Before Victor's mistakes had ruined that relationship, too, Van Helsing had once said his heart was steady where his hands were not. Victor hadn't given the words much thought then, but only after littering his floor with drawings of a mother whose face was now painfully fresh in his mind did he realize how apt they had been. How weak his own heart was.
Though his hands never shook as they held a pencil or buried themselves in his hair--how blind he'd been to think unerring confidence wasn't a sign of weakness as well as strength--it was his heart, his fitful, feeble heart, that trembled.
He couldn't be bothered to feel chagrin that a figment of his imagination had brought him so low. He didn't have the strength for it.
Time passed, but how much he couldn't be sure of. Finally, a knock at the front door, muffled by distance and the sleep-deprived pounding in his own head, stirred him out of another cycle of memory. Had he slept? Or had he only dreamed he'd slept? One thing he could still say for sure, only one or two people would visit his room like this--Vanessa, most likely, to check on him. He would regret it later if he didn't at least show her he wasn't dead or disappeared.
Dragging himself up took more energy than it should.
Belatedly, he looked down at himself, finding yesterday's shirt and pants staring back at him, rumpled and unbuttoned, a smudge standing out against the lighter material of his trousers where he'd accidentally rubbed charcoal. He'd hate to see what his face looked like, in all the glory of its dried-up grief. Vanessa had seen him in a casual state before, had been the cause of it, but before he answered the door, Victor took a moment to roll his sleeves down so that they concealed the angry red track marks by his elbow.
Some weaknesses, he could still hide.
To his own surprise, he'd misjudged what he'd find when he opened the door. For a second, he was at a loss to explain the blonde head of hair. "What--" It was too late to take his appearance back and undo his own foolishness. He made an attempt to wipe his face with his arm all the same. "What are you doing here?"
no subject
Though his hands never shook as they held a pencil or buried themselves in his hair--how blind he'd been to think unerring confidence wasn't a sign of weakness as well as strength--it was his heart, his fitful, feeble heart, that trembled.
He couldn't be bothered to feel chagrin that a figment of his imagination had brought him so low. He didn't have the strength for it.
Time passed, but how much he couldn't be sure of. Finally, a knock at the front door, muffled by distance and the sleep-deprived pounding in his own head, stirred him out of another cycle of memory. Had he slept? Or had he only dreamed he'd slept? One thing he could still say for sure, only one or two people would visit his room like this--Vanessa, most likely, to check on him. He would regret it later if he didn't at least show her he wasn't dead or disappeared.
Dragging himself up took more energy than it should.
Belatedly, he looked down at himself, finding yesterday's shirt and pants staring back at him, rumpled and unbuttoned, a smudge standing out against the lighter material of his trousers where he'd accidentally rubbed charcoal. He'd hate to see what his face looked like, in all the glory of its dried-up grief. Vanessa had seen him in a casual state before, had been the cause of it, but before he answered the door, Victor took a moment to roll his sleeves down so that they concealed the angry red track marks by his elbow.
Some weaknesses, he could still hide.
To his own surprise, he'd misjudged what he'd find when he opened the door. For a second, he was at a loss to explain the blonde head of hair. "What--" It was too late to take his appearance back and undo his own foolishness. He made an attempt to wipe his face with his arm all the same. "What are you doing here?"