Broken Hearts And Razors ||| A Sweenett story

Ghosts in the night

Turpin wants her to leave. Tonight."

Sweeney let out a slow groan as he slumped back in his barber chair, his fingers tightening around the handle of the razor, stuffing a bloody cloth into the pocket of his pants, hoping that Anthony was distracted enough by the hands he was burying his face in so that he wouldn't notice the numerous evidence of crime around him - the razor's blade dripping with blood, a stain on his shirt and a small pile of purses filled with money.

Anthony had barged into his parlour the very second his latest client hit the floor of the bakehouse. Sweeney acted on instinct, showing himself into the corner where his coatrack stood, As Anthony rambled on, Sweeney did his best to hide his blood-splattered sleeve. The white cotton was stained with a long streak of red, and Sweeney swiftly managed to cover it with a jacket whilst nodding and silently humming along to anything that sounded like a question. However, this particular sentence caught his ear.

Turpin. Johanna. Tonight.

"B-but the ball is not until tomorrow," Anthony tried to reassure his friend, seeing the man's eyes darken, "I doubt that Turpin would send her off before such an even-"

"Believe me, boy," Sweeney's low rasp interrupted the young sailor's ramblings, "He would do much worse..."

Sweeney abruptly stood up, walking over to a small cabinet Mrs Lovett had placed near his bed. Visibly shaking, he grasped the edge of the cabinet to pull himself together. In this world, he had no connection to Johanna. No connection to his own daughter, and he had to keep himself reminded. There is no reason for Anthony to know. Not about Johanna, not about... her.

"...At least that's what I've heard." 

Sweeney's words came out as a murmur, so much so, that Anthony struggled to hear him. An uneasy silence filled the room before the sailor cleared his throat

"There is a way to free her, right? He can't keep her locked away forever, can he?" His voice was full of desperation, and as Sweeney dared to look into his eyes, he was taken aback by what he saw.

The torn rags that the young man wore had turned into a rich, dashing brown suit, a golden cravat tied under his neck. The lad's hair was considerably shorter, and his eyes were full of hopeless pleading. Only they were not Anthony's eyes. In fact, it was not Anthony at all.

Benjamin Barker stood in front of Sweeney Todd, his young brown eyes sparkling with foolish expectations. His eyes not yet sunken with the toll of prison, his face not contorted in pain, but in eternal longing. His light brown locks were well kept, with no sign of grey strands. He still had colour in his face and stood out amongst everything else in the room. He was vivid, bright, and coloured, nothing like the grey hues that he was living in for the past fifteen years.

Sweeney studied the man, unable to speak. He felt his rage boil for the daft man before him. The foolish, weak, naive boy, couldn't have imagined the depths of hell that Sweeney had experienced. He looked at the young man with such mockery and odium, that he could feel the vision around him blurring. He suddenly felt nauseous, seeing something he had once declared dead. 

Anthony looked at Sweeney with pure confusion as he watched the barber's eyes study him. They showed disgust, ridicule, and something Anthony had never seen in the man's eyes, even in his darkest moments - fear. 

He had known Mr Todd to be a brave man, though off-putting to many.  Sweeney's face lost all of its already deprived colours, as the man stood frozen in shock.  His knuckles turned white from gripping the cabinet as he struggled to draw a breath. He looked at Anthony with a sense of familiarity, but not the one that he usually regarded the sailor with.