"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...
( like if you hold me without hurting me, you'll be the first who ever did )
chapter twenty-two
Oops! This image does not follow our content guidelines. To continue publishing, please remove it or upload a different image.
RUNNING WATER AND DROOPING HANDS, RED PAINTED FINGERNAILS AND ANGRY SEARING RED HOT WORDS, THE SMELL OF VODKA AND VINCENT'S UNDERLYING FEAR. Vincent's mother, lying against a counter with the sink running so loudly it made Vincent's ears ring, humming a song she used to sing to Vincent when he was a baby, ("Elenore" by The Turtles, a favorite of hers before she realized what a fucking freak her son was) drinking vodka straight from the bottle. Clad in a long flowy red dress she often wore when she wanted to get wasted, her hair was a mess. Cut right under her jawline, fitting her face in a way that was unappealing.
She had turned to face Vincent, shaking her head at the sight of him and pointing one finger his way, yelling at him in her sharp French to get the fuck out of her house, shouting out words that only made Vincent shrink into himself. He had come out of his room to check on her, assure she hadn't choked on her own vomit or something grotesque like that. There had been a time when she had nearly done so before, head thrown back against an arm rest as she gargled on her own spew helplessly, eyes shut. Vincent had to act quickly, turn his poor drunken mother onto her side and rush away before she awoke. He didn't care about his mother and what would ever end up happening to her, but that didn't stop him from feeling guilty. It would be his fault in most circumstances if she was hurt and Vincent didn't know if he could handle that weighted knowledge.
His mother was like a lit fuse, burning so so slow until one day she'd go off, set off the bomb attached to her and explode everything in close proximity. She was hot headed and impulsive, horribly detached from everything good in the world and attached to anything remarkably appalling that she could possibly get her hands on. Vincent hated the fucking woman. The essence of who she was haunted him and reminded him of all the dreadful bullshit in the world, stuck to the front of his brain.
He had rushed to his room after she'd yelled at him that day. He'd rushed to his room simply to sneak out and cry in a park because what was Vincent Leblanc other than a crybaby? A crybaby who is afraid of his mommy, boo-fucking-hoo.
But there had always been one good thing about Vincent's mother; the one and only thing that Vincent would ever miss about the vile woman. She'd always been good at comforting him after a boy made him upset- which happened more often than Vincent would ever admit. Not purposefully would she comfort him, of course, as his mother had always been a bible thumping raging homophobe; but on accident she would sometimes ask where Vincent had been- not that she cared- and in turn he would respond truthfully. There had never been reason to lie about that.
His mother would always roll her eyes after whatever he'd say and ramble on about how much she hated the person or even merely the name of whatever boy Vincent would bring up. Vincent's sadness would most times tone itself down once the person who'd previously upset him would be insulted deeply. Even by someone as hateful as Vincent's mother, it still was effective to comforting Vincent in some odd way.
