Original Stories Fan Fiction ❯ Day of the Weak ❯ FIVE ( Chapter 5 )

FIVE—

Lightning struck through the indigo skies overhead, dispersing the fierce electricity and illuminating the opaque conglomerations of water droplets. The boisterous splitting, obnoxious crashing echoed in the marble-white halls like the tolling of a bell, both masking and enhancing the turmoil originating in the isolated study.

This open study was located in the innermost chambers of the facility and was completely furbished with lacquered wood and china vases: antiques, relics from the Old World, of ages past beyond reckoning. Fingertips lingered on every surface; each object was marked with the passing whispers of eternities. And they were, one by one, being destroyed.

Blonde hairs flailing behind him in a tangled mess of fine webs, Viktor flung his coffee table onto the floor with as much strength as he could muster. He could feel the action as his biceps and triceps flexed and he watched with a savage sort of satisfaction only gained through destruction as the impeccably-crafted table splintered into a thousand piece once it hit the ground. Just a little of his frustration was relieved.

Of course, his usual course of stress-relief would entail his imperceptible facade in a complicated ruse used to manipulate or deceive. Weaving a complicated matrix of lies and half-truths, relishing in the slow regeneration of the human psyche as he picked at it with his tool slowly crafted out of exploited weaknesses and fears.

And yet, he couldn't. Ever since that...incident, he'd been missing all of his little subjects that made this life just a little bit more tolerable. The man unthinkingly seized his next victim of rage. A priceless planter joined the accumulation of debris and shards littering the polished floor. A pointed piece of the clay ricocheted and struck his cheek, decorating the rough stipplings of a beard with a shiny stripe of ruby red. Viktor didn't feel a thing.

Instead, he plunged his fist into the wreckage, smashing the brittle pieces of wood and clay into tiny bits and splinters. The skin on his hand was punctured by the sharp pieces, leaking blood around the invading materials that collected on his forearm in a stream of the sticky liquid. The mossy green of his eyes flitted to the injury in slight wonderment; even after all these years he was still used to expecting the exploding pain, the excruciating alarms going off in his head warning him of his blood loss.

But now, the scars would probably be gone in less than twelve hours. Yet, until that happened...

The sticky red liquid poured from his (what should have been) minor wounds like large, fat tears and slithered down his arm.

A tinny crunch sounded behind him and his keen ears picked it up as boots on glass. Viktor kept his back to the intruder. There was only one other man in the facility besides himself. There was only one person it could be.

“Sir?” a gruff, scratchy voice inquired. Funny how his voice almost completely matched his looks.

“Sir, are you alright?”

Viktor imagined that the man was surveying the room in unconcealed terror. When he spoke again, it was with more trepidation. He knew that Viktor was mad, now, and he was wary of pissing him off even farther. Good man. That wouldn't serve to save him, however...

“Do I look alright?” Viktor's voice was soft, barely discernible even in the dense silence.

The blonde could hear the fat guard fidgeting, trying to think of a decent answer to a bloody rhetorical question. Honestly, if Viktor wasn't around, the prisoners would have been dead even before they were tested.

“Really, sir? You look bloody awful.”

Great. Now the idiot was sympathizing with him, as if he had any clue what the taller man was going through. As if he had his job and his life on the line.

“You know what, Reddas? I am awful. I'm awfully sick and I'm awfully tired of having to put up with you and your constant, brainless attempts at conversation. So kindly shut up.”

A pause ensued. Reddas cursed profusely, loud exclamations of pain rising in his hairy throat. At this, the blonde turned. The portly man attempted to step over a pile of the wreckage unsuccessfully, earning his a deep gash on the side of his leg with a shard of pottery protruding oddly from the edge of the open wound. The man clutched his appendage in agony, sinking to the floor and spewing forth a stream of expletives as he tenderly poked and prodded the broken skin.

Viktor stood in silence, observing the spectacle. His own injury still leaked and hung in his mind like an invisible pain, not one of the body, but of the mind. He knew he was going to die if he didn't have any nourishment...and fast.

Reddas was hunched over now, groaning and clutching his leg. His meaty expanse of a back was facing Viktor. Easy kill.

It was over almost as soon as it started. He moved fast, almost blindingly so, expertly navigating through the wreckage with a practiced grace. The blonde man's hand slammed into the back of Reddas' neck, instantly paralyzing him. The hard bone snapped like a toothpick against the force in his hand and the crack echoed in the otherwise silent room.

The guard's head went limp and he fell back against the floor with a muffled thunk, his back pierced by the multitude of sharpened debris littering the floor. A shard had impaled his stomach completely, the blood from his destroyed organs bubbling up against the stake like a red fountain.

The pungent scent of metal filled the stagnant air. Viktor's heightened sense of smell instantly detected the exposed liquid and a painful stab of hunger spiraled down his gut.

He stared down impassively at the pathetic body at his feet gasping, gurgling as the blood filled his airways. Flecks of the metallic substance splattered onto his skin, smearing like lipstick over his thick, chapped lips. The disgust that had once accompanied this ravenous, all-consuming gnawing hunger had long ago been disregarded. Now, it was only a matter of survival and what this body needed. And it clamored, demanded that shining, bold liquid, bubbling up through the wound like a sweet, fresh brook.

Viktor knelt beside the dying man, his jaded eyes lidded in a heavy trance. His heart drummed a heavy staccato in his temples, clouding his senses. He relied on his impulse, now, to carry him through.

The man's eyes rolled up, staring at Viktor's hard, impassive face. He groaned again, making inarticulate sounds in his throat that only served to wrinkle Viktor's nose. Reddas whimpered from the pain; tears now leaking out of the corners of his eyes. The saltwater smell tangled with the sharp blood. The blonde's stomach kicked again, savage with hunger. Viktor ignored the desperate pleas of Reddas as he lowered his teeth to the hole in his stomach.

. . .