Chapter 61: The Portrait Of Pain And Longing
André kept patting Vivienne softly. She lay on the bed, her face pressed against the pillow, her black hair messy and clinging to her cheeks. Her breaths were uneven, shuddering slightly, and her small whimpers reached his ears. She murmured softly, almost like a frightened child calling for her mother. The sound made André pause. He tilted his head, watching her chest rise and fall, the faint trembling of her shoulders. He thought about what had happened to her, why she sounded so broken even in sleep. Something in him stirred, a rare tenderness he had buried beneath years of rage and obsession. The lines of her face, usually sharp with defiance, softened in sleep, revealing a fragility he had never dared to see. He noticed the faint shadows under her eyes, the pale curve of her lips as they trembled ever so slightly. Every detail screamed of pain, of loneliness, and of stories left untold.
His hand moved over her hair, brushing it back gently. He lowered himself beside her, keeping his voice soft, almost a whisper. "Shh. Everything is okay Vivienne. It’s okay," he murmured, as if trying to calm a storm he could not see. His fingers traced the line of her jaw, rested on her shoulder. She didn’t stir anymore. Her whimpers faded. Finally, her breathing settled. Vivienne was at ease in her sleep, unaware of the chaos she left behind when awake. André allowed himself a moment to just watch her. His eyes softened, seeing something fragile beneath the chaos, beneath the wildness she carried like a shield. He could almost imagine the weight of her life pressing on her, invisible scars hidden behind every daring smile, every sharp word. Slowly, he pulled away and tucked her in gently, adjusting the blankets around her so she looked small and protected, almost childlike, as if the world outside could no longer touch her. He stood there a moment longer, just looking at her, feeling the ache of a thousand things unsaid, before leaving the bedroom silently, the soft click of the door echoing in the quiet house.
He walked down the dark, empty halls with a small lamp in his hand. The light flickered, casting long, dancing shadows on the polished wooden floors. The silence pressed against him, almost like a living thing, making each step careful and deliberate. Every sound—his own footsteps, the faint creak of the floorboards—felt too loud in the stillness. He moved as if he were alone in the world, carrying the lamp like it could guide him through the darkness inside and out. The cold air brushed against his skin, reminding him of absence, of rooms once filled with laughter, now echoing only with memory.
Finally, he arrived at the painting room. The door groaned softly as he pushed it open. The room smelled faintly of oil paint and old wood. Dust motes floated in the lamplight. He stopped before the large portrait of his mother hanging on the wall. The face in the painting was serene, calm, and beautiful. André’s hand trembled slightly as he rested it on the table beside the portrait. The memories it stirred were sudden and sharp. Vivienne’s unconscious words, her murmurs calling for a mother, echoed in his mind. He felt something he hadn’t allowed himself to feel in years: a pang of guilt, of longing. Maybe Vivienne was more like her mother than he realized. Maybe that is why her presence stirred a tenderness he never expected.
He whispered to the portrait, his voice barely audible over the quiet of the room. "I am sorry mother. I am very sorry. For everything. I am. I truly am. I miss you. Every day. If only I... if only." His voice cracked on the last words, as if speaking them aloud could bring back what he had lost, could undo the mistakes he never forgave himself for. He traced the painted face with his finger, almost as if he could reach through time and touch her again. The light from the lamp flickered across the gold frame, casting his shadow over the painting, elongating him, showing the thin line between the man he let the world see and the boy who had lost his mother. The memory of her warmth, her hands, the faint scent of her hair, it all rushed back, stabbing at his chest. He thought of Vivienne lying upstairs, whispering for a mother she may have lost, and it twisted something inside him. He wished he could take away every hurt she ever felt, shield her from the cruelty of the world, even if he could never protect himself.
A long silence settled in the room. André just stood there, alone with the painting, the lamp flickering like it had a heartbeat of its own. He did not move, did not blink much, and did not speak again. His eyes were glassy, distant, soft in a way that no one had ever seen. The madness, the cruelty, the obsession he showed to the world was gone, stripped away for a moment. All that remained was the raw, human ache of missing someone he could never hold again. In that fragile space between shadow and light, he allowed himself to grieve—not for himself, but for Vivienne, for a life shadowed by absence, by pain that no child should carry.
In the quiet of the room, the only sounds were the faint crackle of the lamp and the soft memory of Vivienne’s whimpers from the bedroom. She was unaware of the weight of the words, the sorrow she had stirred, but somehow, in her sleep, she had called him to remember that even monsters could hurt, even the chaotic could feel deep, human pain. Each whisper she had let slip, each shiver, seemed to echo into the empty corners of the house, leaving a trail of invisible sorrow he could not ignore.
André stayed there for a long time, staring at the portrait, whispering fragments of regret. He was alone with his grief, a quiet reminder that underneath the madness and cruelty, he was still human. His shoulders shook slightly, as though bearing the weight of all the absent mothers, all the unspoken apologies, all the fragile lives lost to silence.