Victor's POV
I don't know how long I sat there in the wreckage of my study. Time had lost all meaning. The whiskey bottle lay shattered near the door, amber liquid seeping into the expensive rug. Books lay where I'd swept them off the table in a moment of rage.
My hands had stopped shaking. That was something, at least. Now they just felt numb. Dead weight at the ends of my arms.
Now I just sat slumped in my wheelchair, my head hanging forward, my arms dangling uselessly at my sides. The exhaustion was bone-deep, the kind that made even breathing feel like too much effort.
I'd drunk myself past anger, past pain, into this numb void where I couldn't feel anything anymore. Couldn't think. Couldn't...
Knock. Knock. Knock.
The sound cut through the silence.
I didn't move. Didn't respond. Just sat there, hoping whoever it was would go away.
Knock. Knock. Knock.
Harder this time. More insistent.
