* teach her to be strong.

bsaa: cool. anyway can you punch this brick with a mold hand

THIS WAS GOING MUCH BETTER THAN SHE HAD THOUGHT, Claire can’t help the little grin that forms on her own lips. The fact she didn’t complain about the helmet made it even better, seems like they were going to have a fun night after all. ❝ Well if all goes well and we don’t get caught then we can spend the whole night out if you like? Meet me out the front in ten minutes? I’ll go get my bike. ❞

     her  gaze  casts  down  merely  to  look  at  her ,   the  hood  she  wears  creating  shadows  on  portions  of  the  woman’s  face ,   but  still  those  bright  eyes  could  never  be  missed .   a  breath  of  air  is  sucked  in  sharply ,   distastefulness  touching  her  tongue  with  the  lies  only  daniela  can  gather  from  rosemary’s  words .      “      do   not   lie   to   me ,   rosemary .   i   hear   them ,   i   can   practically   read   their   thoughts   of   how   unsmart   i   am !   they   say   it   all   the   time !      ”      she  nearly  cries ,   tone  raising  with  each  exclamation  and  her  discolored  teeth  grind  together .      “      i   am   sorry   for   the   outburst .      ”

☣   —-   she   would   raise   her   arms   to   shield   herself   in   any   other   moment   arms   covered   in   scars   from   previous   explosive   moments,   but   she   does   not   care.   daniela   and   rosemary   share   their   sense   of   𝙸𝙽𝙳𝙸𝙶𝙽𝙰𝙽𝙲𝙴.   "   'm   NOT   LYING   !   i   think   you   are   smart   !   i   think   you're   —   I   THINK   YOU'RE   𝚁𝙴𝙰𝙻𝙻𝚈   𝙵𝚄𝙲𝙺𝙸𝙽𝙶   𝙸𝙼𝙿𝚁𝙴𝚂𝚂𝙸𝚅𝙴   !   doesn't   matter   if   other   people   don't   think   that.   i'm   saying   that   𝙸   𝙳𝙾   !   "

cold, golden eyes appraise the child with glacial curiosity. for any other    -    perhaps even her own daughters    -    she would have let the ask linger for a second, before denying it.     NO ,   she would have said ,     YOU WILL WATCH AND LEARN AND SIT IN THE SHAME OF SMALLNESS, AND OF IGNOMINY .    but try as she might    -    and try ever so gracefully and savagely she certainly did - the lady dimitrescu could not rip out the dark purple parts of her rotten heart that would soften only for a second for a weak child begging to be allowed to be the monster. this maternal instinct - to watch the child kill and dominate - hardened like magma into something colder and harder :  PROVE YOURSELF, ROSEMARY, WITH BLOOD TO SIGN YOUR DECLARATION OF MONSTROSITY.  she’ll never admit it, of course. rosemary isn’t eva, nor is she a dimitrescu. simply put, she is a dicey investment that they have all grown used to. a family pet. alcina would never lower herself to teaching anyone but family - the child is special:  but, without status, this counts for nothing. if there are indeed powers to her mold that are uncontrollable and powerful - as miranda insists - then she’d ought to find that soon.  the little thing is small. smaller than alcina is used to, even, with all grown things being only to her hips anyway. the little thing is stubborn. that is good :   survival demanded that. brittle girls broke, because their bones were always easier eaten - not only by the dimitrescus, but by the WORLD.    rosemary winters, above all, is capable of killing. that is most necessary of all. if the child could not be eva, she ought be something else worthwhile. that was all of their fates, no?  some - such as she - rise, daily, to the occasion. others? every one of their faces come to mind. beneviento, agelessly boney and grey in the mist of her grief. moreau, ugly and deformed, pitifully devoted and in need. and the old villain, heisenberg - he, almost as disheartened as miranda all those years ago. she doesn’t trust him. after a long pause, alcina quirks a brow. smirks - haughtily, coldly, with large teeth. 

“you will ask me again. politely. like a young lady.”  lady dimitrescu lets the body in her palm fall with a sickening thump - as if it is nothing but a toppled stack of books. artfully, he sprawls before rosemary, hands upturned, face poised as if he is about to say something. he never will. that is the funniest thing of all about death: unless it is manufactured and staged by the skilled hands of the mortician, a mortal and a victim look precisely the same - only stiller.    the countess lowers her head, then her neck, and after a long moment she is stooping herself to rosemary’s level - something not done often. but here, on the butcher’s slab they call a dungeon floor, the sisterhood of hunting earns special privileges.  her outstretched gloved hand closes massive fingers around the knife, around rosemary’s own childish hand also.  “there are two sides to a knife, child.   the hilt, and the blade. see to it you hold the hilt always - or watch …”   gently, she twists their hands, so that hers is placed beneath the others, forearm and wrist upturned. her other hand - again, slowly - wedges the point of the knife between the sleeve of her pale dress and dark glove and into her own grey wrist. a bead of black is bitten out like a teardrop, before the wound heals entirely, instantly. so few have ever been allowed to see her get even a scratch.  “…as you are carved up and consumed by its silver tooth. that is life.eat or be eaten.  you understand, don’t you, rosemary?”   and if the child doesn’t?irrelevant.  she will one day, and she can simply do as told until then. “your turn.” to kill? to nick her small fingers upon the blade?  it is rosemary’s choice, under the watching, appraising, golden eyes of the dimitrescu matriarch.

☣   —-   𝙷𝙴𝚁   𝙵𝙰𝚃𝙷𝙴𝚁   𝙵𝙰𝙸𝙻𝙴𝙳.   𝚂𝙷𝙴   𝚆𝙸𝙻𝙻   𝙽𝙾𝚃.   a   dead   man   leaves   his   daughter   to   be   raised   by   a   selfish   saint,   a   mother   with   no   child.   she   knows   not   of   his   existence.   what   is   science   if   not   religion   explained   ?   rosemary   believes   herself   a   miracle   performed   by   miranda,   though   ...   often   a   hated   one.   passed   from   lord   to   lord   when   she   suddenly   develops   a   distaste   for   her   very   face,   her   very   existence.   𝚆𝙷𝚈   𝙳𝙸𝙳   𝚈𝙾𝚄   𝙱𝚁𝙸𝙽𝙶   𝙼𝙴   𝙸𝙽𝚃𝙾   𝙴𝚇𝙸𝚂𝚃𝙴𝙽𝙲𝙴   𝙸𝙵   𝙾𝙽𝙻𝚈   𝚃𝙾   𝚁𝙴𝚂𝙴𝙽𝚃   𝙼𝙴   ?   she   does   not   know.   she   knows   very   little;   knows   violence   and   pain   well   but   the   humanity   within   cannot   be   extinguished.   there   is   empathy   there.   she   is   not   human,   she   is   not   alive.   rose   wilted;   rotting.   but   there   is   a   soul   there.   the   soul   of   a   child   with   no   mother,   no   father,   no   friends.   she   exists   (   as   far   as   she   knows   )   as   an   experiment   with   no   purpose,   both   beloved   and   despised   by   its   creator,   frakenstein   assembled   from   herself.

      perhaps   this   is   why   she   likes   the   castle   best.   there   are   sisters   here,   though   not   hers.   there   is   a   mother,   though   not   hers.   there   is   no   father,   but   rosemary   harbours   distaste   for   men   regardless.   𝚃𝙷𝙴𝚈   𝙰𝚁𝙴   𝚅𝙸𝙾𝙻𝙴𝙽𝚃   𝙸𝙽   𝙰𝙽   𝚄𝙶𝙻𝚈   𝚆𝙰𝚈.   𝚆𝙾𝙼𝙴𝙽   𝙰𝚁𝙴   𝚅𝙸𝙾𝙻𝙴𝙽𝚃𝙻𝚈   𝙱𝙴𝙰𝚄𝚃𝙸𝙵𝚄𝙻.   perhaps   this   is   why   so   desperately   she   wants   the   lady   to   like   her.   she   did   not   make   her,   therefore   she   would   be   choosing   her.   choosing   rosemary.   nobody   has   ever   chosen   her.   not   even   herself.

      "   may   i   𝙿𝙻𝙴𝙰𝚂𝙴   try   again,   my   lady   ?   "   rosemary   asks.   politely.   she   can   listen.   you   need   to   listen   if   you   want   to   survive.   and   she   does   so,   closely.   watches   the   lady   scratch   herself   and   twitches.   "   oh   i'll   go   get   some   —   !   oh.   "

      she   didn't   know   that   lady   dimitrescu   could   do   that.   "   that's   very   impressive.   "   she   means   it.   rose   tries   to   only   say   things   she   means,   and   that's   very   difficult   when   you   tow   the   line   she   does.   that   she   must.   "   i   do.   understand,   that   is.   "

      rose   flips   the   knife   twice   over   in   her   hands,   before   placing   it   in   her   left.   she   warps   her   right   into   a   disgusting   mirror   of   it,   blackened,   rotting.   a   colour   to   match   the   blood   of   the   lady's.

      perhaps   it   will   be   less   scary   if   she   does   it   like   this.   her   way.