Alright, this was sort of inspired by watching the final scene of the movie again, and also because I wanted to do something that really illustrated Mrs Lovett's madness. It's rather short and morbid, but… there you are. (No Sweenett here, sorry.)
The problem with dying, Mrs Lovett thought to herself, is that it's so easy to do. An accidental slip of a knife, a sip of the wrong draught, a stumble on a bridge over rushing water, and that was it. No chance to go back and save yourself, no helpful voice in the shadows warning you against your fate. Are you sure you want to go that way? It was just over. And the worst thing was that it was usually your own fault.
Mrs Lovett had seen men die, or seen them just before they drew their last breath. She had seen their honest, oblivious faces, and then heard the slick sound of well-oiled gears turning, the groan of wood as it bent in new, hideous ways, and the undeniable smash of a skull cracking on the stone floor below. And later, she had cleaned up after them, dealing efficiently and dispassionately with the remains death had left behind after he had come to these men, with a ferocious smile and a glint of silver in his eye. At first the baker had been horrified at how easily they went, never suspecting until it was too late. Surely there must be some instinct, some red flag to go up in the brain when they stood face to face with their own grinning doom. She'd even wondered- absurdly, she knew- if she should be the one to warn them, give them the chance that nature denied, just to even things out a bit.
Then she would laugh at herself. The baker had since learned to ignore such foolish misgivings. Now she felt nothing for these men, save a faint disgust at their inability to see what lay before their very eyes. She had learned too that death came swiftly, silently, and without warning, like a flicker of heat lightning on a summer night. And so she was always looking out for it, almost subconsciously glancing over her shoulder for the wicked gleam of silver that would mean it was all over. For despite her fantasies of growing old by the sea, Mrs Lovett knew that a woman like her wouldn't die a natural death.
Ironic then, that for all her precautions, she still didn't see death until it held her in its fiery red embrace. There had been warnings: the utter heartbreak and betrayal in her beloved's eyes, before that melted away to leave a smilingly false expression of love; the way his blood-slicked fingers had laced just a little too tightly in hers; the razor, still cold despite the blood and the hot bake house, that he still gripped in his other hand as they danced. It pressed into her back, screaming at her to open her eyes, to see that he was waltzing her straight toward the inferno- but of course she didn't. How could she, when those bottomless black eyes held her so wonderfully, wouldn't let her go?
Their expression of fierce compassion told her that all her dreams were finally- finally- going to come true, until suddenly, his eyes began to change, the ferocity taking over, consuming the frail imitation of love until she was gazing up at a twisted mask of hate, the mouth snarling sweet promises to her, the eyes burning hotter than the roaring oven behind them. His eyes were he last warning, and they came too late- she could already feel the ungodly heat searing her back.
She knew what was going to happen, and she laughed at the sheer horror of it, the irony, the tragedy.
Laughing as they spun around the stifling, bloodstained bake house- so very like Hell itself.
Laughing as he lied violently to her. Yes, by the sea, my love. Forgive and forget. Keep on living.
Laughing as his eyes ignited and he shoved her backwards.
Laughing as she began to burn.
But quickly, the flames melted away her sugary insanity. Ablaze in the oven, shrieking now, Mrs Lovett thought- as well as she could think while she was dying- that there could be nothing worse than seeing the man you loved smiling with cold satisfaction as you went up in flames. Tears evaporated, hissing on her cheeks. But underneath that, she couldn't help but marvel at death's cleverness. So quiet and cunning, he had surprised even her, and she had been as blindly unaware as all of the other men who had ended up in here. She hadn't been watching, and now it was over. Just like that. With a mouth that no longer drew breath, Mrs Lovett began to laugh.