In some movies there are scenes - very intense, bloody scenes - that are set to classical music. It's supposed to be ironic, having something beautiful juxtaposed with something so horrific, but to Gus it seemed as if it had reached the point of being an overused trope. A cliché, with little effect.
Personally he thought the silence of reality was far more powerful than any musical score.
From the moment he drew the blade across Victor's neck to the moment he finally stopped struggling and Gus let him go, flopping onto the floor like the lifeless sack of meat that he was, he was acutely aware of every sound. The light splash of the first spurt of blood hitting the concrete floor, the faint click of Mike cocking his gun, and last but not least Victor's choking gasps, his breath not only escaping through his wide-open mouth but whistling through the gaping hole in his throat, and the final gurgle as he drowned, inhaling his own blood. Everything was crystal clear, hanging in a background of deafening silence.
He'd known, of course, about Victor's relationship with Gale. He'd expected this sort of reaction, and the sloppiness that would come with someone so emotionally compromised handling a situation like this. It was something that had to be done, and he accepted that fact.
Still, just because something was necessary didn't mean it was enjoyable. He felt…what was it? as he looked down at the blood pooled at his feet, tasted the metal in the air.
There was so much to regret.
He could remember the first time he met the man, so long ago. Gus's then-partner, an ex-cartel member, had scoffed at him, saying he'd never amount to much, but Gus wasn't sure. There was something about him that had caught his attention, said that beyond that quietly sullen look was something more. Something that could be valuable. And when Gus gave him opportunities to prove that value, Victor always came through.
It wasn't a mentorship. They barely even talked. But every time Victor came back from one of his errands, handing him the report without a word, Gus felt a slight sense of approval. Almost pride, in this associate of his.
He should have known better. One would have thought that, after what had happened to Max, he'd have realized that caring was a disadvantage.
Well, he thought, as he stared into Walt's horrified eyes, Victor's blood slowly trickling down his cheek, I suppose I've learned my lesson.
He walked away from the scene, up the stairs. As reached the top, he turned around and gazed down at the group, and allowed himself one last look at the body, and one last thought of the past.
So many regrets.
"Well?" he asked. "Get back to work."