French, means: “It goes without saying”
Summary: V survives the shooting and the story continues.
Rating: R
Disclaimer: Nothing from V for Vendetta is mine. This is just for fun.
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Chapter 9
V let the hot water pour over his shoulders, pounding away the aches and clearing the last of the cobwebs from his mind. He watched as his blood turned the water red and circled the drain before passing into oblivion.
If he could have dribbled down with it into the refuge of the sewers, he would have gladly done so.
The thing he feared had happened. His darkness had been set loose and it had preyed upon Evey’s innocence. This was why he should have made her leave. This was why she would leave now.
He stepped out of the shower and began to dry off. How was he to face her? What could he possibly say? . . . My intellect is a little
way upon the wrong side of that narrow boundary-line between sanity and
insanity. [7]
V had never pretended that he was not as damaged on the inside as he was on the outside. He knew very well that he was not the definition of mental stability. Ideas on close examination rarely are. He had a few bats in the belfry most of the time and was certifiably insane on occasion. That he knew it negated nothing.
He began to address the wound at his flank that had reopened. At first he had worried that the bullet might have nicked an intestine but infection never set in for which he was grateful. That it reopened wasn’t good nor was the fact that it was doing a good deal of bleeding.
How long had it been since the last time? Years? More than a decade at least. So long ago when his vendetta was as fragile as his body, when he was easily sidetracked by hatred and pain there had many similar episodes. So many he had built a room to take the brunt of his rage and hold the mountainous copies of that damn pattern that he had yet to dissect enough to expel.
Having bound the wound at his side he went to work on his left shoulder and checked the other unopened wounds on his arms.
He hated that pattern, the one he knew she would find and
expect him to explain. Why after 10
years would it suddenly reappear? Why
would it bring back his rage with so much force? Why now?
Why with Evey only a wooden door away from the heart of his
darkness?
Why was such a stupidly easy question to answer. . . . nothing contributes so much to tranquillize the mind as a steady purpose . .[8] His task was done and he remained behind. The reason? Like all else in the last year, it was Evey. Not her fault, no. Rather it was simply her presence that upset the delicate balance he had established between reason and madness.
Shoulder tended to he moved on to the other side and the reopened wound in his thigh.
What’s done is done, he scolded himself sternly, you will simply have to find a way to explain and the courage to face the consequences. You promised her honesty and you will deliver it.
But it was easier to face bullets and he turned his attention to examining his other wounds in the mirror. From his collar bones to his groin he was black and blue. There was not an inch that had not felt the sting of a bullet even if the breast plate had taken the brunt of the impact. He never thought he would be grateful for good marksmanship and the concept of ‘center mass’.
It was remarkably lucky that the few slugs that made it into his flesh had missed large blood vessels and organs. Clearly God wanted to extract another pound of flesh from him. And she called me a heartless monster, his thoughts snarled.
As he slowly dressed he turned over in his mind the pain he was about to face.
He tied the mask back into place and realized he would not face her wrath. It was his heart that would break, but it was Guy Fawkes, just as inscrutable and mysterious as ever, that would nod calmly as she walked out of his home and his life forever.
From the day he met her he had known it would come to this. She could not stay. He wished he had been strong enough to leave her behind at BTN. Why had he subjected himself to this? Because I love her and have from the moment I saw her.
Why, when they took nearly everything else, couldn’t they have taken his heart as well? Why leave him with the one organ that could continue to torture him?
Cruel irony, that.
Oh God, Evey, how do I
face you?
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[7] Mary Elizabeth Braddon – Lady Audrey’s Secret
[8] Mary
Shelly – Frankenstein
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