Nightmares
First up, a more general nightmare for Victor, involving a painful what-if -- "what if he hadn't come back to himself in Moorgate Station?" I imagine the idea that, if he hadn't recognized her eyes, he could have killed his beloved and best friend, has led to more than one sleepless night for poor Victor. And hell, probably Alice too. Maybe one day I'll do a perspective flip nightmare regarding her view. . .
“. . .And wake.”
Victor blinked as he came back to himself. His head felt fuzzy, like it was filled with felt. He rubbed his temple and looked around. What – where am I? What am I doing here? The last thing I remember, I was – I was. . . .
Bumby.
The thought was like having ice water poured through his veins. He’d found that horrible ledger, and then Bumby had caught him, and then – well, then it got a little blurry, but he remembered pain and terror (“You don’t deserve a name. . .”), and then – blank, until now. Oh God, what had happened? What had he –
And then his eyes found the body lying at his feet.
The very familiar body.
Horrified, he dropped to his knees. Alice was lying at an odd angle on the platform, black hair fanned around her and limbs splayed. Her eyes were open but unseeing, chest still. And her neck – her neck was a mass of ugly dark bruises where it had been squeezed. Bruises in the shape of – of – of his. . . .
His eyes shot to his trembling hands. They were bruised and scratched, and his fingers ached like someone had been pulling at them as they – no. Nononononono. . . .
A hand lightly squeezed his shoulder. “She was crying at the end, you know,” Bumby’s honey-filled voice whispered in his ear. “Crying and begging you to remember her, even as she tried to break your fingers to free your grip. But you were stronger than her, and you just kept squeezing and squeezing. . . .”
His entire body was shaking now, as he stared at Alice’s too limp, too still body. Now he thought he could remember her screaming – “You bastard, wake up! Fight him off! You’re stronger than. . .this, I know you are! Don’t make me hurt you! Damn it, wake up! . . .please, Victor, don’t leave me too. . .don’t do this, you’re. . .y-you’re hurting me. . . .” And the look of rage, pain, terror in her eyes. . . . He leaned over her body, searching desperately for some spark of life, something to make it so she wasn’t – he hadn’t –
“Oh, she’s quite dead,” Bumby assured him. “You did a very good job of strangling her. I knew those long fingers had to be good for something.” He chuckled. “We’ll have to dispose of the body, of course.”
Victor shook his head. “No. . . .” He couldn’t have. He wouldn’t have. But she was lying there, and his hands still hurt, and everything was getting blurry because of the tears and he’d killed her oh God he’d KILLED her –
“Upset? Poor Master Van Dort,” Bumby said, squeezing his shoulder again. “It must be hard knowing you murdered the woman you love.” He leaned down close to Victor’s ear. “But I can take that all away. You’ll never have to think about it again.” His hand gripped his shoulder tighter, fingers digging into the flesh, and Victor could practically hear his lustful smile. “Never have to think about anything again. Just be my empty-minded little toy forever.”
Victor couldn’t reply. All he could do was stare at Alice’s body, at those bruises – he was a monster, he was a monster – No, it couldn’t be real – no no –
“NO!”
Victor’s eyes snapped open at the sound of his own voice. He sat up and looked around wildly, grasping at his pounding heart. He was – he was in his room. At Houndsditch. He was in his room and it was night and – and it had just been a nightmare. A horrible, terrible nightmare. He leaned forward and pulled his knees up to his chest, hugging himself while trying to get his breathing under control. “He didn’t win,” he whispered to himself. “You didn’t hurt her. She saved you. It was just a dream. Just a dream. . . .”
Even with that, he knew it was unlikely he’d get back to sleep tonight.
Victor blinked as he came back to himself. His head felt fuzzy, like it was filled with felt. He rubbed his temple and looked around. What – where am I? What am I doing here? The last thing I remember, I was – I was. . . .
Bumby.
The thought was like having ice water poured through his veins. He’d found that horrible ledger, and then Bumby had caught him, and then – well, then it got a little blurry, but he remembered pain and terror (“You don’t deserve a name. . .”), and then – blank, until now. Oh God, what had happened? What had he –
And then his eyes found the body lying at his feet.
The very familiar body.
Horrified, he dropped to his knees. Alice was lying at an odd angle on the platform, black hair fanned around her and limbs splayed. Her eyes were open but unseeing, chest still. And her neck – her neck was a mass of ugly dark bruises where it had been squeezed. Bruises in the shape of – of – of his. . . .
His eyes shot to his trembling hands. They were bruised and scratched, and his fingers ached like someone had been pulling at them as they – no. Nononononono. . . .
A hand lightly squeezed his shoulder. “She was crying at the end, you know,” Bumby’s honey-filled voice whispered in his ear. “Crying and begging you to remember her, even as she tried to break your fingers to free your grip. But you were stronger than her, and you just kept squeezing and squeezing. . . .”
His entire body was shaking now, as he stared at Alice’s too limp, too still body. Now he thought he could remember her screaming – “You bastard, wake up! Fight him off! You’re stronger than. . .this, I know you are! Don’t make me hurt you! Damn it, wake up! . . .please, Victor, don’t leave me too. . .don’t do this, you’re. . .y-you’re hurting me. . . .” And the look of rage, pain, terror in her eyes. . . . He leaned over her body, searching desperately for some spark of life, something to make it so she wasn’t – he hadn’t –
“Oh, she’s quite dead,” Bumby assured him. “You did a very good job of strangling her. I knew those long fingers had to be good for something.” He chuckled. “We’ll have to dispose of the body, of course.”
Victor shook his head. “No. . . .” He couldn’t have. He wouldn’t have. But she was lying there, and his hands still hurt, and everything was getting blurry because of the tears and he’d killed her oh God he’d KILLED her –
“Upset? Poor Master Van Dort,” Bumby said, squeezing his shoulder again. “It must be hard knowing you murdered the woman you love.” He leaned down close to Victor’s ear. “But I can take that all away. You’ll never have to think about it again.” His hand gripped his shoulder tighter, fingers digging into the flesh, and Victor could practically hear his lustful smile. “Never have to think about anything again. Just be my empty-minded little toy forever.”
Victor couldn’t reply. All he could do was stare at Alice’s body, at those bruises – he was a monster, he was a monster – No, it couldn’t be real – no no –
“NO!”
Victor’s eyes snapped open at the sound of his own voice. He sat up and looked around wildly, grasping at his pounding heart. He was – he was in his room. At Houndsditch. He was in his room and it was night and – and it had just been a nightmare. A horrible, terrible nightmare. He leaned forward and pulled his knees up to his chest, hugging himself while trying to get his breathing under control. “He didn’t win,” he whispered to himself. “You didn’t hurt her. She saved you. It was just a dream. Just a dream. . . .”
Even with that, he knew it was unlikely he’d get back to sleep tonight.