Shatter (FFVII)

Shatter

HI I WAS LISTENING TO THE SONG "MISS YOU" BY CORPSE ON REPEAT TODAY AND SOMETHING CLICKED AND THIS LITTLE FIC CAME TO MIND (good song btw).

IF YOU REALLY LIKE ANGSTY VINCENT VALENTINE BREAKDOWNS AS MUCH AS I DO, I THINK YOU'LL HAVE A FUN (but sad- we're here for the sad) TIME HERE. 

ENJOY.

Lucrecia...

Sweat beaded into fine pearls, slipping slowly over smooth skin. Drop by drop, the beads turned red, stained by the remains of shallow cuts and old scars. They hardly clung for long, though, dripping off the pointed end of a trembling chin and shattering into a thousand splatters once they hit smooth leather.

Uneven steps thudded back and forth across the dusty, creaking floor. The constant flipping of a heavy cloak stirred the dust from the floorboards and whipped beams of moonlight aside to make room for its shadow. The tattered material caught on the splintering bedpost below the window and brought its master's pacing to an abrupt halt.

Teeth gnashed and pressure built beneath the sweat-dampened leather. A golden gauntlet caught the moonlight with a flash, and jagged claws dug into the heavy crimson material, giving a sharp tug but to no avail. Another, harder jerk rewarded him only with a slight tearing sound. A low growl burned through his throat and he pulled harder still. It didn't budge.

Useless.

His jaw clenched and he tore the buckles shielding the lower portion of his face away, freeing himself from the cape and throwing the rest of the material to the ground for good measure before pacing back toward the dusty, streaky mirror. In the darkness, two glowing scarlet eyes stared back at him, dripping with rage.

There had been no nightmare, no power struggle, no threats hissed into the back of his skull by malicious demons. No blood, fire, or needles haunted him in his dreams. Only a soft, glowing hand stretching toward him in the midst of a sea of white. The pale strips of cloth that wound around her arms had slipped, resting on his chest and providing a comforting warmth as her fingers cupped his cheek and her voice called out in a soothing, almost loving, tone...

Wake up, silly. This isn't the place for a nap.

His jaw clenched and he pressed his hands to the cracked porcelain sink, thrusting his body away from the mirror and back toward the bed. Her voice... It didn't belong in his head. He wasn't worthy. The things he'd put her through—the things he was still doing to poison her memory...

I'm s—

His anger flared again, and his hands flew up to his head, digging through fistfuls of matted ebony hair to dig his talons into his scalp and pull. He didn't deserve to miss her. He lost that privilege when he failed to save her.

Ragged breaths stilled when his eyes met the gleaming bottle resting on the bedside table. At least a fifth of it remained, innocently clear and enticing like a refreshing glass of ice-cold water. An overwhelming thirst overtook his body and he lunged for the bottle, pressing its slender opening to his lips. But then he froze.

It's why you're in this state, you miserable wretch.

The gauntlet's claws scraped along the body of the glass body as they tightened. He didn't remember how he'd come into possession of the bottle, but he certainly remembered how he came so close to finishing the entire thing in a single go. He'd been sitting on the edge of his bed, hunched over his knees, and throwing his head back to reveal his hidden face as he sucked down as much of the bitter poison as he could in a single gulp before retreating and swallowing air greedily, his own alcoholic breath bouncing off his mantle and blowing back into his face. A lingering reminder of his sins.

He couldn't feel alcohol like he used to, that much he knew for certain. There was no more stumbling and loosening of lips and dizzy bliss. But there was peace, and perhaps that was even more dangerous than the normal side effects. The poison calmed the voices of his demons, turning them into faint grumblings he could dismiss as the whisper of his thin curtains brushing against the floor when the wind blew too hard through the cracks of his ramshackle shed buried deep within the forest.

Within the drunkenness, everything was calm. It washed his insides with silence and warmth, and he had turned onto his back and closed his eyes without worrying about the nightmares. He'd been a fool.

Even know that now, though, his tongue reached for the opening of the bottle, greedily searching for that peace once more. The bitterness only encouraged his lips; he knew resisting was just as fruitless as pulling at his cape. Eyes screwed shut, he tipped his head back and gulped like his life depended on it, his control wrestling from his grasp until the drink was gone with only the burning inside his chest to prove it ever existed.

If he wanted to, he could crush the bottle in the palm of his hand like the glass was made from eggshells. He wouldn't feel the pain—it might've felt good to watch blood drip from the tears shards of glass could leave in his gloves. In his skin. But that's not what he wanted. He wanted to feel normal. He wished his head throbbed and his stomach clenched as a punishment for his foolishness, but it would never come.

A guttural cry erupted from his throat and, as his rage pushed through the ever-widening cracks in his psyche, he hurled the bottle against the wall. He relished in the sound of it shatter and the stinging in his skin where slivers of glass bit in as another reminder of his slipping control. His gasping breaths slowed, and for a moment, he dared to think he would finally be drained of his endless river of anguish.

But then the guilt, the shame, and the fury surged back tenfold. His eyes watered and he thrust the heels of his hands into them to grind the tears away, digging into his scalp with the claw. Blood mixed with the sweat on his skin, pouring down his cheeks in thin, hot streams.

Idiot!

Acting like a child.

Monster.

No. He had to be sure. Whipping around, he slammed his hands back onto the sides of the sink and leaned into his dirty reflection. His hair stuck up at odd angles, thickly laden with blood and sweat, and wet crimson streaks traced his face like cracks in a porcelain doll.

No. His eyes flickered between scarlet and gold as if they, too, couldn't remember whether the faded line between Vincent and Chaos existed anymore. His lips quivered with a hundred excuses for his behavior, blue either from the tomb-like chill of the room or because he hadn't been able to catch his breath since he woke up gasping and reaching for Lucrecia's absent hand in the darkness.

Stop!

Trembling, he stepped back only to sling the gauntlet forward into the mirror, shattering it into a thousand pieces with a deafening crash. Larger shards clung to the frame on the wall, but the smaller pieces hit the dusty sink with musical plinks. The ones that missed their salvation clinked in whispers as he collapsed to the floor to sit among them.

Drawing his knees to his chest, he closed his eyes and took three deep, shuddering breaths. It isn't over, her voice said quietly. Faintly, he felt a soothing pressure on the back of his head as she smoothed his hair.

Lucrecia...

He gasped, jerking his head upright, but the room was empty. He was alone. Sighing, he leaned back against the crackling paint on a wall stained from a hundred other nights like this one.

"But it is," he whispered, voice hoarse.

And then, with glass pricking his skin like bee stings and blood leaving trails on his face in drying streaks, he closed his eyes and prayed for the nightmares to be ruthless in their return.