Irreconcilable Differences

~O~

"Stab the body and it heals, but injure the heart and the wound lasts a lifetime"

-Mineko Iwasaki-

~O~

When Charlotte was eight her father had forced her take piano lessons. Actually forced was too strong a word, it was simply expected of her and Charlotte had been far too young and too in awe of her father to argue.

Her teacher had been a tall man with white hair pulled back into a severe knot that made his already harsh features appear even more so. In one hand he carried a briefcase filled with music pieces, and in the other a slender metal cane. Every Wednesday and Friday afternoon Charlotte would sit at the small piano in the upstairs room, her pudgy fingers doing their best to give life and sound to the sterile compositions he picked out for her. While she played he hovered at the side, twirling the cane between practiced fingers, his cold grey eyes watching gleefully for any mistakes.

Thirteen years later and Charlotte had forgotten his name, but thirteen years later her false fingers still burned with the psychosomatic sting of sharp steel cutting into her knuckles – one lash for every mistake.

During dinner parties she was expected to play for the guests and she was expected to be perfect. She remembered one particular party vividly. She had been nervous all day and it had shown even as she'd sat down on the plush stool and attempted to perform a symphony with fingers that were bruised to bleeding beneath her cornflower blue gloves.

It had been a disaster, and rather than stay and look upon the disappointed, snickering faces of the assembled guests, Charlotte had run out of the room to hide behind the thick curtains of an empty room. No one had gone to look for her. When she crawled back a few minutes later, another girl was sitting at the piano, Chopin flowing beautifully from perfect little hands. It was then Charlotte realised something that would haunt her for the rest of her life: she wasn't a person, she was an accomplishment, and she was not a good one.

Ironically, Charlotte considered her 'death' to be the start of her life. She imagined herself as some shackled puppet that her papa – no, the Undertaker – had come to liberate. He had sliced the strings from around her wrists and neck and taken her away from that old life. With him she was loved and truly felt like she could love in return.

She hadn't realised that love could hurt like this. None of her stories had ever warned her about this. Where was her happy ending? Didn't she deserve one? Why wasn't she ever enough for anyone?

Her chest hurt. It shouldn't have but it did. Where her heart ought to have been was clenched like someone had shoved their hand into her and yanked it out. Her emotions were bleeding out but for the life of her she couldn't bring herself to do something about it.

A lurch in her periphery startled her. One of the monsters, the Bizarre Dolls, stumbled towards her. Charlotte watched it come closer, it's mouth dangling wide open from the broken jawbones. It took another step and Charlotte saw the stitches on its leg rip, sending it crashing to the ground.

Fury filled her. This was what her papa had been making? These disgusting, inferior monsters? She was better than them! He had succeeded with her! He didn't need any more! What had she done wrong?

The fight, confused as it was, appeared to have broken down into a sort of three-way combat between the Reapers and Sebastian. Occasionally they would work to back the other into a corner, only for another combatant to seize an opportunity to strike. It was as confusing as it was dangerous. They all stumbled as the ship gave a sudden tilt and sank another few feet.

The Red Reaper hissed angrily. "We're out of time."

"Agreed," the blond one replied. He had lost his glasses at some point and was squinting around through the blood on his face. His eyes then landed on Charlotte, lost in her thoughts, and he grinned. "We have to end this as soon as possible!"

They rushed forward, surprising everyone by jumping past him and heading straight for Charlotte instead. Startled, the woman tried to bring up her scythe to protect herself but she wasn't fast enough.

For a moment all she could see were manic yellow-green eyes, and then they changed. The Undertaker tightened his fingers around Grell's neck, his mouth set in a grim line as he tossed the bloodstained weapon aside and pulled out several new ones. "What did I say about my Lottie~?"

"He's too fast," the blond one bit out through the intense pain; his back burned from the gash and whatever curse he'd inscribed on those stakes. "I don't get it! Death Scythes can cut through anything! This doesn't make any sense!"

The Undertaker chuckled. "Your distinctly large oversight is incredibly funny," he said. "Isn't that catchphrase a little strange? After all, it-"

He stopped suddenly, and they could see why. Charlotte trembled behind her father as she held the blade of her scythe to the Undertaker's throat. She couldn't see his face, she didn't know what sort of expression he was making. Was he shocked? Angry? Well if he was it didn't show in his voice. "Lottie, what are you doing?"

"I-I don't know," she replied shakily. "I'm just...I don't know what to do! Why did you do this? Why couldn't you have been happy with me? What did I do wrong?!"

The razor was resting so close to the skin but you would have thought that meant nothing with how fast he turned his head to look at her over his shoulder. "You did nothing wrong dearest! Lottie you are perfect! I wanted you to see this! We have an army here~!" He gestured magnanimously around to the swarming hoard that was doing its best to crawl and claw no matter how hard everyone fought. "Aren't you curious~? You've always loved stories. Come with me and let's give this one a good conclusion~."

Sebastian saw the waver in her hands a second before Charlotte began lowering the weapon. "Papa, I..."

He hushed her softly and Charlotte's eyes swam when an affectionate hand landed on the top of her head. "Let's talk about it later my dear. For now, why don't we match?"

His cloak whipped around him and then flew back to reveal a large, ornate scythe with a blade of viciously sharp steel kept in blade by an ivory white skeleton. The Undertaker twirled the staff around, laughing at their stunned expressions. "What~? Did you think I retired without taking a few souvenirs~?"

It was madness from that moment onwards. It's as if the sight of that clearly opulent scythe kicked things into high gear. Charlotte knew she was a wonderful fighter, fast and flexible and unable to feel physical pain, but she couldn't go toe-to-toe with a demon.

Sebastian attacked ferociously, a whirl of black and silver knives. Scythes were good for long-range melee attacks, he had to get closer to the reaper without getting sliced to pieces. Undertaker blocked them, his grin never leaving his face as he sussed out Sebastian's plan. "You think of some interesting strategies~. Very well, so will I!"

Charlotte wasn't sure how but in a second her father was suddenly holding Phantomhive by the collar of this shirt, using a veritable red flag in the face of a rampaging bull. To her surprise, Sebastian charged without thinking. The expression on his face didn't look like anything she'd seen before (granted she barely knew him and most of her interactions with him had been about what a weird annoyance she was).

But then Ciel was falling out of the way and there was so much blood spilling out from the demon's back. Cinematic reels spilled out of the gash, hundreds and thousands of slides that she could barely catch.

Her papa wrapped an arm around her shoulders and pulled her forward, grabbing one of the bright ropes and bringing it closer. "Behold Lottie – the life of a demon~!"

But it wasn't. It was the life of a little boy filled with so much hatred that he'd bound his soul to hellspawn just to get vengeance on the people who had hurt him so brutally. She saw Ciel Phantomhive through Sebastian's eyes but without his thoughts, saw the signs of abuse on his body and the cold steel in his eyes.

What did her own trauma matter in the face of something like that?

The moment hung suspended like a particularly macabre work of art, and then it was over and the demon crashed against the falling child, catching Phantomhive in his arms and landing semi-safely on the other side of the tilting balcony. The Undertaker snickered and glided forward, his arm sliding off Charlotte's shoulders and leaving her cold and sick.

"I knew you'd be able to protect the earl," her papa hummed softly, twirling the scythe like a baton, his eyes never leaving the prone demon. "However judging from those records I'd say you make his life pretty miserable after all. So I think I'll just remove you from the equation-!"

Eyes widened as everyone took in the sharp blade jutting out from the Undertaker's chest. It connected to a long, silver chain attached to a black staff held by a girl who just wanted everything to be over one way or another.

The Undertaker stared at her, his daughter, with wide eyes. "Charlotte...?"

Before anyone could react to this, the ship gave a mighty groan and began to shake. Their time was up; the Campania was sinking and sinking fast.

Sometime between their confusion, the Undertaker vanished. Charlotte watched the heavy blade of her scythe fall to the ground and then retract back into its original position with the press of a button. There was something around the hook; a silver locket with an ornate engraving that Charlotte had never seen before.

There was silence, and then the blond reaper spoke up. "I...am so confused."

"It was drama that would even rival the great bard's works," Sebastian grit out the sentiment and then spat blood. "Now then, can we pick this up another time? Preferably when we're not all aboard a sinking vessel?"

Charlotte fingered the locket, tossing it up and down contemplatively. The bright blue stone in the centre glinted a familiar blue and she tossed it to Ciel. "Keep it safe," she told him curtly, "he probably would have wanted you to have it."

To his credit, Ciel only fumbled once before catching it. He eyed Charlotte thoughtfully, but this wasn't the time or place to make snap decisions. "We'll discuss this later."

The weapon in her hand disintegrated into dust and she just smiled. "Yes, I know."

I do want ya'll to know that trauma isn't a competition. If something terrible happens to you there's no need to justify it by saying "well this happened to someone else so my pain doesn't matter" because it does and you don't have to one-up or downgrade your own feelings.

Also Charlotte's piano teacher was based on something that happened to me in school. My handwriting used to suck so whenever I couldn't write properly the teacher used to hit my fingers, which ironically only made my writing worse like bitch wyd?