"maybe we can head to the apocalypse again as a little vacation. you know what they say... paradise!"
"i cannot express to you how little i would like to do that."
"stingy fucker."
IN WHICH vincent leblanc, resident french asshole and externally...
009 ( i'm a racing car, passing by like lady godiva )
chapter nine !
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VINCENT GOT UPSET A LOT. It seemed he was a crybaby, nothing less of a little bitch who couldn't handle his overbearing emotions. He'd get upset mostly when he was alone, lost in his thoughts and lying down in an uncomfortable bed that truly would never be his own. He'd cry for hours at a time, sob pitifully as he shook and balled his hands into tight painful fists, nails typically digging right into his palms hard enough to draw crimson blood.
Vincent had never minded blood. He liked it, in fact. He enjoyed the blood that would sometimes drip from his nose after he'd transform into a stranger on the street. He enjoyed the blood that dripped from his nose when Klaus Hargreeves punched him across the face. He enjoyed it. Pain gave him a sense of comfort, as odd and fucked up as it sounded.
He'd pinch himself after breaking down. Give himself a reminder that he had no reason to be upset. He could be perfectly happy if he just tried to be. Although, he supposed that's exactly what the point was. He was not happy. It seemed impossible to make Vincent Leblanc happy.
It was unfair to others. Vincent knew this. Although, he'd always been picky. Always been someone who couldn't handle his emotions or even an ounce of happiness. Not that he'd even had that before.
He cried often. It seemed whenever he wasn't with someone tolerable or in public, he'd feel that familiar heaviness set on his chest. The heaviness that squeezed mercilessly and sat there in agony up until he put it out of its misery and cried for however long the tears would come. They'd last for what felt like an eternity, fall down his cheeks endlessly.
Despite being told all his life that crying was for girls and that crying was reserved for pussies; Vincent still saw no shame in letting out his emotions. Perhaps it was because he himself was indeed a pussy. Although, he'd always allowed himself to cry whenever he felt like it.
He'd force tears to trickle down, lie back with laboured breaths and stare conflicted at the ceiling. Every damn time. It seemed like a neverending cycle, one that would end in a whirlwind of explosive events in a repetitive manner that Vincent would never be able to get himself out of.
But it seemed now Vincent couldn't bring himself to cry. He was only upset as a result of the burning pain itching at his skin, the numbing of his fingers and the jittery feeling that dominated his legs. His nose hurt, sure, but not nearly as much as the rest of him. It was truly a bad idea to transform into that woman.
Everything felt like it was slowly breaking. It was similar to a feeling close to every bone in his body cracking very slowly, an agonizing twist in his gut that sent his skin itching like crazy.
He wished he could snap his fingers and solve the entirety of the problem. He wished he didn't have the shittiest side effect for a power that already rendered him close to useless. It upset him. Just like everything else did.
