He had had a comfortable upbringing as a son in the Frankenstein family. His childhood bedroom was larger than the one he'd claimed in Wonderland and more generously decorated with toys, books, and crafts--anything, really, that a growing boy could need. Though their manor couldn't boast the same splendor as Wonderland's, Victor couldn't remember ever left wanting for something before Caroline Frankenstein had taken ill and splintered what family yet remained.
Those days were so long ago that not even Victor felt as though he owned the room entirely, complicating Rebekah's presence all the more.
Slow to close the door and even slower to tear his eyes off Rebekah's back, Victor finally turned to his pile of sketches on the floor, scattered in a half-circle around the spot he'd been sitting and drawing his mother for the past day.
"I'd started to forget what she looked like." The confession slipped free of him as he bent to gather the papers. If not for the fact he'd grown slightly numb to the scene after what seemed like the millionth viewing, he wouldn't have been able to form the words. It helped that he didn't need to explain that the woman in the memory was now dead. Rebekah had sensed it, felt it, maybe, and somehow being so out of control freed him somewhat of the burden of pretending at detachment. "I was too young and her health worsened too quickly, I didn't realize I should have taken more care to memorize how she was before."
He turned around to face her with the drawings in his arms. The loss and shame that continued to roll off him answered the rest for him. Loss for the simple and deathless time in the memory. Shame for how much time had changed him since.
"When did you know you were being affected by what was happening? You felt something?"
The last thing he would've wanted was what went on inside these walls to escape them, but that was also out of his control.
Did she know just how helpless that young boy had felt?
Could she guess how disappointed his mother would be if she could meet her son now?
no subject
Those days were so long ago that not even Victor felt as though he owned the room entirely, complicating Rebekah's presence all the more.
Slow to close the door and even slower to tear his eyes off Rebekah's back, Victor finally turned to his pile of sketches on the floor, scattered in a half-circle around the spot he'd been sitting and drawing his mother for the past day.
"I'd started to forget what she looked like." The confession slipped free of him as he bent to gather the papers. If not for the fact he'd grown slightly numb to the scene after what seemed like the millionth viewing, he wouldn't have been able to form the words. It helped that he didn't need to explain that the woman in the memory was now dead. Rebekah had sensed it, felt it, maybe, and somehow being so out of control freed him somewhat of the burden of pretending at detachment. "I was too young and her health worsened too quickly, I didn't realize I should have taken more care to memorize how she was before."
He turned around to face her with the drawings in his arms. The loss and shame that continued to roll off him answered the rest for him. Loss for the simple and deathless time in the memory. Shame for how much time had changed him since.
"When did you know you were being affected by what was happening? You felt something?"
The last thing he would've wanted was what went on inside these walls to escape them, but that was also out of his control.
Did she know just how helpless that young boy had felt?
Could she guess how disappointed his mother would be if she could meet her son now?