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William wakes up to realize his lower half is bare, and there is a horrible soreness inside him. This is not terribly unusual these past few wakings–-he flinches away from the reason why, and goes staggering upright to clean off.
The bath water is warm, at least. He has a vague memory of one room where it wasn’t–-such an insult to injury! Sinking in up to his nose, William closes his eyes and tries to focus on the soothing heat. The soap smells of rosemary.
What scents did he prefer, before? He’s not sure. Maybe, if he soaks a little longer, it will come to him. (Elizabath enjoyed jasmine, he thinks, and it feels like he’s stolen something.)
Eventually, though, he must move, start cleaning off in earnest. This is always his least favorite part, because he must feel his body to do it, and that means he must think about what has been done to it. Often it makes his heart go rabbit-quick in his chest, and tightens his shoulders, and he has to force himself to take long breaths until the urge to run passes.
His scars wink at him, all up and down his arms.
Count them, floats to the top of his mind, and it has the feel of a well-polished pebble. Something he’s held time and time again, turning over and over in his hands. Count them.
Rubbing his fingers over the little marks, William realizes–-realizes again–-this is how to know, roughly, how many days have passed.
And then, right on the heels of that thought, as if unlocking one had set the other free: He was never ill in the first place.
“The medicine,” William breathes, hands fisting. “The goddamn medicine.”
He wants to leave. He wants to leave now. Making himself finish the bath is the hardest thing he’s ever done, but he manages, for to leave himself slick and sticky with Victor’s seed makes his stomach roil.
Quickly toweling off, he throws open the closet, only to discover all his pants are gone. Not just his pants, either, but anything he might have put under them. The only thing left are the shirts–-the shirts, and a selection of dresses that clearly weren’t there when he went to sleep. He brushes a hand over one-–it’s silk, the other velvet, the third some deep blue fabric that seems to soak up the light. They’re beautiful.
William wants to tear them to pieces.
Swallowing, he makes himself let go of the dress before his fisting hand can do any damage. Victor clearly intends something for the dresses, and if his brother finds his plans have been spoiled… William shudders in remembered pain, and puts on the longest shirt he can find instead.
The door is locked. The door is always locked, he remembers, for he knows now that he’s tried it before. But when Victor visits, he usually leaves it undone–probably because he thinks himself more than William’s match.
Rubbing his arms, William tries to think. There must be some way out of this. Casting his gaze around the room, he searches for something. Something he can use, some weapon–
The fire poker.
~
Time stretches interminably long as William waits for Victor to come bustling through the door. His grip on the fire poker grows clammy, then cold.
Finally, finally, the door creaks open. William raises the poker, and when he sees that dark head of curls, swings.
It feels like hitting a wall. The impact jars up his arms, wrenches something in his shoulder, and as he staggers back, Victor turns and smiles.
“Good hit,” he says, and William bares his teeth and swings again.
This time, Victor catches the poker, and there’s a brief tug-of-war that William soundly loses. He backs up against the wall as Victor examines the poker and its new dent, fear making it hard to breathe.
Idly, Victor says, “I’d been wondering when you’d get up your courage again.” Tossing the poker away-–it skitters across the carpet, rolls to a stop against the bed–-he sets his equipment down on the bedside table. Over his shoulder, he adds, “I don’t know why you insist on making me punish you.”
Pushing off the wall, William lunges towards the door. He doesn’t know how Victor does it, but one moment his brother is beside the bed, and the next he’s caught William by the wrist and thrown him to the floor.
“I suppose I should admire your persistence,” Victor muses, and steps on William’s fingers until he screams. Over the noise, he says, “But it’s such a bother.”
When Victor releases him, William curls over his injured hand, trying to stifle his sobs. His brother crouches down beside him, reaching out to pat his cheek–he tries to flinch away, and it just makes Victor’s little smile twitch a hair wider.
In that horrible soft voice, Victor says, “None of those tears, my little wife. Didn’t you see? I brought you some gifts.”
“You took away my bloody pants,” William spits.
He’s expecting the hit, but it still hurts.
“Women don’t wear pants,” Victor retorts, and pokes William right in his aching cheekbone. “Besides, I’ve given you something better.”
William opens his mouth to protest that he’s not a woman, and he’s certainly not going to be wearing those dresses. But Victor raises an eyebrow, and shifts his weight, and William finds himself muttering, “Yes, alright.”
“There, was that so hard?” Victor pushes to his feet and goes over to the closet, looking through the dresses until he settles on one with silk that shimmers like water. “I’ve decided to accelerate your program,” he adds, laying the dress out on the bed.
The words mean nothing to William, but they still provoke a sense of dread. “Program?”
“You keep fighting your proper role,” Victor muses, “so clearly something new must be done.”
Numbly, William goes, “Oh.”
Victor grins, teeth too white, and beckons. “Come here.”
Stomach in knots, William rolls to his knees, then to his feet, and pads over to the bed. The dress is lovely, he has to admit, and if it were for anyone but himself he’d be pleased to see it. His throat is so tight it’s hard to speak, but at Victor’s expectant look, he croaks out, “It’s…it’s very pretty.”
“Nothing but the best for my Mina,” Victor says, and that’s–-
“Mina?” William forces out.
“Your new name.” Victor cups his cheek, looks so smug that it takes all of William’s will not to bite his fingers. “A lovely name for a lovely wife.”
Desperately, William says, “Surely I’ve paid you back by now-–”
The hand on his cheek shifts to grab him by the curls, and William whimpers as Victor tugs him close enough to whisper in his ear, “Oh, Mina, you think Elizabeth is the only thing you’ve taken from me?”
“Please,” William whispers, and he doesn’t want to show his fear but can’t help the shakes traveling up his spine, “please-–”
Releasing him with a shove, Victor orders, “Put on the dress.”
With trembling hands, William picks up the dress. He’s not quite sure how all the laces should go, but loosening them and slipping the whole thing over his head seems to work well enough. It feels too tight on his chest, too loose on his legs. “There,” he says, trying to keep his voice level. “Just like you wanted.”
“Yes,” Victor purrs, “yes, it is. How lovely you look, Mina.”
Swallowing, William lets Victor pull him in with a hand on his waist. That hungry mouth locks onto his scarred neck, flirting between the patches of numbness to press hot kisses to his skin. William looks up at the ceiling, and tries to make himself float away.
He doesn’t quite succeed-–he’s still aware of how his body opens under Victor’s fingers, his cock. I hate you, he chants in his head, I hate you, I hate you, and turns his head into the pillow so Victor won’t lap up his angry tears.
The dress is ruined by the time Victor is done, and William feels the same. Distantly, as his body shakes and cries, he thinks, I’ll need another bath.
Victor leaves him with a kiss.
William lies in his filthy new dress, stares up at the ceiling, and wonders what it takes to kill a Frankenstein.