HOUSE OF WAX
Disclaimer: House of Wax does not belong to me, I'm just playing with the characters!
What to Expect: I have been reading some of the fanfic on House of Wax out there and they mostly have to do with Nick/Carly incest, which is a little disturbing, so I thought why not put a story unlike that one here! This story is mostly compatible with the film, although, I wanted to explore more back then with Vincent/Bo and then change it by adding one other character... Story is going to be in Vincent/OC perspective
POINT OF REDEMPTION
Chapter 1: Mirror, Mirror
Trudy Sinclair fluttered around the kitchen, cigarette in hand as the silent boy with the disfigured faced watched his mother's movements intently. There was nothing wrong with her movements, he thought sitting silently with a pencil and paper in hand, but she seemed edgier and twitchier as she occasionally glanced into the pot boiling away at the stove.
"Vincent, darling, hand me the mould." Trudy said hurriedly pointing at the clay face on the table.
Vincent rose, obediently picking up the mould and handing it to her. The mask on his face was worn away, as it did almost every few days. Quite slowly, he watched her pick up the steel ladle and stir the hot white wax before pouring it into the mould face. His face. This was his life. He had several faces to hide behind. What made him so ugly to look at? Vincent had read his father's medical texts. There was hundreds, thousands of people with skin disorders and face disfiguration worse than his. Why was his mother so intent on covering his face?
He stepped back, so wrapped in his own thoughts as his mother careful peeled out the wax skin from the mould and set it onto the table. The flimsy wax face would need to be coated with wax several times, varnished with clear glue and then painted very carefully to resemble what might have been his face, if he had one.
"Pretty soon, darling, you will have learn this yourself. Mummy isn't going to be here always." Trudy pointed at the face while taking her deepest puff yet, "Do you want to paint it or shall I?"
Vincent didn't reply as he nodded, absently, before picking up the face and looking at the smooth pale luminescent skin he would claim. Yes, his mother was not going to be here forever and he had come to depend on her - slightly. Her plague of insanity came and went as it pleased. The phone rang and Trudy answered but Vincent could not hear. He was gone, heading up the stairs to his father's surgery room and then about to open the trapdoor in the floor. This was the space they had carved for him. Vincent moved abruptly as something moved in the corner of the surgery room.
"What are you doing here?!" Another boy, handsome at the same degree his brother was ugly, said brusquely before regaining his composure, "Freak with a mask is still a freak."
Vincent stared at his brother, Bo, wondering what he might have said if he could speak at all. Would he tell him to shut up? Or maybe to mind his own business? No, Vincent thought. His brother was right. A freak was always a freak. Bo smiled antagonistically before, abruptly, taking the mask and crushing it with a vengeful strength in his hand. Vincent gasped and saw the flakes of wax fall off Bo's hands onto the peat floor and heard Bo's strained laugh as he left.
Vincent stood there attempting to pick up the cracked pieces of the face only to break it up even more. But at sixteen years, he felt like his soul was just as broken.
Silently, he cleaned the mess and continued along the dimly lit corridor. A large pot of wax, solid and white, sat atop the stove as Vincent lit it. He lit several candles, taking out his carving and painting tools, waiting to make himself another mask to hide his face from the world. His world was a bleek one. A bed covered the length of the farthest wall, several dusty books on art and medicine lined the old wooden shelves. Another large cabinet was loaded with artist's tools. Vincent could not complain, his mother and father had supplied him with everything - from wax to paint. He could not complain if they had forgotten love.
"He did it again?"
Vincent turned around slowly to see her standing by the door in a black top and cargo pants. She was beautiful. Adriana. Her long dark hair was loose and swaying as she edged closer to him, unafraid. She had never said anything in her life about him being disfigured. She knew why. Adriana had lived at the foster home in Ambrose long enough to get into trouble with the police. That's how she met Bo and then through him, Vincent. Vincent felt as though to her this was just as normal as anyone else.
"He's a bitch." She finally said as she peered in the pot, less than a foot away, "I saw him bolting through the your dad's medical room. I think he was stealing money. Says he wants to watch, 'Whatever happened to Baby Jane?,' again, what is it with him and that movie? I told him he's fell over the edge of sanity to want to watch horrific looking Bette Davis. I really think he should stop his oh-so-thrilling life on the edge. He's going to get himself into trouble. You know worse police trouble. It's a good thing your parents don't know about Mrs. Polock. God, they would die. Come to think of it, I think she suspects Bo..."
Vincent's lips quivered into a small smile. Mrs. Polock was the one they, the three of them, had stolen the rabbit from. It was an experiment for art, Bo rationalized, as it would impress their mother exponentially. Vincent had just watched from afar as they crept into her backyard and into her house. Luckily, she was at church - at night - and stolen her rabbit. They killed it and gave it to Vincent who suffered migraines to attempt to keep it from decomposing by filling it up with wax and painting and touching up each fur strand. It was strenous work but he enjoyed it and even more, he enjoyed Adriana's company as she watched with morbid fascination.
He loved her talking as the thoughts entered her head. Adriana did not think too much and the words that streamed from her pouty deep pink lips were as good as true. She had come to just talk around him and he listened because he was often interested, craving the sound of another's voice with just rambling. No one else came to just keep him company. It was an exquisite relationship. Knowing it was idiotic, the time Adriana spent with perfect Bo surfaced in him a touch of jealousy which he could not explain. He was better than Bo, talented and sensitive, but as quickly as they came, Vincent buried the thoughts. According to his mother, he should have been trying to increase the quality of his artistic ability, least of all worry if a girl would find him attractive.
"You know, you should teach me to paint." Adriana said quietly picking up a paintbrush, "I always wanted to learn how to paint. I saw the rabbit upstairs, it was perfect, of course. It looked so real. It's really smart of you to paint it brown. I saw Mrs. Polock come in the other day and she was staring at that damn rabbit. Maybe she hoped it would turn white. Your mother was like praising it endlessly and then Mrs. Polock left with conspiracy theory painted on her face. That painting over there is awesome. Are you hiding it? You shouldn't hide it. You should put it up in the House of Wax. I mean it's literally upstairs. I know your mother is picky but you can just sneak it inside. I'll help you put it up."
Vincent turned to see the painting propped up in the shadow of the shelf. He had done that two years ago in the shade of his solitude. It was a concoction of darkness, repressiveness and evil that he tried to capture. His mother's steady but slow decline into madness was what he thought of most of the time nowadays. The paintings and artwork grew darker as the years crept by and more in number stacking silently along the crevices of the walls.
"What? Did she say it wasn't good enough, again?" Adriana asked before pausing, "It's better than her work, Vince, way better. I was moved by it and that's saying something because I care about nothing. Well, except for you and Bo. Don't get me wrong, I wish all the best to your mom and dad but they shouldn't isolate you the way they do."
Vincent nodded to acknowledge her compliment. Then, he began his wax face. Pouring wax into the mould, there were many of them, he swirled the hazy liquid around in the clay. It was setting and nearly five coats later, the wax had cooled into a crisp white. Carefully, Vincent removed the wax and set it onto the table working diligently to fill the concaves of his face, which he knew by memory, pausing to allow it to harden. He looked up and saw Adriana perched on top of his working bench, leaning over on one arm, and watching clearly mesmerized by what she was seeing. He had hardly ever thought what she might have suffered for having no parents. For one, Vincent loved her unconditionally. He wished he could tell her with his voice for once. He would die for her. He would kill for her.
Their eyes met momentarily and she handed him the flat paintbrush. Vincent put out palette and began mixing several colours. He was on his way to making his skin. Yes, his soul would be complete.