authors note : first fic on this account, yupyup! anyways, um, i actually wrote this for an rp group i'm apart of, it was for a drabble request about how lily got her tattoo, and i figured i'd upload it on here before i release some fics i wrote for the kink meme! i love lily a lot, she's my favorite character in the whole series, and i've always had tons of head canon with her past. obviously, there's head canon right from the start, but that's...the point. it's speculation. ~
anyways! don't own pandora hearts! if i did, lily would get loads for screetime!
enjoy!
Slowly the girl finds herself backing away from the gruesome sight presenting itself to previously unexposed eyes, small, dirty hands pressing against a tattered, burned dress — dirty with grass stains, weeks old, even, blood stains fading away on some parts of fabric that had once been a pure white, though it hasn't been that way since she's received the dress, a filthy hand-me-down from an older sister.
She couldn't believe it, couldn't believe the only person that had ever shown her true kindness was now drained of all life, water logged, face down in a pretty stream of blue — no longer laughing along with her. It was rare for the child to be allowed to laugh in the blank town, for she wasn't allowed to laugh. No, she wasn't allowed to have anything.
She wasn't supposed to be acquainted with any other people, any other children in the village, but the bright child who now lay dead in the long, clear stream was the only one who had given her the light of day, the only one who didn't spit in her direction when she would hobble on by, the only one who didn't yell profanities, shoot water at an already cold body, didn't scream she was the Devil itself.
Yes, the girl who was now dead, out of laughter, drained of color— was the first friend Lily had ever made. And now she's dead. It was just like the people of that village told her, that if she ever neared anything beautiful, it would die at her fingertips.
In for trouble, she was in for trouble. Surely "mommy" and "daddy" would find the body, and even if she wasn't near it— even if she ran, abandoned the horror that was in plain sight, ran back to what she could barely call a home— they would find the remains of the child and blame it on her. It wasn't uncommon, for everything that happened in that village was her fault, the fault of her devil magic. She was born from two humans — but cursed with an unlucky sin.
No longer was she human, she was the Devil. Unworthy to be called something as low as an "It".
"U-uh…" It's all the tiny child can muster, still backing up from the horrific scene before she hears a voice — a voice that's all too familiar, filled with dark intentions, malice — anger, calling for her. No longer is she called by her name, unworthy of a human name — but she knows who the call is for.
" You ! Where the Hell are you ? "
It's hurting already. Already she can feel harsh fists beating down onto her face, a feminine voice that speaks gently to others raised in anger, and she's trembling, turning around to run. It's futile, trying to run, for she's always caught. There's nobody to hide with, for nobody will welcome her inside. There's nobody to go to — for they all want the same thing.
They want her dead.
Even still, by instinct, she begins to limp along the grassy path as quickly as possible, tears of fear welling up into her eyes, trying her best not to cry out, for they'll find her quicker this way. There's nowhere to go, but she's desperate, hands reaching out in a paddling motion, as if trying to get herself further with the aid of her hands, grabbing at empty air, gasping softly.
She doesn't make it far, though. Soon, an accusing hand is grasping onto her shoulder, yanking her backwards — and now she allows herself to yelp, tears beginning to run down filthy cheeks, body being spun around to look at ugly, ugly eyes, angry, eyes she recognized as her mother's. They were always so happy when she spoke to her brothers and sisters, when she spoke to her father, gentle and filled with life, but when they looked at her, they only contained the worst emotions a human being could feel.
Hate.
Disgust.
Rage.
" Why are you crying ? ! "
Slap.
Eyes widen with the sting of a hand, her body trembling harder by the second. She opens her mouth to stutter, but no words come out — only more wordless whines, aggravating the enraged woman even further. The aggravation didn't stand for long, and she's pushed onto the ground, instantly crushed under flat bottom shoes, the dirty under surface pressing against her face at first before the slams became prominent, again, again— and again.
" I asked why the fuck you were crying ! "
"M-mommy—!" She's silenced with her foot against her face for another round, this time not hesitating to scream with pain. Though she's used to all the pain, she can't stop it from hurting. When something hurts, she screams, even if she's told not to, even when they tell her she's not supposed to be screaming.
It hurts.
Suddenly there's hollering from all directions, the attack on her face being stopped with the curiosity of the brute above her, the ginger haired girl not attempting to pick herself up, partly because she's in so much pain, her face burning and irritating from the line of stomps it had just received. Closing her eyes, she breathed softly, just to hear herself breathing — a moment of peace within the screaming and panic before it starts again, the chaos, the torture.
" The bitch has done it again ! "
" It's cursed ! "
" This thing has to die — ! "
She's used to those kinds of words, used to hearing that she has to die. She's only lived a few years of life — eight years of life, and she's already accepted she was born to be despised, that she was born to impact the lives of other people in the most nasty of ways.
She was useless and powerless.
She would be better off dead.
Again she lets out a loud, abrupt yelp when she's taken by the hair, unfamiliar fingers tangling into dirty locks of orange, yanking her up away from the foot that kicked her once as she came up, eyes flickering upward to make contact with the person she was supposed to adore — with the person who was supposed to pursue their title of "mommy".
" Do what you will with this thing . "
So she begins to panic, eyes snapping wide open, a hand reaching towards the elder, scowl still on her face — beginning to cry out for her. She knew very well that her cries wouldn't be considered, that her voice may as well be falling against deaf ears, but in her state of panic, she wanted somebody to call out to. She wanted somebody to call out back to her, tears in their eyes — care for her.
Nobody cared for a child like herself.
"Mommy! Mommy! Mommy—!" Tears streamed down her face, shutting closed in a loud wail once she was yanked hard by her hair, screaming loudly once her eyes allowed themselves to open back up. It seemed as if time had passed quickly in front of her, for the pretty silhouette was so far away, and only got further with the passing time.
What followed after was dark.
She hadn't a clue where she was, only heard the shuffling of feet, sounds making a distinct ' ssss ' sound, almost like a snake — pressing her hands to the ground, attempting to pick her body up from the ground. She failed although, and soon collapsed back onto the ground fully, still filled with tears, as if they would never stop.
What did…
Why…
Why was she born this way?
Why was she born at all?
Suddenly she's grabbed again, though she can't see — the sizzling sound still loud, mocking her ears. She really wouldn't be surprised if they're going to allow a serpent to devour her whole, she's heard that threat before. Foolish as ever, she opens her mouth to speak, but is cut off by heat, heat that's full and noticeable—
Burning.
A scream ripped through her throat, not bothering to hold in at all, screaming louder and louder by the second, the heat still there on her cheek, overwhelming, making her body jerk forward— quick and unsteady, the child not bothering to make a pause between screams. It was a loud, ongoing scream— hands grabbing at her wrists to hold her back, to stop her jerking, another wrapping around her neck to silence her screeching.
It hurts.
It hurts.
It doesn't last long, although. It's quick, and she's dropped to her back, hands releasing the concealed parts of her body only briefly before the abuse begins to resurface — powerful kicks to her stomach delivered in a swift movement, a loud whimper leaving her lips, lasting for a minute before she's kicked again — the wind knocked out of her tiny body, leaving her gasping for air.
A chuckle.
She hears a chuckle.
More kicks to the stomach, to her face — every vunerable part of her body, and they're gone just like that.
Minutes pass — or was it hours? Slowly a shaking hand moves up towards her face, brushing digits against the side of her face, still warm from the burns — lips shakily curving downward into a twisted frown, heart beating slowly in her chest. She can barely breathe, everything is hurting, even the small action from her hand is making her weaker, panting gently into open air.
She can't speak.
She can only think—
Barely think.
Only regret.
She never wanted to kill anybody.
She never wanted to kill anybody.
Not until then.