This is a short one. I wrote it pretty quickly, so I apologize if it's not the best or if it's a bit over-dramatic/depressing.
Quotes are at the Dishonored Wiki. Take a look. They can be pretty tempting, so if you want me to write about one, send me a PM.
Female Survivor
"Now the littlest one is sick."
She was born three weeks early, and what a difficult birth it was. I started to bleed profusely, and it was believed that I would not live through the birth. I had to make a decision: my baby or me. I have heard what they do to babies when the mother is at risk. The doctor cuts off the baby's limbs and head and extracts it piece by piece. I could never do that to my daughter. I had my belly cut open, and the doctor pulled her from the deep gash under my navel, and miraculously, we both lived.
I named her Isabelle Rose. She was to be my last child, out of five, and she was the most precious of them all. I had four boys, ages fourteen through four. They had just suffered through the death of their father in a factory accident, and I truly thought that things could not get worse. How foolish I was.
It was as if the stars laughed at me, or maybe the Outsider had his cruel eyes on us. Did my family deserve this? Were we tempted in some way by the Outsider?
It all seemed so organized, as if it were planned. First, my oldest fell sick. He was always trying to be such an adult and had truly matured since his father died. He took care of his younger siblings, cooking for them and bathing them when I had to spend long hours at work. Once he took to bed, I stayed home. I lost my job, of course, but I didn't care. I just wanted my child to recover, but things only got worse.
My second child was next, followed by the third. Isabelle was four by this time, and the youngest boy, Mitch, was eight. I remember having them play and sleep in the main room, wanting to keep them separate from the sick children. We slept on mattresses that we put out on the floor.
The Outsider smiled down on me with his coal-black, eyes.
Mitch, my Mitch tried to stay healthy for as long as he could, but he was taken away to the Flooded District, along with all of my other children. They died alone, among the sick. I let my children die in that horrible place. I let them be taken away. I look at Isabelle, and she coughs. I cannot let them take another.
Isabelle has only gotten worse. She sweats and moans all night, and she hardly eats. When she does eat, she vomits most of it back up. It will not be long, now, until she starts to bleed from her eyes. Then they will come and take her, piling her into that train with the sick, both dead and alive, to be abandoned, like garbage.
I look at my beautiful Isabelle, who struggled so much to come into this world. It is unfair that she should have to die after all of that work, but if she must die, then she will die at home, with her mother by her side.
I fill the tub, warming the water only a bit. Isabelle is hardly lucid, but she still recognizes me. She clings to her rag doll that she has had since she was a baby. I pick her up, and she holds the doll, and I take both of them to the tub. Isabelle does not seem to mind that she is still in her clothes when I put her in the bath, and the doll floats on top of the water, soaking in the moisture, until it has turned a dark color. I hug her, and I kiss her, my baby girl. She doesn't understand what I am about to do, and it kills me that she will not understand why I must do it, but it is for the best. The last thing she will see is my face.
I take her shoulders, holding them, stalling, studying my daughter's face. I don't know if I can do this. My vision is blurred, already, and I weep. Isabelle looks at me curiously, but she cannot talk. She seems to smile, though, as if to say, "It's okay, Mommy. Don't cry."
Oh Stars, oh Stars, I will not let the Outsider win. I will play by my own rules. I gently lower Isabelle into the water, pushing her shoulders, until her head hits the bottom. She struggles. Oh, Stars, she's struggling. I can't control my face, now. This is too much, and it takes all of my will to keep holding onto her shoulders. Her eyes are panicked, and bubbles burst from her mouth as she tries to scream. She splashes, and I have to use all of my strength to keep her under the water. Her legs kick up at me, and her arms grab at my wrists. Her eyes look at me, accusingly, as if to say, "Why? Why, Mommy?"
"I'm sorry, baby," I cry. My tears fall into the tub, forgotten in the frantic splashes. Her body slows and weakens as she runs out of breath, and her mouth opens. She reminds me of a fish, and she breathes in the water, her mouth wide and her eyes open. Soon, she has stopped moving, and I still hold her and weep. My baby girl is dead.
"Don't worry, baby," I say. "Mommy's coming with you."
