Vengeance Through Passion

The next morning was nothing short of a nightmare.

Though Vincent was deep underground in what passed for his current dwelling, he could have sworn he heard the occasional sound of a cat. His mind struggled to process it—surely it was some lingering fragment of a dream. But the persistent noise gnawed at his senses, tugging him further from whatever meager sleep he'd managed. The sound was faint, irregular, but undeniably there.

He groaned, turning in his bed, the coarse blankets doing little to warm him in the dank room.

As much as he willed the sound to vanish, it persisted.

"Che cazzo," he muttered under his breath, a sharp curse slipping out as he rolled off the makeshift bed. His feet hit the cold, uneven stone floor with a thud, and immediately he winced as a sharp throb ran through his skull, the headache splitting through his temples. His head felt like it had been caught in a vise, each pulse an unwelcome reminder of his current state.

The room was pretty much dark, lit only by the flickering remnants of a dying candle on a nearby table. Claustrophobic and filthy, it felt like the walls were pressing in on him. No windows adorned the grimy stone walls, so Vincent had no idea if it was truly morning or some dismal hour of the night. The place reeked of mildew, the staleness of the air thick with neglect and damp. It was suffocating.

He hadn’t ever woken up in the morning of his own accord—never like this, at least. Not when he had no reason to rise early, no purpose to rouse him from the comfort of silk sheets back home. But now he was far from home, far from anything resembling comfort, and each passing second here was a reminder of how low he had fallen.

He stood, his loose robes hanging off his frame in wrinkled disarray. His shoulders sagged, and he sighed, running a hand through his hair before casting a glance around the room. Filth clung to every surface, and a thin layer of grime covered the floor, the air heavy with the acrid scent of old sweat. He stepped gingerly toward the door, his footsteps barely audible on the cold floor.

When he flung the door open, the sound that had been plaguing him all morning became clear. A scruffy, orange cat sat just beyond the threshold, staring up at him with wide, indifferent eyes. Its persistent meow echoed faintly in the narrow stone hallway, as if mocking his attempts to ignore it.

Vincent scowled, irritation flaring. "I don’t have time for this," he grumbled before slamming the door shut in the cat's face. He pressed his palms to his temples, massaging the ache there, but it did little to ease the throbbing in his skull.

He shuffled into the adjoining room, his feet dragging across the dusty floor. It was barely a room at all—more like a hollowed-out alcove that someone had once, in an act of misplaced optimism, called a 'bathing room.' He glanced toward the small basin, hoping for the faintest relief in the form of water.

Nothing. Not a drop.

He let out a groan of disbelief, his patience wearing dangerously thin. "This can’t be happening," he muttered, the words barely audible, more to himself than anyone else.

Without waiting another moment, Vincent grabbed a wooden bucket from a corner of the room and stormed back into the hallway. The cat was still there, naturally, eyeing him suspiciously. He shot it a dark look but kept moving, stepping out into the open air with the bucket in hand.

Despite the fact that dawn had barely broken, the streets were already teeming with people. Farmers, merchants, beggars—it didn’t seem to matter. Everyone was out, moving about their morning business. A mixture of earthy smells, sweat, and the faint scent of baking bread hung in the air. The sight of so many people this early grated on Vincent’s nerves. He wasn’t used to such a crowd, especially not in such a filthy place.

He winced as he looked down at his attire, still clad in the loose robes he'd worn to bed. It was painfully apparent that he hadn’t dressed for the occasion. The idea of appearing in public in his nightwear felt ridiculous, almost humiliating, but he’d left in such haste he hadn’t bothered to change. Now, he couldn’t help but feel exposed, his appearance in stark contrast to the bustling common folk around him.

He scanned the crowd, his gaze catching on a stout woman standing before him, her arms laden with two heavy sacks. The sacks were bulging with fresh loaves of bread, their crusts a rich golden brown. Vincent cleared his throat, catching her attention.

"Where can I get water?" he asked, his voice low, adjusting his stance slightly to appear less disheveled.

The woman, whose name was Martha, turned her head slowly, casting a critical eye over him. "Young man," she began, her voice sharp and unforgiving, "are you aware you are still wearing a night’s robe?"

Vincent faltered, blinking. He opened his mouth to respond, then closed it again, realizing how absurd he must have looked. "I’ve never had to do this before," he said after a moment, as though that explained everything. "I’m not poor."

Martha raised an eyebrow, her expression hard as stone. "It’s evident," she said dryly, clearly unimpressed.

Vincent chuckled darkly, though the sound held no real amusement. "Truly, I’ve never been in such a filthy place before," he continued, as if clarifying his situation would somehow restore his dignity. "Let alone fetched water from a hole."

Martha's gaze didn't soften. "Is delusion a new trend?" she muttered, more to herself than to him, shaking her head as she shifted the sacks in her arms.

Vincent considered responding but decided against it. His patience was wearing thin, and this conversation wasn’t getting him anywhere. "Where is the town’s water supply?" he asked instead, the irritation creeping into his voice.

Martha gestured with a slight nod. "It’s over there, but there’s a long line. If you’re in a hurry, you could take some from my storage. It’s by the cottage just over the hill."

"Never mind," Vincent said with a click of his tongue, turning on his heel. He made his way toward the well in the center of town, where a line of townsfolk had already gathered. The crowd was thick, and the sight of so many people waiting patiently for something as simple as water made Vincent’s stomach churn. It was a humbling sight, one he wasn’t sure he could stomach for long.

He waited for what felt like hours, the sun climbing steadily in the sky as the line inched forward. Each minute stretched longer than the last, the dull ache in his head refusing to abate. By the time he reached the front, his patience had all but evaporated.

Grimacing, he grasped the handle of the well and began turning, expecting the water to flow freely. But the handle resisted. With a grunt of frustration, Vincent yanked harder, forcing the handle to turn. A sputtering sound followed, and before he could react, a spray of brown, foul-smelling sludge burst from the spout.

The thick liquid splattered across his robe, the stench hitting him like a slap to the face. He recoiled in horror, staring down at the mess now smeared across his chest. The rancid smell was overpowering, the texture clinging to his skin like something rotten. He could only stare in disbelief for a moment before the nausea hit him.

He stumbled to the side, retching violently into the dirt. He wiped his mouth as he stared at his own vomit.

Behind him, the crowd had begun to murmur.

"Must’ve been the sewage pipe leading out of the city that burst," someone said, their voice tinged with sympathy. "Come on, I know of a stream up the hill."

"I wonder when it’ll be fixed," another grumbled. "Where do all our taxes go, I wonder?!"

Vincent remained hunched over, his stomach empty of it's content but still heaving. The murmurs of the crowd drifted away as they dispersed, each person returning to their business. Vincent, meanwhile, sat on the ground, his hands resting on his knees, his chest rising and falling with each labored breath.

"Un incubo vivente," he spat bitterly, glaring at the tainted well. He stood slowly, brushing the remnants of the sludge from his robe, though the stain remained. His pride wounded, he picked up his wooden bucket and began walking, his steps heavy as he headed toward Martha’s cottage.

By the time he reached the small stone building, he felt as though he had walked for miles. The cottage stood humbly at the edge of the village, its weathered walls and thatched roof blending in with the surrounding landscape. A neat garden surrounded the entrance, the only sign of care in this otherwise filthy place.

Vincent knocked once on the door, then pushed it open without waiting for a response. The inside was small but tidy, with a faint smell of freshly kneaded bread wafting through the air. It was empty, save for the remnants of someone’s breakfast on the table. Frowning, Vincent stepped back outside and walked around to the side cottage where Martha had said the water was stored.

Inside, he found Martha, elbow-deep in dough, her hands covered in flour as she worked the bread. She glanced up briefly when Vincent entered, her expression as stern as ever.

"It’s you again," she remarked, her tone flat as she returned to kneading the dough.

Vincent’s clothes were a mess, the sludge from the well still staining his robes. "Don’t ask," he muttered, feeling more defeated than ever.

Martha looked at him for a long moment before shaking her head. "I assume there was a leakage?"

He nodded, unwilling to explain further.

She gestured toward the back door with a flick of her head. "The storage tank’s out back. Help yourself."

Vincent nodded, ready to make his way to the tank when the door swung open suddenly, and in walked Aricia.

She was dressed impeccably, her posture rigid yet graceful as she stepped into the room. Her hair was tied back neatly, and her sharp violet eyes widened for a brief moment at the sight of Vincent standing in front of her, his appearance a stark contrast to her pristine form.

Aricia blinked in disbelief, her expression unreadable as she turned on her heel and exited the cottage without a word. Moments later, she re-entered, as if hoping Vincent would have vanished by then.

"Have you seen baby?" Aricia asked, her voice calm and composed as she addressed Martha, her eyes never straying toward Vincent.

Martha didn’t miss a beat. "It’s in the house, I believe," she replied without looking up from her work.

"Well, not anymore," Aricia said casually, tearing off a piece of bread from the counter and taking a bite.

Vincent stood there, his brow furrowed in confusion as the odd exchange unfolded before him. "Baby?" he muttered under his breath.

"I thought I asked you to get rid of it," Martha said to Aricia, her tone mildly scolding as she continued kneading the dough.

"I’m taking full responsibility of it," Aricia replied her eyes briefly flicking toward Vincent before settling back on Martha. "In due time."

Vincent, not wanting to be further involved in whatever strange conversation this was, made to leave, but Martha caught his attention once more.

"Oh right," she said, gesturing toward him with a flour-covered hand. "Would you mind showing this young man where the storage tank is? He needs water."

Aricia’s gaze slid back to Vincent, her expression unreadable. "Why?" she asked flatly, as if the very notion of assisting him was beneath her.

"Because he’s in distress," Martha replied without looking up from her work.

"I’m not in distress," Vincent snapped, his pride stinging at the very suggestion. "It’s just... the circumstances."

He did look like someone in distress but Aricia begged to differ.

Aricia looked at him, her expression unreadable. "I think you’re making a big mistake here. This man doesn’t need your help. In fact, he will never in his life.. need your help," she assured Martha confidently.

"That’s no way to speak," Martha scolded, her stern gaze flicking between the two.

Aricia folded her arms, clearly unbothered. "The magic word?" she demanded, her violet eyes locking with his.

Vincent’s face twisted in disbelief. "You want me to beg?"

"The sooner, the better," Aricia replied her tone, almost playful.

Martha paused her work, watching the scene unfold with mild curiosity.

"I can’t," Vincent muttered.

"Can’t what?" Aricia asked, raising an eyebrow.

He paused, looking defeated. "I can’t say sorry."

"You already did," she smiled, turning on her heel to open the back door.

Vincent stood there for a moment, dumbfounded. "Devi stare scherzando," he drawled, his voice hoarse from the day's exhaustion as he followed her out the door.