"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...
012 ( knife and slice perspective, yeah you're bound to change your view )
chapter twelve !
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VINCENT WAS INCREDIBLY BORED. Sitting beside Five in a big van with Dolores between them was not how he imagined spying on a prosthetic guy would go down. He expected something more interesting; more high-tech maybe. But no, all he got was a van filled with trash and odd smells. It wasn't fun. Not in the slightest.
And Vincent was fine with being bored. There were times when he'd been so bored he'd pulled out a couple chunks of his curls and inherited an anxious habit of doing it whenever he was too unoccupied. It gave him something to do-- something to focus on when he needed it most.
Often times, he did need something to use as a distraction. He hated getting bored. It meant getting lost with his thoughts and his thoughts had only gotten darker as time went on. It seemed now whenever Vincent so much as closed his eyes, flashes of him dead would make an unforgettable appearance lodged in his brain.
It was different than how he'd think of himself dying. He didn't have many wounds but his legs were strewn around in odd positions, ones that were definetly not natural. His eyes were shut tight and his fists were clenched as well-- almost as if he were frozen rather than dead. And when Vincent first saw it earlier in the day he'd thought that perhaps he had been alive in the obscured image his brain conjured.
But upon closer angles his brain made up, he'd realized he wasn't breathing. Bruises around his throat and arms, bruises along his cheekbones and a fresh scar on his forehead, a harsh gash that made Vincent wince despite the knowledge that it wasn't real.
He hated it. He hated the thoughts of him dying but the images were even worse. The graphic way he'd died that he had never even thought to imagine. Sure, he'd imagined himself dying via gunshot wound or slit of the throat, but never him being mangled to death somehow.
And it was horrifying. Horrifying to close his eyes and see nothing but his dead body, unbreathing and bruised all around.
Vincent had started seeing it a little after getting into the van with Five. Five had left for a moment and left him with Dolores, who sat there in all her plastic glory in a barely open bag and did nothing, as expected. Vincent hadn't known what to do other then lean his head against the window and think.
He thought until it made his head hurt and then the boredom kicked in. The unapologetic feeling that squeezed at his brain and made the headache all the worse. He'd closed his eyes and made up fake scenarios to amuse himself with, until the flashes of him dead began to come.
They flashed quick. Like a slideshow being turned from picture to picture all too fast. Like a camera shuttering with every second and capturing every little thing. It was unexpected and frightening. Frightening in a manner that when he tried to open his eyes and fight off the images, he couldn't do it.
