"Fuck me." The expletive tore from his lips before he could stop it. It was a joke his shattered heart screamed. A perverse fucking joke. He'd wanted to suffer, to let the darkness of suffering consume him, to overwhelm but not like this. This was not the agony he'd choreographed in his head that his psyche had allowed him imagine. Instead he felt total numbness like his capacity for feeling had fled, been stripped from him like the skin from his back when his sadistic father had taken a belt, buckle end to him. He still bore those scars but this would rend even deeper into his soul.
He saw in Victor's eyes the same bewilderment found in a child's so proud of an achievement who is then told it is not good enough, his smile fading almost comedically although the situation was so far from amusing to be tragic. But she had regained something akin to pose. He watched her in those seconds after the initial shock, the obvious pain of seeing him steel herself, the air around her almost tangibly becoming cooler and her eyes becoming more cold than he'd ever seen them. It was as if she'd turned something off inside of her, her heat, her rage, her passion and she was now an unapproachable goddess. He could see none of the hatred his addicted soul craved. He could only see indifference and it scared him.
"Well Mr. Chandler I see since you've been away you've lost none of your mastery of the correct turn of phrase for all social occasions."
Her tone sounded warm but he recognised the mockery and spite that lurked behind it. She turned towards the man by her side raising a gentle hand to his face that felt to him like a slap against his. "Victor I believe we have somewhat surprised our guest with our happy news. Quick we must seat him and offer him a drink before he falls down." She turned away towards the parlour casting over her shoulder, "Bourbon, Mr Chandler?"
Victor's face had lost that little boy lost look and was smiling with adoration at her retreating form. A stab of jealousy ripped through him and he saw in his mind eye a scenario where he hit him. Hit him again and again until his face pulverised into a crimson bloody pulp under his knuckles which would only stop when there was nothing solid to connect with. He fought this urge, as well as another - to run. To place as much distance as he could between him and them; their obvious happiness, their comfort in each other, their peace. He'd come here looking for pain but had found something so much worse.
In a haze he followed Victor into the parlour to find nothing physical had changed although it felt like it should have. The revelation told with such joy had destroyed his point of reference so that the familiarity he was greeted with seemed alien and unfriendly. Vanessa had taken her seat on the left of the fire place and she sat there ram-rod straight with a smile on her face that didn't reach her eyes. He took the other chair opposite to her and they sat in agonised silence both sets of eyes fixed on Victor as he bustled about pouring drinks filling Vanessa in on the story of how he and Ethan had met so unexpectedly that afternoon. The blank look in her eyes only faltered only for a moment when Victor told her how Ethan's first interest had been on her safety.
"You always said he was your protector, my dear." He smiled as he bent down to hand her a small brandy his fingers tips brushing against hers. Ethan could feel the tension building inside him and tore his eyes away from the picture in front of him, the care he could feel radiating between them struck like ice.
"But he is no longer needed, I have you to protect me now Victor." There was such a tone of sincerity in her voice and he looked back to find her eyes again on his burning, blank and cold.
He accepted his drink and fought the urge to down it and walk straight for the bottle. But he knew to do that would betray his feelings too much and she would be looking, judging him. If he was to survive even a few minutes in her company he needed to slam his own emotional barriers into place although every fibre of his being wanted to crawl in servitude over the floor to her feet and beg her for forgiveness. When did she become so frozen? His brain screamed as he watched her seem to enjoy her drink and the company. But he knew this was a lie that she couldn't wait to see him leave that there was no place for him he was unwelcome and unwanted, a thorn in her side and stone in her shoe – she had discarded him for the bloodless doctor. And yet still the comfort of the pain that he has so longed for still refused to coalesce – he felt only rejection and humiliation.
Victor began to talk about some work he'd been doing at the local hospital when Ethan suddenly remembered Sir Malcolm and what the younger man had divulged to him on their journey to the house.
"Can I see Sir Malcolm? I feel wrong to be in his house and not to present myself."
Victor broke off with a slight scowl and Vanessa answered her tone sharp.
"He's asleep. I'm sorry he needs all the rest he can. Another time, maybe." The pause was all he needed.
"Maybe tomorrow then. I'm sorry Victor, Ms Iv…, Mrs. Frankenstein but I've just remembered I have a prior appointment that I must attend to. Forgive me but I must go." He stood throwing the rest of the harsh liquid down his throat and began to back out of the room.
Victor again looked confused and again he had to fight the urge to punch him, to betray the full extent of what she'd married – what she'd chosen over him.
"But Ethan you said you'd stay for dinner, we've got so much to catch up on."
"Forgive me." He directed this straight at Vanessa looking straight into her eyes as he backed away towards the door. He saw her eyes spark just for a moment the pain was back like a shadow and then she waved her hand imperiously, like she was dismissing him.
"Let him go Victor, if it is his want. It's not like he's never left before." And with that she rose from her chair and stood in front of the fire her arms wrapped round her waist, her back to him.
Victor followed him out of the door hovering as the seemingly terse new servant Bennet handed him his coat and hat.
"Ethan, do you really have to go? It seems such a shame. I'm sorry about my w…." he seemed to stumble, "Vanessa, I really can't think why she was like that. She's always talked about you with such affection before and then she seemed so suddenly cold. I'll speak to her see what could have upset her so." The look of concern was back making him look more like the self he remembered.
"Don't. It's not necessary. It was just the shock I'm sure and the fact that we didn't part on the best of terms. I would like to see Sir Malcolm, maybe you could send me a message when it's a good time?" He gave Victor his address and then moved towards the door and freedom. At the last moment he looked back though the open door of the parlour. She was still standing there, cold, unapproachable, like ice and the same numbness flooded over him again. He wanted her to scream at him, physically assault him, hurl abuse and yet she was silent as a grave.
He practically ran for the door and out into the cold of the night ramming his hat onto his head desperate to put as much distance between himself and his lost hope. His brain, as he strode towards his lodgings played out the scenes that he'd left behind. A cosy dinner, set by candle light. Her asking questions about his day. Laughing at a shared story. Retiring to the parlour to share a drink, maybe read poetry together before climbing the stairs to their shared room. Him moving towards her with purpose. Her eyes darkening with desire. His fingers undoing the buttons of her blouse, his hands running down her sides, gripping her hips his mouth moving on hers softly but becoming firmer, more insistent. Her breathy gasps as his lips and teeth move down her neck. His hands caressing under her clothes, pushing her back on the bed their clothes melting away in their frenzied passion. His eyes devouring her alabaster skin mouth moving to tease her peaked nipples, her head thrown back in abandon, her mouth red, open gasping her pleasure. Him pushing inside her silken wetness, moving in her, her moans of pleasure becoming frenzied until she shudders around him, her desire spent, her passion coalescing by her screaming out his name.
"Christ, no!" he lifted his head and howled into the night sky. His nails bit into his palms drawing blood as his fists connected over and over again with the brick wall in front of him until the pain he desired exploded through the numbness. He looked down at the bloody mess he'd made of his knuckles. They were raw almost to the bone and already starting to swell. He wanted to gouge his hands into his brain and tear out the images that ran wild round his fevered brain. He knew only one way to cleanse himself. Down the neck of a whiskey bottle; many whiskey bottles in the warm embrace of intoxication and eventual oblivion.