Artie

Viktor Hargreeves wanted nothing more than to forget. He remembered how blissful his time on the farm was with Sissy and Harlan. The games they played, the animals they cared for, and waking up comfortably beside his lover when Carl spent another late night at one of the various bars and clubs he often absconded to. While that life wasn't without its challenges, he would give anything to return to that blissful state of disregard. 

Coming home was terrible, or as terrible as it could be when your previous homes were extravagant mansions or picturesque farm plots. Walking into the dull apartment was anticlimactic. Thunder rumbled as clouds cast a shadowy loneliness across the room. The furniture was as it had been, functional, with no other amiable qualities that could provoke any familiarity with the home's owner itself. Viktor trudged over to the couch and flopped downward violently, exhaustion hitting him with the likeness of a truck hitting a small deer. 

He doesn't remember the last time he felt comfortable in his body. Whether from forced drugs, the insidious dysphoria he felt when free from the drugs, or the guilt he now carried from… well… everything. These vexations towered in his mind like skyscrapers, leaving him paralyzed on the couch while flashes of all that had transpired continued to plague his thoughts. The image of the bright blue light radiating off him and his violin, the sweet song that somehow sabotaged an entire planet. The boy he promised to take care of, now dead and gone along with his mother. 

He twitched in his seat, unable to contain his mind, and soft, silent tears drifted down his face slowly. Viktor learned young that crying with a murmured resonance was the best move,  as any noise could be a reason for torment. He remembered his father's chastising voice scolding him countless times. Viktor mouthed the words he had heard throughout childhood, his eyes glazing over. 

Number Seven! I will not tolerate this incessant squalling! 

Quickly and without mercy, forlorn intruded into his once-fortified mind. Emotions ran over him like never before as intrusive memories impugned his seemingly good nature. He ran a hand over his chest as a hole in his throat built, and his breath quickened. A pain-shaped nothingness weighed down on him, and instantly, he missed the previous feeling of torpidity when his breaths were extended and unlabored. In Viktor’s chest, a hole grew larger and larger and pierced more profoundly than ever before. He clawed at the same spot, tears spewed, and Viktor choked on each one to keep quiet. During nights like these, he was happy to live alone.

When Viktor was younger, he visualized being saved; it was a powerful and impenetrable thought for his teen self. Someone to whisk him away from his cold, uncaring family. He often fantasized about this thought, most often after rough encounters with his siblings and father, which were weekly, sometimes even daily occurrences. But with this idea came the guilt of it all. How could he think this way about his own family members? They had to love him at least in small amounts, whereas Viktor dreamed about a day where he could be himself, without the Umbrella Academy legacy lingering over his life like a damp towel. If you studied his current life, he got what he wanted. He was alone, free to make his own decisions with no siblings in sight to kick him out of their games or chastise him about saying the wrong thing. But internally, there was a sinister, selfish desire that even he had trouble accepting. He still craved their attention. Even after everything he did, not just to the world, but to his siblings. The damage he caused, the fights he started, he still wanted them to chase after him. To love him the way he wanted them to. 

To say sorry.