Triumph and Defeat
She isn't far from madness.
No, not very far - not far at all. And everyone notices it, just not as clearly as I. A minor irritation in the back of their heads, whispering. Notifying them. Warning them. But they choose to ignore it. She can not be mad. Not when she is so beautiful. Not when she has so much ahead of her.
But I see it. I see it as if looking deep into my own dusted mirror. It's in her eyes, you understand. Eyes which were once filled with innocence, but now overtaken and overpowered with the putrid knowledge that life isn't all lace and ribbons. She'll wed the boy you see. She'll bear a child.
What will she be like, ten years from now? Will she walk through shaded corridors in the midst of night and jump at her own shadow? Or will she dutifully invite them in as a proper hostess, and fill her heart with a shade as dark as our very name? Yes, I know she will. It will be like this: She will sit at her mirror and pull her brush through her hair, five hundred times and no less. Her face will be perfectly painted, powdered; her son will never realize how lucky he is to have such a woman for a mother and only after he grows will he realize how unfortunate he is that such a woman can never be his.
She will lay dutifully in his bed at night, awaiting the presence that is muscle and muscle alone to force its way into her, thrusting with all its puny might until sated, and only then will she have peace. Only then will she be allowed quiet as she stares up at the marble ceiling, without any responsibilities if only for a few hours, the whiskers of her husband brushed up against her neck as he lays atop her.
But then morning will come, for it always does, and with morning will come the task of breast feeding her infant and washing herself. Painting her face once more. Combing at her hair. No less then five hundred strokes... A break for tea. More feeding of her infant. Adjusting her make up. Running a comb through her hair, no less then five hundred strokes... Yes, her days will be monotonous and she knows this. She knows what fate will befall her. I see it in her eyes whenever Cygnus calls her name, announces that he desires her presence. A revision of the betrothal no doubt. Her wedding day is drawing nearer - final adjustments shall be made. She has only a month more of living.
And what a pity it is, that something as beautiful as her should be so lonely and untouched. To never know the caress of a true lover, the heat of lovemaking and the passion of being shredded to tinny little bits. To be the loveliest doll in all the world, but to grow old without being played with. Truly unopened. A collectable made only to gather dust. But that isn't the way things should be; they should be as such:
My darling sister awakening, finding that her husband is already gone for the day and her breast is heavy with a meal prepared unwillingly for her child. He will feed and she will bathe. She will then proceed to paint her face and brush her hair, no less then five hundred strokes. A break for tea and then another meal for the man's spawn. She will return to her room, her body mechanically preparing to fix whatever nonexistent flaw it will imagine. But she will not get that far.
Her eyes will flick up at this unexpected intrusion. I will cross the room from her window; my hand will graze the soft of her cheek and slide to her neck, her chin involuntarily raised at the touch to reveal the bleached cream that is her flesh. My tongue will follow my fingers, will emit shivers and painfully quiet 'ah...'s, will be a reminder that there is life even in madness.
I will run fingers across her lips, entice her whimpers, make her beg. And only then will I take her. Against her walls, in the gardens, above the bed in which her husband fucks her every night. ”Do you feel me now, Cissy?” I will whisper, orange blossom scented hair thin against my lips. ”Do you feel me now?” I want her to sob, to cry out, to scream. Scream my name to the heavens and the stars which ceased existence eons ago. I want her to tremble beneath me, every grain of her flesh lifting up into my palm, to melt like warm honey and finally overflow and cascade within my hand.
Then I shall leave her - for of course, tea is to be prepared and her child must be fed. And her skin must be scrubbed clean, lest her husband returns early and suspects. And so she will change into her nightgown, lay in her bed, covers cleverly arranged and wait. But it wont be him she sees when he comes to take her, no, for once her back will rise and her core will warm. She'll stretch and reach and just when she feels an ecstasy about to burst, he will unleash deep inside of her wanton body and leave her panting, needing. And her nights will be peaceful no longer.
From then on, she will live solely for me. Her son will grow, her breasts will sag, and still I will come. And through me she will learn the full extent of her own insanity.
But why wait? A preview perhaps. A snippet of what is yet to come. Something for her to look forward too; I shall not lose her. I refuse to allow her escape even from her own mind, no. She is at a very delicate stage, a moment in time where one must choose. And I will help her - I will nudge her to pick the correct choice.
She frequents the garden these days; I believe whatever child remains inside her to still be thrilled by bluebells when they first appear. Cygnus and Druella are not yet home from dinner.
It is perfect.
I make my way throughout the house, across the parlor and out the back porch door. I find her quick enough, light against the dark that is twilight, her hair illuminated by navy blues and oranges as her delicate hand remains cupped around a dandelion. The sharp sound of a stick snapping under my shoe startles her, her head spins to look at me, her eyes surprised and almost fearful. I can not say I blame her - I always have looked the monster in the dark. I give a smile which I imagine sends chills to her very bones and open my arms.
“Cissy.”
She hesitates, then rises from her bent over position, the petals of flower slipping from her hand. She comes over to me, nervously but brave, and wraps her arms around me in an embrace. “I had not heard of your arrival - are mother and father deciding to celebrate and dine out?”
“Cygnus and Druella have already left to eat elsewhere.” I run a hand through her hair, untangling a few knots as it caresses. “They do not know I am here.”
A quickened pulse - I catch it. She says nothing as my fingers continue to entwine themselves in silk.
“I thought we could spend some sisterly leisure time together. What do you say to that, hmm?”
Still nothing. She fears me, I see it. And really, who is to blame her? I chuckle and grab her hair, tugging soft tendrils lightly.
“Why don't we perhaps...” The fingers of my free hand come to her cheek just as I had imagined. She stiffens to my delight as the little colour she has leaves her face.
“Now don't be... don't joke like this, Bella.” She gives a small laugh, uncomfortable as she 'unknowingly' begins drawing me in - surely her effort to excite our game of cat and mouse.
She takes a small step back, moving her face from my hand, but I follow with a step of my own. “Bella-”
“Joke?” My fingers caress the pallor of her cheek.
“Don't.”
Her voice is quiet as mine is strong. I move my hand in a gentle motion to the back of her neck and squeeze.
“I can't. Oh Merlin please Bella, I can't-”
I drag her to me, forcing her mouth against mine and taking her, mouth, lips, tongue, into me. She's sweet, so sweet. So sweet it's almost sickening but I love it so. A whimper emits from her as I had for so long pondered over and dreamed.
Her body is trembling like that of a small helpless mammal - I want to feel it, all of it. My free hand find the small of her back and drags her towards me, pressing everything that is her against me and everything that is me against her. Lips, breasts, my hand slides lower to find her lovely arse and I pull her against me even more. She gasps and attempts to free herself, but she is only a woman and I have long ago since broken from such stereotypes. I rub, and I squeeze, and I claw as she whimpers, and only when I am sure she will not flee do I step back slightly and lip the top of her blouse, crafted cleverly to seduce and show the top of her breasts, now heaving with anticipation.
My tongue flicks. Flicks and withdraws so my lips may suck. She's whimpering more frequently now, her frame just a bundle of shaking nerves. “Do you want this, Cissy?” My eyes meet her's, such lovely shades of blue and orange as the sun drops behind the trees. My hand releases her neck and slivers to the front of her blouse, replacing where my lips had been only a moment before. “Do you want this?”
She both arches into my palm and attempts to detangle herself all at once and I see it again - that storm blowing in her eyes, that lovely maelstrom. A gale of madness just screaming to be unleashed. “Why are you trying so hard...” I inquire, “to deny yourself what you truly desire?”
“I don't - ” She shudders, surely in delight when I lean in and flick my tongue against her jaw. Her voice is breathy - “I don't... want this...Bella.”
“You lie.” I state and squeeze at her breast. “You want this. We both know you do.” I back my head away to catch the horrified gaze she shoots me. “So just be quiet now, Cissy.” Her name is a hiss on my tongue and I love it. I love it so. She s caught off guard and I use that opportunity to force my knee between her legs. The grip I have on her arse is lovely leverage as I push and force her to grind.
“No.” She pushes, she pulls, she squirms and yet I can still hold her form. It amazes me how weak she actually is. How I too was once so weak before I had met the Dark Lord. “NO.
I am stunned. When I come to my senses, she is free and steps and steps and steps away from me. I think at first that I was merely shocked, for it has been perhaps two years since I have heard so much fight in her voice. But then my eyes follow to her hand slightly raised and I realize that one of my own is on my cheek...
She slapped me. That little cunt had slapped me. “How dare you?” Indeed, how dare she? I watch her, staring back at me as if I'm the villain, as if I was the worthless daughter, the one without any right to take what she so desired. As if I am the one who has labeled herself trophy daughter, the one always tending to her appearance and then tending to guests. But I, I am working for so much more then lipstick and house parties. I am the one that will protect both her and her unborn son.
I march over to her - if she thinks her slap stung, she should feel mine. She stumbles backwards; I believe if it were not unladylike, she would run. “Don't, Bella don't - ”
She backs up against a tree and it is perfect. Why simply slap her when I could do much, much more? My hands easily cup her tiny shoulders, her tiny and fragile shoulders, and I push her firmly against the cypress. “'Don't'? 'Don't' what dear Cissy?” She cries out in defiance as I grip the top of her shirt and tear it from her body. “Don't do this? Or.... this?” Her bra is next to go and I spare her no mercy as I roughly grasp one of them, squeezing and tugging. Before, I had been gentle. Before, I would have made it pleasurable for the both of us. But circumstances have changed.
I force my knees back in-between her own and harshly rub once more. She pushes against me with her hands, but it is no use. As I have said, she is weak. “Bella-! Oh Merlin, please!” Weather they are cries of encouragement or pleas for all to cease, I care not. She is mine. I assault her neck, biting and bruising, abandoning her other shoulder and trusting myself to be strong enough to hold back her fragile figure. My hands are no longer gentle and I imagine bruises to form in the morning, painting powdered white skin blue. “Why Bella? Why?”
“Because you. Are. My. Sister.” Her face is terrified, puzzled. “Because you are mine.” Her eyes water and just like that, a chord is suddenly struck inside of me - I have never been able to watch her cry.
I sigh and gently reach to cup her cheek. “Cissy...” I am gentle as I can ever be, a gentleness only she can pull out from me as I kiss her shaking lips lightly. My tongue lightly laps at her bottom one as I pull back. And yet she is still drawn back as far as she can against Cygnus's arabian tree. “You do know I love you...”
Her pause is almost unbearable. “Because... I am your sister.”
Relief is the most wonderful of feelings, for finally she understands! I believe I smile. “Yes.”
For a split moment, her eyes clear. For a split moment, a dust storm inside them subsides.
For a split moment, she is completely sane.
They cloud once more before she flicks them away, turns her head to stare at the bluebells. I bring up a hand to stroke back strands of silver that have fallen over her face.
“Please don't touch me, Bella.”
Her voice is quiet and sincere. Before I realize what I am doing, I draw my hand back. It had been so long since I had heard that tone of voice directed at me by someone who could not even bear to look me in the eye.
Don't touch me Bella.
Don't touch me.
I am not yours.
I belong to no one.
It's quite typical for you to have failed to realize that all this is your fault.
No Bella, you are not immortal. You are not important. Without your name, you'd be nothing.
Just like me.
Bluebells. The flowers that always looked wonderful when twined in braids that crowned her head. And her reaction when I mentioned my reasons of love for her. Because of who she was. Because she was my flesh and blood, my sister.
How long ago was it? How long? Two years. Two bloody years. Two years since she left. Two years since Narcissa had begun her decline to madness. It wasn't the boy at all! It was-
“You filthy BLOODTRAITOR!” I do smack her now, and I smack her again and again until she hits the marble walkway, nursing her bruised cheek with her hand and staring back at me with the most fearful of eyes.
“SHE LEFT, YOU FOOLISH BITCH. SHE LEFT!” I squat beside her and yank her hair with all my might, a short scream escaping her throat. “THAT FILTHY CUNT DOES NOT DESERVE YOU OR ANYONE.”
“Don't say that.”
“DON'T SAY WHAT CISSY? THE TRUTH!? HERE YOU ARE ABOUT TO WED AND BEAR WONDERFUL PUREBLOODED CHILDREN - DO YOU REALLY THINK YOU CAN AFFORD TO TURN YOUR BACK ON ALL OF US NOW?”
“I love her.”
“I'll give you something to fucking 'love'.” I release her hair, intent on bruising her in places in which, until her husband ceases to fuck her, will never heal. For I will rip her hymen and all else around it in the most brutal of ways. I raise my hand, about to strike her once more, when she looks up at me with the most sincere of eyes, unflinching, unmoving.
Unclouded.
And somehow, by that look she gives me, by the way her eyes claim that she will surrender her body but never, never her soul, I know.
She had gotten to her first.
“No.” Two years ago, that bitch had gotten to her first. “No.” My pure Cissa, the girl who was supposed to accompany me into the depths of insanity, had been defiled by filth long, long ago.
And she would never, never follow me. “NO!” I rise abruptly and snarl down at her, “JUST YOU WAIT UNTIL I TELL CYGNUS AND DRUELLA - ”
“Tell them and I swear to Salazar I will tell them about you. After all Bella, out of the two of us, which one would they truly believe?”
So much like her. “TO THINK THAT I EVER CONCIDERED YOU A SISTER OF MINE!” I turn and quickly stagger back into the house to gather the belongings I had come for in the first place. A slight detour to the wine cellar won't do any harm.
I grab two bottles and after a second's hesitation, I grab the cognac as well.
I drown myself in the liquid straight from the container, swallowing gulp after spiced gulp. Anything to calm down, anything to clear my mind.
That bitch had beaten me, all those years ago, right under my nose. First with that mudblood and now with my slag of a sister, Narcissa.
Bitch.
Whore.
Cunt.
Filth.
None of these words, none of them can describe her efficiently. Describe how vile and horrible a person she truly is. She truly was.
And Narcissa, how alike her she is becoming! How I loathe her! How detestable she is! How repugnant! How wasted!
And yet, I know. I know as I feel the last bead of liquid cascade down my throat and it kills me. How it kills me!
I know that, no matter what has happened, no matter what unforgivable sin my sister has committed, I can not stand to be alone.
And so you see, I know.
I know... that even after all that has happened, I will return. With my arms opened as wide and out stretched as they could be; fingers desperate for love as they tangle themselves in fine strands of putrid orange blossom silk.
No, not very far - not far at all. And everyone notices it, just not as clearly as I. A minor irritation in the back of their heads, whispering. Notifying them. Warning them. But they choose to ignore it. She can not be mad. Not when she is so beautiful. Not when she has so much ahead of her.
But I see it. I see it as if looking deep into my own dusted mirror. It's in her eyes, you understand. Eyes which were once filled with innocence, but now overtaken and overpowered with the putrid knowledge that life isn't all lace and ribbons. She'll wed the boy you see. She'll bear a child.
What will she be like, ten years from now? Will she walk through shaded corridors in the midst of night and jump at her own shadow? Or will she dutifully invite them in as a proper hostess, and fill her heart with a shade as dark as our very name? Yes, I know she will. It will be like this: She will sit at her mirror and pull her brush through her hair, five hundred times and no less. Her face will be perfectly painted, powdered; her son will never realize how lucky he is to have such a woman for a mother and only after he grows will he realize how unfortunate he is that such a woman can never be his.
She will lay dutifully in his bed at night, awaiting the presence that is muscle and muscle alone to force its way into her, thrusting with all its puny might until sated, and only then will she have peace. Only then will she be allowed quiet as she stares up at the marble ceiling, without any responsibilities if only for a few hours, the whiskers of her husband brushed up against her neck as he lays atop her.
But then morning will come, for it always does, and with morning will come the task of breast feeding her infant and washing herself. Painting her face once more. Combing at her hair. No less then five hundred strokes... A break for tea. More feeding of her infant. Adjusting her make up. Running a comb through her hair, no less then five hundred strokes... Yes, her days will be monotonous and she knows this. She knows what fate will befall her. I see it in her eyes whenever Cygnus calls her name, announces that he desires her presence. A revision of the betrothal no doubt. Her wedding day is drawing nearer - final adjustments shall be made. She has only a month more of living.
And what a pity it is, that something as beautiful as her should be so lonely and untouched. To never know the caress of a true lover, the heat of lovemaking and the passion of being shredded to tinny little bits. To be the loveliest doll in all the world, but to grow old without being played with. Truly unopened. A collectable made only to gather dust. But that isn't the way things should be; they should be as such:
My darling sister awakening, finding that her husband is already gone for the day and her breast is heavy with a meal prepared unwillingly for her child. He will feed and she will bathe. She will then proceed to paint her face and brush her hair, no less then five hundred strokes. A break for tea and then another meal for the man's spawn. She will return to her room, her body mechanically preparing to fix whatever nonexistent flaw it will imagine. But she will not get that far.
Her eyes will flick up at this unexpected intrusion. I will cross the room from her window; my hand will graze the soft of her cheek and slide to her neck, her chin involuntarily raised at the touch to reveal the bleached cream that is her flesh. My tongue will follow my fingers, will emit shivers and painfully quiet 'ah...'s, will be a reminder that there is life even in madness.
I will run fingers across her lips, entice her whimpers, make her beg. And only then will I take her. Against her walls, in the gardens, above the bed in which her husband fucks her every night. ”Do you feel me now, Cissy?” I will whisper, orange blossom scented hair thin against my lips. ”Do you feel me now?” I want her to sob, to cry out, to scream. Scream my name to the heavens and the stars which ceased existence eons ago. I want her to tremble beneath me, every grain of her flesh lifting up into my palm, to melt like warm honey and finally overflow and cascade within my hand.
Then I shall leave her - for of course, tea is to be prepared and her child must be fed. And her skin must be scrubbed clean, lest her husband returns early and suspects. And so she will change into her nightgown, lay in her bed, covers cleverly arranged and wait. But it wont be him she sees when he comes to take her, no, for once her back will rise and her core will warm. She'll stretch and reach and just when she feels an ecstasy about to burst, he will unleash deep inside of her wanton body and leave her panting, needing. And her nights will be peaceful no longer.
From then on, she will live solely for me. Her son will grow, her breasts will sag, and still I will come. And through me she will learn the full extent of her own insanity.
But why wait? A preview perhaps. A snippet of what is yet to come. Something for her to look forward too; I shall not lose her. I refuse to allow her escape even from her own mind, no. She is at a very delicate stage, a moment in time where one must choose. And I will help her - I will nudge her to pick the correct choice.
She frequents the garden these days; I believe whatever child remains inside her to still be thrilled by bluebells when they first appear. Cygnus and Druella are not yet home from dinner.
It is perfect.
I make my way throughout the house, across the parlor and out the back porch door. I find her quick enough, light against the dark that is twilight, her hair illuminated by navy blues and oranges as her delicate hand remains cupped around a dandelion. The sharp sound of a stick snapping under my shoe startles her, her head spins to look at me, her eyes surprised and almost fearful. I can not say I blame her - I always have looked the monster in the dark. I give a smile which I imagine sends chills to her very bones and open my arms.
“Cissy.”
She hesitates, then rises from her bent over position, the petals of flower slipping from her hand. She comes over to me, nervously but brave, and wraps her arms around me in an embrace. “I had not heard of your arrival - are mother and father deciding to celebrate and dine out?”
“Cygnus and Druella have already left to eat elsewhere.” I run a hand through her hair, untangling a few knots as it caresses. “They do not know I am here.”
A quickened pulse - I catch it. She says nothing as my fingers continue to entwine themselves in silk.
“I thought we could spend some sisterly leisure time together. What do you say to that, hmm?”
Still nothing. She fears me, I see it. And really, who is to blame her? I chuckle and grab her hair, tugging soft tendrils lightly.
“Why don't we perhaps...” The fingers of my free hand come to her cheek just as I had imagined. She stiffens to my delight as the little colour she has leaves her face.
“Now don't be... don't joke like this, Bella.” She gives a small laugh, uncomfortable as she 'unknowingly' begins drawing me in - surely her effort to excite our game of cat and mouse.
She takes a small step back, moving her face from my hand, but I follow with a step of my own. “Bella-”
“Joke?” My fingers caress the pallor of her cheek.
“Don't.”
Her voice is quiet as mine is strong. I move my hand in a gentle motion to the back of her neck and squeeze.
“I can't. Oh Merlin please Bella, I can't-”
I drag her to me, forcing her mouth against mine and taking her, mouth, lips, tongue, into me. She's sweet, so sweet. So sweet it's almost sickening but I love it so. A whimper emits from her as I had for so long pondered over and dreamed.
Her body is trembling like that of a small helpless mammal - I want to feel it, all of it. My free hand find the small of her back and drags her towards me, pressing everything that is her against me and everything that is me against her. Lips, breasts, my hand slides lower to find her lovely arse and I pull her against me even more. She gasps and attempts to free herself, but she is only a woman and I have long ago since broken from such stereotypes. I rub, and I squeeze, and I claw as she whimpers, and only when I am sure she will not flee do I step back slightly and lip the top of her blouse, crafted cleverly to seduce and show the top of her breasts, now heaving with anticipation.
My tongue flicks. Flicks and withdraws so my lips may suck. She's whimpering more frequently now, her frame just a bundle of shaking nerves. “Do you want this, Cissy?” My eyes meet her's, such lovely shades of blue and orange as the sun drops behind the trees. My hand releases her neck and slivers to the front of her blouse, replacing where my lips had been only a moment before. “Do you want this?”
She both arches into my palm and attempts to detangle herself all at once and I see it again - that storm blowing in her eyes, that lovely maelstrom. A gale of madness just screaming to be unleashed. “Why are you trying so hard...” I inquire, “to deny yourself what you truly desire?”
“I don't - ” She shudders, surely in delight when I lean in and flick my tongue against her jaw. Her voice is breathy - “I don't... want this...Bella.”
“You lie.” I state and squeeze at her breast. “You want this. We both know you do.” I back my head away to catch the horrified gaze she shoots me. “So just be quiet now, Cissy.” Her name is a hiss on my tongue and I love it. I love it so. She s caught off guard and I use that opportunity to force my knee between her legs. The grip I have on her arse is lovely leverage as I push and force her to grind.
“No.” She pushes, she pulls, she squirms and yet I can still hold her form. It amazes me how weak she actually is. How I too was once so weak before I had met the Dark Lord. “NO.
I am stunned. When I come to my senses, she is free and steps and steps and steps away from me. I think at first that I was merely shocked, for it has been perhaps two years since I have heard so much fight in her voice. But then my eyes follow to her hand slightly raised and I realize that one of my own is on my cheek...
She slapped me. That little cunt had slapped me. “How dare you?” Indeed, how dare she? I watch her, staring back at me as if I'm the villain, as if I was the worthless daughter, the one without any right to take what she so desired. As if I am the one who has labeled herself trophy daughter, the one always tending to her appearance and then tending to guests. But I, I am working for so much more then lipstick and house parties. I am the one that will protect both her and her unborn son.
I march over to her - if she thinks her slap stung, she should feel mine. She stumbles backwards; I believe if it were not unladylike, she would run. “Don't, Bella don't - ”
She backs up against a tree and it is perfect. Why simply slap her when I could do much, much more? My hands easily cup her tiny shoulders, her tiny and fragile shoulders, and I push her firmly against the cypress. “'Don't'? 'Don't' what dear Cissy?” She cries out in defiance as I grip the top of her shirt and tear it from her body. “Don't do this? Or.... this?” Her bra is next to go and I spare her no mercy as I roughly grasp one of them, squeezing and tugging. Before, I had been gentle. Before, I would have made it pleasurable for the both of us. But circumstances have changed.
I force my knees back in-between her own and harshly rub once more. She pushes against me with her hands, but it is no use. As I have said, she is weak. “Bella-! Oh Merlin, please!” Weather they are cries of encouragement or pleas for all to cease, I care not. She is mine. I assault her neck, biting and bruising, abandoning her other shoulder and trusting myself to be strong enough to hold back her fragile figure. My hands are no longer gentle and I imagine bruises to form in the morning, painting powdered white skin blue. “Why Bella? Why?”
“Because you. Are. My. Sister.” Her face is terrified, puzzled. “Because you are mine.” Her eyes water and just like that, a chord is suddenly struck inside of me - I have never been able to watch her cry.
I sigh and gently reach to cup her cheek. “Cissy...” I am gentle as I can ever be, a gentleness only she can pull out from me as I kiss her shaking lips lightly. My tongue lightly laps at her bottom one as I pull back. And yet she is still drawn back as far as she can against Cygnus's arabian tree. “You do know I love you...”
Her pause is almost unbearable. “Because... I am your sister.”
Relief is the most wonderful of feelings, for finally she understands! I believe I smile. “Yes.”
For a split moment, her eyes clear. For a split moment, a dust storm inside them subsides.
For a split moment, she is completely sane.
They cloud once more before she flicks them away, turns her head to stare at the bluebells. I bring up a hand to stroke back strands of silver that have fallen over her face.
“Please don't touch me, Bella.”
Her voice is quiet and sincere. Before I realize what I am doing, I draw my hand back. It had been so long since I had heard that tone of voice directed at me by someone who could not even bear to look me in the eye.
Don't touch me Bella.
Don't touch me.
I am not yours.
I belong to no one.
It's quite typical for you to have failed to realize that all this is your fault.
No Bella, you are not immortal. You are not important. Without your name, you'd be nothing.
Just like me.
Bluebells. The flowers that always looked wonderful when twined in braids that crowned her head. And her reaction when I mentioned my reasons of love for her. Because of who she was. Because she was my flesh and blood, my sister.
How long ago was it? How long? Two years. Two bloody years. Two years since she left. Two years since Narcissa had begun her decline to madness. It wasn't the boy at all! It was-
“You filthy BLOODTRAITOR!” I do smack her now, and I smack her again and again until she hits the marble walkway, nursing her bruised cheek with her hand and staring back at me with the most fearful of eyes.
“SHE LEFT, YOU FOOLISH BITCH. SHE LEFT!” I squat beside her and yank her hair with all my might, a short scream escaping her throat. “THAT FILTHY CUNT DOES NOT DESERVE YOU OR ANYONE.”
“Don't say that.”
“DON'T SAY WHAT CISSY? THE TRUTH!? HERE YOU ARE ABOUT TO WED AND BEAR WONDERFUL PUREBLOODED CHILDREN - DO YOU REALLY THINK YOU CAN AFFORD TO TURN YOUR BACK ON ALL OF US NOW?”
“I love her.”
“I'll give you something to fucking 'love'.” I release her hair, intent on bruising her in places in which, until her husband ceases to fuck her, will never heal. For I will rip her hymen and all else around it in the most brutal of ways. I raise my hand, about to strike her once more, when she looks up at me with the most sincere of eyes, unflinching, unmoving.
Unclouded.
And somehow, by that look she gives me, by the way her eyes claim that she will surrender her body but never, never her soul, I know.
She had gotten to her first.
“No.” Two years ago, that bitch had gotten to her first. “No.” My pure Cissa, the girl who was supposed to accompany me into the depths of insanity, had been defiled by filth long, long ago.
And she would never, never follow me. “NO!” I rise abruptly and snarl down at her, “JUST YOU WAIT UNTIL I TELL CYGNUS AND DRUELLA - ”
“Tell them and I swear to Salazar I will tell them about you. After all Bella, out of the two of us, which one would they truly believe?”
So much like her. “TO THINK THAT I EVER CONCIDERED YOU A SISTER OF MINE!” I turn and quickly stagger back into the house to gather the belongings I had come for in the first place. A slight detour to the wine cellar won't do any harm.
I grab two bottles and after a second's hesitation, I grab the cognac as well.
I drown myself in the liquid straight from the container, swallowing gulp after spiced gulp. Anything to calm down, anything to clear my mind.
That bitch had beaten me, all those years ago, right under my nose. First with that mudblood and now with my slag of a sister, Narcissa.
Bitch.
Whore.
Cunt.
Filth.
None of these words, none of them can describe her efficiently. Describe how vile and horrible a person she truly is. She truly was.
And Narcissa, how alike her she is becoming! How I loathe her! How detestable she is! How repugnant! How wasted!
And yet, I know. I know as I feel the last bead of liquid cascade down my throat and it kills me. How it kills me!
I know that, no matter what has happened, no matter what unforgivable sin my sister has committed, I can not stand to be alone.
And so you see, I know.
I know... that even after all that has happened, I will return. With my arms opened as wide and out stretched as they could be; fingers desperate for love as they tangle themselves in fine strands of putrid orange blossom silk.