Veni Scripsi Vici
NOTES: Rated for violence, mentions of sexuality and prostitution, and brief strong language. Reviews of any sort (save flames) make the author happy. Take that into account. Matthew Goode is awesome.
Breaking news: Adrian Veidt has taken his own life.
I started drifting back to sleep after I heard the bathroom door lock. The shot came a few minutes later. The sound seemed to rip me out of the bed. In the near dark, I found the door, and somehow, my adrenaline helped me break it open.
Veidt was found on the bathroom floor in his New York City apartment early this morning.
I could've sworn I was dreaming when I half-woke up at six in the morning, forgot where I was, and saw the silhouette of a gun a foot or two away. I feared for my life for a second, but the soft German accent sitting on the edge of the bed whispered, "Don't worry. It's not for you."
He was found alive by 20-year-old Jacob Hallman after shooting himself.
His hand kept twitching up toward the sink, where the gun had landed. He was able to choke out two words: "Help…me…" The bullet had missed his brain. Terrified, I didn't do as he asked, but ran for a phone.
Hallman called 911, but Veidt bled to death before help arrived.
It was everywhere. It was splattered across the once spotless white tile floor; it was pooling on the bathmat where his head rested, flowing back into his blond hair, mutilating the shoulders of his purple silk robe. It had replaced half of his gorgeous face. I grabbed a hand towel, but before I could press it to the side of his head, he grabbed my wrist and wrenched it away. It drowned in the pool on the bathmat.
Upon further investigation, Hallman was discovered to be a prostitute that Veidt had hired for the weekend.
He was a welcome change from the sad, lonely, middle-aged men that make up the rest of my clientele. Sure, he seemed pretty sad and lonely, and he was apparently middle-aged as well. The difference was that he was probably the most beautiful man I'd ever seen. He was supposed to be 43 or something, and I'd seen 30-year-olds that looked older than he did. His body was built like a greyhound's; the muscles perfectly lean and firm... Then, there was the fact that I was getting paid not only to have sex with a damn superhero, but to live the good life for the weekend. The bathroom alone was bigger than my own apartment, for Christ's sake.
Investigation is continuing into the motivations behind Veidt's suicide as well as his recent strange behavior.
It had to be a dream. It was too strange. Adrian fucking Veidt was sitting on the edge of my bed, very calmly holding a gun. A small ray of sunlight was coming around a crack between curtains and had settled across his blue eyes. "I tried… At least I tried," he mumbled, more to the gun than to himself or me. I must have sleepily asked him what he'd tried, because he turned his head and whispered, "To save the world." When he stood up, the ray of light fell onto the bed. As I sank back into the pillows, an odd thought crossed my mind. It had to be a dream… My sheets weren't purple satin… The bathroom door clicked shut.