My Red Right Hand *Crimson Peak*

My Red Right Hand

"What are you doing?" he asked as I rattled through the drawers. Ah, yes. This could do. My left fingers traced the curvature of the blade, and I grinned inwardly at the slight tingling where the skin was threatening to split and leak red. I curled my fingers around the handle of the knife and stood up.
"She knows too much."

Thomas grabbed me by the shoulders, holding me close.
"Lucille, please. We can leave this place," he begged me. "We can leave the Sharpe name, the house, everything. We can start a new life." Oh Thomas. You ignorant shit, we can't.
He continued, "Move to France. We can do it. We can all live together."

Confusion. "All?" Who else, other than Thomas and I...? No no no. Not her. Not Edith.
"You promised me! You promised me you wouldn't fall in love with anyone else!"
"Luc-"
I wailed, and slowly, my conscious state gave way to emotion. Anger, jealousy, rage. For once, I could be free. I could feel, instead of playing nurse to that bitch Edith.

I could not see anything other than red. Blood. It always solved things. Right arm up, forward thrust. Blood. I heard a gasp, but I did not register it. Again. The blade embedded itself in something tender, yet still tough. An intake of breath; not mine. My eyes cleared at the edges, and I could make out Thomas' hands stroking my arms; slowly, but with desperation. My vision cleared and I saw his eyes. Love, regret, pain, hurt, and the tiniest hint of fear.

Fear. Something I was surrounded by constantly. The wallpaper. The brides. The butterflies, slowly dismembered by the moths until they were rotting corpses by the wall. I could smell it everywhere. The house reeked of it.

But, why? Why was Thomas scared? The thought was forgotten in an instant as I felt the monsoon of hate pour out. The one that had slowly corroded away at me from the inside, and I became a shell. Hollow, yet still feeling. Strong, yet so easily broken.

'Lucille.' I saw his mouth move. I didn't hear it.

I drove my hand into his cheek, pushing it upwards. His left eye - once a normal, blue-irised eye - flooded into red. He pushed me away, my hand letting go of the knife. My hand was cold. It missed the feel of the handle; it missed the power.

I fell onto the steps as he staggered to the chair. Gripping the knife, he slowly drew it out of his eye, a trail of blood finding its way down his cheek. He let out a soft cry of anguish, and I realised what I had done.

"No," I whispered. I ran to him, holding him upright, pleading for him to stay with me. "Thomas!" He looked at me once, and his head fell to the side, shedding one final tear. The first blood tear I had ever seen.

My little brother. My love. Thomas. I did this to him. I let it all out; my anger at him for loving Edith, my love for him, my hate towards Mother, my wasted time at the mental institution. My sobs echoed through Allerdale Hall, now suddenly emptier by half. It was him. It was always him. Thomas made the house worth living in. And now he was gone.

I wiped away his tear, the blood quickly staining my right hand, enveloping it like a glove. My red right hand.

"Thomas?" It was her voice. Her stupid, pathetic, whiny voice.
Edith.

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I find pleasure writing about Lucille. She's an amazing character. Watch Crimson Peak (if you haven't yet) (or watch it again)!