Lovett. It would surely fill that hole to have her gone…
He was really too far in his vehemence to realize that her death would only widen that hole even more until it all but swallowed him whole.
He found her in her part of the tiny house, just beyond the bakery, sitting in that recliner by the fire, a place she usually went to retire. He grinned darkly to himself, brandishing his razor; oh yes, retire she would…She certainly would…
There was a fore dancing in the hearth in front of her, and the blade reflected in it a lethal silver soon to drip rubies. It made him want to smile; he was one who loved rubies after all, those precious, precious rubies…And he had a feeling hers would be even more precious.
She slept on peacefully, her face angled towards the fire as he towered over her tiny figure—an innocent blissfully unaware to the demon casting a shadow on her, that death bringing tool in his hand.
His face still wore that faint, sinister smile as he leaned down towards her, the pale, slender column of her throat visible, highlighted in the perfect way in the flickering light. Her pulse beat steadily, slowly beneath the cold weapon, the blue vein so ready to be slashed open, just like all the others. Everyone had that same vein, so therefore, in his black eyes, they were all the same. These beings, these weaknesses in human form…
He stared at her face for a moment, studying the high cheekbones, the mass of auburn hair tumbling like fire down around her. And that pale neck…
Somewhere, in the recesses of his wicked soul where that stain of humanity still lurked, he felt a flash of pain. He could not understand it, relying on the blood, the darkness that swallowed him to cover it up, to make it nonexistent once again. She was just like all the others, a life that could so easily be ended, a being that was meaningless to society as a whole. But to him…
No, she was worthless to him as well, and a nuisance to him, being the weakness he refused to have any longer. He had suffered through the things she had inspired in him for too long; it needed to be ended, or else the dead heart inside of him might start beating again, might become revived and light again. And he could not accept that, not so long as the thirst for revenge flowed through his veins. She would just be a distraction, taking him away from his ultimate goal; Hell, in several ways she already was a distraction, a weakness…
The razor looked nice against her skin, and he was sure that her red blood would look even better. He wanted to move his hand across that neck, see that life giving crimson liquid bloom and fall, gush out in a torrent of red so warm and lovely. But yet…He could not.
The blade stayed positioned where it was, on her pulse, right on that jugular, and he could only stare at it, at her. Why could he not move his hand?
There was a pulse inside of him then, and he gasped, winced, nearly fell over from the unexpected movement. A pulse…he had not believed he had had one anymore, had always been so good at ignoring it. But now…
The smile slide from his face into a dark scowl as he glared at the woman who was unintentionally causing such an unwanted thing in him, now more than ever wanting to slice her throat open, watch her breathing stop.
And yet…She looked so damn peaceful, so bloody lovely that…The thought of seeing the blood staining her perfect countenance, running down that slender throat was rather…repulsive.
He pressed down a little too hard under the stress of his internal debate, puncturing the pale skin lightly. He watched as a thin line of blood formed, watched it reach up to caress the blade, the thing that had let it loose. He had been right; it appeared no different than any other person's blood, but the fact that it came from her, from that slender neck…it revolted him.
At this point Sweeney was considering slitting his own throat to escape the unbidden thoughts he was having. This woman was making him weak, making him into that foolish man with the naïve mind again; Benjamin Barker was buried, but she was digging him up again. It needed to be stopped, but his hand still wouldn't move and that pulse, that trembling in his soul, still would not stop haunting him, staying his actions.
"What are you doing to me…?" he whispered hoarsely to her unconscious figure, not expecting an answer and not wanting one. "With this heart…"
A fault, an Achilles heel—and he could do nothing to get rid of it. The razor fell from her throat, his figure moved away from her limp form. So many had fallen under the same curse without their consent; Sweeney Todd could now say that he had too.
It was a curse that seeped deep within the veins, flowed like the blood that pumped through the body, as sustaining as that red liquid. Only Sweeney, unlike his love for blood, despised this infiltrated liquid that now coursed through him, the weakness it caused, the expansion of that spot of light that he could no longer try to cover.
Mrs. Lovett had really done the impossible—made him, the demon of Fleet Street, feel something other than wrath, something other than anger and pain. Something only Benjamin Barker could feel…
Love. And he loathed her all the more for it, knowing that the weak spot inside of him was there to stay. A constant hole in his dark soul he refused to fill, a weakness that he was stuck with, apparent in each throb of his heart, that painful, loathing thud that he had not acknowledged in fifteen years, suddenly so alive and agonizing.
He retreated back up to his barbering shop where he would sit in that chair, that chair of death, and try to force his thoughts away from her, descending further into the darkness that was always pleasant, always present.
But his weakness….His weakness always managed to break, unbidden, unwanted, through, worming through the darkness enough times to make Sweeney Todd considering, once more, slitting his own throat.
It seemed even monsters, those who were dead inside, living only for the misery of others, could feel. And the blood, no matter how much, could never wash it away…
That night Sweeney Todd did not spend thinking of revenge, that ever present thing, but rather studying the blade in his hand, and the red, although dried now, that tainted it.
It's short, I know, but I plan on putting this in two parts—this one, from Sweeney's POV, and another from Mrs. Lovett's POV when she wakes up to find blood on her neck and a tiny cut. Cuz, I don't think that can be considered normal, ha.
Please Review and I'll try to post the second half as soon as I can.