A/N: Creepy, epic, psychopathic Cruella. Thought she deserved a tribute, for being wonderfully crazy. Obviously I don't condone her villainous, cold-blooded behavior but it was intriguing to get inside her head.
You have always lived in silence, even before. You walked and talked and smiled like the other children, but it was like being kept out in the cold, ice crystals ranged along your fingertips—something numb and very, very quiet.
There are no words for what you are, for what you are not.
You try. You try a thousand ways, in between the empty nights, and at last, one day, he makes you very angry.
It's so—warm, just for an instant.
You bring him his tea, precisely on the hour.
And when he falls, something stirs in you.
The trumpet flowers bright upon your bed, and you feel it again—hear it again, humming in your ears—something bright and sharp, a pulse, a pitter-patter along the filaments of your spine—
This is what it means to feel.
She knows. And she hates you, though she will not let you go. You learn what it is to be afraid, a feeling you can almost shape with your hands, like a fast-beating heart held out before you. The dogs run and run and you rake in a breath.
She catches you again. And again, and again. The portraits on the walls are as silent as graves. You would hear them scream again, if you could. It would be so much better than being alone, inside, in the dark, with her.
Then he comes. An ugly, eager, innocent little man. He does not think you are clever, only sweet, and you hate him for that.
Hate. It's new. A good feeling, hotter than anger. You realize that you hate her too, although it is too much, and you are cold again.
He is so useful. You cease to hate him. It recedes, almost mathematically. You smile, and it is easy. Easy to dance and dance and laugh, turn up the music so, so loud—
It's never going to be quiet again.
It isn't quiet when she dies, when the dogs die, when you dance and dance and sew yourself a memory.
It keeps you warm.
You'll never be cold again.