(A/N: Please note the rating, especially for this chapter, as there is
some violence. A special thanks to VisionsOfMalice, who has helped me keep
the drive to continue this story. Also, thank you to BloodRaven1,
HelloCaptain, and PrincessMercury for sticking by this story from the
beginning and reviewing, despite the slow updates. Last but definitely not
least, thanks to Shakahnna, C&T, and NickyWesker for deciding to read this
weird little piece and letting me know what you think. I've seemed to
regain some of my creative thought...so hopefully, the next update won't
take as long.)
December 27, 1998
Since I have emerged from cryogenic slumber, my mind has been a whirlwind of thoughts and memories. It is as if each one, no matter how great or small, is trying to thrust to the forefront of my consciousness, insisting that I not overlook any detail.
It makes me feel abandoned.
I realize how vulnerable I sound, and I loathe it. Disclosing such insecurity is something that I rarely do, but for some peculiar reason, the voices insist that transcribing every recollection and sentiment are of the utmost importance. Perhaps I shall torch these pages when I am finished or conceal them as my father hid his secrets. It would be rather fitting, I think.
I can hear the boy above me, his voice crying out as if to access the heavens. I had expected the virus to react quickly to him, but that does not seem to be the case. Instead, he writhes in agony as his cells mutate and his muscle cramp - a righteous fate that he more than deserves. Logically speaking, I should have slaughtered him and the girl the moment I obtained them as retribution for the acts of sin that they have committed; nevertheless, when the time came to end the boy's life, I found that I could not spill his blood. Although he deserves to suffer a lengthy, excruciating death, the litheness of his body, his effeminate features...they remind me so much of my dear brother. Emotions that had been buried for so long awoke inside of me, and although I was enraged, I also felt pity for causing my brother so much pain. In the name of the Ashfords, I did to the boy as I would have done to Alfred (had he remained alive); I entrusted him with the greatest blessing that could be bestowed upon one: I injected him - a commoner - with the same strain of the T- Veronica virus that courses through my veins. The boy will be the first of my children, and I will surely give him an honored position in my court when the virus is distributed world-wide.
As for the girl, I haven't the same attachment to her. Let the zombies devour her alive, for all I care. Her blood will make a fitting sacrifice to the Ashford name, and she will be a symbol of what transpires when anyone contests me. I believe that she was poisoned by the Nosferatu before disposing of him, thus termination is eminent. I hope that she experiences the torture that Alfred felt.
-Alexia Ashford
________________________
Alexia watched the ants as the entered the ant hill, each one scrambling behind another in perfect single file. She was amazed by their speed and how much one could lift. Such practical creatures, she mused. Sighing, she turned away from her new interest and approached the long lines of books sprawled across numerous shelves. Despite her father's protests, she'd insisted on placing the ant hill in the study, and after three days of pleading, he'd relented. Alfred had laughed at her, making a comment about how she always seemed to get her way. She'd only shrugged at him and continued to feed her ants.
Her brother didn't seem to have much interest in her new hobby until it was time to feed the creatures; he seemed to thoroughly enjoy that part. He had immediately offered to catch live insects from the cemetery grounds, and she'd allowed him to do so. Every afternoon, he would run into her room with a jar of bugs, shaking them around as if to irritate them, never giving her a moment's peace until she accompanied him to the glass case that housed her pets. She would watch as he'd place half-dead insects onto the dirt surface and nudge them about. He would giggle with glee when the ants filed out of their shelter and begin dismantling the helpless insect piece by piece, his eyes wide as saucers. Minutes later, when he'd seemed to have his fill of the sadistic feeding time, he'd claim that he had school work to do and wouldn't bother with the ants until the following afternoon.
Alexia found his behavior a bit odd, but she had to admit, even she felt a surge of excitement when the drones marched from the hill as soldiers might, dutifully working in order to satisfy their queen. She wondered many times what it would feel like to be the Queen Ant, to know that everyone within your territory devoted their lives to your happiness and protection. It must be a grand life; everyone depending on you for their well-being.
She plucked a hard cover book labeled Myrmecology from the bottom shelf and carried it to the desk. Taking a seat in the plush chair, she opened the pages and soon found what she'd been searching for. A glossy photo covered half of the page; the dark, bulky body of a queen ant. Alexia read the caption beneath the photo for the hundredth time, her lips moving as she did so.
Queen Ant - Upon death, the remaining colony does not usually survive for long, as queens are seldom replaced within the ant community.
There was something absolutely amazing about the photo, almost regal. Alexia wished that she could dig beneath the layers of dirt in her own ant farm in order to see the queen nestled within its tunnels; however, a dead queen resulted in a destroyed colony, and she wasn't ready to sacrifice her pets for her curiosities. Maybe in the future, she could excavate the queen, remove the old ants, and have her father purchase new ones.
Alexia heard footsteps outside the hall of the study, and she looked up at the clock. 12:49 PM. She closed the book and stood, expecting Alfred to appear as scheduled, a glass jar full of ill-fated insects within his tiny hands. However, it was not her twin that appeared, but her nanny. The woman looked tired, purple circles encompassing her green eyes. She entered unceremoniously, giving the young girl a dead pan look.
"It is time for lunch. Your father wishes you and your brother to join us in the dining hall." Matilda's voice was hollow, devoid of emotion. Giving Alexia a final blank look, the woman turned on her heels and stalked out of the room, her heavy footfalls echoing through the corridor.
Alexia stood from the office chair and stretched her arms high over her head, smirking inwardly. Matilda had said little to her in the weeks since Alexander had announced their engagement. Even Alexander had avoided the subject, attempting to smooth over the confrontation with forced laughter and false smiles. When Matilda would try to speak at dinner, he would hold up his hand and mumble "Not now, Matilda. Not in front of the children." She would clam up, an irritated blush passing through her pale cheeks before she could regain her cool, emotionless composure. It was amusing to see her hushed, to see Alexander put the wench in her place. Alfred and Alexia would share looks and sip the hot tea from their cups, hiding their smiles.
Recollecting those happy memories, Alexia walked gracefully down the hallway, her lilac dress flowing behind her. She could hear her father's boisterous laugh resonating from the downstairs dining room until it faded away, replaced by silence. 'He's trying very hard,' she thought to herself. Frowning, she descended the flight of stairs in the main hall, a cold wind escaping through the antique windows and causing her hair to tremble. Rubbing the goosebumps that appeared on her flesh, she shivered, the chilled Arctic breeze giving her the impression that she'd just passed through a ghost. The thought spooked her, and she quickly fumbled down the steps, gripping the railing to keep from falling. When she reached the entrance to the dining hall, she paused and glanced up to the stairway. All looked calm, as it always was: no screaming ghoul or rattling chains, just the wind. 'Quit being so childish,' she told herself as she pushed open the dining doors.
Alexander, Matilda, and Alfred already sat at their usually places, quietly awaiting her appearance. A steaming lunch was spread over the table, growing cooler by the minute, yet Alexia took her time in arriving to her seat. Alfred, eyes pale blue, gave her a nod as she sat down, but she didn't look at him. Instead, she addressed her father, her voice a lot more confident than she felt. She felt her lips move almost involuntarily, pushing the words from her throat.
"Father, I feel that we've been avoiding the issue for some time. As your children, Alfred and I have a right to know if you are adamant about marrying Matilda," she finished, avoiding her father's eyes as she placed a cream cloth napkin over her lap.
The room was eerily quiet. The only sound heard was the constant tick-tick-tick of the grandfather clock pressed up against the far wall, and even it seemed too loud. Everyone seemed enthralled by the sparkling china set before them, eyes downcast as if the topic had caused them all to become deaf and mute. Even Alexander, lord of the Ashfords, seemed peculiarly dumbstruck. His lips would part, a puff of air escaping before he clamped his jaw shut.
Alexia took care in perfecting the symmetry of the napkin in her lap. She had imagined that her father would be angry at her flippant words and her demand for an answer, but he seemed withdrawn...almost guilty. At last, he spoke, his voice betraying his feelings.
"Yes, Alexia. Matilda and I are to be wed. I, of course, had my doubts, but I feel that this is the best situation for all of us," he spoke, his voice barely a whisper. He seemed ashamed by his admission, yet relieved at the same time. Gingerly, he placed his hand over Matilda's, squeezing it roughly. Clearing his throat as if clearing away his feelings, his voice returned to its false happiness. "Now, shall we eat? Harman will be cross if we cannot eat this food because it has chilled. Alexia, would you like some fresh bread? Alfred, please pass down that bowl of extraordinary clam chowder."
Alexia didn't hear him as he carried on about how delectable the crème brulee looked, nor did she see Matilda's tongue pass over her teeth in utter satisfaction. Instead, she focused on her fingernails digging a jagged hole into cloth napkin strewn across her lap, her rage building from somewhere she hardly new existed. That voice...the one that she had heard before. It was goading her to be angry, angry at Matilda and at her father.
'She will take him away from us.'
'Do you want that woman ruling the Ashford children?'
'She is vile, just like your pathetic father.'
Alexia's stomach felt queasy as the pressure inside her head bombarded her thoughts, making it difficult to even breathe. The taunting voice would not leave her, and it seemed to enjoy the torture it was inflicting. She clinched her tiny fists, knuckles white, inwardly commanding the voice to shut up. She heard her father speaking, but it was as if he was on another planet, his voice barely breaking through to her ears. The other voice was in control now.
'Alexia, you must not let her live.'
Alexia felt as if someone had punched her in the ribs, knocking the wind out of her. Desperate for an answer, she jumped from her chair, disturbing the prized crème brulee in the process. It clattered off of the table, the glass shattering into hundreds of pieces at Matilda's feet.
"What would you have me do?!" she screamed aloud, causing everyone at the table to jump simultaneously. All of them, wide-eyed and deathly quiet, turned to look at her with the same confused expression, her father still holding the bowl of clam chowder as if frozen in time.
"Alexia," Alexander spoke, his voice full of concern. "Are you feeling alright?"
Her trembling had subsided, the voice slinking into the recesses of her mind and leaving a trail of mocking laughter in its wake. Even so, she still felt the lingering anger lighting her insides on fire. Giving her father a pointed look, she mumbled something about being excused due to a nauseous stomach. Fleeing the dining hall as if the devil himself was nipping at her heels, she didn't look back at the surprised faces she left at her back.
________________________
Alexander removed the dark leather belt from his waist and placed it neatly inside his closet. A dull throbbing pulsated behind his eyes, and he rubbed the bridge of his nose in a feeble attempt to make it disappear. He appreciated the single candle lit in his room, the semi-darkness soothing a bit of the pressure. Another late night and another skipped dinner. Shaking his head, Alexander began to undress, mulling the day's events over in his mind. After Alexia's bizarre outburst, the remainder of the family had finished lunch in total silence, only the sounds of forks scraping across the china heard. Alfred had looked distraught, while Matilda's face had held a serene expression. Unable to taste the food, Alexander had excused himself after the first course and locked himself in his study.
Even his research had seemed to do little to take his mind off of his daughter. Her behavior was so abnormal for the quiet, shy young girl that she had always been, and he definitely disliked the change. It was as if he was losing command of everything, of her...and she was still so young. The thought had plagued him while he mindlessly shuffled through the mounds of papers cluttering his desk, irritating him endlessly. How was he to gain control of Umbrella if he could not control his own daughter? What had become of the respect that Alexia had once had for him? Did it really have to do with Matilda? He pondered the last question intensely, folding his fingers together in thought. The woman was pleasurable company, but he did not want to sacrifice the future for his own gratifications.
It seemed as if only minutes had passed when he'd looked up at the clock and noticed that it was midnight. Feeling beaten by the nagging thoughts and no closer to a solution, he'd locked his documents in a safe and ambled to his bedroom. He had been pleased to find that Harman had left him a warm glass of brandy on the bed table, and even now as he sipped it, he felt some of his cares disappear into the bottom of the glass. Taking a deep breath, he placed the glass back onto the smooth table and crawled into the soft bed, the mattress enveloping him and making his headache instantly disappear. Pulling the thick comforter to his chin, he closed his weary eyes and yawned, cradling his neck in the down pillows.
He wasn't sure how long he'd been asleep when he heard it...something loud that seemed to echo in his ears. Brushing his face with the back of his hand, he fumbled to find the matches in his bed table drawer and hastily struck one, his eyes watering from the sudden spark of light. Touching the flaming match to the candle wick, he pulled back the covers and looked about his room, his thoughts still groggy from the rude awakening. Sliding his feet into plush house slippers, he stumbled to his closet and removed his midnight blue robe from its clothing rod, draping it haphazardly over his shoulders. Surely Alfred wasn't having another nightmare...the boy was sometimes more trouble than he was worth.
Grumbling to himself, he barely overheard the heavy, hurried footsteps approaching his room. The sudden onslaught of noise in the deathly quiet house caused Alexander to stand upright, his ears perking at the sound. Without thinking, he bolted to the nightstand and drew out the pistol resting within, his fingers grasping the cool metal roughly.
"Who's there?" he asked, suddenly afraid that he'd hear an answer.
The footsteps stopped outside his door and were replaced with a rapid, piercing knock. Without waiting for an answer, Harman burst into the room carrying a large candle. His breathing was labored and sweat trickled from his forehead, and gasping, he began to speak in a shrill voice.
"My lord, you must come quickly! I heard Lady Matilda scream, and I was too afraid to enter alone!" Harman cried, the candle quivering in his hand and threatening to extinguish itself in the pool of wax.
Gripping his pistol, Alexander rushed past the startled butler, nearly pushing the older man over, and ran down the long hallway towards Matilda's room. Faltering in the darkness, Alexander turned right in the corridor, his heart hammering in his chest. Had Spencer's assassins somehow found their way to his residence? Were they looking for the children, but happened to stumble across a sleeping Matilda? His muscles tensed as he ran the length of the east wing of the mansion, and he could hear Harman trailing a distance behind him. He didn't wait for the butler to arrive, but quickly entered Matilda's room, the door creaking eerily on its hinges.
The room was quiet, a soft glow filtering through the off-white curtains that hung limply across the ice-covered window. He could see the blurry outline of Matilda lying comfortably in her bed, her hair disheveled across the pillows. Alert to any intruder that might still be present in the room, Alexander peered into the shadows, the pistol thrust ahead of him as a priest would use a crucifix. Walking cautiously, he neared Matilda's bedside, gently calling her name so as not to frighten her. When nothing stirred, he let out a sigh of relief, thankful that she was safe and that her cry had most likely been a dream. Tenderly, he trailed a finger down her forehead and the side of her cheek, stopping when he felt something hot stick to his fingers. Frowning, he wiped his hands on the side of his robe, the bristly fabric collecting the liquid.
"Matilda, why are you crying?" he asked soothingly.
She didn't answer, but continued to lay still, resting deeply. He heard Harman at the door and could see the faint candlelight pressing into the dark room.
"Harman, you had no reason to be alarmed," Alexander whispered towards the butler. "It appears that she was asleep and must have had a frightening dream. Look here, she's crying."
Harman anxiously stepped into the room, the flame atop his candle bobbing angrily in the dark. Alexander walked quietly towards his butler, relief evident on his face. "I think that both of us are becoming a bit too jumpy, wouldn't you say old man? I know that..." Alexander paused, hearing a crunch and feeling a sudden pain shoot up from his foot. Dropping the gun in surprise and pain, he cried out, cursing beneath his breath. "Harman, bring that candle closer! I've stepped on something!"
Harman rushed in, hurrying to his master. He knelt to the floor, bringing the light to Alexander's injured foot. "My lord, it appears that you have stepped in broken glass! Come into the den and let me tend to it!"
Alexander winced, the shards of glass embedded firmly in his heel. He could almost feel them dragging painfully across bone as he hobbled about. "Why in hell would there be broken glass in here?!" he angrily whispered, resting his weight on the doorframe for support. He looked down, seeing dark drops of his blood inking the pastel carpet and the slightest glitter of light reflecting from the glass. "What is it?" he hissed to Harman.
Harman continued to kneel, examining the pile, his eyebrow quirked. "It is a syringe, my lord."
Alexander felt a sick feeling in his stomach, but he didn't think that it was because he was losing blood. "Give me your candle, Harman, and help me to Matilda," he commanded.
The butler stood and offered his shoulder for Alexander, passing the light to his master. Alexander all but snatched it from Harman's grasp, and together they staggered to the bed. Shadows fled from the candle, crawling slowly up the frame of the bed and finally placing Matilda in a soft, amber glow. She lay there, her arms out to her side and her fingers outstretched as if in surrender. Her eyes were wide and flickering with the flame; her mouth was open as if screaming, thick rivulets of blood coursing down her chin and coating the bed sheets beneath her.
The nausea in Alexander's stomach doubled him over, and he began to retch on the plush carpet, moaning painfully as he did so. Harman could only look on, his eyes glued to the horrific scene as he held the weight of his lord on his shoulders.
Matilda lay there, dead for some time, her tongue cut from her mouth and placed neatly in her right palm.
________________________
The children slept peacefully in their beds, the smallest of smiles gracing their lips as they dreamt.
________________________
I had to do it. I could not allow the family to crumble.
If nothing else, I did it for her.
Father, forgive me.
I know that you would have done the same if only you knew. I saw the looks that he refused to see.
I cannot feel remorse now. I am destined for hell, regardless of my actions. He has told me so.
Now I can only sleep.
December 27, 1998
Since I have emerged from cryogenic slumber, my mind has been a whirlwind of thoughts and memories. It is as if each one, no matter how great or small, is trying to thrust to the forefront of my consciousness, insisting that I not overlook any detail.
It makes me feel abandoned.
I realize how vulnerable I sound, and I loathe it. Disclosing such insecurity is something that I rarely do, but for some peculiar reason, the voices insist that transcribing every recollection and sentiment are of the utmost importance. Perhaps I shall torch these pages when I am finished or conceal them as my father hid his secrets. It would be rather fitting, I think.
I can hear the boy above me, his voice crying out as if to access the heavens. I had expected the virus to react quickly to him, but that does not seem to be the case. Instead, he writhes in agony as his cells mutate and his muscle cramp - a righteous fate that he more than deserves. Logically speaking, I should have slaughtered him and the girl the moment I obtained them as retribution for the acts of sin that they have committed; nevertheless, when the time came to end the boy's life, I found that I could not spill his blood. Although he deserves to suffer a lengthy, excruciating death, the litheness of his body, his effeminate features...they remind me so much of my dear brother. Emotions that had been buried for so long awoke inside of me, and although I was enraged, I also felt pity for causing my brother so much pain. In the name of the Ashfords, I did to the boy as I would have done to Alfred (had he remained alive); I entrusted him with the greatest blessing that could be bestowed upon one: I injected him - a commoner - with the same strain of the T- Veronica virus that courses through my veins. The boy will be the first of my children, and I will surely give him an honored position in my court when the virus is distributed world-wide.
As for the girl, I haven't the same attachment to her. Let the zombies devour her alive, for all I care. Her blood will make a fitting sacrifice to the Ashford name, and she will be a symbol of what transpires when anyone contests me. I believe that she was poisoned by the Nosferatu before disposing of him, thus termination is eminent. I hope that she experiences the torture that Alfred felt.
-Alexia Ashford
________________________
Alexia watched the ants as the entered the ant hill, each one scrambling behind another in perfect single file. She was amazed by their speed and how much one could lift. Such practical creatures, she mused. Sighing, she turned away from her new interest and approached the long lines of books sprawled across numerous shelves. Despite her father's protests, she'd insisted on placing the ant hill in the study, and after three days of pleading, he'd relented. Alfred had laughed at her, making a comment about how she always seemed to get her way. She'd only shrugged at him and continued to feed her ants.
Her brother didn't seem to have much interest in her new hobby until it was time to feed the creatures; he seemed to thoroughly enjoy that part. He had immediately offered to catch live insects from the cemetery grounds, and she'd allowed him to do so. Every afternoon, he would run into her room with a jar of bugs, shaking them around as if to irritate them, never giving her a moment's peace until she accompanied him to the glass case that housed her pets. She would watch as he'd place half-dead insects onto the dirt surface and nudge them about. He would giggle with glee when the ants filed out of their shelter and begin dismantling the helpless insect piece by piece, his eyes wide as saucers. Minutes later, when he'd seemed to have his fill of the sadistic feeding time, he'd claim that he had school work to do and wouldn't bother with the ants until the following afternoon.
Alexia found his behavior a bit odd, but she had to admit, even she felt a surge of excitement when the drones marched from the hill as soldiers might, dutifully working in order to satisfy their queen. She wondered many times what it would feel like to be the Queen Ant, to know that everyone within your territory devoted their lives to your happiness and protection. It must be a grand life; everyone depending on you for their well-being.
She plucked a hard cover book labeled Myrmecology from the bottom shelf and carried it to the desk. Taking a seat in the plush chair, she opened the pages and soon found what she'd been searching for. A glossy photo covered half of the page; the dark, bulky body of a queen ant. Alexia read the caption beneath the photo for the hundredth time, her lips moving as she did so.
Queen Ant - Upon death, the remaining colony does not usually survive for long, as queens are seldom replaced within the ant community.
There was something absolutely amazing about the photo, almost regal. Alexia wished that she could dig beneath the layers of dirt in her own ant farm in order to see the queen nestled within its tunnels; however, a dead queen resulted in a destroyed colony, and she wasn't ready to sacrifice her pets for her curiosities. Maybe in the future, she could excavate the queen, remove the old ants, and have her father purchase new ones.
Alexia heard footsteps outside the hall of the study, and she looked up at the clock. 12:49 PM. She closed the book and stood, expecting Alfred to appear as scheduled, a glass jar full of ill-fated insects within his tiny hands. However, it was not her twin that appeared, but her nanny. The woman looked tired, purple circles encompassing her green eyes. She entered unceremoniously, giving the young girl a dead pan look.
"It is time for lunch. Your father wishes you and your brother to join us in the dining hall." Matilda's voice was hollow, devoid of emotion. Giving Alexia a final blank look, the woman turned on her heels and stalked out of the room, her heavy footfalls echoing through the corridor.
Alexia stood from the office chair and stretched her arms high over her head, smirking inwardly. Matilda had said little to her in the weeks since Alexander had announced their engagement. Even Alexander had avoided the subject, attempting to smooth over the confrontation with forced laughter and false smiles. When Matilda would try to speak at dinner, he would hold up his hand and mumble "Not now, Matilda. Not in front of the children." She would clam up, an irritated blush passing through her pale cheeks before she could regain her cool, emotionless composure. It was amusing to see her hushed, to see Alexander put the wench in her place. Alfred and Alexia would share looks and sip the hot tea from their cups, hiding their smiles.
Recollecting those happy memories, Alexia walked gracefully down the hallway, her lilac dress flowing behind her. She could hear her father's boisterous laugh resonating from the downstairs dining room until it faded away, replaced by silence. 'He's trying very hard,' she thought to herself. Frowning, she descended the flight of stairs in the main hall, a cold wind escaping through the antique windows and causing her hair to tremble. Rubbing the goosebumps that appeared on her flesh, she shivered, the chilled Arctic breeze giving her the impression that she'd just passed through a ghost. The thought spooked her, and she quickly fumbled down the steps, gripping the railing to keep from falling. When she reached the entrance to the dining hall, she paused and glanced up to the stairway. All looked calm, as it always was: no screaming ghoul or rattling chains, just the wind. 'Quit being so childish,' she told herself as she pushed open the dining doors.
Alexander, Matilda, and Alfred already sat at their usually places, quietly awaiting her appearance. A steaming lunch was spread over the table, growing cooler by the minute, yet Alexia took her time in arriving to her seat. Alfred, eyes pale blue, gave her a nod as she sat down, but she didn't look at him. Instead, she addressed her father, her voice a lot more confident than she felt. She felt her lips move almost involuntarily, pushing the words from her throat.
"Father, I feel that we've been avoiding the issue for some time. As your children, Alfred and I have a right to know if you are adamant about marrying Matilda," she finished, avoiding her father's eyes as she placed a cream cloth napkin over her lap.
The room was eerily quiet. The only sound heard was the constant tick-tick-tick of the grandfather clock pressed up against the far wall, and even it seemed too loud. Everyone seemed enthralled by the sparkling china set before them, eyes downcast as if the topic had caused them all to become deaf and mute. Even Alexander, lord of the Ashfords, seemed peculiarly dumbstruck. His lips would part, a puff of air escaping before he clamped his jaw shut.
Alexia took care in perfecting the symmetry of the napkin in her lap. She had imagined that her father would be angry at her flippant words and her demand for an answer, but he seemed withdrawn...almost guilty. At last, he spoke, his voice betraying his feelings.
"Yes, Alexia. Matilda and I are to be wed. I, of course, had my doubts, but I feel that this is the best situation for all of us," he spoke, his voice barely a whisper. He seemed ashamed by his admission, yet relieved at the same time. Gingerly, he placed his hand over Matilda's, squeezing it roughly. Clearing his throat as if clearing away his feelings, his voice returned to its false happiness. "Now, shall we eat? Harman will be cross if we cannot eat this food because it has chilled. Alexia, would you like some fresh bread? Alfred, please pass down that bowl of extraordinary clam chowder."
Alexia didn't hear him as he carried on about how delectable the crème brulee looked, nor did she see Matilda's tongue pass over her teeth in utter satisfaction. Instead, she focused on her fingernails digging a jagged hole into cloth napkin strewn across her lap, her rage building from somewhere she hardly new existed. That voice...the one that she had heard before. It was goading her to be angry, angry at Matilda and at her father.
'She will take him away from us.'
'Do you want that woman ruling the Ashford children?'
'She is vile, just like your pathetic father.'
Alexia's stomach felt queasy as the pressure inside her head bombarded her thoughts, making it difficult to even breathe. The taunting voice would not leave her, and it seemed to enjoy the torture it was inflicting. She clinched her tiny fists, knuckles white, inwardly commanding the voice to shut up. She heard her father speaking, but it was as if he was on another planet, his voice barely breaking through to her ears. The other voice was in control now.
'Alexia, you must not let her live.'
Alexia felt as if someone had punched her in the ribs, knocking the wind out of her. Desperate for an answer, she jumped from her chair, disturbing the prized crème brulee in the process. It clattered off of the table, the glass shattering into hundreds of pieces at Matilda's feet.
"What would you have me do?!" she screamed aloud, causing everyone at the table to jump simultaneously. All of them, wide-eyed and deathly quiet, turned to look at her with the same confused expression, her father still holding the bowl of clam chowder as if frozen in time.
"Alexia," Alexander spoke, his voice full of concern. "Are you feeling alright?"
Her trembling had subsided, the voice slinking into the recesses of her mind and leaving a trail of mocking laughter in its wake. Even so, she still felt the lingering anger lighting her insides on fire. Giving her father a pointed look, she mumbled something about being excused due to a nauseous stomach. Fleeing the dining hall as if the devil himself was nipping at her heels, she didn't look back at the surprised faces she left at her back.
________________________
Alexander removed the dark leather belt from his waist and placed it neatly inside his closet. A dull throbbing pulsated behind his eyes, and he rubbed the bridge of his nose in a feeble attempt to make it disappear. He appreciated the single candle lit in his room, the semi-darkness soothing a bit of the pressure. Another late night and another skipped dinner. Shaking his head, Alexander began to undress, mulling the day's events over in his mind. After Alexia's bizarre outburst, the remainder of the family had finished lunch in total silence, only the sounds of forks scraping across the china heard. Alfred had looked distraught, while Matilda's face had held a serene expression. Unable to taste the food, Alexander had excused himself after the first course and locked himself in his study.
Even his research had seemed to do little to take his mind off of his daughter. Her behavior was so abnormal for the quiet, shy young girl that she had always been, and he definitely disliked the change. It was as if he was losing command of everything, of her...and she was still so young. The thought had plagued him while he mindlessly shuffled through the mounds of papers cluttering his desk, irritating him endlessly. How was he to gain control of Umbrella if he could not control his own daughter? What had become of the respect that Alexia had once had for him? Did it really have to do with Matilda? He pondered the last question intensely, folding his fingers together in thought. The woman was pleasurable company, but he did not want to sacrifice the future for his own gratifications.
It seemed as if only minutes had passed when he'd looked up at the clock and noticed that it was midnight. Feeling beaten by the nagging thoughts and no closer to a solution, he'd locked his documents in a safe and ambled to his bedroom. He had been pleased to find that Harman had left him a warm glass of brandy on the bed table, and even now as he sipped it, he felt some of his cares disappear into the bottom of the glass. Taking a deep breath, he placed the glass back onto the smooth table and crawled into the soft bed, the mattress enveloping him and making his headache instantly disappear. Pulling the thick comforter to his chin, he closed his weary eyes and yawned, cradling his neck in the down pillows.
He wasn't sure how long he'd been asleep when he heard it...something loud that seemed to echo in his ears. Brushing his face with the back of his hand, he fumbled to find the matches in his bed table drawer and hastily struck one, his eyes watering from the sudden spark of light. Touching the flaming match to the candle wick, he pulled back the covers and looked about his room, his thoughts still groggy from the rude awakening. Sliding his feet into plush house slippers, he stumbled to his closet and removed his midnight blue robe from its clothing rod, draping it haphazardly over his shoulders. Surely Alfred wasn't having another nightmare...the boy was sometimes more trouble than he was worth.
Grumbling to himself, he barely overheard the heavy, hurried footsteps approaching his room. The sudden onslaught of noise in the deathly quiet house caused Alexander to stand upright, his ears perking at the sound. Without thinking, he bolted to the nightstand and drew out the pistol resting within, his fingers grasping the cool metal roughly.
"Who's there?" he asked, suddenly afraid that he'd hear an answer.
The footsteps stopped outside his door and were replaced with a rapid, piercing knock. Without waiting for an answer, Harman burst into the room carrying a large candle. His breathing was labored and sweat trickled from his forehead, and gasping, he began to speak in a shrill voice.
"My lord, you must come quickly! I heard Lady Matilda scream, and I was too afraid to enter alone!" Harman cried, the candle quivering in his hand and threatening to extinguish itself in the pool of wax.
Gripping his pistol, Alexander rushed past the startled butler, nearly pushing the older man over, and ran down the long hallway towards Matilda's room. Faltering in the darkness, Alexander turned right in the corridor, his heart hammering in his chest. Had Spencer's assassins somehow found their way to his residence? Were they looking for the children, but happened to stumble across a sleeping Matilda? His muscles tensed as he ran the length of the east wing of the mansion, and he could hear Harman trailing a distance behind him. He didn't wait for the butler to arrive, but quickly entered Matilda's room, the door creaking eerily on its hinges.
The room was quiet, a soft glow filtering through the off-white curtains that hung limply across the ice-covered window. He could see the blurry outline of Matilda lying comfortably in her bed, her hair disheveled across the pillows. Alert to any intruder that might still be present in the room, Alexander peered into the shadows, the pistol thrust ahead of him as a priest would use a crucifix. Walking cautiously, he neared Matilda's bedside, gently calling her name so as not to frighten her. When nothing stirred, he let out a sigh of relief, thankful that she was safe and that her cry had most likely been a dream. Tenderly, he trailed a finger down her forehead and the side of her cheek, stopping when he felt something hot stick to his fingers. Frowning, he wiped his hands on the side of his robe, the bristly fabric collecting the liquid.
"Matilda, why are you crying?" he asked soothingly.
She didn't answer, but continued to lay still, resting deeply. He heard Harman at the door and could see the faint candlelight pressing into the dark room.
"Harman, you had no reason to be alarmed," Alexander whispered towards the butler. "It appears that she was asleep and must have had a frightening dream. Look here, she's crying."
Harman anxiously stepped into the room, the flame atop his candle bobbing angrily in the dark. Alexander walked quietly towards his butler, relief evident on his face. "I think that both of us are becoming a bit too jumpy, wouldn't you say old man? I know that..." Alexander paused, hearing a crunch and feeling a sudden pain shoot up from his foot. Dropping the gun in surprise and pain, he cried out, cursing beneath his breath. "Harman, bring that candle closer! I've stepped on something!"
Harman rushed in, hurrying to his master. He knelt to the floor, bringing the light to Alexander's injured foot. "My lord, it appears that you have stepped in broken glass! Come into the den and let me tend to it!"
Alexander winced, the shards of glass embedded firmly in his heel. He could almost feel them dragging painfully across bone as he hobbled about. "Why in hell would there be broken glass in here?!" he angrily whispered, resting his weight on the doorframe for support. He looked down, seeing dark drops of his blood inking the pastel carpet and the slightest glitter of light reflecting from the glass. "What is it?" he hissed to Harman.
Harman continued to kneel, examining the pile, his eyebrow quirked. "It is a syringe, my lord."
Alexander felt a sick feeling in his stomach, but he didn't think that it was because he was losing blood. "Give me your candle, Harman, and help me to Matilda," he commanded.
The butler stood and offered his shoulder for Alexander, passing the light to his master. Alexander all but snatched it from Harman's grasp, and together they staggered to the bed. Shadows fled from the candle, crawling slowly up the frame of the bed and finally placing Matilda in a soft, amber glow. She lay there, her arms out to her side and her fingers outstretched as if in surrender. Her eyes were wide and flickering with the flame; her mouth was open as if screaming, thick rivulets of blood coursing down her chin and coating the bed sheets beneath her.
The nausea in Alexander's stomach doubled him over, and he began to retch on the plush carpet, moaning painfully as he did so. Harman could only look on, his eyes glued to the horrific scene as he held the weight of his lord on his shoulders.
Matilda lay there, dead for some time, her tongue cut from her mouth and placed neatly in her right palm.
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The children slept peacefully in their beds, the smallest of smiles gracing their lips as they dreamt.
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I had to do it. I could not allow the family to crumble.
If nothing else, I did it for her.
Father, forgive me.
I know that you would have done the same if only you knew. I saw the looks that he refused to see.
I cannot feel remorse now. I am destined for hell, regardless of my actions. He has told me so.
Now I can only sleep.