Author's Notes: Vincent's life story, with tie-ins to the game. The subject of child abuse, substance use, swearing, graphic gore and other grim details give the story's rating. Not sure if I'll continue this fic, but what can I say? Vincent fascinates me. ~~

The Story of You [Written in Red]

Prologue: Shattered

The town spoke of possession, by a Demon, on the night the child was born. How did the young mother, with her raven black hair, knew of the tree that fell before the birthing began? The rain fell that night, like ice, sending asunder the last fragile bloosoms of fall. The October sky was lit with purple thuder, the roaring of thuder, drums hearlding the arrival of a new king, a dark king.

They should have never let the woman in, this woman from nowhere, with her raven black hair and eyes lit like fire. But the cold made her cheeks flare like a girl's, an innocent blush that made her seem prefect, fragile, unable to feeel anything but joy. Her hands were empty, but her mind was not. She took up residence in the halls of the richest family in town, and there, she found her own despair.

She ate a seed, taken from the forbidden fruit, that's what everyone said. Everyone asked her, whose baby was it? Who was the father? But the girl said nothing, she looked even more like a child with her wide eyes that refused to cry, though tears glistened at her eyes. The other maids and servants kicked at her, taunted her, but she refused to tell.

And now, tonight, her mouth opens only to scream again and again. The baby, the cursed baby that should have never born, must have given the girl hell to go though, a gleeful joyous thought to the snickering midwife and her attendants. The girl should have just told who the father was. Now the baby will never know.

But what haterd they had for the girl faded when the baby was finally born. And the girl's mouth closed in on her secret, sealing her fate and the baby's with her last fading breath. The wind outside couldn't stop blowing and the rain turned into snow. Highly unusal for this time of the year, as unusal as the pale skin of the baby, who did not utter a cry even as he was pulled from his dead mother's arms.

This story is muttered over and over again, much to the disgust of modern daughters and children of the age. See the punishment, the pain. Whatever happened to the baby, no one asks, not anymore. You see, this is the price of the girl's undying loyalty to a child that never should have been born.