Title: So This Is The End?
Author: metatronsgurl
Disclaimer: I do not own a thing....Except...Hopefully...The plot....I hope I'm the only one screwed up enough to think of this...
Rating: Hard PG-13 or a soft R.
Warnings: Ummm....Dark fic....Deals with schizophrenia and suicide. Definitely not one for the impressionable kiddies...
A/N: Was I the only one screaming "Struggle, stupid! Struggle!" when the Horseman had Katrina? Anybody else looked for an explanation? I did. And in my ten days sans computer, this is what my oh-so-screwed-up mind came up with...If it doesn't make sense tell me. Flame me if you have to...This is most definitely a one-shot 'cause I freaked my Mom out writing it...
I had been fascinated with the New York constable from the moment I had laid eyes on him. Over time that fascination had grown and deepened into what some mistook for love or adoration. Only I knew the truth; it was an obsession, pure and simple.
I furthered my obsession by showing affection towards him. This served a dual purpose. It caused my prize to begin to have an interest in me and it began to distance Brom Van Brunt.
I had wanted to be rid of Brom for nearly two years. He was a toy I had tired of playing with. I could no longer pretend to be the scared and submissive girl he had fallen for.
I yearned to control.
The beginning of the murders was both a blessing and a curse; a blessing because it delivered the constable to me, and a curse because it caused Brom to 'tighten his hold' on me. I suppose it all worked out in the end. Even as I ensnared the constable, jealousy began to drive Brom away.
I will not lie. I was rather upset when I was told of Brom's unfortunate end. He had been such a very good toy.
Everything was perfect.
That is, until she returned.
I had restrained her for so long. How she broke free I will never know. It would seem that during her time in submission she had learned of my plan, for she immediately set about to destroy it. Reading his ledger to find any thing she could use to drive him away. Burning his evidence for the sole purpose of fighting with him. Drawing symbols under his bed to protect him. Not from the Horseman, but from me.
I fought her, of course. I fought bitterly. Control wavered between the two of us. Despite my best efforts, she almost succeeded; he left, broken hearted. I nearly gave up then; I receded and allowed her control. She wept with relief when she saw him go. I suppose she thought she had won our nine-year war.
Fortunately for me, dear Stepmother chose that time to reveal herself. You see, what my stepmother did not know was that, hidden, in the folds of my enemy's dress, was one of the sharpest knives in the household. She thought she would just end it all. Stupid girl. She could not do it. She always was the weak one.
When Stepmother announced her presence, the shock was too much for her and she lost consciousness. That was exactly what I needed to regain my hold.
That hold lasted until the gun went off in Stepmother's hand and I believed my quarry to be dead.
Since then I have lain in wait. It has been nearly a year. They have settled down in New York. She and the constable are now wed and are expecting their first child.
Her control is waning and she knows it. Soon I will be able to regain my rightful position and complete my plan.
Soon I will finally rid myself of her presence. I will have control. Of everything
Katrina Crane stared out the window at the midnight sky. Tears streamed silently towards her pillow. She gently extricated herself from her husbands grasp. This would end tonight.
She opened the top drawer in the night table. Reaching into the back, she opened the panel. She had written the letter long ago. Shortly after she and Ichabod had wed she had added to it.
It would be of no consolation to him, of course, but it would at least help him to understand why. She placed the folded letter on her tearstained pillow, within easy grasp, and gently kissed her love's cheek.
She padded silently to the door. "Goodbye," she murmured before closing it behind her. She continued down the stairs, tears splashing softly onto the wood. This would not be easy. She had never expected it to be.
She reached the undersized kitchen and quickly found the small knife she had set aside. Gripping it, she walked back to the living room and sat in the simple wooden chair.
The final battle of this war would be fought tonight, and this time there would be no interruptions.