Authors Note: Lookie, I am back. With Nutcracker auditions coming up next week, I've decided I must relieve some stress! A fresh, brand new story written just for you (whoever you may be)…please review! I'd appreciate it a lot.
Sweeney Todd's POV
When it's raining you forget about everything. It's just the annoying, or soothing pitter-patter of the rain coming down on the flimsy roof. Sooner or later you're going to have to fix a leak to prevent yourself from falling in an indoor puddle.
You don't really know it's raining when you first look out the window. Unless it's silent. The rain falls so fast, your don't notice it until you hear the tapping and notice the rain sliding down your window pane, your eyes following each droplet seeing which one makes it to the bottom the fastest. This is my life. You're not welcome here, you've invaded and you're trespassing. Get out.
I hear her walking up the stairs. I don't bother turn around. I don't want to hear what she has to say, frankly, I don't care. She walks in, drenched. She obviously didn't bother to grab an umbrella. Her stringy brown hair falling limply around her face, the lace on her dress clinging to her chest. I don't care for these kinds of thoughts, if you know what I mean.
She starts to talk. I can see her mouth moving. I nod occasionally, and grunt. Then she's quiet. I am utterly speechless.
"You like the rain Mister Todd?" She asks me. I grunt in response. "Johanna used to like the rain when she was little." She says. I look into her brown, brown eyes. Why did she choose to say that? "Did she?" I whisper. "She did." She responds.
As much as I'd like to stand here and share stories of our past, I think I'll pass. This time. "It's always raining in London." Your voice breaks the silence. I think you said that just do so. Thanks captain obvious. I grunt again. Talking to me is like having a conversation with black and white wallpaper.
Actually, I'm sure wallpaper is more interesting than I am. I certainly prefer wallpaper over her. "Do you have plans for tomorrow?" She asks. I don't respond. Why worry about tomorrow? Until the judge comes, tomorrow is always an eternity away. "Answer me." She directs. Getting a bit feisty are we?
"No." I say. One of my favorite one syllable words. "Good." She says, and smirks. Why in the world did I say that? She can cook something ridiculous up and I would never know what it was...until tomorrow that is. Oh joy.
"Why do you insist on brooding over your dead wife?" She asks. "Don't you dare speak of my Lucy that way!" I spat. How dare she? "How dare you speak to me that way!" She shot back. "What!?" I shout, my hands coming dangerously close to my razor.
"Oh stop it Mister Todd! Your razors don't solve anything!" She yells. "They solve my problems, and right now, my biggest problem is you!" I hover over her, my words lingering in the air, my razor held high above my head. "What would you do if I was dead?" She asked. "I'd pretend like you never existed, of course." I reply.
"You wouldn't be you if I didn't exist." She says, her hands bringing the razor down back to my side. My grip grows tighter on the already warm silver. "I'm not him." I growl. "Fine then. Kill me. I have nothing to live for! At least I won't end up killing myself!" She tilts her head up so that we're almost touching. I can feel her breath on my face.
"You would never kill yourself." I whisper angrily. She grabs my hand, and places the razor on her throat. "Try me." She glares. I look back into those brown, brown eyes. She's not about to cry.
That's because the tears in her eyes are in mine. Stupid, stupid, stupid girl. We're still dangerously close. I kind of like it. So I make the best of it. I lean down, and press my lips to hers' still wet from the rain. She drops my razor with a clunk, and neither of us bothers to pick it up.
My fingers tangle in her wet, stringy hair, my shirt pressed against her wet lace.
I forget about everything. About the argument we just had. About Lucy. About Johanna. About Benjamin. About the Judge.
It's raining, and I have developed a strange case of amnesia.
You're wrong, Mrs. Lovett, I don't like the rain, I love it. It's raining and it's pouring, and it's noisily tapping on the window, and the roof is leaking. It's raining, and I never want it to stop.
-The Very End-
End Note: Review, S'il vous plait!