The Last Romantics

Fate Only Lasts So Long

Rational theories began to play in my mind, ones that involved an accidental drop, or a spring cleaning done by our faithful housekeeper. Though the more I considered what may have happened to this notebook, and the more I remembered that Mrs. Turner lived in a house of poets, the more I began to realize that this notebook had to have been offered to the flames intentionally...most likely with an ill purpose. This little scrap of leather, this proof of foul play, it was the only evidence I needed to put the pieces together. It was the only survivor in a war of politeness and hospitality, a war of underlying hate, jealousy, and control. Why would a notebook be tossed into the flames, if its true purpose had not been recognized by the villain? Why would anyone dispose of something that would keep John Watson in my life, if not with the decided intention to rid him from Europe forever? I looked towards my host, where he still slept curled within his chair. I decided to wake him; I decided that would be the best course of action. My heart had gone silent; well I couldn't ultimately fathom what my mind had just decided upon. The consequences of such actions were too much to handle, and what felt like the crushing weight of transparency would be my burden now for the remainder of my sorry life. The man who I knew in that chair, he was long gone. The man who I wanted to be in that chair was absent. Another took his place, a foul creature. Something wretched, a demon molded into the shape of a man. I woke him with heat, heat that was just warm enough to alert his primitive senses, those that had not yet evolved out of his system. His nerve endings awoke and roused his brain, and before long Victor's eyes opened and his body stilled. The first thing he saw was not my face, rather the red hot end of the iron poker, held up towards his cheek in such proximity that a single twitch of either his head or my arm would send the two colliding, scaring his beautiful complexion for life. The worst part was that he did not look surprised. He was afraid, certainly, but only for himself. He must have realized what was happening the moment it began to happen, for he could not have possibly noticed what I held clenched within my fist. I wanted to burn him alive, I wanted to scald that red metal into his skin, and watch it bubble and boil. I felt the only way to properly compensate his actions would be to hurt him, to make him scream. His eyes were bright, alert, and slowly he brought up his hand to move the poker aside. I did not argue, I let his hand touch upon the colder part of the metal, shifting it so that he could at least sit up so that his eyes could meet mine. As soon as I recognized those blues I felt tears surfacing, for what lay behind them was not the same emotions I had once seen. Something that had been so beautiful now turned foul, and I could not maintain eye contact with him for long. Trembling, I held up what was within my hand, the blue remains of the notebook that Victor must have done away with. For selfish reasons, undoubtedly. His jaw clenched, but aside from that he made no sound. It didn't seem as though he was willing to admit what he had done. If he had spoken, I would have demanded an apology. Though some part of me suspected that he would not allow me such a luxury, for even standing here face to face, with no wall of misunderstanding between, he still did not regret what he had done. Perhaps he thought it necessary. I would not say anything either, words could not express just what was bubbling within my heart and soul. There were many things I wished to say, many profanities that deserved to be uttered. Though I was quiet, silent, and allowed Victor to imagine each one of the statements that were flowing through my head. I repositioned the poker, stepping in closer to him, trying to brave a second glance into his eyes. They were fading of their color the longer I focused, the cheerful blues melting away to reveal an inky blackness that was just beyond. I extended my arm, bringing the flat side of the poker now level to where his heart ought to be, hovering just above the lapel of his most disheveled dinner jacket. There was a tear now sliding from my eye, my teeth ground together and my heart ached. I hesitated one moment too long, for his mouth began to open, as if with the intention of speaking some sort of statement, a single word that had the potential to turn my heart back towards him. I couldn't let him speak, less his tongue place a sort of curse onto me. I acted as I felt I should, I had to silence him. I pressed the poker in, up against his chest and searing through his clothing. I pressed it just as hard as I could manage, and I did get him to speak then. He allowed a howl, smacking me away with all of his might so that I would fall away, the weapon slipping from my hands and onto the carpet. He hastened to pick it up, so as not to damage the furniture, though I made my flight up the stairs before the repercussions could come about. I heard his voice, calling my name after me, though I imagined that was all he could utter out. He must have fallen over onto the couch, for a whimper and a yelp were evident as he began to tend to the wound that I had given him, only a mere scratch compared to what he had dealt to me.