In the end, her logic was nothing. (HojoxVincentxLucrecia)
She would have laughed had she heard the truth, brushing it off as nothing more than a fabricated tale on behalf of the Turk's sudden disappearance. For she was too logical to believe such horrors truly existed, and that the man she had chosen to dedicate her life to was a sadistic creature. Such truly did not exist. Everything could be rationalized. Even the screams she swore she heard during the dead hours of the night. Yes, they were nothing. A figment of her imagination ... but she could see him crying out to her some nights, begging her forgiveness, and wailing in broken desperation. And part of her would be drawn to those cries, and she would take pity upon him, and then she would curse herself for believing it was him. Still some nights she would hear those cries and see only him. If only she had known that the small nagging thoughts that crept into her mind, speaking of the horrors that had befallen him, were only a fraction of the brutality he endured. But logic spoke against it, and for that she refused to believe anything other than the intricate web of lies Hojo spun about her.
Vincent had abandoned her. Turned in his resignation, and vanished. She remembered the way he looked the last time she saw him. So dark and forlorn, she had tried to speak to him as he passed, but he had said nothing, only stared at her silent and longingly before vanishing within the shadows. He always lingered within them, like a ghost condemned to spend eternity watching over her. And so it was that he had found her collapsed in her bedroom, and had lifted her to the bed and kissed her softly before departing. She had awakened some time later, a bit disoriented and confused as to how she had gotten there. She knew nothing of Vincent, and how he had a short hour before been shot dead. She knew nothing of the blood, or the cries, or the foolishly spent tears. She knew nothing of the darkness Hojo harboured, or the hatred he held for this man.
When Vincent didn't return, she began to press Hojo for answers. He had brushed them off initially, telling her that the Turk's affairs were none of his concern. She finally demanded of him to know, and he had told her a beautiful lie of how her precious Turk had abandoned her, turned in his resignation and left because her body no longer held its appeal to him. How he had last been seen with a woman of questionable morals. Such a perfect lie, something to make her hate Vincent, see the man beneath those dark eyes, see the killer. And so she learned to loathe him. But as the days wore on, she saw less and less of Hojo. He would vanish at night, disappear into the basement library until dawn, and when he would return to her, she swore she could smell Vincent.
There was also the matter of the screams. A figment of her imagination, Hojo assured her. But the tiny voice spoke of dark things, and her mind reeled with visions of Vincent locked away in darkness, crying out for her. She never suspected Hojo, never suspected anything, only fabricated a nightmare in which Vincent had not abandoned her at all. And then she would remember Hojo's words, as he reluctantly informed her of how he had run off.
She was so unsure of what to believe, what to think at times. Her logic spoke against her thoughts, but ever the scientist, she needed proof. She had thought to follow Hojo one night when he vanished from their room, but her strength failed her. So she had waited up all night for him, to listen carefully for any cries. As the night wore on she dozed off, only to be startled awake by a faint, shrill cry of her name. She had demanded that Hojo tell her what was going on when he returned, and he told her that the cells were giving her hallucinations, and that they would end once her body expelled them. It was so logical, and he kissed her lips with the same mouth that wove those lies, and assured her that in time this would run its course.
Run its course, it would. Whether by her untimely end, or Vincent's termination, the cries would cease. And so it continued.
Perhaps, somewhere beneath all the lies, she knew what was happening. She knew she was dying. Everyday she grew weaker, everyday she questioned Hojo more, everyday she realized how desperately she missed Vincent. Some nights, after Hojo left, she sobbed whilst clutching a small photograph of her beloved Turk. She would trace along his soft features, and gaze into those dark eyes, and wonder why he never smiled.
She would hide the picture away beneath her pillow, and cry herself to sleep, wondering where they had gone astray. And always Hojo would return, and comfort her with sweet lies, and caress her face with hands that were stained with Vincent's blood.
But in the end, no sweet words would save her. The lies were empty, and she held onto each moment as though it were her last. Though she begged Hojo to stay at her side, he left her as always for that damnable basement. She had been abandoned twice, once by the lovestruck boy whom she had spurned, the other by the man whom she had dedicated her life to science for. And she found herself alone, nothing but the screams in her head to keep her company. Yet there was something horrifically comforting about those screams.
They continued every night, her constant companion. They understood.
Often she contemplated her sanity, wondering if she had finally snapped. Though the logical side would win out and tell her that the insane do not worry for their sanity. What she did know was that she was dying, and nothing could save her. Not Hojo, not the love of a man she had rejected, not even the screams could save her. Death wasn't something to be feared, for once again logic told her such. That same damnable logic that had told her that love was trivial. The same logic that had made her believe Hojo. The same logic that made her give up her own child.
In the end, logic didn't matter.
It didn't change the fact that she was alone. Didn't change the fact that she would never hold her child. Didn't change the fact that she was dying. Didn't change the fact that as she lay waiting for the end, she called his name.
For all her logic, she missed him, didn't want to die without him. She wailed his name to the darkness. Vincent, her precious Vincent. She called for him, even as he called for her. And the lie Hojo had woven, suddenly meant nothing.
Her logic was nothing, for in her heart she knew the screams were his.