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Victoria knew her death was inevitable. What she never imagined was her tragic end to arrive so fast.
She placed her devoted heart in the palms of Henry Winter, not knowing one day he would squeeze it dry of all fidelity.
But credit where credit is due, he did a terribly good job of pretending.
In March of 1985, Victoria invested her trust in Henry. How stupidly naive she was, not seeing the obvious signs that he simply did not care. He went along with it, accepting her feeble attempts of flattery. Flowers, chocolate, letters.
He kept a few letters, the ones that were poetic, with potential. The rash love confessions however, were simply read once— not meticulously, but rather a lethargic skim of her cursive words— then discarded as easily and quickly as an apple core.
Rotten luck, really. Falling for a man who cares for little, other than Greek literature and himself.
One could assume her death was irrational.
Henry had his reasons though, for he had excuses for everything.
He saw Victoria merely as another loose end, one that could be tied off as effortlessly as Bunny.
Victoria didn’t know —of course— that he and his friends were the cause of Bunny’s demise. She bothered him even more than usual when she read the paper that day.
“I can’t believe Bunny’s dead, you must feel awful” she had said, “Do you want me to come over? I’ll make you coffee, we can talk. I’m sure you must have a lot on your mind”
God, he nearly committed another homicide during that call.
But, that was the bitter truth, Victoria bothered him. Not just on that day, but everyday.
Her friends said she was lovely, but he had his doubts. He disliked that she wore her heart on her sleeve, disliked how she called him ‘dear’, disliked her taste in books—Jane Eyre was her favourite, disliked her face, disliked her.
But somewhere within the deep abyss of hatred eventually sprouted something else. He began to find himself missing her constant talking, missing her dancing around the room humming David Bowie songs, missing her soft smile, missing her.
Ideally, that is how their relationship would have gone, but, instead, Henry began to hate her more.
She became needy, constantly craving his attention and affection. Holding him, kissing him, loving him
Once, they were sat reading by candlelight. She was tolerable that day. That was until she moved next to him, reading over his shoulder, talking to him.
He suddenly had the inexplicable urge to pick the candle up, and burn her pretty little face, watching—with no remorse whatsoever— as the melted wax pooled in her eye sockets.
The day of her death was planned of course. Henry simply had enough of Victoria.
He could have broken things off with her, but why would he, when her tangible ghost would haunt him, have the chance to murder him.
She threw open his apartment door, all bright smiles and naivety. He stood in his bedroom, head out the window, cigarette pressed between two fingers, knife rested in his breast pocket.
She flew in the room, crashing into his arm laughing,
“What I day I had, Henry! Oh, the stories I have to tell,” she continued laughing, fresh bubbles forming in her throat.
“Tell me later,” he muttered, softer than usual. There was an edge to his words, as if the final straw had gone, and she was now in debt.
“But I can’t possibly tell you later, I have somewhere to be!” She said, her tone impatient
“Where do you need to be?”
“I’m having dinner with my friend, you know, Aria?”
“That’s nice,” he said in a brusque manner. He turned then, putting his cigarette out on her arm, face betraying no hint of emotion.
She was rather forlorn at that moment— though Henry didn’t know why— and her eyes were stupidly wide.
“Idiot girl” he had thought, pressing the now stub harder into her arm.
“Henry! Stop!” She finally spoke up. Her feeble attempt to get him to stop was worthless, as he continued to press it into her arm, burning her arm
“Stop!” The cry tore out her throat and the swung her arm to hit him in the face. He caught her wrist, squeezing it, like Richard had done to that poor Easter chick
He laughed, not a true laugh, but a sly, mocking laugh. He was met with her incredulous face staring back at him.
He twisted her arm, listening to the satisfying snap of bone. The scream climbed up her throat, threatening to escape her lips.
He seemed to notice, and dropped the cigarette stub, hand moving to cover her mouth, other—letting go of her wrist— running along the marks of sleep deprivation under her right eye.
“If you even think about screaming, those beautiful eyes of yours will have a new home on my bedside table. Do you understand?” She nodded, vigorously, but just as his hand moved away from her mouth she screamed.
It was abruptly cut off, Henry grabbing her head and slamming it into the wall. She kicked him, hard in the shin, over and over and over and over, until he took her by the neck.
She fumbled for something, anything to cause any harm. Fatal or not, she didn’t care.
She began to panic, for some unknown reason she wasn’t scared before. Perhaps it was the lack of oxygen, or that her unrequited love was actively trying to murder her.
She clawed at his hand, mouthing his name repeatedly, as if making a point. He let go, not out of pity or remorse, but because he wanted to give her a chance.
To live? No, to actually put up a fight and stop acting like a child.
“Victoria, my darling, when did you realise that I never really loved you” she paused, feeling utterly defenceless
“I never did. You do love me, don’t you”
He shook his head, for his hubris was always a fatality of his.
Her eye darted from him, to the murderous glint in his eyes, “You killed bunny didn’t you?”
“You already know the answer to that”
“You’re going to kill me too aren’t you?”
“Depends, do you want me to?”
“No, no, I don’t”
“It’s wonderful that you don’t have a choice”
She ran across the room, grabbing a nearby glass vase, and threw it at him. She reached for the door, but he was there first, pushing her to the ground.
His lip was cut, blood dripping down his chin
He punched her, a few times, in the face. He thought, at that moment, of all the times he thought of doing something like this, and why he didn’t sooner. “I didn’t realise how bad she was”
He stopped, only to pull the life out from his jacket’s pocket
“Henry, what are you doing?” She gasped out
He found him self over come with Deja Vu, and laughed, for Bunny had said something awfully similar right before his death.
“You know what I’m doing.” He pulled out the knife, angling it so she could see her reflection in the blade.
“So you really are doing to kill me…” she couldn’t help but laugh. Maybe she did deserve it, she didn’t know.
“Hadn’t you realised your death is inevitable?”
He drove the knife into her chest, twice, blood staining his hands a vivid red.
The most unfortunate part, was that she still looked at Henry with the same fond eyes she had looked at him with, when she first saw him.
Without at glance to those watery eyes, Henry stood up, and lit a cigarette.