Chapter Text
𝚃𝚑𝚎 𝟽𝚝𝚑 𝚘𝚏 𝙰𝚙𝚛𝚒𝚕, 𝟷𝟿𝟷𝟶
A child sat at a mahogany grand piano, hands trembling slightly as they played, as their sister stood beside them, playing her viola with an almost infectious air of love and contentment. Melodies mixed in the air, the memories of long-forgotten joys with that of overwhelming sorrow. She stood in front of the window, smiling brilliantly despite how much harder her part was to play. That’s what made her the better of the two of them though, wasn’t it?
The early April sun shone through the perfectly polished window, haloing her in a golden glow, like a figure painted onto a stained-glass window in a particularly beautiful church, guarding over those who nobody else cared for. Deep green velvet curtains were drawn open, held back from the pristine glass that no soul was permitted to even breathe on for fear of someone destroying its appearance, so that the couple’s most esteemed guests could view their children playing for them in the most flattering light. The guests would grow tired of the music soon, right?
One of the men would straighten his tie and bring himself to his feet, asking the childrens’ father about the latest changes in the stock market, or bragging about new business ventures and profits that he’d made, insisting that the conversation must be continued away from the women and children, where the others would agree, before the five of them left the room. After this their mother would welcome their wives to see what new china set or jewelled necklace she had purchased, glaring at Chara with less bitter hatred than usual, as they had finally done something right.
Maybe, if they were really lucky, she would actually tell them that they hadn’t disappointed her, for once. They weren’t going to delude themself into believing that they’d get a compliment for what they had (or rather, hadn’t) done, those were only for her . But, oh, wouldn’t it be wonderful to get something other than hash words, bruises, burns and hours in the lonely dark, wondering why their efforts to be good, patient and kind always backfired on them. Maybe if they stayed on their best behaviour, hiding their demonic eyes and keeping quiet, they’d be permitted to join the rest of their family at the dinner table, enjoying the finest meals their parents could find in order to impress their visitors; rather than eating leftovers from days ago, or porridge in the nursery with Nana, or nothing at all, as they’d done something simply unforgivable this time, and had to sit alone in the dark attic, with nothing to do but reflect on their wrongdoings.
That’s all they needed to do, not play the wrong notes, or say the wrong thing, or find another unique way to humiliate their parents and ruin their reputation again. That would’ve been easy for any normal child, but they had such a knack for ruining things. Balls, vases, dinner parties, friendships, they could never be near anything without ruining them; unable to do anything but laugh as the jagged shards fell to the floor and crystalline tears streamed down their unnaturally pink cheeks.
And however much the punishment hurt, they knew that it was well deserved.
Nobody’s above the consequences of their actions.
But there’s no time for wallowing in self-pity during the day, especially not at four in the afternoon, when respectable guests had to be entertained and wanted to speak to Chara’s parents, while they were in the background, smiling pleasantly like they’d practised, copying their sister in the hopes that they could receive even a fraction of the love she was constantly gifted.
Or maybe, they should’ve just learned to be more grateful. What right did they have to complain about their life? They lived in a beautiful, well heated, red-brick manor atop a hill while others slept on the frigid streets; their clothes, though plain, and clearly hand-me-downs, were skillfully sewn and made of materials that many would never even dream of owning, even if Chara had never particularly liked the endless layers of petticoats or the uncomfortable prickling they felt upon seeing their reflection.
Yes, the other children at school hated them, constantly whispering about how weird a name Chara is, or tripping them, laughing as mud and all sorts splattered their clothes and their skirts and knees ripped, leaving them to trail home, waiting for their mother’s wrath as she discovered how foolish and brash they’d been again, her rage-filled voice berating them for yet again putting shame on the family name. But does it matter, if other children have it so much worse? That was one of their greatest flaws, never able to be grateful for what they had.
So, they returned to the piano, away from wild hypotheticals and self-pity, the calm smile on their sister’s face confirming that they had miraculously not missed a note. She had always been much better than them, weaving melodies out of thin air as though it’s as easy as breathing, never having to focus or worry in order to get it right.
“Well James, your daughters are lovely players, but we ought to talk about the future profits that could be made, I have made some projections..”, one of the men said, brushing off his trousers and getting to his feet.
“Ah, of course, shall we go to my office?”
The mens’ footsteps could be faintly heard over the music, before fading down the hallway. Shortly afterwards, their mother got up, presumably to ask her guests if they wished to see her new hand-painted vase that was simply marvellous and one of a kind or to have a stroll through the gardens. It was almost impossible to hear her soft, sing-songy voice, even more than usual.
After they left, the sun seemed to shine brighter, like it had hidden behind a cloud, refraining from warming those with cold hearts. The music came to an abrupt end as Chara took their hands off the piano to pull the cover over the keys.
“What should we do now Christy?” they asked, looking into her eyes hopefully, as though they held the secrets to all they didn’t know, not just the ability to keep the affection of others after her birth. Often they wondered if they should resent her, with the way that any thing she did, however small, would always be better than anything they would ever attempt, for as long as they lived. How she never managed to make their parents furious enough to be thrown into the dark without food for days on end, or to get anything more than a few disappointed stares and a slap on the wrist. She would never do anything wrong in their eyes.
But they didn’t deserve to compare themself to her; she was an angel, sweet and loving. It was one of the only points everyone always agreed on. They all knew that she’d find herself in Heaven once she died, with the sun shining brilliantly on her face and an ivory ribbon keeping her mahogany curls out of her eyes. Each morning she’d probably feast with the Saints and angels by a golden table, in a room built of hope and faith, or speak with martyrs on benches hand crafted by Noah himself, standing on the edges of winding paths cutting through the gardens of Eden. Or would she spend her days calmly perched atop snowy white clouds, a floaty white gown swaying around her ankles in the gentle breeze as she gazed down at the world, a serene smile on her face. Maybe in the evenings, when she grew tired of the real world and all those below her, she’d trail back through the golden gates, and sleep for hours upon a bed of shimmering stars and glowing sunlight, enjoying paradise for the rest of eternity.
They’d never be that lucky.
Most likely they’ll spend eons down there , flames scorching their clothes and burning their skin, leaving raw red burns that never heal, only growing worse over time. Not a moment would be spent in joy, but instead in eternal suffering, thrown into lakes of never-ending fire or forever trapped in impenetrable darkness, like that of the attic on a particularly miserable, stormy night, with no hope of escape, regardless of how much they begged or promised to behave as they should. Days have no meaning when you can see nothing but burnt faces, demons and blazing towers. Would they end up looking like the contorted, twisted images of sinners in the bible they were given in Sunday school? Many of the children there would often flick to the section about hell and laugh about how Chara looked like they had just stepped out of the pages.
Wouldn’t that be all they deserved?
She looked just like her, with soft, slightly rounded cheeks subtly tinged pink, hair just subtly darker than hers, but curled in the same way. Her eyes a pale blue just like his, but rather than being icy, hers were almost warm, with a certain kindness behind them, the shade closer to that of a clear, comforting midsummer sky, or the outer petals of a cornflower. The features suited her well, each looking perfectly proportioned on her face.
Chara was just off, like a portrait painted by a blind man given only the vaguest details. They were just slightly too pale, almost like a freshly-buried corpse, chin just slightly too pointy. Their cheeks were too red, giving them the look of having just swam in poison ivy, with eyes that matched, shining crimson as freshly drawn blood in the snow, regardless of how much they tried to make them look normal. But nature doesn’t care for the sentiments of mere mortals, does it?
Like an inferior version of her. One that didn’t deserve to be loved in the way she did. But that’s what siblings are, aren’t they? Warped and distorted reflections of all the Yous that could’ve been.
“Chara?”, a voice cut through their thoughts. “Have you been listening to me at all?”
“Yes, you said that we should play with your dolls in your bedroom until dinner, right?”, they responded, a safe bet, as their sister loved few things more deeply than her expansive collection of porcelain dolls, each perfect and pristine (not to mention horrendously expensive). Of course, Chara would never dare to actually play with them, but would instead just watch her make up happy scenarios of picture-perfect families just like theirs .
“Now come, before we run out of time to have fun!” She continued, grabbing Chara by the wrist and dragging them through hallways, the library and a drawing room as slowly as possible, to avoid skid marks on the newly polished oak boards while still proving a point.
“Girls! Where on earth are you? Your mother wants you both in the dining room for dinner,” Nana called, stopping the children in their tracks. They turned, to be met with a fiercely disapproving glare.
Nana had been the family’s housekeeper for as long as anyone could remember, so ancient that Chara was convinced that she was older than the house itself, a moment forever stagnant in time.
She had the look of someone who had been beautiful and kind once, but lonely and loveless years working hard for little reward had carved frown lines and wrinkles onto her skin and bitterness into her soul, causing knitting horrendous hats and lumpy cardigans to be her only escape from a sad, unfulfilled life.
Perhaps she had never liked children at all, but nannying children with more wealth at their fingertips than she could ever dream of was the only way to make ends meet. Or maybe she had once had a child and husband, but the child only lived to the age of two, and the father was killed by a particularly deadly bout of scarlet fever. Did she fall to her knees in despair when their hearts beat their last, tears streaming down her face as it suddenly hit her that she had no way to support herself, and had to bury the child that was supposed to live long after her last breath left her? Or had she once had a sweetheart, the heir to a beautiful home, who died in the Crimean War when she was a teenager, leaving her promised life of being provided for for the rest of her life and finally never having to worry about finances scattered in the wind, like those scarlet rose petals that should’ve been scattered on her wedding day? Or was she raised in the Foundling Hospital, and forced into servitude in their mother’s family, poorly paid and growing more bitter with each passing day?
Since she clearly held a strong dislike of both Chara and their parents, they’d never be able to ask. Or at least to have her be willing to answer.
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Chara sat at the polished mahogany table, almost painfully upright, careful to not speak out of turn or eat until Grace was said, or even move until someone else did.
Finally, the pieces were falling into place. Just don’t destroy this one meal, and everything will be perfect. They’d finally be allowed to sit with the rest of their family every time a guest comes over for dinner, smiling and making their parents proud, for once. To finally do what every other child had done for years. After all, they were nearly eight. That’s old enough to sit with the adults and be responsible. Everyone knows that once you’re eight, you’re almost a grown up.
Their mother sat directly across from them, staring at them intensely, silently daring them to even try to ruin this dinner whenever one of the women that she was speaking with turned away or got too absorbed in her own stories and humble brags about her titles, estates and holidays to notice any of her surroundings. Their sister, Christina, sat beside them, laughing at all of the right times and charming the guests. Oh, how they longed to be like that, well behaved and liked, actually able to follow instructions correctly and make conversation naturally, without humiliating their family.
Courses were served and taken away as the afternoon faded into evening and candles slowly shrunk in their holders.
Jewelled necklaces glimmered in the fading orange light, as the sun set over the Mountain Ebbot, which appeared to swallow the sun and spit it out as countless miniscule stars, shining like brilliant white pearls on a deep midnight gown. Tiny wisps of indigo clouds lazily drifted across the sky in the place of the moon, growing darker as the last rays of sunlight faded into nothingness.
The night was bound to end soon, and Chara still hadn't made a single mistake. Finally, all of their wishes on faint, uncaring stars, the lonesome moon and into ivy covered wells had paid off.
The men had excused themselves from the table long ago, heading into the warm early evening air to speak of more business when it happened. It wasn’t intentional, truly. But they had grown too bold, reaching towards their dessert fork too fast, too roughly. Their arm brushed past their glass of water but, almost in slow-motion, it fell with a far too quiet thud, water darkening the lacy tablecloth and seeping into the recently polished wood of the table. Their eyes widened in horror as they grabbed a napkin, long past caring about how ridiculous they must look, desperate to have it cleaned up before anyone noticed. Soon, their mother’s face shifted from the placid smile she normally wore in public to a glare that made their blood run cold in their veins and heart drop into their feet. The kind of expression that made their brain frantically scream for them to go, to fix the situation, just do anything to stop the inevitable as the candles in the chandelier above them and on the table seemed to burn brighter and more furiously.
But, a moment later, it was gone.
Still, Chara continued mopping up the seemingly endless puddles of icy water, desperately hoping that at least the visitors wouldn’t notice, too absorbed in their petty rivalries and pointless boasting to care about their panic. Maybe then, at least they’d receive a lesser punishment, for not humiliating their parents as much as possible.
But, as per usual, whichever angel was forced to be their guardian decided to spit in their face.
Their frantic movements had attracted the attention of the guests, especially that of an old, crotchety woman with greyed brown hair pinned to her scalp so aggressively it was a marvel that her hair hadn’t fallen out decades ago, whose expression shifted from a content, if insincere, smile to an almost disdainful frown.
“Mathilde, dear, I was of the impression that both of your children were raised to not create messes,” she smiled, her disgust still clearly reflected in her eyes, as the women around her nodded in agreement, shooting furious glares and disapproving looks at Chara. Their mother flushed scarlet, before plastering a smile back onto her face.
“Oh, I sincerely apologise for her misbehaviour, she must be rather tired, it is getting late.” she replied in that soft voice of hers, flowery in the way a bouquet of roses are, seemingly sweet, pretty and loving, as long as you ignore the jagged thorns tearing through the paper.
“Why don’t you go to your room?”
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The dull ticking of the clock in their bedroom, the squawks of old hunting owls searching for their prey, and the muffled laughter of those actually enjoying their evening were the only sounds to penetrate the seemingly endless silence, as they lay on their ancient mattress, eyes following the movements of dusty blue clouds across the velvet sky, as they began to gather and turn a deep gunmetal grey.
Is the waiting worse than the moment?
It’s hard to tell.
Why couldn’t they have just behaved? Then they would be still sitting at the table, the golden lights of candles shining on them for once, as they told a story that people would actually find funny, instead of lying on a thin, dusty mattress with nothing but a small, faded quilt in the suffocating blackness.
Maybe then it all will have been worth it.
Shadows of ancient, broken furniture formed silhouettes of ferocious, gargantuan giants and dwarfish, grotesque goblins, longing to break free of their flat, plaster prisons in order to wreak havoc on the world. But Chara had never feared the unnatural, soulless monsters and wicked hags of fairy tales and horror novels.
Often the most evil monsters are those who have beautiful, perfect faces, with ringlets of silky auburn hair and shining sapphire eyes, who would push and burn and lock away their own children, before being praised for all the so-called good they do. Maybe the “proper” monsters are better.
At least they’re honest about their intentions.
After what felt like both an eternity and no time at all, the laughter, chatter and clinking of wine glasses from downstairs died out, to be replaced with the clicking of heels on wooden floorboards, the rustling of coats and faint goodbyes, mostly lost to the wisps of wind, faint thuds of raindrops on the roof and the layers of burgundy bricks.
Once the engines of the visitors’ cars had faded into the horizon and the front door shut with a heavy thud, they heard the furious footsteps of their mother storming up the stairs to their room.
Heart racing, they counted the seconds before she’d finally be there to punish them.
One.
They ran over to stand just a few feet shy of the door, hands one over the other, the way that she likes them to be.
Two.
It makes it faster for it all to be over.
Three.
What will she do?
Four.
Icy sweat ran down their spine.
Five.
A part of them, that treacherous, ungrateful, violent part, longed to claw into her unblemished, ivory face, screaming bloody murder as she is forced to struggle to get them off her.
Six.
Finally being in control.
Seven
But there’s no time for that.
Eigh-
Slam
She’s here.
Stay strong.
A hand grasping their arm.
“How dare you!”
Blinding flashes of lightning.
Her face, unnaturally bright and twisted in fury.
Hot blood, throbbing in their ears.
Furious roars of thunder coming ever nearer.
Hands, dragging them down.
No control.
Is this the end?
They stumble forwards.
Her unmatched rage.
Their heart, racing in their chest.
Deafening shrieks, making their ears ring.
“You worthless mistake”
Wrathful rain pelting down on the earth.
A cacophony of cries, clamouring to be heard.
Crunch
Searing pain, blurring the edges of their vision.
Thick, scarlet blood, running down their spine.
Birds begging and screeching for mercy up above.
The coppery scent overpowering their senses.
Gales, pounding the walls into dust.
The world, draining into an unnatural black.
When will it all be over?