Men are fickle creatures. The power they wield over something as tremulous as a heart is astounding. They think themselves so clever, but their knowledge is fleeting and useless. Pioneers of business and parlor room deals, the lot of them. None of it having a damn bit of importance. They start early, you know. These men that come to break hearts and turn blind eyes to the suffering around them. We are all victims. All of us who have had our affections abused or worse, outright ignored.
Some women handle it alright, I suppose. They simper and wring their hands and look the other way, burying their grief in embroidery and etiquette. Some of us, aren't so polite. Some of us just might do something about that pain one day. It might not be pretty. Then again, it might. Red is a lovely color. I have always thought so. Red, in all of its shades and hues as it flushes beneath skin... Some of us don't take rejection well. Some of us have given you men so many chances to redeem yourselves and have lost our patience. Some of us... are dangerous.
I'm a strong one. I have had my heart thrown back at me more times than I can count. I keep setting it out there like bait. I am not patient, though. And when the bait isn't taken, I am more than happy to show you what you men are missing. With my eyes lined in Kohl and lips painted crimson, I am not shy about what I want. I could make it worth their time to pay me a little attention. Playing nice isn't my strong suit, though. I don't mind if they want to rough me up a little. A man shouldn't be soft, after all. Not by a long shot. And he certainly wouldn't be when I was done with him. Men, cold and fickle and OBLIVIOUS. I may have mentioned that I am not the patient type. Well, I have given this man years -years -to come to his senses. Frustration finally got the better of me. I moved on. Or I tried to. That is when I found Madame.
Such atrocities men cause, with their callousness. Though I can't say I minded in this case. Not at first. After all, she was responsible for some lovely masterpieces that were born from her pain. Oh, poor choice of words perhaps on my part. Oh, how she became alive when she relieved her pain though. I sat with her in the parlor of her town house. Such taste she had, Madame Red. Even her name was heavenly. I am never quite comfortable unless I am seeing red. In her presence, I felt calm. That is until the urge to act on her pain took hold. But I am getting ahead of myself. In those hours where we were alone, and my skin did not crawl off my body having to pretend to be the plain, simple, well behaved, proper MAN, she would run her fingers through my hair, and I would rub her shoulders.
I found her first in the streets, with the guts of some prostitute smeared across her bodice of red satin. She made my pulse quicken. It was unusual for me to find such excitement in another woman. Maybe he had turned me away one to many times - that devious, delicious, cold bastard. She eyed me like a conquering angel when I landed beside her, my boots sliding in the gore. Oh, blood is my favorite red. There are more shades of blood than any other red in the world. And I know them ALL.
I digress. That night in her townhouse with our fingers bringing relief to each other, she shared the pain in her heart with me. Madame was tight lipped at first, but I know how to ease an aching heart that has been trodden upon by the boots of men. Red wine, and a lot of it. Fortunately, Madame was fluent in social graces and had plenty on hand. I was intrigued, if I am honest. Brutality hidden within a wrapper of refined womanhood. I could do that, I thought. I poured, and she drank. Eventually, I drank also. I had pain in my heart, too. When her cheeks were flushed with scarlet, and her blood red hair falling in her eyes, she told me about him.
I knew it. There is always a him. There is always some man who doesn't know what he has lost. In Madame's case, she lost the man to her sister. Ouch. In a way, she deserved that. Men are a drug, something we need, and when they get into our veins, we can no longer give them up. Why let something as trivial as family relation stand in the way? Madame was soft sometimes. I guess I could overlook that. Not everyone is as tough as I am.
The man she loved made her feel alive. He made her love who she was. He never knew the power he had over her. I'm sure of it. Even with my hands on her shoulders, my fingers inching towards her slender throat with her pulse beating beneath the skin, I never had the power over her that man did. The man she loved opened her eyes to the red she lived and breathed. Spider lilies... He compared her to flowers. He had no idea of the strength and the deadly power lurking beneath that proper facade. He married her sister, the man she loved. The fool hearted bastard held Madame's heart in the palm of his hand, and chose to crush it in his fist. And just like the entire male species, he did it in the harshest way possible, by never even noticing how she prostrated herself for him. Well, we do strange things for love.
It's what we do when that love is denied us that becomes really interesting, though. What a pair we became. The night, safe in its darkness, its singular superiority, came to fear us. Red bathed London when we took to the streets. Oh, she was grand to watch. As fine a predator as I have seen - save for myself, of course. She didn't hesitate to take a life, to pour her hatred and her loneliness into a kill. For a short while there, I thought she could actually make me happy. It was foolish, though. For by her side I needed to remain too calm, and too well behaved. It isn't in my nature to follow the rules. I didn't do that for him. I wasn't about to keep that charade up for her, no matter how much blood she rained upon the town. Madame burned brightly, and the flame excited me.
One day her niece came to visit. I was lounging on the sofa, with my boots on the coffee table and her head in my lap. She had these beautiful eyes; they weren't quite wine red... like, well like someone I knew. They were more like rose red. The same roses they toss on the top of caskets filled with the remains of our nights on the town. I'm not one for funerals, really. I prefer a lively, quickened pulse when I walk by. Though there is something to be said for the man who prepares the corpse. I like it when they can take a bit of torture, even more so when they can dish it back. He wasn't the aggressive type though, and eventually I got bored. You men. You have no idea the chances we give you, what a boon you pass up. Oblivious. The lot of you.
Where was I? This waif of a girl came to visit. I had to hide myself behind glasses, and brown suits. Oh, Madame knew how I hated the male facade I had to wear when we were not alone. She promised it would be worth it, and I believed her because I wanted to believe something. I was tired of being overlooked and this woman, this woman, craved the brutality that made me feel alive. I thought it would work. We traded red wine for tea. I loathe making tea. I stood behind Madame's chair as the pleasantries took place. She was an expert at hiding the pain that thrummed through her womanly form. Her heart bled. For years it weeped ruby tears for a man who never acknowledged all she had to give him and when she overflowed with the force of them, she unleashed her fury. I secretly hoped she was filling quickly. I was restless.
Tears welled up in the little girl's eyes. Young woman, Madame corrected me. I don't understand kids. I can't relate and they do nothing to get this pulse of mine racing. This world is dull and without a few thrills, not worth my time. But Madame loved her in a way. So I pretended to be patient. Color me surprised; she was interesting after all. Well, only if surprise is the color of heated passion. Unless I am still stuck in this wretched guise of a man, then color me anything as long as it isn't this. You may recall I told you men start early. Oh, this little woman with her heart bursting open with rejection could confirm this for me. He was ignoring her. As I said, there is always a he. Was it fate? Here we three sit in a townhouse decorated the color of passion and each one of us slighted and abused.
Little Elizabeth had her own pain. She managed to snag an engagement to her object of affection. Personally, that put her ahead of the game to either Madame of myself and I wanted to slap her face for feeling sorry for herself. Such a pale child, too. She would have bloomed beautifully under my palm. I was being harsh, though. I had been good too long. My patience was wearing thin. I suppose being young does not mean she can't feel the pain of rejection just like the rest of us. Oh, her little lord rejected her love, her adoration. She threw herself at him, tried to perfect her femininity, tried to be everything and anything at all she could to turn his eye. Pathetic. I see the muscles flex in her arms when she moves. I see the careful way she steps when she walks. The girl is a fighter. She should beat the rejection out of her little lord. I hate that brat.
They sit together on the sofa and Madame consoles her niece. I watch them with veiled eyes and my ire seethes beneath this awful suit. There will be blood tonight and I will bathe in it and let it take this sting away. The young girl loves a little lord who is blinded to her. You men, you beasts who throw away all that we give you. Her little lord will never return her favor because his cold, iced heart is ensnared by another. He would rather court his own death and take it to his bed than actually give his affections to someone who would lay the brick work at his feet. Her level of devotion sickens me, yet I still anger on her behalf for the injustice we all feel. Madame spent her youth and then all of the years that followed lusting for a man who preferred her blonde, soft sister. What a fool he was. She is fire and steel and red wine and spider lilies in spring. She is blood in the streets of London and cold and calculating. What a fiery lover she would have been had he not been blind. You men.
Then there is me. My story. They don't ask. Madame tried, but she didn't know the right questions. I have never been one to go easy on anyone. That does nothing to get my pulse racing. They, these two women, feel they are so jaded and the world will break around their ears because their loves have looked upon another with eyes that should belong only to them. I... I am rejected for my very nature. I am wild, and crazed and my lust cannot be slaked. Red. Red is the only thing that sustains me. I could change, maybe. Were he to turn those cold eyes and harsh words to me because he knew they would excite me. No. I am rejected for everything I am. His only lover is his job and I take no comfort in that. My patience is thin and my blood lust high. I am tired of behaving, and tired of hiding. I look at these two women wiping each other's tears and sniffling into tea cups and I realize I need more than this. There will be blood tonight.