♱ blood & yearning ♱

Humidity combined with the rising temperatures of early summer suffocated society.

On many days such as these, the air was thick, bleak and grey, with the mist swallowing the ground. The dark and stink of the polluted air was barely tolerable. Regardless, the folk were not disturbed by the warmth or blandness: life was too demanding to pay heed to the surrounding forces of nature.

For most, cemeteries bestowed a sense of calm and serenity, as it was an ideal place for pondering, but to Victor, it was a place of both business and discomfort. However, today’s stroll felt more akin to meditation as he accompanied his beloved, whose arm was intertwined with her father’s. The company was serious, whispering silently as to not disturb the dead.

In death, people were not equal. Some graves were exquisite and lovingly maintained by their visitors, their headstones were inscribed with fine writing, praising the virtues of the deceased’s lives. Some were even protected by mortsafes, as members of the high society feared graverobbers, who would later sell the corpses of their beloved to be dissected by medical students. Meanwhile those of more modest means, or no means at all were left neglected and overgrown with sod and weeds; rough headstones of sandstone barely holding up, sticking out of the dirt at odd angles like rotten teeth, dirty and rigid. Families such as these had no choice but to pray for the corpses’ fortune to be left untouched. One could guess how many of them rested beneath the soil as opposed to lying on a surgical table.

Victor had heard nothing of the woman’s mother, nor of the reason behind her death; even her father kept his mouth shut if the topic came up. Yet, he chose to respect their privacy; understanding from his own loss of a mother, just how deep the hollow feeling of absence could cut. 

The graveyard itself was filled with various species of flowers, either grown in vast bushes or neatly placed in bouquets beside the gravestones. Each flower and each colour symbolised an emotion, a grief expressed by a soul to another.

The woman’s bouquet of freshly picked, dark crimson roses flashed across the greyness of the fog, making her stand out like a lighthouse—at least to Victor.

Biblical quotes were embedded in the rocks, brand new and old alike. The sculptures of angels near the graves of the wealthy families watched him from on high, some sprawled over their perches in despair, others with their faces upturned to the heavens, many crying with open arms, inviting Victor to their embrace. It seemed as though they implored him to look back and open his heart to the Lord, for God was all around him, speaking to him, calling him. Yet, he chose to ignore His voice.

He was not afraid of God nor of his judgement. Just like her.

“Are you a man of God, Doctor?” the gentleman asked all of a sudden. Perhaps the silence was too loud, pushing him to speak.

The unexpected question spooked Victor, fearing that his thoughts were on display to anyone. He was silent for a moment, and the crunch of dirt beneath their feet filled in his quietness as he thought.

“God and I have a strained relationship,” he finally replied, keeping his gaze on the path ahead, ignoring the looming gravestones in his periphery.

“How could that be?” the woman interjected. “What would a non-God-fearing man be doing in church?”

Victor’s heart sank to his stomach. She certainly referred to the circumstances of their fateful meeting. 

Finding himself in an unpleasant situation, he chose to hide his face once again by looking to the side. “Sometimes God and I must meet one another in private.”

“You have found an unoccupied quarter in your heart for God. That is good.” The gentleman nodded carefully, so as not to disturb his hat. “A respectable man should always carry God within himself. Even for a moment, once a day.”

“And for what matters would you start a dialogue with God?” the woman spoke up again, ignoring her father’s praise.

“Well…” Victor knew that her suspicions may rise with the hint of nervousness in his voice. He should face her, look her in the eyes; he could not afford to be caught out in his past stalking. Therefore, he wore his usual mask of confidence and indifference, continuing, “I cannot reveal my converse. It should and will remain a secret between myself and God only.”

“And a man may keep his own secrets, right, my dear?” the gentleman interfered, closing the topic as soon as the opportunity arose.

“Why yes, each should have their own private matters with God, and every partnership with Him ought to be respected,” she simply agreed.

Victor was silently suspicious of her lack of argument.

Soon enough, the company reached a path leading towards the mother.

The graveyard created a small labyrinth between those crooked stones and twisted trees, with various paths leading from one story to the next. The human memory was remarkable, capable of recognising familiar patterns and yet capable of distinguishing them from the rest, leading to its final destination.

They stood before the grave of the woman’s mother in utter silence, and Victor felt afraid to inhale the air. He did not want to disrupt their grief, only watching as his beloved carefully placed the crimson roses beside the lonesome headstone. The design, simple, but elegant and looked rather expensive in  brand and shape. Metal bars did not protect it, making him believe that perhaps they would not find her remains beneath the earth if they were to look. Regardless, the memory of her was chained to that stone, and even the best graverobbers could not sell it.

Victor suddenly felt a tug at his sleeve: the gentleman led him away, providing solitude for his daughter. Victor followed, walking at a turtle’s pace along the nearby path; not too far away, but far enough so no one could overhear their conversation.

“Doctor Frankenstein, there is but a favour I wish to ask.” The old man exhaled, gazing past him to his daughter with fatigue in his posture.

She stood with her hands clasped to her chest, head lowered. Praying.

“I am listening,” Victor replied quietly, also watching her.

The man chewed at the inside of his cheek, but his eyes could not peel themselves away from his dear daughter. Victor was not accustomed to seeing him so distressed, worrying about what he might say next. At last, the father’s gaze dropped to the ground. The grass flowed along the wind, around his elegant black leather shoes.

“It is in relation to my daughter.” Once his eyes rose to meet Victor’s, they were narrowed, hiding their usual brightness behind a wall of distrust. “What are your intentions with her?”

Victor cleared his throat, surprised and intimidated by the man’s sudden directness. “I will be frank with you, I see your daughter more than a colleague or a friend.”

The father lifted a brow, tilting his head away. “How exactly? Do you have the intent of using her as a friend of convenience?”

“No! God, no!” Victor spluttered, taking a step back and lifting his hands in surrender. He glanced quickly to his beloved, fearing that she might have heard his accidental shout. “My intentions are strictly honourable! Dare I say… I should like to ask for your daughter’s hand, if only—”

“Praise the Lord!” the gentleman sighed in relief, pressing a hand to his heart. “Forgive me for accusing you of ill intent; however, the welfare of my only daughter is my greatest concern. I am but a troubled man!..”

“All is well,” Victor assured, coming closer now the danger had seemingly passed. Relief washed over his heart. “You are a good father; it is only natural to worry over the intent behind my and your daughter’s interactions.”

“Thank you, Doctor, for being so kind, but that is not why I questioned your intent.”

“Then what could the real reason be?”

The man grabbed him by the shoulder, whispering, “I… I need you to promise me that you will marry her. I will give you anything you possess to acquire. If you do as I ask, a part of my fortune will become your own, and you will have more than enough finances to complete your project.”

Under different circumstances, Victor would be overjoyed with the promise of inheriting the fortune this man had promised. Yet, he only felt happiness at having received his blessing for marriage.

But, even then, a worm of suspicion nibbled at his heart, placing worry with each bite.

“Why are you asking me this?”

“I am an old man, Doctor. I fear that my time will soon come to an end. Day by day, I feel the nagging breath of death creeping upon my shoulder.” Victor opened his mouth to speak, but the gentleman cut him off with a raise of his hand, clearly not in the mood for the polite denial usually afforded to this topic. “I wish for my daughter to marry an intelligent man, as I will not be able to keep her company much longer. Therefore, it is my biggest nightmare, my gravest fear of seeing her alone, or worse—ending up in an asylum for being so pious and smart for her sex… And, as a man of honour, you must understand, I simply cannot afford to have a spinster in my lineage.” The man sighed, rubbing Victor’s shoulder, as if seeking sympathy. “I beg of you, if anyone would try to convince you of my daughter’s impropriety, pay no heed to their utterances, for they do not know any better…”

Victor’s brows knotted momentarily as Harlander’s discordant voice repeated itself in his mind. Distrust blossomed within his ribcage, with cloying vines intertwining and squeezing at his bones. He wondered about the reasoning for the topic’s forthbringing. Though he believed the gentleman was fearful and only prayed for the best, neglecting all accusations, regardless of whether his potential son-in-law was aware of any gossip.

Victor sensed the obligation to disguise his scepticism behind support, for he could not be dismissed in his hopes of marrying the gentleman’s daughter.

So, he chose to ignore the statement, turning the conversation to other important factors. “And are you certain that she would accept my offer?”

“Surely,” the man chuckled. He released Victor’s shoulder and walked further ahead, seemingly taking great pleasure that his potential son-in-law was to be disinterested in the widespread gossip of high society.

However, he leaned closer to Victor’s ear before looking back at his daughter secretively. Victor followed his eyes.

The woman’s arms were behind her back; from one of her hands dangled a rosary.

The figure of crucified Jesus Christ was facing towards them, watching them through his heavy eyelids.

Then the gentleman turned to Victor, whispering so joyously, “I fear that my daughter is obsessed with you.”

Victor paced back and forth in the shadows of willows while his beloved watched him silently, leaning against a trunk. He was trembling from both anticipation and fear, rubbing his hands together as he approached her and spun around again. Sweat dripped down his forehead, forcing him to wipe it off with a handkerchief.

He had finally gathered the courage to ask for the woman’s hand.

Once Victor noticed her strolling calmly on a gloomy day, he dragged her away into this secluded area of the park they had walked in so many times before. He wanted to make sure that nobody would find them, hear them, or see them, not even a bug or bird given the opportunity to interrupt. To Victor’s delight, she did not resist or protest his actions. Preferably, he would have chosen a sunny day for his proposal, but he could no longer exist without hearing her answer.

Strangely enough, his woman was also clothed in black. A thin black veil covered her face, though he could see it. She appeared upset: the corners of her lips were curled downwards, her lashes hid her gaze, the frown of her brows was deeper than her usual concentration. It was not him that lingered on her mind; however, what it was—he did not know.

Frankly, right then, he did not bother to ask.

He only cared to satisfy his need to obtain her, for it was greater than anything else at that moment. 

He felt as though the time had come to end his mental torment. To begin a life of love, of marriage. He wanted to settle not only his emotions.

Above anything, he needed her.

“Miss,” Victor said, finally walking up to her. He grabbed her hands, kissing them tenderly, too passionately to be deemed as modest.

She waited, keeping them in his grasp, which, to Victor, felt like the rays of sun were pushing through the clouds.

He gazed up at her, breathing heavily, sweating, exhausted by the nagging thoughts. He squeezed her hands tightly, perhaps applying too much pressure.

“From the first time I saw you, spoke with you, you bewitched me. My body and mind. You have enriched my life with your intellect and nurtured mine. I find it distasteful to admit; however, there is not a second in a day when I do not think of you. Believe me when I say that my mind brings me back to you naturally, as if I belong with you. You have become a part of me that I cannot live without, and I want to seal that gap between us. I am certain that something is holding us together, like a chain. You and I have a bond, and it is something more than physical—it is spiritual, mental; I can feel it deeply in my heart. There must be something greater than fate that brought us together. It must be God, yes, for our union must have been his vision. I believe us to be a perfect match, for only I can understand such an intellectual woman as you. I must ask of you,” he spoke quickly in a single breath, stumbling over his own words. He pulled her hands towards himself, drawing her closer. “To become my wife, to be my companion. Will you accept my offer?”

The woman remained silent, emotionless for a while after he finished his proposal. She slowly pulled her hands from his grasp, staring at him with those intense eyes, thinking.

Victor mentally prayed that she must have been shocked, surprised, but pleased.

All of a sudden, she responded:

“Doctor Frankenstein, you do not even know me.”

Victor’s heart fell to his feet; his blood turned to ice. He huffed as if chuckling, believing her to be a jokester in the face of such seriousness. Perhaps she was modest. “Miss, you must understand, I want you to become my wife because I love you.”

“You are mistaken.”

Those words alone deeply wounded his pride; he blinked a few times. “Pardon?”

“Obsession cannot be termed as love, though those two feelings are often mistaken for one another. They are composed of the same emotional elements catered towards the subject. However, the expression of love and obsession are different, as well as the emotions associated with it. The intent is different. From my observation, you are experiencing the latter feeling, for you know me too little to love me truly.”

The pain was too indescribable in that moment, trepaning his skull with a hammer, seeping into his brain. A headache began to throb at the back of Victor’s skull and he could hear blood rushing in his ears.

“How dare you— I—” he stammered. Victor opened his mouth, then closed it tightly, repeating the action a few times as he desperately tried to speak. “I mentioned that I cannot imagine living without you. Breathing without you. I dream of you, I live for you. How…”

“I have only stated the conclusion of my observations. Even your current reaction, your increasing anxiety, reinforces my statement, yet I can provide you with proof.” She dismissed the irritation growing in both his voice and physicality. “First of all, you express a lack of interest in me, thereby creating a version of me in your mind, but not for knowing me as a person that I am. You appeal to infatuation rather than curiosity. Other observations cater to your lack of physical knowledge of my body, as you have not kissed my lips, caressed my hands, or had any contact whatsoever with my other anatomical parts. In full fairness, propriety demands that most people remain thus unaware of one another; however, from my understanding of your case, it shows that you are pleased with the illusion of me, though you are improving it through our time spent together. Notwithstanding, I must express, as a specialist, that it further explains the nature of your current feeling, which, once again, I could not classify as love itself.”

“Can you even hear yourself?” Victor laughed sarcastically, but it sounded high, almost hysterical; analysing her face intently, as though trying to find a pinch of frailty. “I respected the boundaries you have created. I respected your wish of refraining myself from touching you, your body. If you are so certain that I was disinterested in you, perhaps you could recount the times when you would purposefully change the topic as I attempted to gain insight into your inner world? When you were the reason I could not explore you, feel you, and now you claim that it was my fault? Mine, when I tried my earnest to experience you?”

The woman’s face remained immovable, though neither a smile nor a frown was evident in her expression. Her eyes would not blink—eyes without a face.

“Precisely, and it was a test. You had to try harder.”

“But I respected you—”

“Proving that you believe yourself to be superior, as knowing the subject wholly is not necessarily as important as creating an illusion of them,” she cut him off abruptly. “You believe you must obtain a sexual relationship as a birthright.”

“Are you implying that I am less worthy of love?”

“I am implying that you feel worthy of being loved as a reward for your genius, forgetting that one must put in effort for love to be of any worth at all.”

The air was still, afraid to even blow a breeze, protecting the woman’s image. She turned her head to the shadows of the leaves, obscuring it completely. The black clothing, the veil, along with the darkness concealed her from Victor’s gaze.

“What do you see in me?”

“You, of course,” he responded weakly, gathering all mental capacity to fight the dread, to protect his mind from breaking.

“No, you do not.” The cool voice denied. “I wish to inquire: do you see a future, present, or a past lover in me?”

“Future, only future with you, naturally,” Victor replied, voice thick with exhaustion; he could not think anymore. He attempted to grab her arms. “Miss, it is you that I want, you must understand—”

“That was not the question, was it? I asked: do you see the past, present or the future in me?”

“That does not change my view.”

“Then it seems that I know you better than you know yourself.” The cruel words made him stop on the spot; his arms fell to his sides.

He could not breathe, but held carbon dioxide in his expanded lungs.

“Is it your mother or your father?”

He could not believe his own ears, finally stumbling back from the displayed audacity. He felt his facial muscles tensing subconsciously; he desperately needed to fight back against the she-devil. To regain the self-respect that she had stripped him of.

Yet, his shifting expressions urged her to provoke him further. “Or perhaps you see a divinity? God?”

“No—” Victor gasped after some time, shaking his head slightly, unable to peel his gaze away from the faceless figure. “How can you be so cruel—”

“Just but not cruel,” she disagreed calmly. “Perhaps you should take it with gratitude; what if I am trying to protect you?”

“You…” Victor felt all of the accumulated tension pouring out of him. A hot itching crept from his hands and fingers, up his forearms, niggling and intolerable. Her every sentence cracked him like a porcelain doll, releasing all of its darkness. And he snapped, unable to stand the mockery. “You psychotic bitch!”

He grabbed her by the arms, squeezing their muscles tightly, and shoved her roughly against the trunk. He could have sworn he heard her skull thud against the hard surface; regardless it did not concern him for a bit.

He moved closer to her face—to find something within it.

Not even the slightest bit of fear, worry or pain reflected in her expression. Nothing, but the usual, maddening indifference. A faint smile with the rosiness of her cheeks was presented to the eyes, dark glimmers dancing in her irises. It momentarily fooled Victor even in the present. If one did not know her nature, they would think her an angel with the fairest intents a woman could bestow. However, both her mind and her tongue were of deceitful demon’s, inviting a man to betray his own personal God. Even if he did not believe in God.

A man like Victor saw it clearly, despising her with every fiber in his body.

That disgustingly smug expression.

The cool collectedness.

He wanted to ruin it, to retwist it, to see her cry under any circumstances. No matter what it took.

“You are so self-centred, believing that I, a man who has accomplished more than you ever will in your pathetic little life, would fear you? What could you possibly do to me that would terrify me, hurt me? You think that it is me who needs protection?!” Victor shouted while shaking her, his face reddening and burning from the blood rushing up beneath his skin. “You are a nothing, nobody, just a delusional woman who believes herself to be an equal to a man, and to tell you the truth, you will never be! I remember well enough how we all laughed at you, mocked you, when you presented your foul device for anesthesia. How much I loved witnessing you being berated by the judges, because that is what someone like you, a woman like you, who thinks so highly of herself, deserves! That should have put you in your rightful place, I pray that it reminded you of your worth: you are a woman, and that is what you will ever be, that is why you must leave the specialty to— Men! Do you understand the value I have brought to your life by simply taking an interest in you? By being so obsessed, no, in awe with your existence? If you were somewhat more rational and logical, like a man, you would have definitely not taken it for granted; you would have accepted my offer… But oh no, it would be too low for you, would it not? Shameful? Disgraceful? Why would you ever be with a man that will always be ahead of you, remembered for his pious work; you do not wish to be in my shadow, is that the reason?”

Then he lowered his head, breathing heavily to regain both his voice and energy, withholding the tears in the corners of his eyes.

“Did our affair mean absolutely nothing to you?”

Yet she did not reply; he grew desperate.

“I touched you, did I not? I kissed your skin, for God’s sake, even with my tongue! Is that not enough to claim that I have felt your body? Have you swallowed your tongue? Speak! Why will you not talk now if you know what I truly feel!” He shook her harder; even then, she did not even twitch. “How much I love you, I love you— I… I love you!”

Then Victor raised his gaze up at her once more. His eyes burned with so much hatred and disdain. Now his tongue was loose from his tirade he was unable to contain, the sharp words which seethed in his brain. He inhaled loudly through his nostrils, attempting to maintain his stability, but his anger poured through.

He chuckled under his breath.

“Had I not respected you nearly as much as I did, I would fucked you. I would not have listened to your cries, or your pleas, and I would have been ruthless and done just as I wanted. I would have taken you right when I first saw you in that church, dragged you into an empty confessional and confessed all of my love to you.” His voice dipped lower, gaining strength again as his grip tightened on her arms. Knuckles white under his gloves and hands shaking with adrenaline. “You kissed that cross thinking of me, did you not? Thinking of my lips instead of Christ? Perhaps even my cock? I know you did, you wretched slut, I know you wanted me. You cannot fathom what I would have done to you when you first entered my residence. I would have pulled you down on that sofa, torn your dress apart so you would have no choice but to walk back to your Papa naked. With shame. I would have had you beneath me, with your wrists in my grasp, your legs spread wide, and oh… How I would have teased your wet, throbbing cunt with my fingers; for so long that you would have begged me to fuck you. Hard. Your breasts would have never imagined themselves without my lips wrapped around their nipples again. You would have sighed, moaned like the whore that you are, and your body would have prayed for my cock to be inside of you. And I would have taken my precious time to thrust into you, slow enough to torment you, and yet you would have still begged for more; for my seed. You would have writhed and clawed at me like a cat in heat, and I would have been delighted to give myself to you, filling you so much so it would have poured out of you. You enjoy listening to my words, do you not? You wish for me to take action and to do as I said, am I correct? Unfortunately, you disgust me. I have no more wish to engage with you in a sexual manner as I have described, for it repels me. I cannot stand the thought of touching you. I cannot stand being here with you. I would not be surprised if your dirty cunt is used as a worn glove.”

Victor laughed, pushing her away from himself.

“Did you know that because of your Papa, you will not inherit his fortune if you do not marry a man? He is practically selling you off. Like a lamb. Well, now you have that seed planted in your mind, and I will not be responsible for your misfortune. You will die in the streets alone, poor, ignored by the medical society and the people you have once assisted. That will serve you right.”

Now Victor had come to his senses, he felt strangely light, as a downfeather. Every thought he had forged over time, over weeks and weeks of building tension, he had articulated. He calmed down, stabilising his breath, and found himself taking pride in his monologue. However, he soon grew weary and mildly uncomfortable, as the woman had not said a word. Not even once did she interrupt him, not once did she attempt to express herself. She had only listened patiently, allowing him to regain his strength before a retort. She had even allowed him to violate her. Somehow it worried him.

No outrage, no hurt, no concern in her face was present. Only calmness, with that annoying smirk.

The woman waited for a couple of minutes, as if expecting him to add something he had forgotten, but he did not.

“Even now, you proved my conclusion that you do not love me. You take pleasure in displaying your status and power to someone who is less valued by society, hoping to teach them a lesson. You show a need for control while using aggression and threats to the subject’s wellbeing. Your frustration increases once you are not in charge of the subject’s emotions and free will. You need life to work in your favour, the way you envision it to be, disregarding the desires of others entirely. Violence and control are the symptoms of obsession, Baron, not love.” She smiled bittersweetly; her eyes seemed to reflect something poisonous. “Just because you are a man, loud and violent, usually physically stronger than a woman, it does not equal to being frightening.”

The boiling emotions choked him again; biting back the sudden urge to spit in her smug face. However, he won that battle against himself, storming away, no longer able to bear her presence.

“Curse you and your entire lineage!” He suddenly shouted in parting, not even bothering to turn. “You must all be unwell and hopelessly mad! Never mind the streets, you belong in the Lunatic Asylum on Morningside! May I never see you again!”

No response.

Exiting the shade of the willows, he subconsciously turned around. Yet, he noticed her strolling towards a pond, ever so slowly, casually, as though taking a pleasant walk and without ever saying a last farewell.

The screaming, shouting, and loud banging was so loud, it could be heard in the surrounding apartments. The walls trembled, echoing with some kind of madness from the opposite side. The neighbours were worried, fearful of the madman that was keeping them awake this late at night, staring at their walls as though it might yield and whatever was on the other side would be free to wreak havoc in their own homes. Either way, they decided not to interfere, afraid of being stabbed to death.

On the other side was Victor’s apartment, barely recognisable to the eye as every single object had lost its order.

The old and expensive anatomy atlases were littered across the ground as bookcases collapsed, tipped over or torn apart. Some precise pages of the cardiovascular pathways laid like sad leaves, ripped out as they could not fight the force of gravity. The jars of peculiar organs were shattered, and the reek of formaldehyde hung in the air. The liquid seeped into the cracks of the wooden floor, making it spongy. It splashed on the walls, leaving its stain for all eternity. The tables were overturned, the surgical instruments had been flung across the room and now lay scattered on the floor. The curtains were torn to shreds, as though clawed by a beast.

All was ruined, all except his creation, who remained curled up like a fetus. Though it could not yet move, it seemed almost as though it were afraid of its creator’s hysteria, silently expecting a blow. But Victor ignored it, lashing out at other objects instead.

He stood, shaking, in his bedroom with tangled hair and dishevelled clothing, facing the statue of the Archangel in the corner. The Saint remained unshaken in the presence of his demonic rage. Rather, he calmly observed Victor, pointing a finger towards heaven. Reminding him of the ever-watchful God. Yet, Victor inhaled painfully with bloodshot eyes boring at the statue.

“Even you. Even you are mocking me with your God,” he wheezed through his clenched teeth. “You betrayed me.”

He waited, as if expecting a reply, but the Archangel remained silent.

“Do you also believe me to be unworthy of having a companion? A lover to share my life with?” he continued. Though his voice was stable, his skeletal muscles were quivering.

Yet, the statue did not say a word; its motionless irises focused on God.

“You were my guardian, my protector, my source of success. You provided me with brilliance, and I have dedicated myself, sacrificing my happiness, to the cause of defeating death. To protect others from grief like mine, so no one else would suffer as I have. Am I not to be rewarded for my work, my sacrifice? For the arduous days and nights I spent while working like a dog?” he begged, his voice rising in pitch and feeling his dry eyes pooling with tears again. “Does my loyalty mean nothing to you? The prayers I have whispered to you since my beginning? In the late hours, throughout the nights, with the sweat and tears I shed? My wasted youth?”

He brought his hands to his heart, almost dropping to his knees, and whined, “What of my heart? My desires? My wishes?”

Eerie silence echoed in the chamber. His loud heartbeat and laboured breathing were the only things that kept the room alive.

Victor nodded, sighing. “I see, you think I am unworthy to be given an answer. So you agree—my attribute to you is meaningless. You used me, just as she did.”

A sense of familiarity overwhelmed him when gazing upon the Archangel’s face. It was that same calmness, sternness amid the storm, and the portrayed disinterest. Not even a glance at him as he begged for mercy. It made his blood boil in his veins, his breath quickened in response.

“Just as she did,” he repeated silently.

He no longer understood whether it was a vision, or whether her face was always imprinted in the statue.

He slowly came closer to the Archangel, as if giving a chance to redeem himself, to speak before the inevitable. Yet the statue did not, bravely awaiting the coming assault. Victor placed his hands upon the statue, giving it a final look of contempt.

“Very well. If you are not to award me love, then I will indulge in rage, and mine is infinite!”

Then, he shoved the statue with force. It fell briefly, hitting the ground with a loud crack as the wood split. The figure of the Archangel laid broken on the floor. Its wings shattered, as well as a part of its face. A small crack which had been there as long as he could remember, now splitting its cranium, then down past the nose and mouth in a deep fissure. Regardless, Victor was not nearly done, wanting to be crueller than he ever allowed himself.

He hurried back to his studio, trembling visibly, searching for something through the scattered instruments on the ground. His gaze then caught on a hammer, used for smashing bones. He scrambled to pick it up, giving a warning to the fallen Archangel who could only watch him rushing back with a found weapon. 

Victor knelt beside the statue, striking it across the head with all of his might. There was a sickening crack and some splinters came free. He hit the head repeatedly, again, again, again, pouring all of his rage and disappointment into each blow.

Stronger, harder, with more hatred.

Disdain.

The sound would remind a stranger of a skull being cracked in a murderous scene—a dryer sound than that of flesh and bone, but similar. And no one would interfere, just like the heavens, leaving the great Archangel Michael to save himself.

It felt electric, refreshing, to execute all of his despair upon an icon he had once believed in, the icon that had abandoned him in his time of need.

He felt powerful, in control for once after months of mental exhaustion. Even his biceps and triceps were grateful for the sudden exercise, executing the act of violence onto the divine being with passion.

Victor stopped when there was nothing more he could have done, for all that was left were dust and small, jagged pieces of the once-head. The task of restoring the original head would be impossible even to the greatest sculptor at hand.

The Archangel laid on the ruined wooden floor defeated, wingless, headless.

Though the lifted finger was broken, it still pointed to the heavens, reminding Victor to remember that he was not alone in the room.

Eyes without a face may still be watching him, judging his every move.

Yet, Victor ignored the signs, returning to the studio where the fireplace blazed brightly, reflecting his own emotional state. He crawled over the floor, gathering scattered sketches of the woman he had loved so deeply, grasping the papers with shaky fingers, slick with vile fluids, or covered in glass, and clenching them into his fists. He counted every single paper in his mind—so as not to accidentally forget a single sketch he had crafted so carefully. Once he collected every page, he threw the pile into the fire without giving it a second thought, to leave the past behind him and walk into the clear future ahead.

Victor stood up, watching the organised pieces of the woman’s anatomy, her body, her lines, every curve he poured his affection into, consumed by the tongues of flames.

He felt at peace, perhaps even glad.

For a moment, the weight fell off his chest. He was able to breathe without worry eating at his guts.

However, sharp pain suddenly struck within the depths of his thoracic cavity; a sense of uneasiness reared its head as the pages crumbled and darkened to the feasting flames. He would describe it as a tear of his heartstrings, pain so unbearable and fear of death so terrible, it would seem as though he were undergoing a cardiac arrest.

That dreadful feeling forced Victor to fall to his knees and shove his hands into the flames, desperately grasping the burning pieces of the woman. Right then, his receptors did not register the external stimuli, nor did his brain receive signals of the disruption of the skin, as his hands were engulfed by those tongues, licking at his flesh. To his joy, he pulled the pieces out swiftly.

Yet, as Victor held the crispy sketches with his shaky hands, which were now covered in lesions, he almost screamed in despair.

The images of her figure, the anatomy of his beloved were fragile, crumbling in his hands and turning to ashes.

Only tiny bits remained untouched, and, unbelievably, the detailed drawing of her anatomical heart remained intact.

His blood smeared over the paper and mingled with her heart, as he ran his finger across its chambers.

Without thinking, he pressed it firmly against his chest, trembling in pain.

However, the bodily pain he had gone through was meaningless.

It was his heart that bled and tore slowly.

Credits for the beautiful dividers:

1- @/knightlittle

2- @/strangergraphics