This has to be a cruel joke. It has to be. Denial beats through his thoughts as fierce as his heart thudding in his stomach.
But as Lucifer's tirade unravels everything, it drags Wilhelm to the conclusion that it's not a joke, just cruel. All along, he has seen only what he wants to see in Lucifer, and to do that he's bent logic around the things that stuck out funny. Willful ignorance that found in his loneliness somewhere to thrive.
He wants to throw up. He wants to throw fists. Instead, his bone-white knuckles hang trembling at his sides.
"You let me believe you cared about me. You...you believed in me, and I couldn't fucking figure out why...but it made me think that maybe you were right. Maybe I had some kind of potential, and it would come out if I just kept trying."
Word by word, his wavering voice crashes into something raw and splintered. Underneath all the hurt surges a strange sense of righteousness, as if grasping Lucifer's secret lends him some unknowable power.
"I thought it was so great that you didn't treat me like a kid. You actually listened to me, you took me seriously. But the whole fucking time..."
A sharp sniffle. He hates that he's crying in front of him. Sucking in a breath, he spits out:
"Fuck you! I'm done with this."
On shaky legs, Wilhelm starts to stalk away. He swipes at his eyes, almost angrier at himself for being such an easy target.
That's all anyone will ever see in you, insists a whispering voice. A tool to use for their own ends.
Another needles, Look on the bright side: at least you're not completely useless.
As a ward against the whispers, and against the raw memories of Lucifer that now crash down around him, he reaches for counter-examples. But no faces come to mind. At the dark edges of his thoughts lingers someone with a reassuring smile and arms like home. Someone else with eyes that find him and know him. Who was that? All he can remember now is a closed casket. A turned back. The more desperately he tries to hold onto any memories of those who have made life a little softer, the farther they slip from his mind. Suddenly, he can't be sure that any of them were ever real. There's only ever been...
His steps slow, then halt altogether. He doubles over. His arms curl over his head, hands curling in his hair.
"Why are you doing this?" he asks, and the question is like a wound.
no subject
But as Lucifer's tirade unravels everything, it drags Wilhelm to the conclusion that it's not a joke, just cruel. All along, he has seen only what he wants to see in Lucifer, and to do that he's bent logic around the things that stuck out funny. Willful ignorance that found in his loneliness somewhere to thrive.
He wants to throw up. He wants to throw fists. Instead, his bone-white knuckles hang trembling at his sides.
"You let me believe you cared about me. You...you believed in me, and I couldn't fucking figure out why...but it made me think that maybe you were right. Maybe I had some kind of potential, and it would come out if I just kept trying."
Word by word, his wavering voice crashes into something raw and splintered. Underneath all the hurt surges a strange sense of righteousness, as if grasping Lucifer's secret lends him some unknowable power.
"I thought it was so great that you didn't treat me like a kid. You actually listened to me, you took me seriously. But the whole fucking time..."
A sharp sniffle. He hates that he's crying in front of him. Sucking in a breath, he spits out:
"Fuck you! I'm done with this."
On shaky legs, Wilhelm starts to stalk away. He swipes at his eyes, almost angrier at himself for being such an easy target.
That's all anyone will ever see in you, insists a whispering voice. A tool to use for their own ends.
Another needles, Look on the bright side: at least you're not completely useless.
As a ward against the whispers, and against the raw memories of Lucifer that now crash down around him, he reaches for counter-examples. But no faces come to mind. At the dark edges of his thoughts lingers someone with a reassuring smile and arms like home. Someone else with eyes that find him and know him. Who was that? All he can remember now is a closed casket. A turned back. The more desperately he tries to hold onto any memories of those who have made life a little softer, the farther they slip from his mind. Suddenly, he can't be sure that any of them were ever real. There's only ever been...
His steps slow, then halt altogether. He doubles over. His arms curl over his head, hands curling in his hair.
"Why are you doing this?" he asks, and the question is like a wound.