The Last Romantics

Let No Man Control You

Well at first I didn't feel a change at all, and in fact I was almost convinced that the drug had done nothing at all. I watched with some minor interest as Victor sat back in his chair, preparing his own vial and injecting much more than half a syringe full into his arm. For a moment he seemed utterly at ease, his eyes falling shut and his mouth exhaling large gasps of air. He seemed entranced, smiling for a moment to himself with that syringe still stuck into his arm, when at last he came back to life and yanked it out of his vein instinctively. I was also beginning to feel considerably more relaxed, though the stress of having taken a drug was still fresh in my mind and was beginning to frighten me more and more. I remembered back to my brother's lectures, those in which he preached to me not to do drugs of any sort, that they would mess with my body's functions and kill me instantly. Then again, this feeling that was beginning to flow through me wasn't something quite like pain, nothing all together forbidding. I felt farther away from death than ever before, and even if it was closing in on me I found it to be a much more pleasurable experience than being perfectly sober. I sat reclined on that couch for a long while, time had begun to take a rather interesting turn within my head, and before long I found myself so bored with staring at the ceiling that I chose to stare at Victor instead. For once in my life I felt perfectly obligated to do so, for when I stared at him my brain began to speak to me in words I could hardly understand, though they were sounding sweet as music. I smiled, and upon seeing me he smiled back, and for a moment I could tell that he was listening to the same sort of chorus as I was. True to our words before, I felt as though we were truly joined by souls, something more intimate than even brothers could be. We were only partially ourselves, and in moments like this I began to recognize that voice in the back of my head to be speaking in his voice. I merely looked about the room and he commented on the things, bringing about his unique and majestic perspective to each article in his home. I found this to be quite amusing, and for a long while I sat smiling rather stupidly, my hand rolling about on my bare forearm and collecting the little droplets of blood that had bubbled up from beneath my punctured skin. It's beautiful Victor's voice reminded me.
"Victor, I can't feel my hands too well." I admitted at last, holding them up to the light of the fire and observing them curiously. I could see them; certainly they were still attached...though every time I tried to touch something it felt as though they were but a hunk of flesh, unable to feel and only available to bump without much pain at all.
"That's normal, Sherlock. This is your first time, is it not?" he wondered quietly, seemingly dismissive of what I would characterize as a terrible crisis.
"My first time...first high. Yes." I agreed, nodding my head back and forth with a smile on my face.
"It feels strange the first time, I'll admit. I got no creative ideas from the first, just a strange feeling over all. But when you learn to control the drug you learn to control your brain, and you can pull from all of the sections of your imagination that you dare not go." Victor explained. I nodded, attempting to sit up but finding that it was too much effort, and so in something of a slump I allowed myself to drape even more heavily over the arm of the couch. There was Victor again; I could see him even as I stared into the ceiling! It was fascinating what my mind could accomplish, allowing me to see the things I wished. I proceeded to clap my numbed hands together, attempting to feel anything at all, though that grew very tiring and so I went back to lounging, letting my arms dangle like fallen puppet strings around me where gravity may pull the strongest. I smiled, and Victor smiled back.
"Sherlock you are so terribly inexperienced. One might even say you were sheltered, not allowed to live your life like most children." Victor muttered, observing from afar as my smile slipped and my jaw hung open in a strange, gaping manner.
"My life is relative. I've lived more inside of my head than I have outside of it." I admitted once I finally regained control of my tongue. I felt as though there should be no more secrets between the two of us, though I was smart enough to control my words without them being summoned. I would only answer questions when I was first addressed, and I very well had no intentions of spilling my secrets to an ear that would not care to hear.
"No one like you should live inside of their head, you are rich and beautiful, the world is yours for the taking. If there is a man that can control you, well let him be forgotten." Victor whispered, his eyes glassing over as if he saw himself falling under the same category of unstoppable.
"You can control me." I pointed out.
"I choose not to. There's a difference, darling." Victor reminded me with a little click of his tongue, to which I nodded along.
"My father tried to control me, but he died. And my brother...and I ran away. I like my life far better now; you're a much better host than that fat old man ever could have been." I insisted.
"I believe it. I never did like your brother much, partially because of his involvement in the human cruelty. Factories are soulless places; they're not made for accommodating human beings at all. They're made for killing children, destroying nature, and crippling the strong." Victor insisted, his eyes flashing with some menace for a moment before he calmed himself, staring over at me as if he was partially blaming me for the state of my father's factory.
"That's why I wanted to get out." I explained quietly.
"And you are out, Sherlock. And don't ever let me tell you what to do. Don't let anyone tell you what to do, except that little voice inside of your head." Victor reminded me, poking at his own head with some amusement as if he had made friends with the devil on his shoulder. He was a man of impulse, that was for sure. He was a man of suffering morals and a pretty face, the worst combination known to the earth since the dawn of creation.
"Sometimes that voice says some awfully bold things." I reminded him, remembering back to Tobias and even to the earlier days of my stay here.
"Listen; there can never be something so bold that your mind could think up, not without the intentions of completing it. Tell me Sherlock, what have you thought of doing, but never tried?" Victor whispered, easing himself to the edge of his chair so that his legs extended almost to where I could reach out to touch them. He was getting closer, though as that question resonated in my mind there was only one face that came up, a face I was not all together ready to deal with.
"Falling in love." I said quietly.
"A bold choice, not always wise but always fun. For the start at least." Victor admitted, shrugging his shoulders as if he had many an encounter with Cupid. Though the way he spoke of it, I'm sure their meeting always ended up with one party broken and battered.
"I've tried so many times, Victor. I've been rejected, I've been humiliated...well I can't think of what I'm doing wrong!" I exclaimed, bringing my hands down hard onto the couch I was sitting on in some sort of childish protest.
"Be quiet, be stoic. Women always love a man who cannot speak to ruin his good looks. You are equipped with all the tools you need, save perhaps for the necessary social skills." Victor insisted. I shook my head, wondering how on earth he could not understand that I did not fall in with such a crowd of men. I would much rather love them than join them, though that was the trouble right there! Vast majorities would not have me. Vast majorities would arrest me, refuse me, trod me underfoot. I was alone in this world, for the most part at least.
"You mistake me, Victor. I have never had an interest in women." I whispered at last, my hands falling together in a startling touch and my eyes snapping towards Victor's. I could see automatically that I had become much more interesting in his eyes, much more entertaining indeed.
"Sherlock, love. You have the makings of a true artist." Victor whispered, nodding as if I had been waiting for his approval this whole time. And perhaps I was, because just as soon as he acknowledged me in such a way I felt my heart begin to swell. All of the sudden I felt as though I had finally fallen into place, I had fallen found a man who would keep me safe. I was not a freak, not within these walls. Victor would protect me, for he was just like me. And my theory was thus far confirmed, I was every bit as much like Victor Trevor as he was like me.