a monster by any other name

it starts as expected; blood, wreckage, pallid white hands clutching a wound that stained scarlet on fingertips that were not created to harm others but were so worn from enduring years of pain themselves. a girl worn down to her very last tether, she's on the floor and clinging to herself. she feels the fangs with her tongue - reminding herself of the sharpness, what these things are made for, what they crave, what she needs-

the warm taste of copper in her mouth brings her back from her whirling thoughts as she realises she just bit her own tongue. baby blue eyes travel downward, to observe her hand and how it clutches the fabric of her blouse and beneath - red stains on white, like the blemishing of a fountain pen when it leaks onto one's hand, ink difficult to clean off, a result of mere carelessness.

her face twisted in something akin to morbid shock as she readied herself for a pain that wouldn't come. humans - living, breathing things, feel pain when their bodies are damaged. pulling her hand away, slowly, steadily, palm wet with blood, she realised; she felt fine.

a human being suffering from a stab wound of any degree should have felt excruciating pain at this point. she waited.

the pain never came.

she didn't truly believe that she was alive at this time - blood bubbling hot at the site of the stab wound, still generously trickling down through her fingertips and onto the floorboards beneath. in some senses, she was right.. this body, despite the warm ichor that pooled from its very heart, was in fact no longer alive. francesca was a corpse, and had been for a long time; her awakening as something much worse, though - that was a different story. one for now, one that only gnawed at her the longer she waited, and the time was here.

the story starts with a flourish of church bells. the usual eight-note tune, followed by the rhythmic chime to announce the hour. however distant, it reverberated through every bone in her body, dragging her forward in hurried, trance muddled strides.

one.

something stood out to her. was this another dream? the sensations she experienced in the labyrinths of her subconscious were achingly vivid, growing more lucid the closer she got to the place in question. this wasn't it; something within her just knew, but it was important nonetheless. vital, even - this wasn't a church, or a castle, but--

two.

a manor.

decayed and charred from the result of a fire, catastrophic in its wake as the flames licked at the once preserved memories for those who lived here. she wasn't sure, of course, but something told her that it housed a boy, eighteen, with hair as black as the deep night sky with the bluest eyes to match, his dying father - he'd been dying for a long time. this almost felt cruel to think about, and the fire didn't even kill him. he was already dead and gone by that point, but his soul lingered for his son; he needed the strength. another son, a boy of age twenty, hair bright like the sun and the flames reflected in his liquid gold eyes - they housed only the demons of his past, holding hostage the little boy that saw so, so much when he deserved so much better.

three.

he is holding a mask. it fits perfectly to his face, claws piercing his skull as he drags a blood-slicked hand down the stone carved cheek. the shivers ricochet violently along her spine as a phantom pain shoots through her skull like knives. her shaky body carries her up the stone steps, and she is not sure who she is anymore.

four.

"useless," a boy whimpers. he is standing before a headstone, dull and forgettable. he will never forget. too soon, they say, she left us too soon. she deserved more, you think, as does the child by your side - the tears sting hot in your eyes and you don't know why. your heart aches for a woman you never knew.
he is older now, turned twelve last week and finds himself standing before another headstone. it’s funny how parallels work in the real world, you think.

"useless," he hisses, tongue venomous and lethal from years of torment. it was the only way for him to survive in this cold, cruel world, and it turned him into something vile. “you were ugly and sly. you drove mother to death-” he chokes on those words. you feel his hatred, the white-hot rage that courses through every sinew, nerve and vein and it’s overwhelming. he’s just a kid, and he shoulders more grief than anyone you’ve ever met. your blood boils for him.

five.

the tile of the foyer does not echo, but you hear it anyway. this is a place of ruin, death and devastation, yet it's all so pristine. a man smiles kindly as he leads you through the doors that aren't there anymore, the corners of his sapphire eyes crinkling with age - you're not sure how to feel about him just yet.
something on the wall catches your attention, just across from the painting that depicts a man (you suspect it is a portrait of the gentleman that welcomed you with open arms, but preserved in his youth) and a woman, a child cradled in her arms. you're angry at yourself for that sense of longing; aching for what they had. you tear your gaze to the original point of interest - a mask. you feel it looking through you and you shiver.

six.

you're in your room and your lip is sore from biting back the urge to scream or cry (both, really) every time you feel a bruise. how dare he touch you, you think, over and over again. you were angry - you always are when you're around him. he has everything a boy could ask for - a loving parent, albeit strict and too proud for his own good, wealth and a sweetheart to exchange with coy smiles and laughter, thriving in each other's presence. you aren't jealous. you just wonder why he gets to have everything and you came from nothing. he wasn't tarnished the way you were, by hands that drove your mother to death. he wasn't hurt, nor tormented by nightmares of his past, which you recall in pristine clarity, even if you don't actually remember at the same time. his head isn't filled with everything and nothing all at once, and it wouldn't kill him to experience the jarring depths that form your mind - so you did the most obvious, and made his life hell.

you're still mumbling the same few words, how dare you touch me, and you're not sure if you're still referring to the punches your brother threw, or if you're back in the depths of london.

seven.

he isn't dead. for once, you wish you were as oblivious as he was in adolescence. you curse your intuition for not feigning peace for even a moment, even if it wasn't the truth.
he's still alive, and he's still your brother.
and he'll never forgive you.

you don't care.

eight.

you're sitting on a chaise in a room all too familiar. it washes over you in waves of relief, and the part that's you but not quite is thrilled to stand where you once thrived.

with a wave of your hand, the door creaks open with a face unfamiliar to you (they're all unfamiliar - every single one of them blurs into a dull shape to drop at the back of your mind.) and she is pretty, but in the way all girls are and nothing more. you didn't pay enough attention to observe her details even as she nervously approaches you, head bowed and cheeks flushed. you take her hand, like a true gentleman, you add, just to spite your brother's comical attempts at rich people manners, and press a kiss to it, feather light but lingering enough to blow her pupils wide.

again, it thrills you to spite him. even if he can't see you, the spoiled brat would be seething. you flash your most devilish grin at the woman standing before you, inwardly debating whether to go in for the kill and leech her dry, or if this one'll actually be infatuated enough to bleed out at your feet simply because you asked her nicely.

nine.

it thrills you to hear that he's come to visit you. flanked by his lackeys, no less - so we're making this a party, are we?
instead of puffing up his cheeks in that asinine way of his, he simply squares his shoulders, sets his jaw and his eyes lock on you alone, ablaze with new determination.
you almost comment on how he's making a habit of setting things on fire.

ten.

swords clatter as his allies fall. too easy - far, far too easy. you wonder if he's even trying, at this point.
you take the two halves of yourself and put them back together like a child's puzzle, laughing as he cannot contain the pure horror dousing the flames that burned bright in his eyes.

he doesn't stand a fucking chance.

eleven.

the flames are licking at the corners of your vision and the heat is damn near smothering. no matter how much you protest, your screams fall on deaf ears as your brother; the one who you took everything from in an attempt to drive into despair, a lifelong pantomime - holds what remains of your hell forsaken self close to his stuttering heart.
she's holding the child of another who didn't make it, tears cascading down her cheeks as she reluctantly finds shelter in the coffin.

and just for a moment, it all goes black.

twelve.

in your hand is a mask. it fits perfectly to your face, almost like your own cynical rendition of cinderella. the hand once covering the gash on your side shakily meets the cool stone, staining the relic a thick scarlet. you expect the claws as they come, not so much as flinching when they pierce through the flesh of your temples.

it becomes so, blindingly clear who you are.

monster.