Sailors

All through the night, John couldn't stop the buzzing in his veins which held him from sleep- the beat of his heart as thrumming and chaotic as a bee hive. The jittering sensation seemed to stem down into his bones; and after tossing and turning most of the night, he decided that they would leave as soon as his letters returned.

Rising from his bed, he dutifully set to putting on his gloves, his tired eyes straying to the shattered mirror which loomed like a door to Hell; taunting him. In the inky darkness of the night, his own motions seemed as if they were followed by misty shadows- his entire body a vessel of corruption. Pulling his mask over his eyes, he ignored the still unfamiliar vision of his face, the hollowness within his stomach growing with each passing second. His mind was back where he had gratefully been able to escape from ever since Viera took place in his house, and while it weighed on him heavily; now he had an even more important reason to take action.

Picking up everything from his desk, he piled together documents and messages- crumpling maps and drawn images he had long ago memorized. Though he tried to keep himself level headed, the image of the officers' faces was freshly imprinted on his mind.

Terror. Shock- those were to be expected, but what he needed to account for was mocking him childishly, telling him he was worse then them.

Greed.

He knew it well; that look that foams to life in the back of one's gaze as they look at something miraculous. No; he knew it intimately because of the warmth in his chest which clung to the new feelings Viera had planted in him possessively. It wouldn't be a bad comparison to say his heart was like a depraved animal- that it clung to little actions and words like sin to the wicked.

Shaking his head, he finished gathering the papers before carefully turning his doorknob and quietly stepping past Viera's door. Making his way down the hall and to the study, he locked the study door behind him before pausing- listening.

The fireplace cooed softly, the soft night wind playing the column like a flute; and past that, he could hear the faint creaking in the walls and the static of blood between his ears. Without a candle, the room was pitch darkness; but he had come here enough times that he could do it blindly. Stepping forward, he found the tall portrait on the far wall, and fumbled with his hand to the upper left corner of the ornate frame. With a light knock on the chiseled wood; a small, nearly mute 'tick' echoed back before he pushed the frame up to the left corner, the entire portrait moving a quarter of an inch before it slipped down an eighth.

A heavy creak echoed into the study as the right side of the portrait laggardly swung forward, revealing a hidden room still further into the innermost chamber of the old house. It had become habit now: the routine of stepping into the darkest pit of his creation, his hand picking up the placed match and striking it with his thumb. Even the location of the candelabra reaching from the wall was second nature- and in a few seconds all the candles were lit illuminating the cold, damp room.

Drenched in the haze of the golden candlelight, he placed the important papers on the organized workbench before slowly drawing his eyes up to the back wall; the small, year book photo of his long acquired target staring back at him silently. In the grainy film of the image, John felt his gaze harden as he looked into the empty, hollow stare of a distantly familiar man chasing after an infamous name. Perhaps it was because he had been neglecting the room since Viera arrived; or maybe because he knew his original goal had been selfish of him- but John felt long harbored, bittersweet memories thrash beneath his skin.

Swallowing the gathering spit in his throat, his focused returned to his work bench as he began to reconnect with his correspondences based in London, Paris, Venice, and Moscow. The pen felt as if it were made of needles as he responded to each letter in as much detail as possible; but deep down he knew it hurt more than that. With each drop of ink upon the paper; there were more than needles biting into his flesh. There were scalpels; acid, fire, ice. If he let his mind linger on the memories for too long, he could feel his senses numb as if he was still where he used to be, and while he had resigned himself to feel nothing but hate for the past, he couldn't help but feel a smudge of doubt after working so many years without finding a single clue.

Why was it so hard to find someone who's existence is so easy to prove real? How does a person simply vanish from the earth?

Twirling the pen between his fingers, John found himself repeating the same two questions he had been wondering for the past ten years, and felt a bit miffed that in more ways than one, he had unwillingly helped said person disappear. At that thought, he felt his brow rise in frustration, but something in him swelled that he, at the very least, destroyed everything that was important to that person. Decades of research- thousands of papers and handmade, expensive equipment- and in but a few short hours, John had miraculously burned it all to ash.

Yet, he had still failed.

Cradling his head in his hands, John felt his worn heart sink further into his chest; a scorching guilt rising up his body with vibrant orange tongues of hellfire. It sank its fangs into him; and worse, he could feel the decaying poison of irony eating away his veins and trapping his mind. After so long, he wasn't sure if he felt more guilt for those he couldn't save: the subjects, the allotted 'lab rats'- or for those he had betrayed.

'Betrayed'. He let the word hang by a silver thread in his mind as he began to seal the letters, his tongue growing heavy in his mouth as he poured black wax onto the last letter before harshly pressing the stamp against it; his eyes mutely watching as the wax hardened.

The taste of the words upon his tongue shifted from dry and dusty to wet and metallic- the sight of its curved letters turned jagged and sharp. Even the weight of it trapped behind his teeth gave way to hot air that rose from the back of his throat before exiting his lips in a resigned sigh.

And lastly, echoing faintly between his ears, he heard a name he long considered dead but could never forget, alongside a younger copy of the very face which stared at him down from the wall.

<<"You were my brother...">>

Wincing, he placed the letters in a special box before locking it shut, his hands trembling.

Red- hot, burning lacerations; frigid liquid pillowing underneath dead skin, and the stench of rot and decay.

John clung to those old sensations before steadying himself, his chest hammering with a dull flutter which violently rapt against his ribcage. Though it had taken him what felt like forever to relearn it, with someone like Viera by his side, he knew he was discovering what the word 'family' truly meant. Though he hadn't known it for long; it felt soft and warm- even if it was brash and unfledged. It was like autumn days; like moonlit nights and relaxing conversations after a delicious meal. It was the feeling of a strong hand shielding you from dangers; never the hand of someone torturing you instead- even if it was in the God-like name of science.

<We were never brothers>, he answered to the voice in his mind, resolved.

Though it had been a decade since he had heard that voice, he could hear it clearly as day; and while the words weren't the exact same, he could picture what he would say perfectly. It would be something that would feel like slime collecting upon his skin; and like he always used to speak, it would be, in some way, the truth. His way of speaking always made John second-guess himself, but that was because John was wise enough to question his own decisions more than once.

<<"Who's to say we weren't? We may not have shared the same blood, but we shared the same last name, didn't we?">>

Yes; something like that. Something just twisted enough to make his resolve seem pathetic and for his body to shiver in disgust- the back of his neck rising with bile while he fought to purge all semblance of the past away with little success.

<<"Come on, John...">>

Blowing out the candles, John stood in the pitch blackness of the room while relishing in the scent of the smoke; his broad shoulders aching with the weight of what he knew was to come in the next few weeks. Sweat began to mingle with the rising cloud of his breath- the mildewy scent of the back room swallowing the sweet aroma of the smoke in one swell gulp.

Faint creaks began to stir to life from upstairs, and if he listened hard enough, he could hear Hans starting the process of making another delicious breakfast to be served amid gentle conversation.

<<"John...">>

Ignoring the voice, John turned back before setting a new match next to the candelabra as he always did. Oddly enough; he knew that as soon as he left that room, he wouldn't be able to even remember what that voice sounded like anymore- nor even remember what that faint, familiar face looked like.

Were the eyebrows thin, or were they bold and thick? Was his face skinny and callow, with sunken in eyes and a soulless expression on his lips; or did he have sturdy, sculpted features with a daring chin which jutted out ever so proudly? It was a beautiful lie, on John's part.

Because, as long as he could shut that door, he could pretend to be whoever he wanted.

So, it was with another knock to the top left corner of the frame that the taint 'tick' sounded in the quiet study; and as he slowly pushed the frame back into place, he pretended, as he always did, not to hear that God-awful name slither out from the haunted shadows of that non-existent space before it coiled around his feet, rearing its horned and scaled head as it reminded him he was anything but a good man.

<<"John...">>

It was a desperate whisper; barely a murmur more than the words of a dead corpse- but it was just enough to wedge under his skin and lay claim to the miniscule soil he had just started to lay empty. Now, it was John's heart which became desperate; because if Viera found out the truth, she may very well never forgive him.

After all, who would want to forgive-

<<"John Ludwig Frankenstein">>