"maybe we can head to the apocalypse again as a little vacation. you know what they say... paradise!"
"i cannot express to you how little i would like to do that."
"stingy fucker."
IN WHICH vincent leblanc, resident french asshole and externally...
006 ( i learned my passion in the good old school of loverboys )
chapter 6!
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VINCENT LEBLANC SHOULD HAVE LISTENED TO HIS MOTHER. Listened to that ghastly woman when she told him that danger was coming towards him full speed, and he himself was the danger. She would tell him he would eventually get himself killed, that he was a horrifying freak that could never live for too long. He should have listened when she told him to worry about it. When she told him his life would unfold in ways he would never ever wish upon anyone else.
She was right.
With every little thing that had happened over the years, he figured that his mother's words had become a harsh reality. A fucked up terrible reality. He had gotten lost in the end of the world, lonely a majority of the time, and he had come back to France to nothing. No bed, no money, no one to talk to. His life had gone more downhill than it started off as. And now Five hated his guts, despised every moment beside him.
It all hurt Vincent more and more. Although, he understood it. He was destined to be alone, brought Five's hatred and icy glare upon himself. He should have been smarter, should have thought about his actions beforehand. That would have saved him a lifetime of flesh eating guilt, gnawing at his insides like a hungry parasite. He supposed he deserved it. Deserved to be eaten alive by the thing, without any remorse or scraps to be left behind. He deserved to feel every inch of skin burn under the surface, itch like nothing he's ever felt before. He deserved to be in pain and suffer his guilt for the rest of his sad sad life.
Vincent knew what he had done was utterly wrong, something that would haunt him forever until he took his dying breath. He supposed he hadn't cared at the time. Hadn't gave it much thought when he decided to abandon Five to a heartless world of loneliness. But now he gave it too much thought. Thought about it nearly every second, a pressing idea that would never go away no matter how hard he willed it gone. It was hard to live with the burden of guilt. So hard to stay breathing with the knowledge that you've hurt someone, broken them down to somewhere vulnerable you may have never seen. He knew he had hurt Five deeply. Knew with every glance Five gave him, with every accidental brush of their shoulders followed by Five's flinch away. It wasn't something Vincent liked to see. Five hurt by his rash actions, that is.
He wished they would go back to normal. Convert back to their old ways in which they'd have short casual conversations about Edgar Allan Poe and things regarding literature. That was what Five had always enjoyed talking about. Vincent would get bored of that topic easily, yawn and change the subject to something he found more interesting. He'd talk about what stupid things he liked to do in France. To play American football and break his nose to feel something. He loved the way the blood would dribble down his skin, cover his lips like a gruesome lipstick and fall down his neck until he wiped it with the back of his hand, dirty his knuckles with the stench of blood. Sure, it was disgusting. But Vincent loved it. He loved feeling things like that. Pain. He supposed he was a masochist, loving to bring pain upon himself.
