Author's Note: Sorry I haven't written anything in a while. I've been busy with other things, but now that it's summer break, I can probably focus more of my time on writing.
Trying to kick start myself back into this fanfiction was extremely challenging, hence the reason why you come to find this retched chapter to be next. And, I say this with full consciousness of my writing: This chapter was all over the place. Honestly, I just wanted to get it done and get it to you all. I also apologize that it's shorter this time.
I thank all of you who stuck through with this, and I promise that the next chapter will be better! I just wanted to get a better look into Angelina's mind, and what drove her to kill, or perhaps, be killed. Enjoy, everyone!
Also, I forgot to mention: please continue to review this fanfiction! It is extremely helpful to me, and I learn from what you guys tell me about my writing. Constructive criticism is extremely welcome!
And finally, to the guest who left that extremely helpful and lovely review: Thank you so much for reviewing, it means a lot! I'm glad you like this story so far. About the way they speak - they did have different dialects in 19th century England. Although some people might not write with them, (and I daresay I don't exactly use them properly myself), I do like the way it makes my writing sound. Or rather, my dialogue, for that matter. I believe it makes it sound a lot more intelligent, and it does add to the writing. I do understand that it makes the writing a little bit hard to understand, though. I'll try not to use those dialects in the future. Thanks again for the feedback!
Angelina thought she was done with crying. It had taken so much of her energy and time. The only thing she would do was cry, and it would get her absolutely nothing. After she dried her red, swollen eyes and washed her face of streaks of tears, and forced herself to calm down, she didn't attain anything that she'd lost. She still had to live, knowing that everyone she loved was gone, and there was nothing she could do about it. Madame Red thought that she wasn't going to cry any longer. But, even with the realization that crying didn't get her anywhere, she still found herself crying. Emotions welled up all over again. The sadness that she felt so constantly bore itself down on her shoulders again so that her posture stooped. She remembered the hours of practice with her sister, walking with thick, heavy books on her head to straighten out her back and gain a perfect posture, and suddenly felt lonely. Now that her sister was gone, who else would be there to remember their childhood? Every afternoon spent together, stuck inside playing with dolls when it rained, or outside talking walks, practicing concealing their faces behind fans and subtly twirling parasols, for when they'd walk arm-in-arm with men instead of each other. Who else would be there to laugh with her about memories and fondly recall their youth? Angelina felt much too old. The emotion that overcame even the sadness and the loneliness she felt, however, was anger. She was angry. Red hot and fiery, grinding molars and clutching fists. Envious anger. Crimson flashing behind her eyes, envious for everything lost in the fire. Envious for everything her sister had.
Today will be the hardest, she thought. Everyone else had paid their respects and left, but how could she leave? Hours after the initial funeral, she still stood in front of the graves, looking down at their names. Rachael Phantomhive; beloved daughter, wife and mother. Vincent Phantomhive; beloved husband, father, and friend. She'd read the headstones over and over, words burning into her mind. Words engraved on granite and white marble, words that would soon fade away with time. The words stung her thoughts like the tears that stung her cheeks. At first, she was numb. Her face broke into an emotionless, distant stare as guests to the funeral hugged her and sympathized with her loss. How could they understand what she was going through? Everything she every loved was gone. Her sister, who was the only thing in the world who could bring a smile to her face after the accident, was gone. Her sister's husband, who was the only man she'd ever loved, was gone. Their precious son, who was everything Angelina ever wanted and couldn't have, was gone. One night changed her entire life. It seemed to Angelina that her entire life was just a procession of losses, one after the other. How tragic, she thought, to only ever experience love to have it taken away from you. Surely though. There must be somebody who feels the same way. Could she truly be alone in this world? Her hands shook, gripping the bouquet of flowers tighter in her hands, to have a grip on something, if not sanity. She was sad for what she lost, but was angry for what she never had.
Her sister took everything away from her. No, that was silly. How could she have known? Vincent was the only man who made her feel more than just Rachael's shadow, and once again, her sister had to steal that away from her, too. But, somewhere deep in Angelina's mind, she had to pin the blame on her sister. All the anger that she felt inside, for the perfect life she'd never have, and the children she'd never bring into the world, and the agony of abandonment; it all had to be blamed on something. Unfortunately, the person taking the blame was a woman who was reduced to ashes in a fire that burned a lot more then cobblestone, brick, and flesh. They had nothing to bury. Angelina had nothing to weep over. She at least needed something to blame.
Standing in front of their graves was not the hardest thing she'd have to do, but in that moment, it felt like it would be the end of her. The dull, black Henrietta skirts and lace trim of her dress brushed over the ground, and was eventually tucked underneath her as she lowered herself to her knees. She didn't care if it got dirty. She'd only have to buy another, which wasn't too terribly unfortunate. Money meant nothing to her now. Angelina tugged on the ivory muslin cuffs of the sleeves, pulling it down over her knuckles, with the eyelet lacing scratching over her skin. The only thing she could result to was to keep her hands in her lap, smoothing out wrinkles in the twilled, glossy fabric. Even as grey clouds bunched together in the sky, and rain was wringed from the storm clouds, she stayed steady in her position. Her blasted red hair fell over her shoulders and soaked through even the heavy boning of her corset. Cold water soaked through every thick layer of clothing and turned her skin rigid, frozen and raw with the freezing rain. Chills were sent up her spine as thunder roared above her head. Her stringy, wet hair clung to her scalp and fell into her eyes as she hung her head, tucking her chin against the scratching lawn collar that had smooth, ivory buttons fastened from the neckline of the bodice, over her collarbones and up to the top of her neck. The only comforting thought in her mind was that nobody could see her crying with the black crepe veil in front of her face. Or at least, the tears would disappear into the raindrops that fell down her face. At this point, she felt utterly alone. Angelina thought she was done crying, much like the way she thought she was done living in her sister's shadow. She tried to become her own person and make a life for herself. She tried to use her curse as an asset. The crimson hair that she always hated, she came to recognize could be an advantage. The hair that he called beautiful, like spider lilies. Anne used that flair of red to her advantage, as much as she could.
Becoming 'Madame Red' couldn't make her forget her past self, though. The envy she still felt coursing through her veins wouldn't leave her. Everything felt wrong with who she had become. She wanted everything her sister had, or at least something more then what she was handed. Now, kneeling in front of her sister's grave, she realized that the envy that pushed her to change herself in order to feel like she was worth more than just a person along the sidelines of her sister's life was the only thing that was still driving her to her knees.
Angelina blinked the rain out of her eyes, or were they tears? She didn't care to assess it. All she wanted now was to see, to push the blinding anger from her eyes and take a look at the situation she'd found herself in. All those years spent of her childhood, telling Rachael that she was beautiful, while all she ever wanted was to be able to look at herself in the mirror and see something she liked. All those years that she wasted, pretending to be a scarlet woman that was more than a shadow in someone else's life. Something was driving her to still be used while she tried to escape. Now, she was kneeling in front of a dead woman's grave, next to a man that was equally as dead. Rachael was dead now. As much as Angelina wanted her sister back, somehow she felt free. She didn't have to live in Rachael's shadow any longer, not when her sister wasn't alive to stand in the sun any longer. Madame Red could never have Vincent to herself, and now, nothing had changed. She wasn't going to get him back any more then she could when he was alive. Something clicked in her head, as she straightened her back and squared her shoulders, staring down at the headstones she had wasted the entire day mourning over. Her sister and her husband wasn't alive for her to be envious of any longer. Her sister spent her entire life getting what she wanted. Now that she was lying in eternal rest, with everything she had won over from Angelina, why should she get anything more?
Madame Red slowly got up to her feet, regaining her footing as she stretched out her legs. She tried to look tall as she regained her balance, clutching the bouquet of flowers in her hands with a new reassurance. Why did her sister deserve these flowers? Angelina turned away from the graves, peeling her wet hair from her face, brushing the crimson tresses behind her ear as she walked away, with the perfect posture she'd spent hours in her youth mastering. She'd put the flowers in a nice vase once she got home, she decided. Angelina was right. She was done with crying. It was time for her to get what she wanted. Now, others could be envious of her. After so long being rejected, why couldn't she taste a little bit of what her sister had?
As she wiped her face for the last time, with the bulky mourning cuffs of her dress, she looked up to the sky. It had stopped raining, and the sun poked its face from behind the clouds. What did she want? Be it flowers or happiness, she was going to get it. Maybe it was anger. Perhaps it was love, or the sweet taste of revenge. Angelina smiled. It felt odd to smile, after spending so long crying. It was good to smile, and she realized that she was smiling, not because her sister made a vain attempt to make her happy, but because she lit a spark in herself, on her own accord, to do something good for herself.
This was good, she realized. You're leaving everything behind.
Something whispered behind her, now only a faint murmur instead of a persistent scream. Was this good? Who will envy you, Angelina? Who will mourn for you?