All 03.2 - Nothing to Do

Back. Forth. Back. Forth. Back. Forth.
Victor sat, holding his spoon lightly at the end of the handle with his fingertips, playing with the lukewarm and hardly appetizing oat-paste that it made magically appear. He had already eaten his fill, but the amount in the bowl never decreased as long as the spoon was still in it.
Back. Forth. Back. Forth. Back. Forth.
He dragged the spoon around, wrist loose, making strokes that were immediately swallowed up by the oatmeal. Silence blanketed the single-room apartment, and Victor’s gaze, though pointed towards the bowl, looked nowhere.
Back. Forth. Back. Forth. Back. Forth.
Rather than a dining set, he had purchased a short coffee table and now sat on the floor in front of it, his posture straight despite a lack of chair. He could justify the purchase ten different ways, but honestly, it just seemed more right for some reason he didn’t know. I wonder if I can paint? His thoughts idly drifted by as he swept his spoon about. Something...something about painting. Or...calligraphy? I wonder if I can do that.
Back. Forth. Back. Forth. Back. Forth.
…I suppose I’d have to buy a brush. Could probably use the ink and paper I have. Would that work? It might not. I don’t know what would though. I’d have to ask someone.
…
I should do that.
…
Not much point in it, though.
…
I should do something.
...
Not much point in that either.
…
Back. Forth. Back. Forth. Back. Forth.
...Not much point in doing anything. What’s there to do that has any point? I have no orders...no one to receive orders from. He made a small scoffing noise from his throat. I’m taking commands from an opportunist while waiting for orders from a naive boy, and being mocked by an arrogant girl in the interim. He stopped dragging the spoon and balanced it in the center on its tip, steadying it with his index finger. Am I really worth so little, that this is what I’m reduced to: an amusement for children?
…
What am I supposed to do, without orders? There’s nothing to do.
...
What sort of person am I, that I need direction so badly? Other people don’t need orders.
...
I wonder what someone else would do, if they were me. He snorted. Well, they’d probably get Victor Erzebet’s money.
…
I guess. Or maybe they’d be insane. I’m certainly insane. At least I’m not raving mad. I wonder if someone else would be? It must affect people differently. Maybe I was just always good at sitting in the dark.
…
I wonder if I was always good at watching people die.
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I must have seen people die. ...I can’t conceive innocence. Violet’s death was the same as Harriet’s, the same as everyone’s in between. My nerves remembered death, if my mind didn’t.
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Maybe I killed people myself.
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I probably did...I wonder why I think so? There’s no evidence that I did. But I don’t think I’m wrong.
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Doesn’t matter, I suppose. Well, it might. I would still be a murderer even if I didn’t remember doing it. Am I still a murderer if I was in a past life?
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I should do something. What should I be doing?
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If I am a devil, then I have some sort of purpose. A mission of importance, that I should be working towards, and everything else is irrelevant.
…
I don’t know what it could be though. I won’t know until I go to Hell if I accomplished anything. And that means all I will ever do in life is wait to die.
…
That’s what I’m doing now.
...
He tapped his finger. That's...horridly depressing. And wasteful, really.
...
Well, if I am Victor, then I should be reclaiming what is mine. Rebuilding what is mine. There is a job, a title, a house, a fortune, a family, waiting for Victor.
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But the house is vile. The family is strange. The fortune is unnecessary. The job could be done by anyone. And the title will be contested by a man who wants it more badly than I could.
...
Being Victor is a hassle; a pointless hassle to reclaim a pointless, already-ruined life. I’d rather be someone else. ...No, no I am someone else. His hand slid down and clenched the spoon. I am someone else. I can’t afford to forget that. Don’t forget that. That’s all I have. That’s everything. He stood up and began to clean the dishes, washing away the old oatmeal. I am someone else. I have no knowable purpose or goal. With no goal, I am no master. I am a servant, who fulfills others’ wishes while lacking my own. I am a servant, regardless of the master.
He walked away from the sink and stood in the center of his apartment: a single large room, empty save for the short table and a chest of drawers. Slowly, eyes closed, he drew his sword and held it up. Now my master is a child. A child has no goals, and cannot lead. He is close though. His self-awareness must grow before he can realize his purposes. His job will force him to confront himself eventually. He will mature, and his leadership will hopefully improve with it. He began to methodically practice, his movements deliberate and measured, pausing after each motion to hold the stance. I have patience. I can wait. I will serve him to his limited capacity, until he grows. Or until I find myself with a new master.
His motions continued, a sort of meditative exercise. Suddenly, he stopped. “Ugh,” he exclaimed out-loud, dropping his position. “Worthless excuse for a sword…” he muttered, interrupting his own thoughts. “Too light, too flimsy, can’t even cut…” he mumbled as he went to his dresser and rummaged about his belongings. Still grumbling, he pulled out objects, weighing them and comparing. Eventually, he settled on some string and his umbrella, and used the first to lash the latter to his foil. Looking at his handiwork, he laughed. He returned to his position, still chuckling. Holding out the ridiculous weapon, he started practicing again. “Pfeh,” he scoffed and facetiously mumbled, “I am the greatest of swordsmen, master of the umbrella style.” Abandoning the proper form for a rapier, he began to incorporate slashing motions. Barely able to take himself seriously, he added increasingly twirling and fluid attacks, the thought of his umbrella-sword dance making him chuckle the whole time. Faster and fiercer, he slashed his umbrella-foil about, time passing quietly on the watch but unknown to him.
He slumped down to the floor, out of breath and smiling. How long he had kept that up, he didn’t know, but it must have been a while to wind him so badly. He looked again at his makeshift weapon and let it fall carelessly. If I had a real sword, I daresay that might have been somewhat impressive. He leaned against the wall, catching his breath. I am a swordsman. I am a servant. That’s all I need, for now. More will come, if I am patient. Whether I am Victor, or a devil, or truly neither. Purpose will come. Clarity will form. Until then, do what you’re told. Do what you need. Do what you want, if you can.
Just stop sitting and waiting to die.
Category:Advent of the All