And you're angry. You're so damn angry because it just isn't fair. Your mother preferred your sisters. Your father hated you because you were supposed to be a boy. Andromeda hated you because she thought you were crazy. Sirius hated you because of your blood purity 'obsession'. Even Narcissa hated you for your supposed infatuation with the dark lord; Narcissa, your youngest sister. When you were little she used to adore you. When she had nightmares about monsters, she'd come into your room and beg to sleep in your bed. That was until she realized you were the monster.
When you were eleven, you witnessed your first death. Your father had dragged a mudblood into the drawing room - the result of a successful raid. She was a girl, around your age. Upon closer inspection, you realised she was a Ravenclaw in your year; Isolde Wills, you remember her name being. She pleaded with you to show her some mercy; you kicked her in the stomach. Much to your pleasure, your father was very proud of you for doing that. You were halfway out of the room when someone (you're not sure who) fired a crucio. Those screams echoed in your ears for the rest of your life, repeating over and over in your head like a macabre record on replay. You stood, frozen on the spot, for what seemed like eternity. Waiting. Listening. For anything. And then the wailing stopped, silence falling over the room. You turned slowly around, your young brain still processing what had happened. There, laying on the ground, unmoving, was Isolde. Her blood (admittedly far too close to the colour of your own) had blended in with the Mahogany floorboards of your drawing room. Your head started to spin and, grabbing onto the nearest pot (that beautiful blue one your mother had bought from Peru, you recall), you threw up the entirety of your dinner.
At 18, you had mastered all three Unforgivables, thanks to the aid of the Dark Lord. Your favourite (it would always be your trademark) was the torture curse – Crucio. Oh how you loved it. Finally, others could feel the pain you did. You could take out all your anger on some filthy nameless mudblood, and not suffer any consequences. You felt like a child let loose in Florean Fortescue's Ice Cream Parlour (you adored that place when you were a child). Their screams rang in your ears – a morbid symphony that you couldn't get enough of.
You married Rodolphus Lestrange when you were 20. The wedding was huge, and every purebood family attended. You remember looking into the mirror, and thinking vaguely that you resembled a porcelain doll. You grin; you're anything but. As you walked down the aisle with your father, your mother was crying (more for show, you think) and your sisters were staring enviously at your dress. You forced yourself to smile when Rod put the ring on your finger, and held your breath as he kissed you on the lips. You loved Rod, you did. Not the same way you loved the Dark Lord, of course, but you loved him nonetheless. Even though you only told him once or twice. He never treated you like you were made of glass. He let you take control of raids sometimes. ('He was the only one to ever see you really cry' a voice in the back of your head reminds you). And more than anything, you trusted him. It's taken you until now to admit that, but you smile (a real smile) at the thought. He trusted you too.
When you were 35, you suffered your first and only miscarriage. You never let it on, but you were devastated (you were going to call her Capella). The MediWitch said it was just unfortunate, and that nothing could have been done. That night, you went on a rampage. You killed 34 mudbloods in 19 different houses. You were about to enter a 20th house, when Rod apparated into their front garden. He stepped forward and enveloped you in a hug. He apparated the two of you into your bedroom, and you abruptly dropped to the floor and crawled into the corner of the room sobbing quietly to yourself. He lifted you up, cradling you like a baby, and walked you over to the bed. You cried into his chest the entire night (one of the only times you ever really cried).
Narcissa had Draco soon after. You hated that little boy (always spoilt, screamed a lot). He was almost a year old when you went to Azkaban after the Dark Lord fell. You went to say goodbye to him and he bit you. You slapped him and Narcissa yelled at you. It was worth it, though, to see him cry. He got better by the time you escaped Azkaban, but not by much. 'Got out of that biting stage, though' you think. Pity he looks like his father (always just a bit too feminine, Lucius was). You snigger; he probably used more hair and skin care products than you and Narcissa combined. You never were one for make-up.
When the Dark Lord rose again, you escaped Azkaban with some other Death Eaters. You were free, and you were really fucking happy about it. Azkaban was an awful place, even for a person such as you. The Dementor's kiss was like a crucio fired at your emotions. They played on your weaknesses, the Dementors. They weren't stupid. Being forced to relive your most terrifying memories (ones you thought you'd forgotten) was hell. It would send even the most composed witch or wizard utterly bonkers. You grin; if they were sane in the first place.
When you saw Andromeda again for the first time in years, you stared. That was your sister; she shares the exact same blood as you. Somewhere in the back of your head (the sane part of it) you know that it wasn't her fault she fell in love with the mudblood; 'You can't help who you love' the voice of 16 year old Sirius reminds you. Father said she was a coward, running away from her duties like she did. Mother cried because she'd lost her favourite daughter. Narcissa cried because she'd miss her sister. And you, you cried too. Not like Narcissa or your Mother did; not in public. You crawled under your bed and sobbed into a pillow. You cried for Narcissa (because she'd never know the real meaning of love) and you cried for Andromeda (because she would never see her family again); but most of all, you cried for yourself. Your family made you the way you are – they hated you. 'Bellatrix! Shut your mouth!' 'Bellatrix! You useless bitch!' You never let on just exactly how much their words affected you.
So when someone died, you laughed (it was the best entertainment). When someone bled, you laughed (because blood is the greatest aphrodisiac). When you bled, you laughed. You deserved it most of all. That peculiar red liquid running down your arm was the source of all life. Life. That word didn't mean much to you (yours' had been fucked from the start, anyway). It's funny how blood means so much; 'yet how easy it is to take away', you think. It was such cruel irony. 'Oh well' you grin. 'It looks better on the walls anyway'.