Sweeney Todd (![[info]](https://www.insanejournal.com/img/userinfo.gif){kind=small} fleetstbarber) wrote in ![[info]](https://www.insanejournal.com/img/community.gif){kind=small} utr_logs,@ 2008-07-17 05:43:00 |
 |
|||
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
What: Discussion Time!
Where: Starting out in front of the Old Bailey, possibly other locations after that.
When: This morning
Warnings: Swearing, discussions of murder, possible actions of murder.
With his dog fed, watered, and walked, Sweeney made sure his home was locked up properly and proceeded to walk northeast towards the courthouse. He was glad to know that his home hadn't changed too terribly much since his death; all the streets were the same, and most of the buildings as well. At least in this part of the city, where every little thing was considered historical, and therefore intrinsic to London's aesthetic. He also knew that wherever miss 359 was, it was nowhere near this part of town and she'd likely take her time. He was in no rush, himself.
He stood out front of the courthouse, eying it with loathing. Here, so many years ago - sixteen by his count, a hundred and thirty by the world's - he was given his sentence of fifteen years hard labor in a labor camp down in Australia. He spat and started pacing, fingers twitching in his coat pockets, tracing the handle of Annette with his fingertips. Judge Turpin had gotten off far too easy. His sins were only half accounted for. Sweeney had his vengeance, certainly. In only one aspect. He'd killed Turpin for taking his family away from him - but he hadn't even considered until that point how wronged he had been when he was sent away. Johanna grew up without a father, without a mother. Without anyone to trust or love. Sweeney's pace quickened as he glared up at Old Bailey with nothing but fury in his eyes. His daughter was safe, he was certain, had lived a better life once Antony had secured her and Turpin was out of the picture. So she was saved, in her own right. Lucy... had died. He killed her. She was an unfortunate, tragic circumstance which he believed that his death had rectified in the Lord's eyes. But his own wronged heart. His own angry poison which started it all off. What of that? He dropped himself onto a bench and tore his gaze away from the courthouse. Who'd paid for that sin? Who?
The dozens of not-so-innocents who died under your blade before the Judge came back? No. They were merely to quench his bloodthirst while he waited for Turpin to return.
Lovett? She was a good death. No, she'd lied to him about Lucy, her reasons were already justified.
Then whom? Who has paid the dearest cost for your pain, Sweeney Todd? He clenched his jaw and huffed.
How about those who've forgotten you, then? The ones who left you lost to history, the ones who had never heard of you? There's surely plenty of those around. They need to remember the pain you felt. Ah, there it is, a logical solution. He was smiling when the scarred servant of the band arrived. Though it wasn't exactly the most settling smile there was.
Sweeney stood and offered a cordial bow, "Pleased to make your formal acquaintance, miss 359." He didn't look her in the eyes. It was rare that he looked anyone in the eyes.
He stood out front of the courthouse, eying it with loathing. Here, so many years ago - sixteen by his count, a hundred and thirty by the world's - he was given his sentence of fifteen years hard labor in a labor camp down in Australia. He spat and started pacing, fingers twitching in his coat pockets, tracing the handle of Annette with his fingertips. Judge Turpin had gotten off far too easy. His sins were only half accounted for. Sweeney had his vengeance, certainly. In only one aspect. He'd killed Turpin for taking his family away from him - but he hadn't even considered until that point how wronged he had been when he was sent away. Johanna grew up without a father, without a mother. Without anyone to trust or love. Sweeney's pace quickened as he glared up at Old Bailey with nothing but fury in his eyes. His daughter was safe, he was certain, had lived a better life once Antony had secured her and Turpin was out of the picture. So she was saved, in her own right. Lucy... had died. He killed her. She was an unfortunate, tragic circumstance which he believed that his death had rectified in the Lord's eyes. But his own wronged heart. His own angry poison which started it all off. What of that? He dropped himself onto a bench and tore his gaze away from the courthouse. Who'd paid for that sin? Who?
The dozens of not-so-innocents who died under your blade before the Judge came back? No. They were merely to quench his bloodthirst while he waited for Turpin to return.
Lovett? She was a good death. No, she'd lied to him about Lucy, her reasons were already justified.
Then whom? Who has paid the dearest cost for your pain, Sweeney Todd? He clenched his jaw and huffed.
How about those who've forgotten you, then? The ones who left you lost to history, the ones who had never heard of you? There's surely plenty of those around. They need to remember the pain you felt. Ah, there it is, a logical solution. He was smiling when the scarred servant of the band arrived. Though it wasn't exactly the most settling smile there was.
Sweeney stood and offered a cordial bow, "Pleased to make your formal acquaintance, miss 359." He didn't look her in the eyes. It was rare that he looked anyone in the eyes.