According to Cynthia, it wasn't healthy for a five-year-old girl to not have any friends. Samson wasn't nearly as concerned, but then again, he had never really been involved with anything concerning Jannali. She always thought that he had believed himself too important to be a father. As for herself, friends had never been something that Jannali thought she needed. She didn't like playing with the other young girls at court. Their games bored her, and back then, she was quite a violent child; whenever she was challenged, Jannali would scream and lash out. This didn't earn her any favours with other children. They would always pout and sneer at the sight of the little girl in twin braids.
"Go away," they would tell her.
Of course, Jannali didn't like being told to go away. "Why?" she would always ask.
The answer would differ from child to child, but ultimately, it always boiled down to the same thing. She was weird. They didn't like it when she would stare at them aimlessly. They didn't like it when she would take their dolls and make them kill each other. They didn't like it when she would yell and pinch and bite. To try and remedy this, Cynthia made Jannali go through therapy, but the little girl hated the psychologist. She hated being told that her behavior was abnormal, violent, wrong.
"You can't just go around assaulting others when you feel upset, Jannali," the therapist admonished. "Imagine if everyone did that. No one would be friends! No one would want to live around others!"
The therapist's office was cold and lifeless, made entirely of glass and padded white furniture. It didn't give her any desire to open up to this foolish man. Jannali yawned and hid her arms in her velvet sleeves. "The other kids make me mad."
"That's why," the therapist raised his hand, "we need to find an outlet for your anger. Are there any things you like to do? Do you like reading? Colouring? Crafts?"
"I want to read Mother's old, old books, but she won't let me," Jannali pouted.
"Ah, yes. Her Ladyship tells me that you also cause plenty of trouble at home."
Jannali deflated. "I don't want to talk to you."
"That's alright," said the therapist, a new kindness in his tone. "Tell you what. I have a whole box of beads and such in the back; would you like to try making your own jewellery?"
"I...I don't know." Jewellery-making was never something that Jannali imagined a noble girl would do. Hell knows that Cynthia would've never dared make her own jewels herself.
"Wait here," the therapist commanded. He shuffled to the drawers behind his desk and pulled out a big plastic box full of beads, pearls, and discarded gems. It was a treasure trove of colour and shimmer. Jannali was nearly impressed. "Would you like to have these while I speak with your parents?"
Jannali nodded, a slight smile spreading across her face. She was left with the box and a spool of string, along with some little metal clasps. In the background, she could overhear the heated conversations between her parents and the therapist, whose name she had ignored. They sounded agitated, Cynthia most of all. She probably hated that she had to do this. These visits to the therapist would always be carried out with a veil of secrecy; it would be incredibly humiliating for all the court to know that the Delacourts were being pushed to such measures. But as Cynthia was fond of saying, she just couldn't take it anymore! Jannali was running her ragged. Cynthia lived in fear both for and of her daughter. Although the words had never left Lady Delacourt's lips, Jannali knew what she was thinking. What they all thought. Why can't my child be nice? Behaved?
Normal?
She suspected that this knowledge should've greatly upset her. But Jannali simply tuned them out and made, one after another, a collection of beautiful little bracelets and necklaces. They were all red and black and white, with precious moon-shaped charms that glinted in the light. She found them pretty. She put one on her wrist and grinned. Just then, Cynthia came out of the conjoined office with red-rimmed eyes, which were quickly concealed with a dab of glamour. She forced herself to smile at the sight of Jannali's creations. "Oh, those are nice! Did you make them all yourself?"
"Yes. I like making these."
The therapist had a look of satisfaction on his face. "If you'd like, you can keep that box to get you started."
"Thank you so much," Cynthia bowed her head. "I really hope this helps. Is there anything else you'd like to add, Samson?"
The lord shook his head, a look of grave boredom on his face. "You've done all the talking for me, Dear. I think it's about time to go."
"Don't be impertinent," she muttered in response.
"Father," Jannali piped up, "I don't like it when you talk to Mother like that. It makes me angry."
The therapist sucked in a nervous breath. Samson's gaze hardened. "Would you like to have those taken away from you?"
Jannali clutched the box of beads to her chest. "It's mine."
"Talk back to me again," he threatened, "and I will give you something to be angry about. Come, Cynthia. I've had it here."
Jannali let out a cry of protest as Cynthia forcibly grabbed the girl's hand and brought her to her feet. "I don't need you to fight my battles for me," she chastised. "You don't talk to adults that way."
The ride home was endured in silence, and Jannali forced herself to make more bracelets instead of throwing a tantrum. It was beginning to dawn on her that she couldn't be herself around others. They didn't like her. And so, the only way to make them like her was to hide behind a mask. Her behavior gradually began to improve, and by the time she was seven, she had transformed into the perfect daughter. She never talked back, she never raised her voice, she never laid a finger on another child. Cynthia nearly died of relief at the change, and she no longer tip-toed around her own daughter.
After so many years of faking her good attitude, Jannali still didn't understand why she always felt so out of place. She still didn't have any friends. The other girls cared about love, clothes, art, music, gossip, sports...anything but what could hold Jannali's attention. Politics bored her to tears; especially the court proceedings, when executions and the like were carried out. It had taken her a while to put a finger on it, but she eventually realized that it was because she was sick of watching people getting killed. She was sick of playing pretend, of fantasizing. She wanted to do it herself. To know what it was like, to take a human life. To silence someone forever.
With the little bit of money she had managed to make by selling her jewelry, she bought old, tarnished books in bulk from every antique store she encountered. They were from Earth, printed centuries ago and written in vocabulary that could only be considered archaic. Despite this, Jannali devoured them one after another with glee; they were murder mysteries, of a bloody and violent kind, with intrigue and villainy and cruelty that was hard to fathom. She had not been one for reading, but these books...she was never able to put them down. She jotted notes on every murderer, every serial killer she learned about. Their personas. Their killing techniques. Their motivation. How they finally got caught in the end.
She told herself that it was all an innocent fantasy. She was a good girl. She stayed inside, she studied, she smiled, and her conduct was above reproach. Nothing about her told of murder.
By then, she had already killed three of her mother's favourite cats. The poor things didn't even have time to run away before Jannali had taken to them with an axe. It was the most fun that she'd ever had in her short eight years of life. She remembered burying them late in the night, when all was dark, behind some bushes in the garden. The rancid smell of cat blood and guts covered her from head to toe, and she thought it was delicious. Cynthia had never known that her dear child was the one who murdered her beloved pets.
It was around this age, at sweet nine years old, that Jannali began to notice something troubling. She was growing taller, a little rounder, and apparently much prettier. The boys, yes, the boys, would look at her shyly. Some daringly. Her maids began to poke fun at the thought of a little lover. Jannali was already annoyed at the overabundance of male killers in her novels, but now, having researched real serial killers on the net, she was very sad to learn that they were all men. The only ones that anyone remembered were the ones that brutally raped and were nothing but sex predators. And they were caught, to boot. None of the famous killers were women. And those few that still held a legacy were framed as mad, as driven by jealousy and heartbreak.
Men were strong. Women were weak. This is what Jannali felt like she was being told.
Wrong.
Every time a boy at court would tell her that she was pretty, Jannali had to restrain herself from kicking him in the groin. Every time her father belittled her mother, she had to bite her tongue so hard it bled. When a young Provost Dunlin, then four years her senior, had stolen a kiss from her, without Jannali ever saying a word, she got him alone and pushed him down the steepest flight of stairs in his house. He had never seen her face; only felt her hands digging into his back as she let out a scream of rage. He had fractured bones in both of his legs during the fall. From that day on, Jannali had adopted her first permanent disguise: a girl as pale as a corpse, with bland features, a wisp of a body, and dull grey eyes. Unremarkable. Uninteresting.
Wrong.
"Mother, do you know why all the murderers are men?"
Cynthia brought her glass of sherry to her lips, a tired look in her eye. "You're still reading those books? They really aren't appropriate for you, Dear."
Jannali smiled. "You haven't answered my question."
"Oh, I don't know. They're all just stories!"
"It's the same in real life, though. No one remembers girls."
"Jannali, I think you have better things to do with your time than worry about the gender bias of crime." Cynthia grinned. "You know, there's been some talk of having you go to the palace one of these days and meeting the prince..."
She barely stifled a groan. "I don't think I'd like the prince."
"Why not?"
"I just..." she sighed, "I just don't like being around people, Mother. It makes me nervous."
Cynthia clucked her tongue. "It's not by staying inside all day that it'll get any better. You need to go out and make some friends."
"Even murderers have friends," Jannali mused. She hunched over herself. "What do you think about that?"
"Jannali, that's enough."
"I want to know!" Her soft voice hardened, and she immediately forced herself to calm down.
Cynthia did not seem pleased. "I've had enough of all this talk about murderers and psychopaths and crime. You're going to stop reading those books."
Jannali looked down at her lap. It took all of her willpower not to walk up and hit her mother upside the head. With a rock. "Why do you think they let themselves get caught?"
"I don't know, Jannali. They're psychopaths. And you don't question a psychopath." Cynthia's gaze had darkened quite a bit. Her irritation rolled off her in waves.
For a moment, Jannali sat and pondered this. Cynthia slowly deflated. Still thinking, always wondering, Jannali stood and excused herself. There would have to be no more of this murder talk around anyone. Not if she was going to start doing it herself. Not if she was going to remain uncaught. It would be the greatest shame, she knew, to have her career end before it even began.
She hadn't seen the psychologist for years; after her good behaviour had been perfected, Cynthia, relieved beyond belief, was quick to stop regular appointments. No need to further embarrass their name when Jannali had obviously gotten over what they all thought was a nasty phase in her life. But she found herself sneaking out, alone, to go and visit a doctor once again. She was swathed in the glamour of a grown man, as well as a grey cape. She slipped through the city, unnoticed, and only allowed herself to breathe when she arrived safe and sound at the doctor's office. This particular one was a great master of the mind, Jannali had heard, and she hoped that she would be able to get the answers that she sought after.
No one even bat an eye at the sight of her, covered in glamour as she was. In the office, it was quiet, peaceful and above all, discreet. Jannali was a bundle of nerves as she waited to be called for her appointment. She had never been out without some form of escort. She knew that her mother would be beyond upset when she returned, but this was something that she needed to do. No one could know where she was going, and most certainly not why.
She was called in by the doctor, with her false name, and she sat patiently as the woman asked her questions. She answered as honestly as she was able. With every response, the doctor seemed more and more horrified, but she stuck to protocol; Jannali was given a written examination, and when she got the results, something inside her swelled.
"A psychopath?" Jannali whispered, her eyes glazed over. The screen in her hands showed a whole list of symptoms and possible reasoning behind her condition. It said that she was psychopathic. Very psychopathic.
"Now, now," said the psychologist, trying in vain to gather her wits. "Don't be alarmed. There are some very good treatments available for psychopathy. I recommend that you begin seeing me on a regular basis—"
"No," she said.
The doctor blinked. "Pardon?"
"I said no. I don't wish to be treated. I simply wanted to know, is all."
"But sir, this is a very serious disorder. I can't, in all good conscience, let you go without help."
Jannali's eye twitched. Of course, with her disguise, she would be called sir. There was no way that this woman could know that her psychopathic patient was a ten-year-old girl, who had barely lost all her baby teeth. "Thank you for your time, Doctor." She willed herself to sound like an adult. "But I don't want treatment. I'll be leaving now."
Before she could rise off the couch to her feet, the doctor beat her to it. A strange blend of terror, concern and disgust coated the woman's face. "Please. It seems that now, in your present condition, you are quite unhappy. Treatment will greatly improve your quality of life."
Disgust bloomed into a hideous feeling inside Jannali's belly. So she was something to be cured? Something wrong? A drain on her own life?
Wrong.
"We can cure you," the doctor crooned.
"Good day," Jannali replied, with contempt so great that it threatened to root the doctor to the spot. Jannali quickly gathered her things and left the office. She could hear protests echoing behind her even after she had left the building, but she forced herself to ignore them. She was once again nothing but an insignificant body swarming through the busy suburbs of Artemisia. She walked for hours, trying to hold back tears. She didn't know why she was crying—it might have been pain at the woman's words, we can cure you...but that was doubtful. More than not, it was because now, she finally had a word for herself. She knew why she was so antisocial. Why she hated people. Why she wanted to kill them so, so much.
She was a psychopath. A real, bonafide psycho. She nearly laughed at the thought. People tended to throw the word around callously, as a joke, as something that was meant to be taken with a grain of salt. But when the word actually applied to her...Jannali was more relieved than anything.
She was born this way. She had always been this way. Why should she change? Why did she have to be cured? It wasn't...it wasn't an illness. It was a part of her. She could never imagine herself any different; the very thought of being as vapid and weak and meaningless as the courtesans made her want to hang herself. So what if the world didn't want a psychopath? She would never stop being who she was. She shouldn't have to change.
Her first murder had been very unexciting. She had just turned eleven, and no one had even noticed when a young maid never returned to active duty after a short lunch break. To this day, the body still festered in the ground by the far gates of the Delacourt estate. Jannali had kept only one thing from that pretty young maid: a round of her spine, small and hard. It had taken her a while, but Jannali eventually managed to wash away the smell of rotting flesh from the bone. She drilled a hole in the middle and passed a leather string through it—the first charm on her new necklace.
"Don't you think that blood is beautiful?" Jannali had asked her cousin once, on a whim.
This particular cousin, Michaela, was like a living porcelain doll; she hated anything unclean. It therefore didn't surprise Jannali in the slightest when she let out a cry of disgust. "That's gross. Why would you even ask something like that?"
"Well..." Jannali folded her hands in her lap, "women do see more blood than anyone else. You'd think we'd all come to appreciate it."
"Oh, that's enough!" Michaela shoved her younger cousin away. "Why are you so weird?"
"I'm not weird. It's an honest question."
"People don't go saying that period blood is beautiful," Michaela spat. Her face was contorted in disgust. Her hair, which had been dyed a pretty forest green, bounced around her shoulders.
Jannali rolled her eyes. "I don't mean period blood; just...blood in general. It's all red and warm and metallic—"
"La la laaaaaaaaa! I can't hear you!"
Jannali let out a loud breath.
"Honestly, J," Michaela fanned her face. "The only ones who think like that are crazy and ugly." Her eyes narrowed, a vixen's smile on her face. "Actually, that would explain a lot."
Jannali frowned. "Thank you, Michaela. That's such valuable insight."
"I just say it like I see it."
Michaela did not live much longer to ever again say what she thought; as Jannali lured her away and slit her throat, she had called her murderous cousin Ugly J.
"You're...you're fucking crazy..."
Jannali had laughed.
She spent a little bit of time trying it on for size. She paced about a mirror, dressed in black clothes, a vicious expression fixed upon her face. Her necklace had gained five new charms. She began to wear tighter things, sexier things. She would lure boys away with her changing body; she knew that they stared at her when she wasn't looking. And in just a few short years, when she was finally a woman, she would be able to have them come to her in flocks, like the stupid prey they were.
Jannali smiled at her beautiful reflection. Ugly J. What an excellent name for a serial killer.
She loved it.
