Lila May Rossi was born on June 6th, 2007 in a small hospital in the south of Italy. Her mother always told her that her name meant "night", because she was her mother's little star. So she tried to shine bright.
When she was four she met a girl named Giada on a playground. Lila just wanted to swing, and it was more fun with two people. Her mother always told her that she should be nice to people to make them her friends.
But some people didn't want to be her friends, her mother hadn't mentioned that. And Lila couldn't guess why. She was being nice, wasn't she? But Giada ran off, laughing (she had other friends). So Lila played alone.
When she was six she began to notice that sometimes her father came home late, loud and smelling of alcohol. Her mother always told her to keep quiet, still, and hide under her bed until she said it was safe to come out. "When you love someone, you forgive them when they do bad things," her mother always told her.
When she was almost eight her father was arrested. Her mother didn't tell her anything, just sat at the kitchen table, hunched over, pale. She didn't move for days.
When she was eleven her mother told her that her father was out of prison. She was smiling, wide and cheerful. But it didn't seem real. Lila couldn't remember the last time her mother's smiles had been real.
When she was eleven and a half her father came home drunk again and Lila hid under the bed, shaking and clutching a pillow to her head like she was seven again, trying - hoping - to drown out the shouting. The screaming.
For the first time in four years her mother had a black eye in the morning, but still she smiled. "When you love someone, you forgive them." The next week Lila was put in foster care, tossed around from aunt to uncle. Nobody seemed to want her, want to forgive her. They whispered when they thought she wasn't in the room, stealing glances and staring at her with judgemental frowns. But I didn't do anything, Lila wanted to cry, but she didn't. She was silent.
When she was twelve her mother regained custody. She hugged Lila tight and promised that nothing would ever happen to her again, that he had changed, that - she didn't know. More empty wishes than real promises (you could never be sure).
When she was thirteen her mother got a job as a secretary to an ambassador in the Italian Embassy in France, and took Lila with her. He didn't come and Lila knew that her mother was secretly relieved. But she wouldn't admit it. "Forgive," her mother said. Lila didn't say anything.
Paris. A new city, a new school, a new life. Without him. Her mother smiles, and it's almost real. So Lila vows to protect her mother, let her mother be happy without him, make it so her mother doesn't have to worry about her, to be a shining star.
To be popular, she tells her classmates what they want to hear. "Sure, I can arrange a meeting with Jagged! He totally adores me." "Prince Ali? I helped him with his toy drive!" "Yeah, Ladybug and I? We're like this." They don't question it (they don't have a reason to).
To be independent, she lands a job working minimum-wage, nights, at some bar. She's fourteen, and tries to brush away the memories when she gets home in the early mornings.
To be loved, she claims, mostly to herself, that she's better. That she's more than what she is, a terrified seven-year-old hiding under the bed, waiting for the yelling to stop. "I'm a descendant of a vixen superheroine myself. Volpina..." But Adrien doesn't really believe her, she can tell, and she's thrown off-guard. Lila Rossi is a master of lies, of illusions. Why wouldn't she be? She learned from the best, after all. Every "I'm fine" and "Just tired" her mother gave. Every time her mother slathered on concealer in the mornings, covering up the tell-tale bruises -
And then Ladybug calls her out. At least Adrien barely believed her to begin with, she tells herself. It could have been worse. But still she feels this overwhelming shame - shame for needing to lie (No. Not lie. Illude. Trick.) - and hatred. She hates Ladybug - and she almost tells herself "more than anyone", but then she remembers her mother's false smiles and piled-on concealer and knows that he takes that spot. Ladybug. Practically worshipped, and for what? A magical yoyo with the ability to clean up other people's messes?
But she doesn't know anything. What did she think she was accomplishing by calling Lila out? The bug probably sits down every night for a nice, homecooked dinner with her loving parents, singing songs while they do the dishes together, and Lila hates her for it, because why couldn't it have been her?
Her sleeves begin to slip and she finds a razor blade in the back of her mother's drawer.
"Our guardian angels, Ladybug and Chat Noir, save the day once again."
No . The catboy and the stupid bug hit a butterfly-infested ice cream man over the head until he passes out. Cut.
"Ladybug, Chat Noir, and Rena Rouge save the city…"
No. She hates them for being better, for being more. Hates herself for not being able to be what she wants to be, needs to be. Hates it all. Cut.
"Ladybug and Chat Noir are joined by Carapace…"
No. Her sleeves are red with blood, red with the unforgivable pain of survival. A hoarse laugh bubbles up inside her, and she is struck with the irony of the situation. Paris sings their praises, and she couldn't care less. Paris loves them, and she can do nothing but despise. Cut.
"Ladybug, Chat Noir, and Queen Bee..."
No. With each word comes another slash, another reminder of all she's done, another reminder of all she'd like to forget. Cut. Cut. Cut -
Then comes Hawkmoth, offering her a way out. A way out of trying to please everyone, because you can only tell so many people what they want to hear. A way out of trying to protect her mother, because the day of the Volpina incident she comes home to see him sitting at the kitchen table, her mother wearing a smile that seems too real and too false at the same time. A way out of trying to just be loved, because she realizes that love is for those who can afford it, and Lila Rossi is poor as dirt.
But once you have a taste of out, you want more. It's addictive as the cigarettes her mother has started to smoke, always fidgeting for more. As addictive as the blade, the cuts that decorate her arms where no one can see. And so when she returns from her so-called "trip to Achu" and sees the tell-tale black butterfly in the hall, she snatches it right out of the air, not caring about the consequences, not caring that the last time she was akumatised no one would speak to her for a week -
"Hello, Lila," the voice says, low and malicious, in her mind but she doesn't care how, filling every corner of her head. Offering relief, offering numbness, offering an escape. "I am Hawkmoth."
"I know who you are," she says, closing her eyes and accepting the butterfly, not caring about the consequences. She forgives him, after all.