Author's Note: Hey, everyone! Allow me to introduce the first "Interlude" of the story. As you may recall, "Interludes" are marked by a switch to first-person perspective—in this case, the perspective of Grell Sutcliff. The purpose of changing the perspective is to capture a particular mood for the scene. As you read, I think you will understand my decision to write from Grell's point of view.

Now, it's time to find out how a certain Grim Reaper spends his day off!

PART 4: Interlude: The Blood-Red Butler, with Memories of Whitechapel

Having the day off really wasn't as pleasant as it sounded, especially under the condition that I use my time to find the answers to some needlessly complicated questions.

What was I supposed to do—just sit at home and contemplate life? That sounded dreadful, so I figured: if I must think about these things, I might as well go somewhere.

But where to go? I wasn't sure. After all, there existed no such magical place—on Earth or otherwise—that could rightly enlighten me as to how to deal with the wrath of a woman… especially when that woman's wrath was invoked by something that she would probably call "betrayal" or "murder."

…Not to say that I didn't do those things. I did murder her, and I suppose that the killing of one's partner would classify as betrayal.

Oh, how frustrating!

If only I'd been thinking clearly that night! I knew the origins of Grim Reapers—souls that weren't on the Death List, or humans who committed suicide, blah, blah, and so on—but I just wasn't thinking. How could I, when I was so disappointed in her weakness? Not to mention drunk with the thrill of the blood, the gore, and all that glorious red… The last thing on my mind was the chance that my actions could literally come back to haunt me someday.

In fact, the possibility of her becoming a Grim Reaper didn't even cross my mind until several years later—between work and the pursuit of a certain demon-butler, I was pleasantly occupied for quite some time—but I shrugged off that idea, thinking, if she hadn't come back yet, perhaps, by some gaffe of the Grim Reaper system, she had, in fact, died and stayed dead.

But I couldn't be that lucky, could I?

It just wasn't fair.

As my blood boiled with anger, my feet carried me faster and faster through the London streets. I didn't really think about where I was going—I just ran and let the wind comb my hair. Ah, that felt nice; I did take pride in those long, red locks…

Hmm.

This place looked familiar—a little trashy and run down, but familiar. Yes, this was where I originally found her, alone and covered in blood… and that building over there… that was where we first killed together…

Suddenly, I stopped. Had I really brought myself here? I took another look around, just to make sure.

It was true. I was standing at the heart of Whitechapel, where everything started.

I didn't really know what to do. I hadn't been to Whitechapel in years, and, seeing it, my heart sunk with an empty, nostalgic feeling. A particular building seemed to call out to me, and I gravitated toward it; the old thing was clearly empty and abandoned these days, so I stuck my head inside. The memories were so vivid…

In my head, I could see the killer that I was back then. So bold! So wild! So carefree! I did what I wanted, and I didn't give a damn about anything else. I feared no one, and I didn't have a single worry. I was having fun.

…Unlike now.

No, now, I felt much more like that quiet, nervous façade—the meager butler, ever so self-conscious and suicidal.

Heh, maybe suicide would be easier in this situation. After all, I had successfully completed suicide once during my existence already, and with an angry Madam Red after me, I was liable to die anyway. It would save me the trouble of worrying about how to act or what to say…

Such miserable thoughts. Wasn't I the complete opposite of that useless fool who I pretended to be? Wasn't I a beautiful, confident woman?

No.

I had almost forgotten—I wished I could—that he was my human life.

Anger flared up inside me, and before I was even conscious of my actions, I had made three long gashes down the walls of that horrid building. Oh, how good it felt to slash away the memories! I wildly tore into the brick, twisting my Death Scythe to make sure that each strike did the most possible damage.

I couldn't stay there any longer. It was making me far too anxious, and I hadn't found a single answer to any of my questions.

As I walked aimlessly throughout the streets, my mind kept returning to my human life, when everything was merely an act. No one ever appreciated my beauty—my flair. No, the only time that I could let my true self shine was when some wealthy hunk commissioned me to design a dress for a wife or paramour. Oh, how I always wished that a handsome prince would whisk me away! But no one ever came…

Ah, but of course not! Even though I wore such beautiful makeup and called myself a woman, I was still a man, and that would never change. I could color my hair, wear false eyelashes, and even paint my nails, yet I would forever be… male.

That was the one respect in which my disguise was not an act: I was a man, and that was why I fell for her. Oh, those days when I was just her meek butler! I didn't have to worry about reaping souls, doing paperwork, or being kicked every Wednesday. It was a good, albeit short experience.

GRARGH!

There was no reason to be happy, thinking about that time! As the butler, I had to hide myself, lock away my fiery nature, and, even worse, I had to ignore all of those cute guys!

And yet, I couldn't lie to myself…

Being unable to chase after men didn't bother me when I was with her. We had such fun together, killing all of those pathetic whores, picking out the perfect dresses for her to wear at parties, drinking wine, talking the nights away with whatever popped into our heads…

I didn't even mind being a butler, really. I wasn't that bad at it, except when I tried to make tea—I never did manage to do that very well—and when I got lost while driving the carriage…

I stopped.

While I was lost in thought, I seemed to have wandered back to my own apartment. I stepped inside, hoping that my home would provide me with comfort, but then I realized how chillingly quiet it was. It made me nervous.

Restlessly, I began to pace back and forth. Something wasn't right. I could feel it.

That old mirror in my hallway was mocking me. I quit pacing and stood in front of it, watching as my timid reflection gazed back at me. Normally I was a vision of radiance, dazzling red from every angle, but now… Maybe it was because I was in such a sour mood, but my favorite red coat didn't seem to fit as fabulously as it normally did. I didn't seem as fabulous…

Ugh, where was all of my confidence? Why did I feel so depressed, so useless, so hopeless? Why did I suddenly have the urge to slip into my butler persona?

I went to my room, found one of my hair ribbons, and pulled my hair back into a ponytail. It was a sensation that I hadn't felt for years—the hair no longer draping over my shoulders or flowing down my back. With a sigh, I trudged back to the mirror to see how I looked.

Oh God.

Oh God, no...

Why was I staring into the face of a meager fool?

My gorgeous, scarlet hair had been replaced by the most drab, common brown. The sparkling glasses that were custom-made for me when I graduated from the academy were now unadorned and commonplace. And my teeth! Where were my glorious points, perfect for intimidating my foes and symbolic of my wild beauty?

Fear racked my body and my shoulders slumped. My coat slipped slowly to the floor, and the terrifying image of mediocrity was complete.

I wasn't staring at Grell Sutcliff, the flaming red Shinigami; I was staring at Grell Sutcliff, the pathetic tailor who killed himself all those years ago…

A desperation seized me, and I tore the band from my hair. I ran my fingers through the tresses, envisioning a brilliant ruby. It worked: my hair returned to the burning red that it usually was. Next, I removed my glasses and blurrily stared at them, willing them to return to the red flames adorned with skulls. That, too, worked. Lastly, I thought of long points and gave a wide grin, restoring my wonderful, fanglike teeth.

I looked into the mirror and saw my perfect self.

Relief flooded my mind and I wearily dragged myself to bed, making sure to put my coat back on its usual resting place. I then blew out my candle and closed my eyes…

I awoke with a chill coming over me, combined with a tense soreness throughout my entire body. Drowsily, I lifted myself into a sitting position and realized that I'd kicked all of the covers off of my bed. I grumbled to myself, knowing that I must've had a troubled sleep, and then I peeked through the window to gauge the time. It wasn't even light out yet; I was up much earlier than usual.

Ugh.

With a yawn, I stretched out my tired limbs, then lazily crawled out of bed and fixed myself a simple breakfast: bread and milk. That was all that I needed. I didn't care to put any effort into something more fanciful on this early, achy morning.

Afterward, I followed my normal routine and readied myself for work. I sighed as I slipped into the boring, black and white business attire, and then I went to the mirror to check my appearance.

…But I couldn't bring myself to look into the damn thing! What if the mirror tricked me again, like it did the night before? Oh, but it wasn't a trick, was it? It was real. My hair, my teeth, my glasses, my very sense of self…

I fearfully grabbed a strand of my hair and pulled it forward, glancing to the side to see if it was, in fact, the color that it should be:

Red.

Finding the color that I so dearly loved, I mustered the courage to look at my reflection. Thankfully, my teeth and glasses looked fine, but… something was missing…

My nervous, viridian eyes darted to the chair that stood beside my mirror. On the back of the chair lay my cherished red coat. I reached over and grabbed it, then raised it to my face and buried my nose in it, sniffing the fabric. Ah… It smelled of a perfume that I occasionally wore—a faded scent, but still feminine. I then draped the coat over my shoulders and turned my eyes back to the mirror.

"Such a beautiful coat," I mused as I observed the reflection. I had worn that coat every day since I obtained it. Office work… field work… it didn't matter; the coat was the most-treasured gem of my wardrobe.

"But what if she sees it?" I wondered. "Maybe I shouldn't…"

With a miserable frown, I started to remove the coat, but my pathetic reflection in the mirror sent a surge of determination through my body.

After all of these years, I had never questioned the coat. Never. And didn't Will say that there would be consequences if I didn't act like my normal self? The whole thing was absurd—completely and utterly absurd.

"What the hell am I thinking?" I raised my voice, pulling the coat up again. I then let out an irritated grunt and turned my back to the mirror. Placing my hands on my hips, I declared, "This is my coat! I'm the only lady who's fit to wear red!"

Author's Note: And now you know how the story got its title. Before planning this chapter, I had no idea what to call the fic, and all of the files were saved under a joke name. This scene was so pivotal, though, that the last line seemed like a perfect name for the overall story.

~Leave a review if you liked first-person "Interlude" layout~