The Ultimate Vampire Resource and Directory

"Artists use lies to tell the truth ..."



Following in the next 13 chapters is a series of real life events that have struck me in a most profound way that I had to write it through the guise of my given medium. When it speaks of betrayal, the betrayal is real. When it speaks of marriage, it was technically real. When it speaks of vengeance and retribution -- the planning of it was certainly real. The philosophies and ponderings are my own and merely caught in the eye of the vortex of the crumbling foundations of my community and the near death of my soul. Back then, I had a lot of time on my hands and a lot of stains on my heart.



I thought of putting it under personal, but the narrative prose had forbid me against it.



Either way, read it for your entertainment. I'll read it to remember ...

It was quiet in the lower floors of the Gallery as V tinkered nonchalantly with a particular piece of equipment. There was no more need for any destruction, no more killing. But to keep his mind busy, he made bombs and poisons simply because that was all he had programmed himself to do for the past twenty years. Old habits died hard. A bit more dangerous than reading a book, but books conjured up other things than merely the stories within their pages; he wasn't able to focus on the words anyway. His mind kept creeping to the upper floors where there was nothing there but the silent museum-like displays, elaborate tapestries and iconic busts and statues, not to mention the multitude of books resting neatly in their shelves or stacked upon the floor. Even the piano, telly and his beloved jukebox remained somber in their stillness. However, a few days ago, such strained silence was non-existent as the Gallery was alive with her light foot falls, her voice, god, her very presence. They were parted again, and the solitude, now, was unnerving. He vaguely remembered a life before her but after having met on that auspicious night so many months ago, he couldn't fathom any day without her. Granted, he had been without her for two months before and it nearly crippled him. His mind certainly had a roller coaster ride of a terrible time. But as with all train tracks, no matter the dizzying twists and turns, it all lead to a final destination.



The slightest fold around his finger was the only evidence of the ring he wore, safely concealed beneath the leather of the glove. The ceremony had been quiet, for the most part, but serious, as he had wanted it. They were joined through holy matrimony, a feat V never imagined he'd ever experience and to the woman he had always loved and would forever love. It was miraculous, V thought, positively extraordinary in such precise execution of a vast orchestra such as this. The pieces perfectly aligned, the events hurtling and charging down their path, but, as he knew only too well, were really falling into place.



A soft but pronounced click broke the stillness and V was once again brought out of his thoughts as he stared at the fifth bomb he had been absently constructing for no reason than to relieve him of the incessant metaphorical noise of his imagining. Nothing good ever came from pondering in solitude's sanctuary. It lead to dark things that V would gladly leave on the dusty, cob-webbed floor. He didn't want to worry of her but it was instinct than a conscious choice to do so. He set the screwdriver down on the table and took a deep breath, exhaling slowly. It was only an hour until he had grown tired of watching people go about their day-to-day meanderings on the numerous screens covering an entire wall within that particular room on this floor, but not before he had tended to the roses or before he had mixed up a few concoctions for no particular reason than to ward off fatigue and concern. Amidst his wanderings, his feet had finally led him to the table he now sat at as he diligently decorated its surface with dangerous ornaments.



He had no idea what the time was. But his body was letting him know that he was extremely fatigued, even if he was too stubborn to heed it. He would certainly try to hold it off for as long as he could. The tips of his fingers absently caressed over the ring, lost in thought again, not trying to thwart it with menial habits anymore. Her words would always drift into his mind, as if giving him advice when needed at that precise moment.



The ghost of a smile pulled at his lips and he closed his tired eyes. He recalled the many times he would memorize her face and he felt his head roll back, his body slowly leaning back in the chair, reveling in the image behind his eyes. That familiar ache in his chest slowly returned as a breath passed from his lips. He wondered if she was alright, how she was doing. He fervently counted the days when she would be home. He expected her quite soon, actually. But tonight would not be it, much to his dismay. He felt empty, lost. He countered it with thoughts of the future -- and something quite grand that he had prepared; the idea weaving and slowly being constructed in his mind. It was still too soon yet for any execution of such caliber.



He was planning again, and coupled with thought was quite the recipe for a deeply impending disaster. He had been so joyous, elated, and giddy at the mere thought of it that he failed to recall the numerous other times he had planned for things of which the results of such plans left a lot to be desired. It wasn't long before his happy reverie began to get clouded with doubt and second-guesses. If he had to, he would will it to work in his favor for it was the only thing sustaining him through such long days. He opened his eyes at last, a sigh escaping his lips as he heavily stood up. V was sure the night air would cure him of the weariness that was cast over him, like a net. Stepping out of the room, he slowly pulled the door closed, enshrouding his creations in darkness.

It was silent, aside from the dull ticking of a clock nearby. The black eyes flicked to its face, the hands pointing at five and four. Whether it was nigh to five thirty in the morning or evening, he didn't know. Day and night were irrelevant within these walls, and time itself as well, if it were not for the clocks keeping vigilant time in the Underground. V felt he should be tired yet he wasn't. The activities that used to give him solace, comfort, something to do, seemed to have outlasted their usefulness and he now sat, with solitude at his side, upon a cushioned bench as he gazed upon one of the many paintings that adorned the museum like walls of his abode. He had many paintings and tapestries hung and strung from the ceiling and walls with great care and reverence, displayed as they were as they were meant to be seen, never diminishing their worth.



The works of Shakespeare had been one of the first pieces of literature to be banned in Sutler's time. Probably because of the symbolic and chilling nature that some stories could, often times, materialize into reality without warning -- as were tragedies' wont to do in such violent and virulent times. Sutler had tried with all of his might not to be succumbed to such assassinations. Perhaps not as shocking as the death of Polonius or as violently vehement as the death of King Claudius, but a bullet to the brain would verily suffice and all the players were well justified in their ends. So, it was only natural that any and all paintings depicting such famous scenes from Shakespeare's plays would be black listed as well. And V now stared at one of most remarkable and exquisite beauty.



It looked real, as if photographed instead of painted but the fine brushwork upon the canvas proved well that it was crafted by a delicate and gifted hand than a well trained eye of living composition. Her skin was lily white, her hair an auburn brown as it cascaded over the woman's shoulders and down her back in rivulet curls. Her equally pale, white dress hugged her body and the ruffles of ornamental quality added a noble and aristocracy flair. Cradled in her left arm, she held a bouquet of an assortment of handpicked flowers.



Her right arm was raised up, as if in farewell or a beckoning gesture on her way to merriment and mirth. Her body was in profile as she looked over her shoulder towards the viewer, her expression reserved or maybe it was contentment. It was clearly springtime as deep green grass grew at her feet and the great old tree behind her was in full leaf. And the sun -- oh how the sun shown down upon her form, highlighting her hair in gold and alighting her dress and skin in a warm glow. To anyone that wasn't familiar with the story behind the painting, would assume that she were a bride or a woman of noble blood, having an innocent walk through the woods. But the truth was dark indeed. This was no ordinary woman -- but the tragic Ophelia on her way to her watery grave.



With that fact, everything seemed to be overcast at once. The sun was not as warm or loving, her expression that of silent mourning -- the loss of an already broken mind, having no where else to go or anyone to turn to.



V couldn't deny the striking resemblance to Ophelia and his Eve -- before he had unremorsefully shaved such beautiful locks from her head. Sometimes, he would envision her in that dress and marvel in his mind how radiant she would look; but not today. It wasn't clear what had made Ophelia go mad, but V knew well what nearly drove Evey over the edge. In the small corner of his mind, he wondered if she would forever hate him for what he had done. Either way, things were not as well as they could be. She spent more and more time away from the Gallery and when they were together, there was a strange ambience in the air, a sliver of dark familiarity that crept up his spine. There was nothing he could do. Nothing, except sit and gaze upon beautiful misery as memories drifted in and out amidst his mind.



In a strange way, he felt like Laertes, denying the insanity of his sister -- denying this moment was happening again and that life -- fate wouldn't ruin all that he had cultivated, all that he had made right.



V bowed his head, closing his eyes as the silence wrapped around him, blocking out even the incessant ticking of the nearby clock. There was something else that was nagging him, something that didn't have to do with the crumbling of a foundation -- but with the very place he called home. He felt compelled to deny that as well. For only the ignorant live in innocent bliss. No, he thought to himself. He would merely be aware and take heed of such an under current and hope he wouldn't be swept away with it. But clinging to the rocks felt like such a futile effort, but it was the only choice he had for the moment. He would weather out the storm again, as he had done so many times before. The one thing he wouldn't deny, was how hard it was swiftly becoming to remain stead fast and resolute.



The chime of the grandfather clock in the main chamber cut through his thoughts. Three times, it rang. And thrice more after until silence finally seized it by the throat and killed it.

The rooms were dark and still. The lights were dim in the main chamber and the ambience was hushed if not a little tense as a black shadow passed over the concrete floor. The cloak swept around his feet as the figure walked, the leather boots thudding loudly upon the hard stone. Silver glinted at his waist for the fraction of a second when the man had thrust the left side of the fabric over his shoulder to pluck the Jacobean hat from its stand. Setting it atop the black wig, V felt empowered at last, his heart beating fast in his chest, like a soldier garbed in uniformed attire before heading out for war. The silence within the walls of the labyrinthine underground had been different before because he had been ignorant of its true meaning. The truth was revealed at last, even though the smoke and mirrors persisted to obscure it, allowing him to make that first step into a heated conversation that he would rather not partake in at the moment, hence, his going out.



V ascended to the Upper World, using the lift in lieu of the train tunnels; Victoria Station would be too bogged down with passers by and tourists. He soon felt compelled to abandon that familiar exit and entrance to his home, though because of that, he kept vigilant watch over the bottom most stairs that led to the tunnels, assuring that no one would find the way by accident. So, it was to the rooftops that he would leave.



As he passed over the threshold, clanging the old metal door shut behind him, V was struck with that terribly familiar sight -- the grey concrete of the roof spread out before him, the skyline of London lit up seemingly for his view alone. It was here that she had been born again, casting aside her childhood fears; shedding the scared little girl named Evey to emerge as an assertive and unafraid woman named Eve. He had never felt more proud of her as she had embraced the rain, filling its light into her soul as he had done the same with its opposite element so many years before. As wonderful as the moment was, it had also been bittersweet as V had known well that she would leave him soon. What a pang in his heart that he had had to suppress.



With a dark sound coming from the back of his throat, V thrust the memory out of his mind, turning away roughly into the wind where it caught his cloak. It blew strongly, almost pushing him back, trying to deter him from what he was about to do -- what he felt compelled to do and needed to do above all else. He mocked the very wind, the very heavens themselves and all the earth that lay before him as he raised his porcelain visage -- his true face to the sky. This was what he was and what he would always be -- the personification of the deepest hatred, that familiar inferno raging just beneath the surface of the skin that had been eaten away by that same fire. How it coursed and writhed within his veins.



For the wind to be so protestant, the clouds certainly were in his favor as they floated ominously over the moon, causing what little light that could be seen to diminish and the shadows to become even more menacing in their deepest pitch.



Black as his eyes, as the clothes that he wore and the hilt of the weapons at his belt, the shadows were his to command. Melting into their malice, V fluidly pulled himself over the side and used a pipe to make his way to the alley ways below. He kept the hat pulled low over the ivory brow, his head bent down as he raced down the length of the alley, reaching its end and turning without breaking stride. V wasn't careless, it was as if he knew who would be out here, who he would meet and when; knowing well that their end would come by his hands. He could see it vividly in his mind. The images excited him, causing the blood to pump loudly in his ears and to be in synch with his heart. Vehemently vivacious, vivid, and venomous this vagary...



Amidst the dark excitement, even darker memories began to creep to the front of his mind. Whether it was to stop him or drive him forward, V didn't know, but it made him insanely livid. In his growing anger, he ripped two daggers from his belt, gripping the hilts so tightly his fingers grew numb. It was kindling for this unstoppable fire.



He had been willing to drop everything, abandon even reason itself for a love that could only dream of being real -- trying to sustain itself through something as fragile as a thought, an idea -- words. If there was anything he understood, it was that -- and oh, how unfeeling and emotionless it could be. He was an illusion living an illusion.



His boots thudded purposefully upon the hard cement as he walked. He could sense they were near. The sound of his breath magnified beneath the mask as it came heavy and short, making his skin hot. He gritted his teeth, trying to keep control of the emotion, restraining it until the precise moment as he stalked maliciously along the dark brick wall, nearing a juncture. Voices floated back to him on the protesting wind. A dark smirk pulled at his lips. Fate, you stupid, stupid force, how you offer me completely what I want and you don't even realize it.



He heard two distinct voices, chit-chatting about things V hardly registered. What they had to say was of no importance, vastly insignificant; inferior wastes of life. V suddenly swept around, revealing himself, a black fire burning within the sockets of the grinning visage.



"These violent delights have violent ends," he quoted in a frightfully deep and low tone as he twirled the blades in his hands. The two men just stared, rooted to the spot. Their eyes widened in recollection.



"Dear Christ ..."



"The ghost of Christmas Past returned for verisimilar retribution," he continued, advancing forward slowly.



V remained calm in this growing ecstasy. How his arms tingled, the need to lash out becoming all the more prevalent, coalescing and fueling with the memories that flashed through his mind; the injustice against his person.



And then he saw it -- the scales tipped, the other side of the coin revealed. He hadn't felt the need to fight an already losing battle -- what would that get him? Nothing -- the same as what will happen to the two men before him: ripped, bloody and broken beyond recognition. V's insides burned at this thought, having felt much the same way, a metaphorical hurt paining him physically; the shadow of what he used to be flitted through his mind in fragments.



Guns were pulled but it seemed as if vertigo captured the world in its clutches and made everything sickeningly slow in motion. V rushed forward as two prominent clicks of the hammers being cocked shattered the silence. He had forsook them, forsook them all for her mere image so very long ago. How he had blindly adored her, how he easily had gotten drunk off that feeling until that bastard had come between them and ripped it away.



V's arm rose and a shot thundered and roared through the air, easily missing this violent monster of death's personification. He grinned cruelly, like skulls with their cracked, toothy smiles, a disconcerting and unnerving sight. The empty black sockets peered from the ivory bone of metal that was Guy Fawkes. The ridicule he had had to endure, the absolute injustice -- and the son of a bitch had felt compelled to watch his apparent suffering. It was V's turn to watch. It was V's turn to thrust and rip, slice and lacerate. He had been the victim of false accusations and now he would be the villain with cruel, steel blades.



An agonizing shout cut through the air as the dagger embedded itself within the crook of the nearest man's shoulder, burley and heavy set and nearly as tall as V himself. V's other arm came up from below, impaling up to the hilt in his groin. The dark haired man was lifted from his feet and slammed against the nearby wall. He coughed and spluttered, blood spilling from his mouth as he clutched at the gushing wound between his legs. V's focus rested on the second man, standing at an average height with a much smaller, skinny frame, but this was far from over. Blood dripped from the dagger in his right gloved fist; he abandoned the other, leaving the weapon protruding from the first man's neck. He wouldn't be foolish enough to rip it out nor in any state to use it against the man in a mask.



The barrel was pointed straight at him, a familiar sight indeed but this time, V was lacking a breast plate. A shot at this range would, more than likely, be fatal, whether he had one or not. The hand moved subtly as the sandy haired man began to squeeze the trigger. The masked figure was on him before he had time to blink. V had moved so fast that it took the Fingerman a moment to figure out why his hand was in excruciating pain. The ligaments and muscle had been severed, rendering the hand useless as blood spilled from the cut in his wrist. The gun fell from his grip as a black leather hand wrapped around his throat.



The cuts, the lacerations, the impalings, they weren't enough. They wouldn't easily sate the fire in his veins, coiling his muscles, offering V energy like nothing else. They didn't suffer enough, he thought voraciously.



The man gasped painfully as his air passage tightened, alarmingly on the verge of being crushed. He reached up to grip and claw at the masked man's arm. Blood stained the black fabric of his assailant's long sleeved jerkin, spilling heavily from the man's wrist. Sheathing the dagger, the hold on his neck receded slightly and V's free arm gripped the Fingerman's wrist and swiftly twisted it, hearing the bones crack and break before his scream rented the air.



Gloved fingers found their way around the hilt again and a dagger was calmly and unknowingly pulled back out. V hushed him. A simple sound as it was almost comforting. V almost found the vociferous screaming to be insulting. Of all the things he had had to endure in the facility of Larkhill ... what was a cut and broken wrist? The man silenced at once, perplexed by that sudden uncharacteristic action or half hoping that, if he complied with everything this masked man asked, he would be set free.



Without another moment's hesitation, the blade was plunged in between his ribs. V sharply and roughly twisted it back and forth until the man before him was choking and drowning on his own blood, a sure sign that a lung had been punctured, as was the intent. He quickly dropped the lout who crumpled to the ground, the sounds of his gagging becoming fainter as the moments passed. Soon, he was still. Now to retrieve what was rightfully his.



V turned on his heel, a looming and towering shape of blackness in this hell on earth. The white mask stood out harshly amidst such pitch, grinning all the while, finding humour in such gratuitous violence. The black eyes bore themselves into the half closed and disoriented eyes of the burley man at his feet, still clutching fervently at his crotch. The dagger still protruded from his shoulder.



"Why," he wheezed painfully.



V stepped near. As he did so, the man instinctively tried to back away, shuffling about like some fat, lopsided fish on land, hoping to melt into the hard wall with no avail. The masked figure kneeled down, the white grin inches from his sweating and shaking face. No pupils. No discernible trace of emotion to be found, merely an endless black void.



"You are deserving of it," V said simply, his deep, velvet tone filling the terrible silence around them. The man's eyes started to cloud over.



"I believe you have something of mine," V continued. "I would very much like to have it back, if you wouldn't mind." His tone was chilling in its calmness, as if he were asking for the return of a beloved book, it was so conversational. It was perplexing to V as it must have been to the dying man in front of him that the vehement fire was so quickly replaced with a calming coldness. Gone was that insane desire to rip and maim, along with the tingling sensation in his limbs. But he wasn't the only one to deal with a sudden change. Gripping fear was no longer evident in the dying Fingerman. Acceptance and defeat took its place. The end was near for them both.



The man watched, wide eyed as black leather-clad fingers wrapped around the hilt protruding from his form. He was well aware of that white face remaining inches from his own. He couldn't look into those depthless sockets and focused his last thoughts upon the weapon and the black gloved hand that held it.



The grin seemed to broaden with a tilt of his head as V peered into the man's half turned face. V watched unremorsefully as he purposefully pulled the blade out with sickeningly slow gratification. The man winced, opening his mouth in a silent groan of pain. Blood spurted from the wound when the dagger was finally removed.



"He who rejects change is the architect of decay. The only human institution which rejects progress is the cemetery."



His deep voice pierced through the burley man's sporadic thoughts, causing him to look at V again. His skin was a sickly greyish tint as he shivered and shook with nerves. A silver glint caught the corner of his eye and he instinctively raised his hand up, the quickest reflex. V's arm reared back and the blade ripped across the man's thick throat, his eyes glazing over completely. A last gurgled cry and all was silent. Crimson slowly stained his front. The man's hand fell back to his side, minus a few fingers.



The sound of metal clinking upon the cement didn't go unnoticed as V stood up from the grotesque sight; neither did the silent figure watching in the shadows escape his observation. V twisted around, the black cloak furling behind him. His arm reared back to throw the cruel blade at the onlooker. A feminine shout stopped him at once. He remained motionless, his arm still raised, his muscles coiled and tensed, his breathing suddenly fast and short. Cloaked in shadows as she was, V could easily discern her, calculating in his head the detail of her features. She looked to be about fifteen or younger, her deep brown eyes widened in shock, her hands covering her mouth. Luscious brown curls fell around her slim shoulders. V's eyes flicked all around them in silent pursuit of anyone else lurking within the nearby vicinity. There was no one.



Comforted in that thought, he slowly lowered his arm and sheathed the terrible weapon. His main concern was finding out how much she had seen. Merely chancing upon the aftermath was damaging enough without having seen its virulent execution. Repeating his words from, what seemed, a life time ago, he said softly, "I assure you, I mean you no harm." She remained in the shadows, even as he held his hand out to show his sincerity.



He remained still and calm as she remained silent and watchful, terror mingling with a hint of curiosity etched upon her young face. And for the first time in memory, V felt regret at what he had done. This girl had brought all reason back to him and he finally saw the selfishness of the act -- Fingermen or not. He slowly withdrew his hand into the folds of his cloak and lowered his head slightly. "I'm sorry."



Such passion and truthfulness in those two words must have stirred something in her, for the girl slowly crept out of the safety of the darkness, staring cautiously up at him. It was uncanny how she resembled Eve. He half wondered if he was not mad enough to see her everywhere, be it in paintings, in books, or in mere strangers. It was almost a little vexing. But he relinquished himself to the throes of the vicissitude of fate. The less verbal communication he had with the girl, the better off they would be, he concluded. And he turned away in the direction of that metallic sound heard earlier.



Gingerly, he plucked the severed finger from the bloody pool it had created, dripping once or twice as he brought it close for scrutinizing. It shone dully, a simple gold band clutched just above the laceration. Surprised that it hadn't fallen off in the landing, he gripped it and pulled it from its prior owner and rested it within the leather palm of his hand. A more ornate band lay hidden underneath the leather of his left hand, sharing the same purpose, the same meaning behind the symbolism. Like the hazy images of a dream, it all melted away to reveal what he should've seen from the beginning. The shadows had betrayed him, giving him a false sense of isolation. The black cloak rustled gently at his feet, feeling the mockery of the wind as it blew through the alley way. His fingers curled around the ring, nestling it within his fist. He breathed a deep sigh. "No more killing," he whispered softly.



The masked and cloaked figure wearily turned around, losing much of his imposing grandeur, and regarded the girl through black slits, the fire having dissipated, the anger vanished, and the smile upon Guy Fawkes returned to its jovial and amiable grin. He slowly stepped forward in hopes that she wouldn't run off prematurely. When he stood in front of her, she gazed up at him, her eyes wide, her mouth open slightly, awed by this stranger and fearful of what he had done and what he would do. Wordlessly, V withdrew his hand from the folds of his cloak and turned his palm up, opening his fingers to reveal the gold ring, standing out starkly amongst the black leather.



"A ring of such prominence does no good amidst such dirge, such beauty in the tangible wastes of a gratuitous faux pas."



His hand remained outstretched, waiting for her to pluck the ring from his palm. Her big eyes never left his own as she finally, hesitantly, reached her hand up and gripped the ring gingerly between her fingers. Abruptly, V withdrew his hand and straightened.



He stepped forward, a hand at her back and quickly ushered her away from the terrible sight. She didn't object as they walked down the length of the alley, the din and noise from the main artery of London's streets increased in level as they drew near. A street lamp washed over the girl and V stepped back into the safety of the shadows. His words reached her ears on the air.



"All that you see or seem, is but a dream within a dream."



Turning back to face the masked stranger, she was greeted with nothing but the darkness of the mouth of the alley.

Dark brick rushed past. The sound of his boots upon the cold cement thudded in time with his heart as he walked briskly through the alleys, weaving in and out of the shadows, staying hidden, seeking solitude. There was solitude to be had in his abode underground, but the memories there would voraciously eat at his mind; judge him -- something he could do without at the given moment. The crisp air and the clear night from above were calming in its chill and for the briefest moment, he was content with this. V finally stopped, leaning haggardly against an alley wall. A black gloved hand clutched at his chest and he swallowed hard as he tried to gain control of his sporadic breathing. His legs were weak and he succumbed at last to its will, slumping down onto the cold cement, bowing his head, withdrawing into himself to help ease the overwhelming pain that refused to go away.



He killed them unremorsefully and with dark pleasure. It was all a misunderstanding -- everything.



What problems he and she had had, there was nothing they couldn't get through, nothing that couldn't be over come. He realized that now. He was not one to act without thinking, to see the whole of the situation through every angle possible, leaving nothing overlooked -- the bigger picture. But it was quickly eluding him. It had eluded him for quite some time now.



V had tried to remain strong for as long as he could but he felt it was all a backlash from the previous block of time that had been relentless to his mind. He should've been happy then yet what sorrow settled over his heart had remained. It never left. There were reasons for it, he knew. Nothing just happened. But it was clearly beginning to feel like it did. Taking a deep breath, he let his hand fall in his lap and leaned his head against the wall. He closed his eyes, taking in the night sounds, the tranquility of the moment that seemed to have passed as his chest rose and fell. The familiar ache caused his brow to furrow as if in physical pain.



He lead a double life -- one of pure idea and the other of flesh and blood; torn in two in every possible aspect. And she deserved so much more than what he had been giving to her, or not giving to her. He blamed himself. Even now in this impenetrable night as he sat, appearing as if he were one of his makeshift dummies. He didn't blame her ... he never did. Not even then, when the grass had been alive with snakes and underhanded corruption, deceit, and manipulation. He had lost faith then, in that he had confessed to himself. Something can only be broken down into its basic elements ... and once achieved, it can't be broken down further. He felt he was eroded to the core and any further means was irrelevant.



He grunted as he stood up, using the wall for balance as he slowly got to his shaky legs. He wouldn't go back even though a note would be polite, he couldn't risk her being there ... She may not realize it, but V was doing this for them. He knew when he wasn't right. And he would rather face it all himself than burden her with his tripe and needless issues.



In this world, it was all or nothing. There is no in betweens.



No, he thought wearily to himself, it's not forever. The sun was bound to come up sooner or later and shadows needed to withdraw from its garish light.



The last week of October's wind blew, rustling his cloak, beckoning him on with the decision that he had so suddenly made. The night would return, he reassured. In due time, all would be made right.

Certain little things could easily set his mind reeling and bother him like nothing else, as was just the case in this moment as V sat in a chair, leather fingers drumming on the arm rest as he remained deep in thought. A book lay open, flipped on its pages in his lap. It was within those pages that had caused him a sudden headache with his ceaseless thinking.



It wasn't always like this, he knew. But the important question was how and why. He couldn't have an open discussion about this. He'd feel she were humouring him, sighing impatiently and he, having to hold his tongue lest he openly say, "berate me already." That wasn't it.



He couldn't help but feel so grateful, yet it was instinct to question it -- to question everything. Because he questioned happiness, he felt he was allowed to question misfortunes for as long and deeply as he wished.



V silently wondered when it would all fall, as the stars in the deepest night portended and promised that it would. He also secretly imagined exacting revenge, no matter the cost, no matter the repercussions. But was he doing it for her or for himself? He seemed the only one still deeply troubled by it all and he feared it would always remain in the back of his mind as a nagging reminder that, for a time, she wasn't his. But she couldn't hide the furtive glances towards the telly, the nervous rubbing of her arms, the fear in her expression when memories would return unexpectedly, conjured up from anything. A part of her seemed always on vigilant watch. He wanted to end that, more than anything, even if it meant ...



V shook his head and slipped the first two fingers underneath the mask and rubbed his temple. If there was anything that could cripple words and make them weak, it was lack of action. They were meaningless without. And oh the actions he wanted to do that would vindicate them both from such a choking memory. But he remained silent upon the matter and instead drove himself crazy thinking about it, going so far as to plot about it.



She had been in the Gallery upon his return, as he had predicted correct. V remembered her arms wrapped around his neck, the tiny kiss on the mask's cheek, and the deep adoration and relief in her eyes at the sight of him. Not long after, she had tried to question him about his whereabouts, more so who's blood it was that stained his attire but he gave a vague enough answer, waving it away with a hand before locking himself up in one of his studies on a lower floor.



No need to elaborate on the irrelevant.



V picked the book up, the pages slowly folding together as he closed it. A small smile pulled at the corners of his lips as he regarded the title fondly. It was her favorite, one that she could read a hundred times and not get tired of -- the things that never grow old in one's eyes.



A reflection struck him again. He thought of thrusting it away in favor of the happy reminiscence but he let it come; it would be kindling for later. The person of his absolute hatred looked upon her as V now looked upon that book -- an object and nothing more. But V always looked upon her as an ideal, a person -- that much was certain in his blind adoration back then. Yet, it was that same blindness that made him the fool. But he wasn't anymore. There was no more reason to be suspicious of anything but there was still every reason to be wrathful. But he didn't want to make the same mistake as before ... the mindless and gratuitous killing.



He breathed in deep, holding it in before letting it out slowly. No more killing -- that was the whole of the law, that was her law and he wouldn't break it, not again. The walking dead would be judged by other means in lieu of cruel steel and pools of blood.

He paced -- a caged lion with no where to go, eyeing the outside world with inner fear, jealousy, and contempt through the bars of its cage. He strode purposefully and with needful resolve. He felt if he stopped, the very thoughts in his head would betray him, twist about on their heel and shoot him dead. He was without a breast plate this time, not that it would matter. He moved, around and around, almost in circles -- mimicking the ill-trusted electricity lightning through his mind. V's wig swished about, his boots thudded loudly as he walked. Light flashed across the ivory of his mask before casting it in innumerable shadow once again. V suddenly stopped and straightened. This was nonsense. The only good pacing did was ease Irritable Leg Syndrome and he certainly had nothing of the sort. He found the couch and slowly sat down. After a while, he felt his leather-clad fingers drumming upon his legs in nervous zeal. Frustrated with himself, he drew his fingers into his palms and quickly stood up and resumed his pacing gait.



It was either sit and fidget, or pace and calculate. V liked calculating, no matter how trivial or personal the matter was. This time, it was personal with a hint of fear over everything that had been built. This was not an empire of stone or a forest of trees; this was the very idea of a figment given form and solidity. "Stone crumbles, wood rots ..." He did so love that quote. It felt a life time ago since then. Things remained as they were, it was neither good nor bad but an end was coming faster than he cared to admit. He stopped pacing physically; letting his mind do all the strenuous exercise as he raised his face to the ceiling of the Gallery. Up above, the streets would be alive with noise and life, people walking, chatting, having fun, arguing, crying, stealing, killing ... She was up there somewhere ... He swallowed hard and nearly wobbled on the spot, blinking back a sudden wave of emotions. He was clearly unstable. And a world already unstable certainly didn't need his glaring flaws added to the chaotic vichyssoise. Down here, he felt safe but trapped -- the architect of his own prison. He wrung his hands together and resumed walking, heading out of the main chamber and into corridors far less traversed.



Torn in two ... He knew his mind was fragmented, but did that mean the same for his heart? No, he quickly scoffed. Not at all! Darkness engulfed him and he gladly let it. It eased the growing pressure in his temple. He merely lost sight of things sometimes -- the bigger picture ... Consonants and vowels only made up a sliver of an idea, not the whole of it. A book included a back and a cover and a spine. Words were the organs -- life giving, important organs -- but a body was more than just the individual parts -- an equation more than its numbers and lettered variables ...



He was so lost in his mind, he hardly registered what his body was doing anymore as a hand struck a match and lit a candle on a nearby desk. The warm glow blanketed the room, sculpting and shaping itself with the shadows -- not chasing them away. V swallowed again. Was it so impossible to not be garrulous all the time? But if he wasn't, was he even himself anymore? The blackness hovered over the light while the soft glow nestled to the pitch's chest, opposite and yet the same. V finally ripped himself from his stream of consciousness and stared at the symbiotic relationship between ebony and ivory before his eyes. They could co-exist together, mingling and molding within and without each other, the way water hugs to the earth and the earth, in turn, opens up to embrace it. It reminded him of a symbolic picture that personified water and rocks as woman and man. A deep sigh passed from his lips, the breath escaping from the slit in the mask. Inadvertently, he raised his hands up and unbuckled the solid veneer and propped it against the wall on the small desk. The air was always colder to his newly exposed flesh. His skin tingled suddenly and he rubbed his face with a hand. He felt every bump, ridge, and crevice rise and fall from the friction and V let out another breath of despondency.



His eyes were drawn to the mask, staring at the black pits of its eyes – his eyes. For a long while he stared at the face that his enemies were well familiar with and the face that she would forever know. No wonder she would constantly get frustrated having to stare into a void of blackness. There really were no discernable traces of human emotion to be found within. He felt glad for it. 'Why', his heart asked? 'Because that's the way things are supposed to be,' his mind replied stubbornly. 'You're only human,' his heart continued. 'Mistakes are a natural occurrence.' 'They shouldn't be,' he thought bitterly. 'This isn't what this is entirely about.' A growl escaped him and a deep frown creased his brow. It wasn't. Long ago, that wall had been breeched. This was far more tangible than mere veneers of vanity.



His eyes wandered over the desk and settled upon a piece of old parchment. The fountain pen lay upon it at an angle. V stepped near and reverently caressed the tips of his fingers over the yellowed paper, fingering the familiar shapes of letters coupled together to form words, strung together to make sentences, and compacted together to form vast passages of work. He drew in a shuddering breath, finding himself at the heart of the matter. Words were only given meaning by the person behind them and the person who reads it, personalizing it and interpreting it for themselves. "I'm so sorry," his cracked and charred lips whispered to the thin air. "I'm so sorry …" Words were the conceiving of his entire being and existence. They gave him life that would've otherwise been denied him anywhere else. Of course he would speak so venerably of it. 'More than you should,' his heart interjected through his thoughts. 'Words don't feel. They don't want, they do not love.' V suddenly slammed his fist on the desk, causing the pen to fall to the ground and the mask to slump on its side. 'There is … someone else,' his mind said scathingly. 'You're very well aware of that serpent that eyes you voraciously. There can only be so much scorching and then what will you do?' 'Killing yourself from the inside out,' his heart continued coolly, not even moved by the prior outburst or idle threat, 'is not the wisest thing to do nor is holing yourself up in your personal monastery. Selfish.' A growl escaped him, his brow furrowing deeper. 'You'll have flights of fancy, your bursts of passion, as you like to call it, and you'll be left with less and less of yourself than you started out with.' When his mind had no retort, his heart continued, 'and what of her? You can't deny yourself the one thing you secretly dreamed of for years, far surpassing any vendetta or anger or words.' His hands gripped the back of the old chair in a vice grip. 'It couldn't be more noticeable,' his heart chortled on. 'It's so obvious. You finally got what you wanted --' "Shut up!" His deep voice pierced the silence and nearly caused the flame of the candle to grow still in shock. He rubbed his face again before snatching the mask from the desk and throwing it back over his face. The flame shivered as V drew near and choked it with a forefinger and thumb. Darkness hovered heavily like a morose fog but he was too frustrated to notice as he left the room, forcing a stalemate between the ceaseless bickering of his heart and mind and settled upon immediate gratifying amusement on the telly.

There was great reason to his means in all that he did from the significant to the trivial. Everything had purpose and everything had their order. Yes, he would admit to himself as he recounted days long passed, it was merely to have a piece of the past returned to him in lieu of merely shedding all of that away in favor of something frightfully new and begrudgingly refreshing … but ever did he look upon her differently. There was no way he could deny it … and his special appellation that only he was man enough to utter brought him immense comfort in the uniqueness that it brought– the different light that was instantly cast over him and only him in a place that bred clones and copies -- the personification of an idea treating little Evey as the woman that he always knew she was. At that thought, a grin slowly formed beneath the mask, feeling the deep lines and creases of the twisted skin grow taut. Why was it, he asked himself rhetorically, that it was only through him that he ever used the title? Never as anyone else and never as the object of his deepest affections. That name was only reserved for him to use, in this guise, in this form. It's not selfish to think that. Selfish would be the need to feel defensive and heated over such an appellation being haphazardly thrown around as if it meant nothing. Thankfully, that had remained caged within his mind, left with no air to breathe and, therefore, slowly died from recollection all together. He still had a lot to learn and a lot to overcome. They both did.



In matters of the arts, he continued jovially, content with this conversation he was having with his own logic, he needed to step as far back as possible to take in the bigger picture and yet so close to the metaphorical book that the words blurred together into an inky mixture that made no more sense to the shallow of mind and temperament. He was looking at things all wrong and therefore had an ill ambience surrounding his general mood. A rumble sounded from within as he contemplated further in silence. Stepping back allowed him to see with greater clarity and take in the general nuances of the piece and see how right a smidge of wise opinion truly was as well as stepping close to better scrutinize style and execution – always a calculating approach to keep the green eyed monster and its brethren, inferior mediocrity from their ravenous intents. There were so many other things to ponder on, like -- why did he feel the greatest pain that drove in to him so agonizing yet so pleasurable every time he thought of the medium – in written word or song? Why did jealousy stir from its slumber within the locked chambers of his heart every now and then? Did that make him a bad person? No. It made him human, his ever persistent heart reminded. One more thing to kill, V sighed. One more thing to kill …



He turned his musings back down the familiar track of matters greatly concerning his work, his art, this kingdom that he felt an important part of. He mentally shook his head. One could feed a bird enough seeds to keep it full and happy for a life time but did that mean he would get the same in return? Of course not. It was a bird and birds do what they do best – sing. And there it was – the compromise. He had an overwhelming amount of seeds to give and would be greatly content in awed astonishment by the mysterious and unheard impending melodies that would issue forth from its feathery throat.



Puerile … simply … puerile. The word was stapled to his cerebral cortex. He respected words, yes. But "dignity and love do not blend well nor do they continue long together," and within the given medium, it didn't feel right. It tasted too sour to his palette. It was wrong of him to get so defensive. But it was his world for so long, how could he not? Words were like the sea. Nobody could lay claim to it all and hoard buckets of it for themselves. Nonsense. Utter nonsense, V, his mind chastised. He merely needed to look at things from a different angle – a different facet to that seemingly over-studied jewel of everyone's coveted desire. And he saw it, or felt it rather. But yet, if he respected it enough, he would have the strength to keep his distance.



V blinked, tilting his head at this forming revelation. A word here, a phrase there … and yet, the artist uses the same tools as the next with which to paint a gallery's worth of exquisite paintings, yet all are different – all are imprinted with a unique insignia by the artist's hand – as distinct and irreplaceable as the identification residing on the tips of their fingers. But he knew well what sea he swam in and it wasn't his own. It was theirs and he would respect them as he respected the consonants and vowels that gave him purpose, but that didn't mean he had to dance their idiotic jig and sing their brazenly loud and out of tune songs. He would keep his dignity in tact, even if the lack of it attacked him on both sides – which it very well had the potential to do. There were always other things to busy ones self with too and the future loomed threateningly on the horizon. There was one thing he felt he had to always keep in mind that would make or break everything – reality is never as romantic as one wishes it was.

The incessantly loud tapping of keys broke the stillness as V typed hurriedly at a keyboard, staring unwaveringly at the glowing monitor. Hunched at the desk, a low growl lingered within his throat, his eyes behind the mask narrowed and dark. He was doing something important and he knew he shouldn’t be. Not because the importance was insignificant in any way but that he was doing it on a very unreliable system and knew, also, that at any moment it all could be lost. At that thought, a mottled scarred hand slapped down upon the mouse and moved the cursor to the file to save it. Picking the right destination he clicked the button that would assure all of his work would not be in vain.



The small window remained stationary in maliced mockery and his eyes widened. Without thinking, he slammed his fists onto the desk in fury. Again. Again! He shook, trying to reign in that terrible beast within lest he do something drastic. Drastic! His mind voraciously seized the word from his mind and hung it in front of his conscience like a picture of a lascivious pin up girl. How could he resist? The thought was so sweet, pleasurable -- a seductive outlet for his equally seductive emotion that he had such a love/hate relationship with. Tonight, he thought wildly, he would indulge!



V stood up, the fiery inferno within maddeningly eating away at his logic and reason. Everything else was already too far gone for any hope of deviation. His mind was made up, his purpose clear, and his intent was set. Another sound broke the stillness in a metallic slice of reverberation. It was the sound of cruelty, vengeance, and beauty wrapped up in steel and leather. With a terrible blow, the tower was kicked on its side and gripped with tightened fingers, twisting it around to its back and lifted up to smash its face against the floor. Without hesitation, the blade was rammed through the plastic back. Greedy fingers gripped the wound and ripped the back open and gored and eviscerated it of any and all internal organs. Wires were sliced and the motherboard was mangled to an unrecognizable state. He abandoned his ever faithful weapon and plunged his hand in; choked his fingers around the wires and anything else he could get a grip on and ripped them from its dead body with an animalistic cry of frustration.



Silence again. Silence hovered over the scene like a dismayed mourner. He easily felt the accusing stare and the pointed finger that accompanied the gesture. Broken and fragmented pieces of plastic and sliced wires lay in disarray upon the floor, surrounding their murderer. The lingering growl finally escaped his throat and he roughly stood up, kicking the empty tower before flopping himself down in the chair. The monitor was black. The vague hint of his silhouette stared back at him from the screen. The intensity of his muscles had long since relaxed and his breathing returned to tranquil waves upon the shoreline, but inwardly the charring would commence. The deed was greatly copacetic, a drunken escapade almost, but now that it was over with, he was left without a computer and left to nurse the burnt up remains of his insides and, what’s worse, have to explain his actions. Though, he reasoned, he didn’t think anyone would blame him. He got to his feet, gripping the folded gloves upon the desk and put them on. Tomorrow, he would deal with the mess but for now, a soothing cup of tea would do his questionable sanity some good.

The suffocation began to take hold again, like a villainous vine creeping up to choke the pure flower from the sun and drag it down to the tendril’s all-consuming darkness. It was internal anguish and how he both hated and loved every moment of it. It spoke of an unfathomable depth that was greatly unexplainable, a highly respectful ambience smoothing out the harsh wrinkles in a shirt. It was fascinating and reproachful. The need to want to find out more was shoved back by the need to get one’s head above water -- never mind the pretty visuals beneath such dark waves. It was a terrible battle that threatened to rip him in half if he wasn’t careful.



V stood, a silent shadow in front of a wall of televisions, musing vicariously over the lives of those walking hither and yon to their purposeful destinations. But there was one that instantly caught his eye and birthed the cause of his current emotion. He knew her well and yet not at all – a simple black dot upon a canvas of red, an auspicious beauty in the middle of squalor and rubbish, purity amongst the tainted, good amidst evil, an angel entertaining devils and demons. He pulled his fingers tightly into his palm as his gaze pierced her form through the glowing screen. He watched and waited, his heart feeling as if it were outside his body and held within the now balled up fist in his hand. His grip tightened and his heart tripped over its pulse in response.



Every room was tangibly connected, the floors interlocking upon each other like a living puzzle, a very labyrinth with no discernable way out. Upon reaching the end of the rainbow, there lies no pot of gold, merely broken promises and dying wishes born from childhood fancy to be unremorsefully murdered by adulthood’s reality. There was no room left for such dreams within a dreamless world. But he resided beneath the concrete streets, like a prisoner within the confines of his own architecture -- a beautiful incarceration. He remembered bitterly the long years he had spent alone and enjoyed it but now that he knew such a thing as companionship, he desired something that felt not his to have. He felt it had something to do with the very make up of his genetics, the way he was built, the way his mind worked, the way past experience shown him again and again that such beautiful things were always brief in their euphoria and cannot be revived once choked to death.



She disappeared from sight into the Kitty Kat Keller and his dark gaze flickered over the moving bodies of strangers: mothers, children, husbands, wives, lovers, workers, friends … the human condition was the same for any and all; it was the profound depth of such a condition that set everyone apart. V shut his eyes. Everyone was warranted some kind of reprieve. After all, there were so many things that lay hidden from such a steely gaze as his, certain ideas that were beyond his reach to comprehend without the proper information to better scrutinize and avoid useless assumption. But he couldn’t deny the change that was building inside nor the weight of his work dragging him down. Patience is a virtue, said Piers Plowman once. A virtue that was very hard to keep from turning into a vice of itself.

A letter … That’s all he had was a letter -- familiar words and phrases strung together in her familiarly graceful but humble scripture. He fingered the soft curls of the A’s, E’s, and Y’s and cut down the middle of his name, before sliding the leather tip further down the page as he read, passing over the creases where the yellowed paper had been folded; it had been folded and kept that way for a long time. V rarely took it out let alone to read it but this time he felt he needed some form of past comfort for unstable uncertainty of the present.



He swallowed as his eyes passed over familiar promises speaking of forever, of joys not yet experienced, and tomorrows that vowed completion. A sad smile pulled at his lips beneath the eternal grin that safely hid his true expression from the outside world and swallowed the sadness down. He would always have her words, the one thing he, for now, abstractly connected with and was the most tangible thing in his possession. He brought the page up and inhaled deeply, breathing in the smell of old paper and the far off dream of her scent when she had first written it. He reverently brought it back down to the table and read over it a final time. Her words were venerated above any literary work, famous or not, someone else’s or his own. The story behind the letter was even more enchanting to recall.



The object that came with the letter lightly clamped over his heart and it instantly chastised the swiftly retreating shadows of his mind. He swallowed again but concentrated his focus upon the parchment beneath his gaze and hands. The shadows kept persisting with their pessimist while his heart was ever at war with them. He feared he would always be divided. A deep sigh passed from the slit in the mask’s mouth as V bowed his head despondently. Sometimes, he feared what he was becoming, what he was swiftly turning into but there was no harm in reveling in secret fantasies in solitude’s sanctuary -- no one to catch him off guard or exploit his secret desires. And that’s where he felt safe -- far away and yet so near, a substantial figment keeping watch in her mind as she more than kept watch in his.



He picked the letter up and carefully folded it back and tucked it away. Taking a breath, he hardened himself, locking away the one weakness deep within the miniscule corners of his heart that still felt remotely human and not completely dead of affectionate emotion. He welcomed the shadows back in his mind that soon ran rampant across the metaphorical cobwebbed floors. He couldn’t rid himself of such malignant intent completely. After all, he would always remain more idea than man, no matter how much he secretly wished differently.

A flurry of papers were thrown into the air and scattered across the floor where they were unremorsefully stepped on. An insignificant thing … An old printer hummed and spat out page after page after page. Piles and stacks sat upon the desk, soon to join their brethren on the floor. An angry cry rent the air and sure enough, more pages littered the floor where black boots trod all over them. It was the same damned equation again! It never changed! A far away memory, dying in his mind was immortalized on a page. Black eyes scanned over it quickly before another bout of rage filled him and V gripped a handful of pages in an angry fist and threw it all to the ground. If only it was that easy to forget … If only it was that easy to forget …



*****



A calmer figure stood upon a roof, watching the sun set in a pool of crimson and burnt orange hues. The sky looked to be on fire and V’s black silhouette was stark against the bright light. The breeze was warm and swayed his cloak around his ankles. It had been an incredibly long time since he had found any kind of enjoyment from such an intangible spectacle. But this time, he felt it symbolized so much, encompassed so much in its dying rays of light; the nearby shadows were just waiting to swallow it up. With the embers burning out, so too did everything else inside him, no matter how complex the circumstances he had placed himself in. And oh, was it ever complicated. Nothing added up anymore – the dates, the numbers, and the transpiring events of so many months prior. A despondent sigh passed from the slit in the mask’s mouth. Time was ever too slow for those who waited … He stood for a long time atop the roof with his head bowed, the light still shining through the blackness of the mask’s eyes and through his closed lids. He could faintly feel it before a soft cold took its place and the sun, at last, vanished beneath the world once more. So did all of his hopes and aspirations but, unlike the sun, they would not be returning with the new dawn … and neither would he.



Raising his head, V stepped near the edge and from the folds of his cloak he brought forth a tiny object – a silver ring that stood out starkly against the black leather of his palm. It symbolized completion and incorruptibility, so had it said in the letter. Such a pure element was never meant to stay in his possession anyway. He held his hand aloft and dropped it to the depths below. It wouldn’t have been the first time a ring was cast aside like a fistful of dead roses … The night would come and with it the prelude to his irrevocably doomed fate.



There was much planning to be made before the end.

The air smelled wet as dark storm clouds billowed overhead. Thunder rumbled far away, a herald to the might of the storm that would smite its lightning down and cast its rain upon the world. In response to the distant rumble, the wind blew a tremendous gust across the figure that stood on a rooftop whilst everyone else down below hurried to find shelter ere the storm broke. He lifted his mask to the sky to watch the black clouds frothing amidst the heavens. He felt like he had no soul for he had bared himself completely -- a love that had transcended beyond the mere mortal plane of reality. Such Truth had ultimately betrayed him and thought that by ignoring him that he -- a mere figment -- would go away. That was not how the nature of problems worked. Ignoring them only made the persistence of their existence more absolute and certain in their hauntings. A piece of himself lay obscured in the immense clouds that grew angrier and more wrathful by the second. Perhaps that was why he found himself gazing at the sky more often lately. His body felt tired, a husk wearied by the constant strain of thinking, plotting, and planning. Anger had certainly left its terrible charred mark ingrained on his insides this time. He did not take betrayal lightly. Whatever torture came from his emotion would be well worth it in the end, maybe not for others ...



V would not settle his restless last inch upon the unwarranted justice brought upon by offing a couple fingermen. No. Not this time. He would go straight to the heart of the matter but all in due time. There were five months left still before the Fifth and there was much planning to be had ere he made his first move upon that mental chess board. She already told him how she wanted to play; she set up the rules. The choice had ever been hers and it would remain that way. He felt it a last dram of respect and politeness juxtaposed to her bestial demeanor. He would be the saint and she the villain, no matter what would happen upon that fateful night. He was ready for anything.



The rain washed down in a torrent. V bowed his head in reverence, drops pouring off of the wide brimmed hat, a silent prayer in his mind as God rained down upon him. He lifted his ivory face up and beheld the violent lightning snaking and flickering across the black sky. Lightning in a bottle -- that was what he was. And the bottle was scarred with deep crevices and cracks. The wind howled and moaned, swishing and pulling his black cloak and pulling at the strands of his wig. V felt he were in the presence of power manifested by the storm as it grew in wrath and strength. Whether before God or Satan, V didn’t care. There was a viper loosed upon the world that was in dire need of being defanged, if not beheaded and he would delight in doing both.

The ivory keys sunk down; the hammers softly plunked at the strings within the body of the grand piano, causing the notes to resonate into the silence. The gentle rings filled the troublesome and vicious void with the sweetest sounds -- ‘charms to soothe a savage beast.’ Idle leather-clad fingers of a single hand traveled down, issuing forth a mournful dirge in the saddest minor key, the melody akin to a nocturne in its haunting sound. How appropriate. The jukebox watched from its usual spot, everything hushed into silence. V walked heavily but purposefully, letting his eyes wander over the familiar room and floor of the Shadow Gallery. Everything had its place, its seat of reverence -- order within the chaos that whimsically embraced it.



Up above, the storm was far from over as lightning cut across the sky and rain stabbed at the streets. Even below, the wrath of the heavens could dimly be heard over the equally wrathful silence. V gazed upward, an act not uncommon but what he felt and thought were vastly different from the innocent musings of yesteryear. In the shaded light, the shadows cast upon the visage caused the jovial grin to smirk maliciously. He had returned only briefly to pinpoint where she would be before he would make his departure. He took great delight in this endeavor, no matter how malignant it was.



The rain beat down and in mere moments, his cloak was drenched and the wide brim of his hat turned the drops into a waterfall before his eyes as they cascaded down in their relentlessness. The wind whipped and clawed at him in its own cruelty. By rooftop, it was almost fluid in its quickness to get from one end of town to the other in a manageable fashion and V did so with as much grace and flow as a black winged raven. His steps were heavy as he raced over the concrete and leapt ethereally to the next platform. Landing with a thud, he fled onward through the curtain of rain, his cloak flapping behind him in the vicious wind.



Keys clinked followed by the clicking of a lock. A door was promptly pushed open, flooding the immediate area with light from the apartment hall outside. The slender form of a woman strode in and shut the door behind her, fervently in conversation on a cell phone. The elaborate apartment mirrored its equally elaborate and theatrical occupant. The front hallway spilled into the middle of the expansive living room. The shadowed dining area and mini hallway, leading to the bedroom, flanked it. A large patio window covered nearly the entire opposite wall, the rain pattering against the glass. She did her usual routine, phone in hand, as lights were flicked on and presentable clothes were changed to something more relaxing -- a white halter top and sweats when she reemerged from the bedroom. The woman ran her fingers through her damp hair as she casually stepped into the living room. His dark eyes watched her as she flitted about in her humble little cage, preening her feathers. The very sight of her exuberantly happy caused his rage to flare up, intoxicating as it was unbearable to hold back as his fingers slowly curled into fists, the leather creaking softly. V stood in the farthest corner of the dining area, unmoving, unwavering in his black gaze. The shadows pressed around him, seeking escape from the scornful light as their master calmly waited until she was done with her aimless wandering. She was so absorbed in herself -- in the recent events -- that nothing else existed as she chatted away in her jovial and merry tone. The usual night at the Kitty Kat Keller must’ve went as smashing as it always did, he idly assumed. She finally settled down on the sofa, having said goodbye to whoever it was and turned on the telly. Her back was to him. V made his move.



Thunder rumbled loudly over the sounds of the television as he stepped towards her, the cream carpet muffling the soles of his boots. As he drew ever nearer, the lights gradually dimmed and the shadows grew longer, seemingly conjured and fed from the blackness of his intentions. She was completely oblivious, as they always were -- always feeling safe within the confines of their cells; content to walk in on their knees or kick their legs up high should the entertainment not suffice -- never thinking about the consequences that followed, the repercussions to their malignant and unjust actions; believing that ignorance and repression would save them, that the problems of their making would not come back to haunt them. V was not a figment to be forgotten or ignored -- a contradiction to their past. Oh, what a past they shared -- as intricate and saturated with history as everyone else he had paid a personal visit to. For years, it seemed, they had went back and forth in their metaphorical chess game -- dangerous as it was vivacious for them both. A sliver of fear had rooted itself in the back of his mind after a while, fearful that they were on opposite sides all along. She didn’t want to get her hands dirty but, unbeknownst to her, they were drenched in blood that she, even now, denied.



A monumental roar of thunder shook the window, causing shelves with various trinkets on it to shudder. The woman gasped, trembling herself from the storm‘s rage. Standing behind the sofa, V raised his hands and just as soft leather touched warm flesh, everything plunged into darkness. “Check mate,” his deep voice resonated in the sudden terrible ambiance. His fingers wrapped gently around her swiftly tightening shoulders, watched her stark silhouette straighten and stiffen in horror. A suffocating fear, he thought in relish, the kind that forces the heart into a near premature heart attack, chilling the blood and constricting the lungs -- completely caught off guard. “Did you miss me,” he cooed. Every syllable dripped with disdain. The silence was all consuming. The blackness vanished with an instant’s flash of lightning and V beheld her terror-stricken face through the reflection of the television screen. A dark smirk pulled at his lips beneath the mask. “V ...” He dipped his head near her ear and breathed softly, “I know I've missed you.”



A candle, set between them on a coffee table, cast ominous and warped shadows over the room and making V’s mask appear demonic as he stood at the end of the table in the semi darkness. She sat on the couch, staring up at him through large eyes, penetrating the black cavities as they more than penetrated into hers. “I’ve missed you , V,” she said casually. “I’ve missed speaking with --” He quickly cut her off. “Let’s dismantle this puerile costume that you’re ever so passionate about wearing. You know well why I am here and I’ve no intentions of leaving without retribution.” He towered over her, the darkness appearing to drip and pool from him. “Such providence in the fall of a sparrow,’ ” he continued, “Judgment day heralds us all to its white throne and black book.” She gazed up at the ivory mask thoughtfully before she slowly stood up, moving to the other end of the coffee table. Gloved fingers automatically curled and tightened around the hilt of a dagger beneath the heavy layered cloak. “I understand if you hate me ...” “I abominate you most vehemently, Madam, for sweetest things turn sourest by their deeds. Lilies that fester smell far worse than weeds.” Her tone altered, a hint of indignation bleeding through. “You and your damned quotes. Is that all you know what to say, dusty words from equally dusty, insignificant individuals?” “I shall be quoting you ere the end,” he smirked darkly. “What do you want me to do? I’m sorry, V. I am so sorry for what happened, but I've never lied to you.” “All I ever asked for was the truth and you intentionally denied it from me. And even now you continue to persist as if I’m the most ignorant fool on the face of the earth.” Ever did she continue to tell him what he wanted to hear and leaned back on an excuse of his absence, which was unjust in her discreet accusation. He paused for a long while, the candle continuing to flicker between them before he spoke again. “You always were fond of masquerades,” he said unhappily. “I have a final gift for you ere I take my leave, but before I give it to you, you’ll have to stick out your tongue.” She stared incredulously. “What? You can’t be serious.” “I am anything but jesting, I assure you.” His words were a contradiction to the mask that grinned before her in the dim firelight. She frowned at his request. Both remained unmoving.



Finally, V stepped near, closing the gap between them as he spoke softly. “You took such kind and careful steps; your sanctified words able to kiss the seats of Heaven and make the angels livid with envy of thy grace. But your teeth decayed and your soul grew foul.” He stopped right in front of her, peering down as he made a personal conclusion. “The ugliest hag, if I ever saw one.” Her expression was dark with fear. “Stick out your tongue,” he commanded. Having no choice, she reluctantly obeyed and slid her tongue out from between her lips. “You want to speak like a viper, you need the tongue of one!” Without hesitation, he shot his arm up. The dagger impaled straight through and with a hard jerk, it was severed right down the middle. Blood flung from the force and splattered upon the floor and onto the coffee table. The candle flickered as crimson drops fell around it. Her eyes as wide as dinner plates, the silence was ripped asunder with her high pitched scream, the meat hanging limp from her bloody mouth. V quickly sheathed the blade, staring unremorsefully at her as she wailed, red spilling from the laceration and staining her front. “The Devil is, no doubt, very proud,” he told her. V calmly strode for the door, leaving that wretched and bleeding mess behind him as thunder rumbled far off in the distance, a sign that the storm was finally over. The dawn would be here soon enough and oh, what a glorious sight it would be.