Villainous. You were villainous.
You were not clever but conniving. Not generous but greedy. Not self-assured but self-obsessed. You used to be good. Niccolo once called you kind and diligent, but you had grown resentful. Volatile. Hateful. Lost.
Villainous, yet so very lost.
You lost control of your world, of your temper, of yourself. After spending an entire life keeping lips sealed whenever emotion threatened to trickle through, you scalded the ones you loved most once anger finally boiled out and over due to how lost you had become. Fiery acrimony reached Jean first, then spread to Niccolo, and blistering bitterness leaked far enough to flood even Sasha's grave. Who was next? Who did you intend to ignite in ire's hellfire until your entire world was reduced to ash?
Wicked. Ruthless. Monsterous.
Had your true reflection finally bubbled to the surface? Were you still you? If you stepped in front of the mirror, would you recognize yourself?
Maybe you had every right to become a villain, you reframed the situation to better suit your need for peace. Your body had been battered until your features were unrecognizable; your mind had been picked apart and tossed to the birds like grain; your heart had been stomped upon over and over until your chest contained only cracked ribs, a pair of deflated lungs, and nothing else. You earned the right to be as terrible as you needed in order to protect yourself from losing what little bit of light still existed in a graying, decaying soul. Niccolo was only another unfortunate recipient of years of fear coagulating into hardened hatred.
But all this wrath–this destruction–was done for the sake of love, was it not? A love for Jean where you would torch your home to keep him warm. A love for yourself where you would burn almost anything to finally keep someone you held dear. A love for a future that you were so desperate to see glowing red in love's vicious yet brilliant embers.
Just about every feeling a person can feel is love wearing different coats, but the way you wore love was hideous. Twisted. Too ill-fitting to ever be compared to something as beautiful as love. You tore apart one coat to heal the holes in another but ended up with mismatched, gnarled fabric. Pain did not give you the right to rip into others' seams as Fate had ripped into yours. You could spend years wasting away in your room, trying to convince yourself that you were entitled to fracture apart and use your self-made shards as weapons, but that belief could never be made true, no matter how sharp you became.
And through all of this internal agony, rivers surged. Liquid fire refused to evaporate within stinging ducts and burned wildfires over your cheeks. Waterfalls would not wash away your evils. They would not pull the tides of Niccolo's mind. They would not steer Jean's course back to you. They only stabbed at your throat and throbbed in your skull until each heartbeat pounded behind your eyes. Sunlight grew intolerable, breaths became sharp, and a girl became a shell.
Unmoving. Unfeeling. Uncaring.
Numb.
The water receded once numbness set with the sun, and there was comfort in the darkening emptiness. Although the headache brought on by hot puddles was painful, the throbbing dulled the splitting of your heart.
There were gentle knocks at your door, whispers regarding what was cooked for dinner, and clicks of a plate and cup being set outside your cell. Niccolo's voice reached you–more tired and shaky than you had ever heard it. His shoes waited, unmoving, in the orange sliver under your door for so long. You entertained the idea of getting up and inviting him in, but what would you say? You devoted so much time toward mourning yourself and lost love that not once had you spared a second toward putting together a decent apology. Because while you spent precious hours behind a locked door–spearing yourself with realizations of inadequacy–a shadow waited eagerly behind a wooden wall for any glimpse of your being. Eventually, sadness tore through in another riptide as Niccolo's shade slunk off, and candlelight flickered in an undisturbed line yet again.
Selfish. Remorseless. Guilty.
Shadows may feast on dinner, you decided when the crack of light burned itself into your vision. Sleep would keep your stomach full, but even dreams did wrap you in their recent comforts. Every bump in the night shook you from the light stages of slumber–further solidifying that even dreams did not care for your presence. Maybe Sasha was enacting revenge upon you for turning her memory into a knife by scratching nails on the glass or prodding owls to hoot. Perhaps Mother was punishing you for failing to open the door. For being so weak. For refusing to be brave for once in your pitiful life.
But there was another reality behind your exhaustion. You were scared to face them; to answer for your evils; to apologize. You were afraid of falling asleep.
So you stared at wallpaper and a blank ceiling to pass the gloomy hours. Constant ticking reminded you of Time's ever-present echo as you traced vines, leaves, flowers, and nothing glowing silver under the moon's gentle touch. Lines bled into one another until the walls were as blank as the ceiling.
Whatever did or didn't keep you from sleep, you deserved it: the fear, the exhaustion, and the pain. You earned every bit of it.
Restless. Hopeless. Hollow.
Eyes stung with exhaustion once lavender light crept over the horizon. Empty wallpaper warmed with summer's heat, but the air was frigid with winter's ice. Cracked hands ran over your face in a half-hearted attempt to soothe taut, dry skin into sleep's submission, but wakefulness pulled at the flesh even tighter. Your stomach rumbled louder than any mourning dove dared to sing at dawn's arrival, but your appetite was nonexistent.
If you could not sleep or eat, you needed to distract yourself with something else. Time ticked fast, and it was midmorning when you sat on the edge of your bed following busied hands. Sharpened shears waited open between dead fingers. Sun's glare reflecting off the metal daggered blurry eyes. An asp made of brown fabric slithered over callouses. Every drop of rain that seeped onto cracked lips tasted bitterly of capitulation. You squeezed the shears closed and freed the fifth and final square marked into that ugly dress. After sneaking into your sewing room for your collection of threads and working yourself into nothing just before noon, you had five perfect pieces with neatly hemmed edges.
Sweetness snuck through the house as you embroidered pretty patterns into the dirt-colored clothe. The air smelled of cakes and cookies, and a realization hit you: today was the Springers' summer party. Niccolo must be baking some desserts to take over, as he always did these last few summers, but you were shackled to the house. It was yet another event you would miss due to your poor decisions. And tomorrow, Jean and Armin would leave the lake for the final time, and the summer was good as over. Autumn would suffocate you with rainbowed leaves, and the lake would haunt every window instead of the smoking, blue hills that only existed in dreams you were too afraid to find.
Your disappointment spilled onto drab fabric as warped plants. Bruised irises, ghostly daisies, flaming lilies, bloody roses, sour carnations, and so many sickly vines connecting them all. You were a girl again, sewing once beautiful things into ugly cloth in hopes that Time would turn the other way, and you were small enough to be carried off somewhere else by someone stronger. Someone that wanted you around despite how much you shared with the ugly, brown, torn-up dress that lay snipped apart on your vanity.
Foolish. Malcontent. Childish.
The front door closed from underneath, shaking the window panes in your room, and you finished your parting gift not long after. Five perfect handkerchiefs with empty centers and flowered edges waited below your nose. You swiped at the fabric repeatedly until your fingers were sanded down into nothing but bone, and you found that the texture was terrible for cleaning running noses. They couldn't so much as wipe away the rain from dripping cheeks without chafing the skin.
Coarse. Worn. Flawed.
Even your sewing wasn't good enough anymore. There were no good words to describe any part of you. Not even one.
Storms raged in your eyes again, and gales blew from your lungs. Salted rain splattered all over the flowers, the vines, and the dirt, and thunder reverberated around your room until every drop left had been spilled, and emptiness filled where water once flowed.
Three gentle knocks pierced the storm, and a golden voice beamed through the overcast.
"It's me," the voice spoke. "It's Armin. Niccolo's left us. He's... off dropping sweets at your friend's party and won't return for some time... He... He asked me to keep an eye on you, so... May I come in?"
You quickly rubbed the rain away. Your cheeks were stinging, knuckles were soaked, and breaths were shallow, but the tempest quelled as soon as someone else was close enough to bear witness to its devastation.
"Come in," you cracked.
Armin jiggled the locked handle, so you rushed over to turn the latch. Upon hearing the click, the author slowly opened the door, and his expression fell upon seeing you.
"Oh, dear, you've been crying. Poor thing."
"No!" You tried to laugh away the truth. "No, I... You see, my allergies are acting up. They do that this time of year. It must be leaf mold or pollen from–"
Armin did not wait for you to spit wasteful lies. He wrapped his arms around you and scared away any dishonesty with a gentle embrace. Your lip quivered as you crumbled into his body like the weak child you had become.
"It's alright," he whispered. "You can cry. It's alright."
And just like that, you cried in his arms. You had been crying and had cried all yesterday. No matter how hard you attempted to disassociate yourself from the tears, they still flowed despite your refusal to give them credence. And tears would not wash away your evils, pull the tides of Niccolo's mind, or steer Jean's course back to you, but simply acknowledging them for what they were swept your sorrow so far out to sea that there was nothing left in your soul to feel. Comfort replaced nothingness as Armin ran a palm along your spine, and gentle hushes pacified shallow gasps.
"Shhhh," he repeated as your breaths evened and waterlines dried. "It's alright. You're alright." When no more tears remained, you gently pushed Armin away, but his hands remained bound to your forearms. "Let's sit you down. We can talk."
Armin led you to the head of your bed while he sat at the foot. In truth, you were a bit embarrassed with how you sobbed on him, so the air was stiff and still.
Time moved in uneven tides when Jean was not around to push in a steady stream. You might have sat with Armin for five minutes, or maybe five hours, and if someone spoke either to be true, you could have believed both.
During all those seconds, you longed to be elsewhere. Maybe in dreams of your design, the furthest cabin from your room, or somewhere perhaps where you had never existed before, but Jean dwelled in every one of those places. You could not escape him. It would be easier if you could rip him out of your stitches. It was one thing to mourn the loss of yourself, but to mourn the loss of someone still breathing was another. You had never taken such a journey before and were scared to wander down that unknown trail of grief while processing so much more than simple heartache.
Armin broke the silence first as he picked up one of your ugly handkerchiefs, "I see you've been working. These are quite pretty." You didn't answer, as there was nothing to say. They were coarse and worn and flawed. Not pretty. Armin tried again, "How are you?"
Even in your broken state, you found humor in the question. "Is it not obvious?"
"Oh, it is, but I'll give you another opportunity to lie if it opens you up enough to same more."
Somehow, a smile came to your lips. "I'm better than I was before you came in. Not good, but better than I was."
Because being sad yet comforted was better than being despondent and alone.
"You aren't going to lie to me?" Armin asked.
"What's the use of it? You already know the truth."
"Most people don't care for the truth, even when everyone knows it. As a matter of fact, Niccolo has lied each time I caught him staring at the stairs or tapping on the countertops. 'I'm fine,' he keeps saying, but the guilt that weighed down his eyes all morning said otherwise."
Your smile disappeared. "So he's hurt, then. I've hurt him."
"Well... It was a bit of a nasty exchange–the one you two shared. Can't imagine either of you would feel particularly chipper after such a shouting match."
"You heard it?"
"It was hard not to. I... may have listened in from the veranda in case you, by chance, needed assistance, but you held your own well enough."
"You heard all of it. Everything I said. About Niccolo. About Sasha."
"I did."
You turned away to stare at the wallpaper again. You tried to distort the lines to fade into nothingness, but they remained clear and constant. There was no escape into delusions; the reality of your cruelty could not be obscured into empty mirages.
"She's disappointed in me," you whispered to the wall. "They all are–all of them. I said... I've done such horrible... awful things."
Armin lightened his voice, "If it makes you feel any better, Jean has said much worse to me than you have said to Niccolo. I was called every slurred name in the book this time last year, and I forgave Jean, and Niccolo will forgive you. You will forgive Niccolo, and you will forgive yourself. In due time, of course."
"I don't think I can."
"Oh, you will. You may have said and done some very questionable things, but Niccolo has done and said the same. Perhaps nothing as bad as drugging him, but... Well, you were nothing, if not provoked, when it came to all the insults thrown your way. In fact, I'm in awe of how calm you were. Initially, that is."
"That doesn't make what I said right."
"No, it doesn't, but it does make you real. You made mistakes, Niccolo made mistakes, and you both want to apologize but lack the right words to do so. It will all come together eventually. I hope."
"What would I even say to the–to him?"
"'I'm sorry' is a decent start," Armin offered, and you turned to see him sending a soft smile from the foot of your bed. "Or you can behave like Jean and pretend nothing ever happened. But Niccolo is not nearly as forgiving as I am, and I'm afraid your memory is far too clear and gentle to forget so easily."
You nodded slowly, and you redirected your gaze back to the wall. The lines stayed strong, and you studied every mark until you could see the wallpaper and Armin's shadow embedded within it with closed eyes.
Armin filled the silence again, "I think... We are not defined by our worst moments unless those moments stretch into a lifetime of terrible behavior. We all make mistakes–say things out of anger that we wish we could take back. Lord knows I've said things I've come to regret. But should you want to change, you can. You can become whoever you like. We all can."
"But I don't know myself well enough anymore to know what I'd change."
"I..." Armin paused. He sighed. His shadow on the wall ran a hand threw his hair. "... I have met all sorts of people–both good and bad–and have learned so much about each of them. Their wants, their needs, their everythings to the point where I know them better than I know of myself most days. And I think that's alright: knowing nothing yet trying to understand. Trying to be better. Trying to learn from the unknown. I... I doubt that makes any sense now that I've said it out loud, but–"
"You're right. It doesn't make any sense."
Armin pushed a tired laugh from his deflated lungs. "I had a feeling it wouldn't, but here I am. Still trying."
The bed sunk in as a closer weight lowered the support, and a hand reached for yours–soft and unsure but trying. With each swipe, a thumb made its best attempts at impressing impossible knowledge onto your ridges, and where words failed, touch did not. Birds whistled outside, and breezes caressed the waving shadows dancing on your wallpaper. Your head slumped onto Armin's much closer shoulder, and you exhaled a breath you didn't know you had held for an entire lifetime. Time stood still, and for those quiet moments that stretched long enough for a pair of hands to turn clammy and so much more familiar, you hated yourself so much less.
Remorseful. Hopeful. Lighter.
Trying.
"Jean is going to murder me should he hear about this," Armin laughed as he squeezed your hand a hair tighter.
"He just might," you responded.
"Well, best he hears about it from me, then. The last thing I need is word going around like it always seems to do in this dreadful, little town. He might smother me with a pillow just for touching you. He's a bit obsessive when it comes to his chosen few, isn't he?"
Obsessive.
You laughed. A real laugh. Not a tired, futile push just for the sake of release. A real laugh.
And your laugh was loud enough that you almost missed the front door's opening. Hurried steps clattered up the stairwell faster than you could move, and a disheveled, sweating figure appeared outside your open bedroom door. Hazel eyes flicked between your face, your clasped hand, and Armin's wide eyes.
"Why the hell are you still in your pajamas but look like you haven't slept in weeks?" Connie asked you and then pointed a thumb at your companion. "And who the hell is this guy? What happened to the tall one with the weird voice?"
You snatched your hand away and sat up straight enough for each slouched vertebra to click into place. Embarrassment scorched your cheeks with each pass you made at smoothing out your wrinkled dress and tousled hair. You searched the wallpaper for answers, but the walls were suddenly blank.
Armin stood up to cover your mortification at being found and said, "It's a pleasure to make your acquaintance, sir." He extended a hand to the intruder. "Armin Arlert."
"Amen Alert to you, too, buddy, but I asked for a name, not a prayer."
Your brows furrowed in confusion at the exchange, and suddenly you were less embarrassed and more confused. Armin matched your expression.
"What did you say?" the Londoner asked.
"I said, 'I asked for a name, not a–'"
"No. No, no, no. I caught that. You said, 'Amen?' Like... Like we are in church?"
"You said it first. That is what you said, isn't it? Right after you gave that frilly welcome, you started in with the church-talk."
"No, I didn't. I said, 'Armin.' Armin is my first name."
"Amen is a first name?"
"No, it's Armin. There's an 'r.'"
Connie appeared more and more bewildered with each sentence. "And where the hell are you hiding it?!"
"A-R-M-I-N," the author spelled it out. "Armin. My name is Armin, and my last name is Arlert. A-R-L-E-R-T. Arlert."
"So there's an 'i' in Armin, too? And the three 'r's' are silent?"
"No, I'm... I'm saying them. They are there... Exactly where I put them."
"He has an accent, Connie," you finally jumped in. "He's from London. The place in Europe. He's British."
Connie's eyes lit up like he cracked the code on his own. He wiggled a finger at Armin's nose and said, "I knew something was wrong with your voice! I just thought you had a lisp, but I didn't want to embarrass ya!" The fool looked back to you. "Well, enough of that question. Let's answer my first one. Why the hell are you still in pajamas?"
"What do you mean?"
"We're having our party? The summer party? The party to round out the summer? So, you need to get dressed? The Yeagers haven't turned up yet, so Sunny got sent out to grab them, but Hitch, her parents, and her husband brought all sorts of rich people food from Hitch's fancy new chef, but I don't like the looks of it. Sasha's Ma and Pop already rode all the way out here, too, and they're helping Ma with all the good cooking while my old man is moving all the furniture and looking for extra chairs, but we might sit Sunny and Martin in the parlor if we run out of places. Mr. Ness isn't coming since he's got some big trip he's gotta rest up and prep the horses for, and... Who else am I missing? Oh, that's right: Levi and Erwin hauled over a pig to roast and even brought the Ripper with them! I nearly–"
"Kenny's there?!" you gasped. "But... I thought Mr. Ackerman and his uncle weren't on speaking terms."
"Yeah, that's what I thought! Nearly shit my..." Connie narrowed his eyes at you. "Wait a minute... Since when are you on a first-name basis with the Ripper? I didn't even know he was real, let alone had a first name, until an hour ago, and I've been alive longer than you."
"I... I met him once," you breathed, "At the tavern. He was nice."
Connie kept a skeptical eye on you, but it eventually relaxed. "Oh... Well, I nearly shit myself when he walked in the door because I thought some girl's father hired him to get me, but I guess Levi and him buried the hatchet. Something about a favor? Hell, I don't know. I'm just glad to still be breathing. I mean, he's a big guy. Tall as a redwood. Must be a family thing since Levi's niece is pretty tall. Too bad our good ol' teacher didn't learn how to get the height gene. Know what I mean?"
So much was happening so fast, and Connie laughed through it all. With how exhausted and emotional you previously were, your head couldn't grasp anything steady, so you picked at something constant and stubborn.
"I'm sorry... But... What about Niccolo? There's no way he'd let me go to–"
"Oh, don't worry about that. Mr. Braus set Nicco straight before our little blondie could hightail it back here. Went on a big long speech about how 'we gotta let kids be kids,' and 'we gotta enjoy life when we can.' Things like that. Wasn't really listening, if we're being honest, but you know how Sasha's old man talks. His voice gets all deep and weighty, and I think he scared Niccolo out of leaving." Connie laughed to himself. "And since Niccolo wasn't leaving, he sent me to get you. And I guess your London-ish friend, too, if he wants to come along. The more, the merrier, right?"
"I'd like that," Armin said with a wide grin.
"You can both go, but I can't, Connie." You sunk into yourself. "I... I should stay here for the night. Niccolo doesn't want me running around, and... I have... some books to read and things to dust, and Mr. Arlert's leaving tomorrow, so I should work on–"
"All I hear is a crock of bullshit bubbling on the stove," Connie cut you off and marched over to yank you off the bed. "So put a lid on it, and let's get you dressed in some real clothes. Something pretty. And tight. I promise I won't take a peek. Unless you ask me to, that is."
You tried to fight, but Connie answered the excuses by pulling clothes from your closet and throwing them on your bed until the room was as stormy as your mind. Armin even helped by pushing everything green into your grasp until you had no choice but to get dressed.
"It's going to be fun. It always is," Connie sang with his eyes facing the wall.
"And what do you do at these parties?" Armin asked, his eyes also facing the wall. "I've been to another one of your American parties, and I fear it wasn't exactly as fun as I had hoped. Too much gossip. Too many people. I might as well have stayed home."
"Drink. Eat. Dance. Sing. I've got a fiddle under my bed that I can pull out, and I even got a hold of some fireworks for the occasion. Experimental stuff. At least, that's what the seller told me, but I'm not sure I should've trusted him." Connie lowered his voice to a whisper, "He's from Florida. And was missing all his front teeth. And his left eye. He kept it in a jar on his mantle, but said it wasn't for sale."
"So, you must be the friend, then. The one that finds all the strange gifts in stranger places but has no idea what they're worth."
"Sounds like me, so it probably is."
"Ah," Armin sighed. "Charmed."
"Gesundheit."
"Charmed, Connie," you translated. "He said, 'charmed.'"
"Oh... Whatever. It's not my fault all your new lovers have weird voices that I can't understand for the life of me."
"Armin is not my lover, Connie." You pulled your corset tight and tied it tighter. "He's my friend, and I'm decent now, so you can turn both around."
Connie spun first with a nasty smirk. "So the other one is your lover, then, huh? The tall one with the weird voice?" And when your eyes darted to anywhere but hazel, he followed up with, "Martin and Sunny are going to eat this up. And Ma is gonna lose her mind. She might even cry. God, I can't wait."
Author's Note: I feel like I've been killing y'all with long chapters with sad endings, so here's a short one with a happy ending. The next one will be ??? with a ??? ending. Stay tuned.