The Sweetness of Suffering [ Past - Amelia ]

[Vash Alois Zwingli]

take your lies, take them all

What the hell was he doing? He could barely recognize himself in the mirror now. Who was that bastard glaring back at him?

He felt an immense amount of guilt, really. He lied to her much more often, more than he really wanted to. For all he knew, every second word that came out of his mouth was probably a lie. He would give all his secrets away, give her the truth, but at this point, even the truth would sound like lies. All the lies sparked fights, and every last word burned. He often came home in the dead of the night, with inexplicable injuries and the reek of alcohol looming over him. He never came home drunk, no. He sobered himself in the streets. He couldn't, just couldn't, show her that much weakness. He made up as many excuses as he could, about running into trouble at the bank, working overtime, the casual gang assault. His tongue was bound by law.

It hurt to see her worried. It hurt to make up excuses. It hurt to have her tend to wounds, to watch her go on about how he should really be more careful, and the fact she wanted to do something about whoever hurt him. And it hurt so much to watch the anger build up between them. Oh, how pitiful that was. You could barely see the remnants of their former selves now. The scowl was being permanently etched into his face, a sort of restlessness slowly taking her demeanor.

They still shared the bed, but with a cold civility. It was as if there was a wall between them, a border that both dared not cross. He spent many a night with her back turned towards him, her sunny blonde hair inches away from him. He dared not reach out and embrace her; they had lost that kind of intimacy. It would only be a matter of time that they would finally not be on speaking terms. She rarely said a word now whenever she bandaged him up.

Tonight was a particularly rough and sketchy night. He and his partner, the overly talkative , impulsive, and somewhat sketchy Donald O'Neill-Kirkland, were on a case that involved a Vauxhall strip club and whorehouse, the Bulrothel. There was talk about illegal drugs being sold here, cocaine in particularly. What was also interesting was the fact fanfiction and mix CDs seemed to come with the drugs. But that was besides the point.

Donald and Vash both posed as potential customers, and had taken different routes. Donald found himself investigating the strip club and probably wasted time watching pole dances. Vash unwillingly went to the more likely side and found himself alone in a room, with who seemed to be a high-ranked whore (if there was such a thing), a girl who called herself Alice.

The aroma of the room was choking and addicting to say the least. Alice wore a strong French perfume and smelled of sex.

"I know why you came here," she whispered in his ear, a hand gripping his tie.

"Where are they?" he asked, scowling, feeling a hotness with the proximity of her face to his.

"Tsk, a bit impatient?" she smirked. "Don't waste my time. I honestly would betray her to get out of this place, but you aren't going to be getting out of hear looking like that, now are you? That would be a bit too... suspicious, don't you think?"

"What do you propose we do, then?" he asked, a bit of defensiveness in his voice.

"Nothing too serious, nothing serious at all. I aim to please, darling."

He felt the regret of tasting the aphrodisiac in her lips, but he succeeded in hastily messing the room and loosening his attire. When he exited the room, it could be assumed that he did receive what he purchased, though that was far from the truth. Donald was perhaps a bit surprised at the mess, but he nodded at Vash, knowing he wouldn't do such a thing. The cocaine was to be dealt with by another team of agents and a band of police officers. Justice would be served. Life would go on, and the duo would be unsung heroes. 

The way home felt longer, and even after downing a few mugs of beer with Donald at The Irish Lady, he couldn't help but feel... those weren't Amelia's lips upon his. He didn't mean to make any contact with any of the whores. Of course, there were worse things he could have done, for example, actually receiving services, but no.

Those weren't her lips.

That wasn't her smile.

Those weren't her words.

Vash hadn't even kissed Amelia for months. This didn't happen, this didn't happen, this didn't happen. She would probably assume the worst and wouldn't forgive, never forget. If he was lucky, she could be asleep already.

He staggered his way home, the smell of cigarettes, alcohol, and regrets stalking him like a specter. 

CODED BY ELECTRIC OF GANGNAM STYLE

[Deleted]

They say that eyes are the windows to the soul. Some are more closed off than others, and Amelia prided herself with being able to see through them. However, there was no man more reticent than Vash, with his gaze narrowed and locked, and his lips pursed to a thin stretch. There was a cloudy curtain over his eyes.

He was the sort of man who restrained emotions, and he burrowed his heart underneath a black pool, and barracked it with cold, stone walls. That was how she found first him. He was a victim of his own doing, a slave to his mind.

He needed someone. That was why Amelia took it upon herself to break down those walls and dive down to the depths to save him. When they kissed for the first time, she was able to hold that heart in the safe warmth of her embrace. Yet, it was far from smooth sailing.

Disney movies usually cut stories off at that fairytale ‘happy ending’, the ones she adored so much as a child. A true love’s kiss, a ballroom dance on the moonlit promenade, promises of eternal love without fail—these were the things she strived for in a relationship. They were opposites that complemented each other. His hands were on hers, and when he looked at her, she felt like the only woman in the world. Amelia immersed him to her life freely, but also struggled to retain her identity and independence. It began harder and harder to keep it with Vash’s protective personality.

During those times, she recalled that Harvard and law school taught her differently, with the collection of students thinking that happy endings only offstart happy beginnings until it rides down the slippery slope. Amelia truly wanted to think differently, but the reality became more and more true as they progressed.

Her times with Vash trickled down like sand, and she was trapped in the bottom of the hourglass. The sweetness of his lips became more phantom and empty. The dullness and lethargy around his eyes dispelled all vitality, and it sometimes threatened to take away Amelia’s. It became a restraining experience, with Amelia trying to reach out and with Vash shutting her out. He still had his walls, stone after stone, and it was getting higher than she could climb, stronger than she could break. Even worse, it was taking away her pride, stripping her of energy to supply her days with weight and emotional baggage.

They stopped sharing mirth over a sip of coffee. Instead, they exchanged silence over the sound of the car radio. The eyes of both individuals were looking at different directions. His hands were tight on the wheel, his body upright, stiff and looking forward at the road. She was leaning back, hands on her lap, and was gazing to the side at the passing vista. Amelia was always gazing out the window during these down times. It was the only window she could see through clearly while avoiding his gaze.

The streets were illuminated by the street lights. The crickets chirped, counting time as the night went by. Her eyes were hollow, sapped out of energy from being angry. Amelia folded her arms as she looked out the window. There were countless of voices in her head, all of which were telling her how she shouldn’t be up for him.

Get your head straight, Amelia. Why waste your energy for him?

He replied to that last text so rudely—never be affiliated with someone who doesn’t respect you.

What if he’s cheating? You don’t tolerant cheaters, Amelia.

I can cut him out of my life so easily. If he doesn’t have a good enough excuse, I will snip him out of my life in a snap, and he’ll be sorry. Jesus will know. Lord Jesus will know that he’ll be damn sorry.

But then her ire began to melt down as wariness took over.

I still love him though.

The crickets continued to chirp. Amelia was about to drift to sleep until she heard the sound of footsteps. She immediately roused up to her feet. Out the window she saw a figure, and energy heated her emotions inside. Amelia marched out of the room and to the living room. She turned on the lights and then approached the door carefully. There were knots in her throat, and a feeling of dread in her chest.

She opened the door when she heard the jingling of keys. It sounded very clumsy, and Amelia already knew he wasn’t in the right state of mind. With a strong grip, she swung the door open, and there he was, his sunken face and dull eyes and all.

He reeked of alcohol, testosterone, and—perfume. In response, Amelia’s expression was frozen, terrifyingly livid. There were daggers in the way she glared at him, so loathing demanding of him to express his guilt. There was nothing she could say just yet, because the jitters in her body were making it impossible to speak.

Just break my heart, she thought with a sunken disposition.

Let justice be done once and for all.

[Vash Alois Zwingli]

take your lies, take them all

He craved for truth and honesty. He appreciated her values of justice and the protection of the weak. He understood that she wasn't weak, and perhaps he sometimes craved the simple truth and honesty that she firmly believed in. He had been drawn to her before his tenure with the MI6 had begun, and he truth and honesty were two things that he simply couldn't have much of in these days. 

He had built his walls before, and now he seems to build higher and higher. He wishes that she could keep up. He wishes that she could break down those walls as she had always done before. Lead him elsewhere from this lowly place. But what was he to do now? She, a seeker of truth and justice, was being dishonored by being told lies from a person she should normally fully trust. Who she had trusted her heart to. And he couldn't help but feel horrible for it.

"Es tut mir leid..." he muttered in reaction to the door swinging wide open. She stood there with tired eyes and a heaviness he never really recalled from her. Or maybe that heaviness has been there for a while. It probably has. He's just been denying that it's been there. That's perhaps what he's best at. Denying the elephant in the room. Denying that it exists, pretending that everything is okay. "Es tut mir wirklich leid."

He never could be the ideal "Disney prince" for her. He was rough around the edges, and, to his opinion, without the gentleness of a prince. Perhaps his former best friend would have filled that category very well. Hell, he even has a fortune. He literally turned his wife into the equivalent of a modern-day princess. But Vash could have done better... he could have done much better... Done much better with attempting to give her that "happily ever after". She held an important, important place in his heart, but they were far, far away from such a "happily ever after." He wasn't entitled to one, as it seemed. He wasn't entitled to any happily ever after, and it wasn't something he probably could ever give her. It was a pain to lie every single time.

He staggered into the apartment, as if a ghost of himself. He said not a word as he put the keys down upon the kitchen counter, loosened his tie, and filled the water boiler with two cups of water, and turned it on. The only sound in the kitchen was the boiling of the water. He collapsed himself into his chair at the kitchen table and released  long, drawn breath. He was tired. And to be here was tiring. He looked out the window, the London skyline bright like a crown. Behind every light, there was perhaps a person, who was going about their own personal tragedies and lives. And here he was, living his tragedy in such darkness.

The water boiler pinged to indicate the water was thoroughly hot. He poured himself a cup and took a tea bag. Earl Grey. As black as he felt at the moment. He left the rest of the water there for her.

He sat back in his chair and steeped the tea bag for a while, trying to appear very occupied with the activity. The way her eyes looked at him, with such daggers. He avoided the gaze, staring into the blackening tea, attempting to deny that anything was wrong.

How did it come to this? 

He was always told that good intentions were often just what anyone needed to go through anything. With good intentions, one could even trudge through hell with a smile, confident that things will eventually be in the favor of good. It wasn't as if he wanted to leave her in this state, now did he? Weren't his intentions good? Didn't he try hard enough? Wasn't he simply protecting her from the truth of his situation? Wasn't he protecting the whole of London from the brink of destruction? Wasn't he simply doing his job? 

Are good intentions getting you anywhere, Vash?

They weren't enough, and it was true: He wasn't the same man that he was when they had first met.What a cheat he was, really.To keep up with this facade. He was used to lying after a whiles in the MI6. He was very, very used to it. Concerningly used to it. It seems he's lied to himself enough, yet kept his own apprehensions.

You fool. Look at all you've done. Look at it. You're the one at fault. Stop deluding yourself. You've lost the right long ago. You've lost it, and you know it.


You know nothing. You're the one making this situation worse. Where is your civility? Why are you treating her this way? To protect her? You're pathetic. Just pathetic. 

He was tired. Damn tired.

I don't have the right to love her, do I?

He looked at her with wary eyes. Her eyes were the blue of summer, but all she saw was winter in his own spring green eyes. They do call autumn "fall" for a reason.

"You don't have to stay up and wait for me. There is no reason to."

He felt horrible, cloaked in the smell of sins upon him. Sins he didn't commit himself. He's committed other sins. But these weren't his.

"Don't you have a court case tomorrow, anyways?"

CODED BY ELECTRIC OF GANGNAM STYLE