GRELL'S RED MISERY
The scarlet tears, always tumbling down the porcelain face of the pretty little doll, pale and fragile, an elegant work of art, constantly being stained and marred with a new array of paintings, new drawings, new works of art, all written in his own flesh. Crimson regret used as the ink to circle new locations, new areas to add the burgundy streaks. A new painting, a new drawing, it was a priority to display his creativity.
Why won't he love me?
He would write on his canvas, his simple rough paper, all a final draft. Though these drawings he couldn't throw away after he deemed them unfit, he'd just scribble over them and start anew.
Because he'll never understand, that's why.
That was always the answer to it. That was why he had no white-out, his eraser was the sink. More and more paintings, more to add to his variety, his collection, their numbers sky-rocketing by each passing, given moment, all he wanted was to be noticed by his love.
And I get what I deserve.
That was what he always believed. That he deserved this. To be left alone with his art, to forever be alone, to sit in the red midnight's, and paint, draw, and scribble. Nothing more than a doll, to look pretty, to be another work of art, to be nothing more than something pretty to look at, and something to toy with.
And that's fair enough.
It was fair enough for him, to always be ignored, to show nothing but love, and receive hatred and distain in return. It was okay.
I'm a canvas. One day he will see my true beauty.
He was a canvas, one who was used to a paint brush that was a razor, a pencil made from blade, the only thing close to paper that he would use was the bandages used to cover his creations. There was no such thing as an eraser to him, there was no white-out, it was all the kitchen sink.
But he's nice sometimes…right?
Then there were the days that the older man, the demon, would bid to his wishes, and grace him with his presence. Those were the days when the ruby-haired beauty would think that maybe things were okay.
But in the end it's always fake, it never really meant anything.
In the end though, he'd go home in a shallow mess, sputtering and weeping on the floor of his office. Through the days, he would receive a slap to the face, one that he was accustomed to each time he came back to the area in that state. William would make sure that the reaper himself would get back up, and exchange the menacing chainsaw he always wielded for a pair of safety scissors. After finding his paintings, the older male had decided that the safety scissors were going to remain until he ceased to draw and paint.
But that won't stop me.
Though the scissors were just a minor let-down, it was a simpler way of drawing, instead of hacking off his canvases with a bloody saw. The dull, sharp metal would do just as well.
There was his cold comfort, and that was easy to rely on.
After the last time he came home in his mumbling, sobbing state, his "partner" had decided that him and the burgundy beauty needed to talk. Talk about what has been going on. It was unlikely that William would help him, the odds of that were very low, and when that happened, it was quite a surprise. There was a promise to not tell the over-seers of his condition, and him seeing the demon everyday, in return for allowing William to know what was going on. Soft hugs were returned and accepted through one another, though it was occasional, he had even allowed the red-head to cuddle up to him and snuggle into his warmth, and allowed him to sleep by his side.
It doesn't mean that it felt right though.
And despite this comfort, it was still never the same. Though he did enjoy it, and his mind told him that he was supposed to stay by the side of William, his heart had been arguing, and it was winning. His heart was what caused all of the problems.
So confronting him was the best thing to do.
Oh, he knew that he wasn't allowed on the property of the Phantomhive manor. He knew this quite well. Though, that wouldn't stop him, he's already broken that declaration several times on several occasions. He knew that the Phantomhive brat that his dear Sebastian always tended to had ordered the butler he oh so adored to ignore him in the fullest.
He doesn't have to talk to me.
Not like he ever really did talk to him. The only phrases he would speak were to throw the lime-eyed reaper off guard, and get him out of his hair by easily discarding him.
All he has to do is listen to what I have to say.
He saw it coming. The same knives that the demon had thrown at him on several occasions, and it was always just as he were to approach the door to politely knock. He didn't care at this point. The speed that the metal tools had resolved to easily tore into the fabric of the reaper's clothing, pinning him to a tree, the other six of them following after, one of them found a home in the crook of his shoulder, the other snuggling into his hair, tangling itself, tugging lightly at the ruby threads, the next entering in an area between two of his ribs, another one fallowing right after it, hitting next to the other knife, and the last one found a place in the porcelain doll's abdomen. A small spurt of blood that drizzled down from the corner of his mouth to the bottom of his chin signified the slight internal bleeding.
And my heart allows me to go through this punishment.
"I told you last time, Sutcliff, not that you'd ever listen, that you're never allowed on the Phantomhive property, not now and not ever, will you never learn, you clumsy, silly-." Sebastian stopped there, not continuing, though there was rage in his eyes. He was enraged with him, he was tired of being easy and nice with the reaper that he found frankly quite annoying.
I've heard worse from you, Bassy.
"You disgust me."
I disgust myself.
The smooth, gloved hands of the Phantomhive butler found there way to Sutcliff's wrist, clenching it, and pulling him slowly off of the tree, allowing the knives to tear large openings throughout the lavished scarlet trench coat that he had usually worn. Lifting the other male by the wrist, the red eyed demon looked at the reaper in distain, "What do you want, Grell? You and your sick, twisted fantasies will never happen. No one could ever love someone like you."
You're right, Bassy. I can't even love myself, how the hell could I love somebody else?
The torn sleeve of his trench coat slithered down his arm, slumping against his shoulder in torn wrinkles. The sight that was now present was something that even the demon himself had not expected. Sloppy, scarlet incisions laced the arms of the still male that he was gripping, the cuts themselves were placed sloppily on his arm, the thinness and the largeness varied with the different areas, near the veins they were larger, on the upper arm they were tinier.
You probably love this, knowing that I'm even weaker than you thought.
His red eyes trailed over the scene before him, glancing at Grell's light features and calm face, as if he didn't and couldn't possibly care anymore.
"Do you like what you see?" He asked, his usually shrill voice that he called Sebastian with was low, and there was a hint of sick humor in it. He seemed pleased with the self-inflicted harm, and a lovely grin sprouted on his face, though it was eerily frightening.
Do you love what you caused? Don't you love my pain?
"Grell, stop doing this to yourself."
Why, Bassy? Why would you even care?
"Why Bassy, that's a funny joke. I thought you loved my pain. Especially when you caused it yourself." His eyes dilated with an insane gleam, though there was that tender hurt that was locked in his eyes.
How much you've hurt me. I can't believe that I've come undone because of you.
"Grell, stop it. Just because I don't like you it doesn't mean that you have to do this till yourself." The butler's voice was firm and insistent.
Why should I stop? My heart is already dead, and I can't physically die. I'm immortal. My pain lasts for eternity. You will never understand, because all you crave is sex and killing. I used to be able to love, and you ruined that. Forever.
"Maybe if you could love, maybe if your heart could be broken, maybe if you could suffer the years if pain that you've put me through, maybe then you could tell me to stop, then maybe you would understand, then maybe you would have the right to even bothering to tell me to stop. Maybe then, then you could feel my red misery."