Dualism: The Glorious Souls
By TheAlpacaIllusionist
Warning: contains slightly graphic and possibly offensive, descriptions of suicide. You have been warned.
Side note: I plan for this story to feature mainly seasons 1 and 3 of Kuroshitsuji and nothing from season 2, but maybe some bonus stuff from the manga.
Story Disclaimer: I do not own Kuroshitsuji, as much as I would like to. It and all of its characters/storyline belong to its rightful owner.
~Prologue~
It was a fall day unlike any other she remembered. With summer temperatures mixed in with the flaming colours of autumn, it was a sight to behold. Younger children went about picking out their pumpkins for the upcoming Halloween festival in town where they would compete for the best carved, best dressed up and best painted. Young couples walked hand in hand, each holding a cup of steaming apple cider made from last year's crop. The older adults sat at the cafes on Main Street, admiring the changes that had occurred over the years and commenting on how they suspected the town would change next year.
Living on the local pumpkin farm, Philomena had come to accept the fall as one of the busiest seasons of the year. Everyone in town expected for the pumpkins to be large and plump and perfect for their every desire. It was no problem, of course, because even she had come to expect it. When the pumpkin vines in their patches first flowered, her chest would blossom with excitement over how fantastic the year's harvest would be. When the first tiny pumpkins would appear on the same vines, green and underdeveloped, she would giggle with glee, recalling past years.
However, this year was different than past years. Usually her mother and sister would be enjoying the season with them, her mother having just started knitting new gloves and scarves for the upcoming winter and her sister hiding under heavy, unnecessary layers of blankets while she watched movies far too scary for her to handle.
Last winter, the two had passed away in a quotably "tragic accident" that had left the rest of the family torn at the seams. Her father dedicated himself to the farm and her two older twin brothers moved out of the house and into town.
Philomena had accepted their deaths with a few tears and immersion into her own schoolwork. School itself had already been going for just over a month by that point and on top of the stresses of work, it was just another distraction from the truth of the matter; Halloween was not going to be like it used to be.
At school, her friends all laughed and joked, as if their world were different than the one she herself was living in. They were ignorant to their friend's silent suffering. Philomena was suffering, whether she cared to show it or not. She could pretend to ignore the loneliness she felt, missing her father who was too obsessed with the farm to truly say much beyond the daily, "How was school?" routine. Her brothers hardly ever came around to the farm and when they did, it was with tight lipped smiles and cold glances.
She was not proud to admit it, but Philomena was contemplating something that was completely unheard of in her town. People there were happy, or at least, they pretended to be and because of that, they never took their own lives. In the town's two hundred year history, it was reported that only seventeen people had ever done so, and most of those had been in the years of the Great Depression where it was either a quick, voluntary death or a slow, agonizing death from starvation.
Philomena just could not escape her own thoughts, whirling and terrible and harsh. She lost her self-confidence, the light that once shone from her eyes. She was a shell, pitiful and unwanted, of the person she once was. Yet nobody noticed and that was the worst thing. Her father, her brothers, her friends, even her teachers failed to notice anything off.
It was exactly one week before her favourite day of the year that Philomena was alone in the house. Their two story farmhouse was warm with the scent of pumpkins and cinnamon, while decorative wreathes of sticks, faux leaves and acorns hung from the main doorways. Hand painted wooden skulls from the local craft store sat on the mantle, sandwiched by brass candle sticks. The windows were open and Philomena could feel the uncharacteristically warm breeze from atop the stairs, flowing between the old wooden stair rails that were original to the house.
In her hands was a limp cord, cut from small bedside light that was in the spare bedroom. Taking a deep breath, Philomena tied one end to the stair rail tightly. Hearing a soft meow behind her, she turned and gave her black cat a sad smile. Then Philomena tied the other end of the cord to her neck, just tight enough that she felt the blood gathering in her head.
The wood beneath her fingers was smoothly polished, if a bit grimy from years of not being cleaned. The rug beneath her feet, on the other hand, was roughly spun, but not overly so that it was unpleasant. She took in these things thoughtfully before lifting one leg up over the banister, swiftly followed by the other. Soon, she was sitting on the handrail, staring down at the floor far below her.
How cruel of me to do this. How utterly thoughtless that I have to do it in the house.
She gave a weak laugh at her thoughts that quickly became a strangled sob before using her hands to propel herself forward. Gravity acted immediately, ignoring all of the silly things that seemed possible in cartoons. She didn't have time to raise a white flag of surrender before she was falling towards the ground. The rush was brief, but soon she was dangling, her feet only feet above the ground. Her eyes bulged and she struggled for breath. She clawed at her neck, trying to relieve the pain, but she hardly had any strength.
Fight! she urged herself, but there was no time.
Seconds passed and then the darkness came, slowly from the corners until it was a mask over her eyes. Her hands, the ones that had been fighting so furiously, fell to her sides, leaving deep red scratches from where her nails had dug too deeply. Her mind was next, promptly going silent.
After the noiseless struggles of the young girl had faded, a new silence settled in the home. Her cat came down the steps, staring up at its master as she swung in the sudden cold October breeze that was searching the home. Occasionally, her body convulsed, too, until after some more time, it had stopped completely. Her head was grotesquely purple, but the rest of her body was cold and pale.
It was to the scene of her suspended body, still in her school uniform, that her father came home to. His first reaction was to fall to his knees, muddy jeans catching on the nearby couch.
He gave a strangled cry before dialling the emergency number on his cell phone. Twenty minutes later, the cops and paramedics arrived to the home, Philomena's father in the same position he had been in since he first set eyes on his daughter's corpse. A kind police man gently moved him from the room to the outdoors where they were immediately surrounded by five of the family dogs.
Inside, a female cop inspected the scene, coming across a note, the ink in which it was written having been smeared from what must have been tears. Swallowing, she opened it, reading it quickly.
It was only a few days later that Philomena's father read the contents of the note and when he did, the tears that he had managed to finally control were unleashed again, a torrent of salty liquid cascading down his pockmarked face.
Dear Dad, Andrew and Danny,
If you're reading this, I'm dead. I am so sorry. Paulo Coelho once said "Tears are words that need to be written," and so these are my words to you, formed by tears which have fallen far too much for my own liking:
I cannot do this anymore. After Mom and Lissa died I couldn't breathe and for some reason I felt alone in this.
There is no regret from me. I never really knew what I was doing with my life anyways and I just felt like a burden to you. Did I remind you of Mom? Or was it Lissa? Maybe I should have died with them. It feels like that, sometimes. I hope that you can forgive me for living and dying, for having existed in the first place.
I am so sorry.
Sorry.
Forgive me, if you can,
Philly
To apologize for existing, Philomena sealed the unwritten contract. In the brief moments after her existence had ended, her soul was whisked away from her old life. She was brought, instead, to a new one. This life was one that was destined to be stained by blood and agony, yet it still welcomed her broken soul into its hold. She was welcomed to the body of one Ciel Phantomhive.
Please note that Philomena does not replace Ciel. All thoughts, follows and favourites are appreciated.