AN: CONTENT WARNING: sexual violence, suicide attempt

The curtain closed behind her. The confessional smelled strongly of incense. Her hands were sticky; she hadn't washed them.

A creaking haunted her, and light bled in through the lattice flanking her left. She had to crane her neck to face it, not being able to turn her body, palms nailed to the bench. A figure, veiled in white, dragged itself through the threshold. The veil clung to its face, a thick red blotch shining wetly. It made the Sign of the Cross.

"Forgive me, Father— I have sinned," it said to her, tinged with a desperate loneliness. "I have made a false idol."

Weiss said, "No," and "I'm sorry," and "Forgive me," and "I'm sorry."

The figure bowed its head, levering forward to rise, only to pitch too far and collapse onto its face. It did not breathe.

The seal of the opposite booth was broken when a body flew in, pale and fancy— a girl. She hit the back wall with a meaty thwack, breaking a hole through which her upper body hung limp, legs twitching. A leg slid into the open threshold: naked muscle covered almost wholly in shining red viscera; a hand gripped the squat doorframe, another hand, another hand, three crimson grips pulling a blood-bathed figure inside: four-armed, two-legged, one head with a knee-length mop of dripping scarlet hair, two men tall, fibrous and ribby like a skinned beast. The confessional became small in its wake, compressing its own space to allow room for the figure. Its fourth arm— lower left— dragged another girl in by the hair. She kicked and clawed at the talons on her scalp. It threw the bleating girl like a wet sack. Her face broke through the lattice. Splinters jammed into her cheek and jaw. Her swollen, bleeding lips quivered, "F-for—giv—"

The figure grabbed her, clawing her forehead as it wrenched her head back like a PEZ dispenser. The flesh of her neck gave, fraying into red, wheezing ribbons. The figure leaned down to her tiny body, forcing its mouth on hers, its eyes closing to drink sweetly of the strangled failure of breath. The girl raked at its face, clawing until her fingernails fled her fingers, but the figure didn't free her mouth until she was lapping at a corpse's tongue. The figure let her drop, and she hit the confessional floor like fresh slaughter.

The figure scowled, dissatisfied, then turned to the other girl— the one halfway in the wall, legs twitching. It ripped her dress away and buried its face between her bruised buttocks, inhaling deeply, pulling away to laugh at the heavens. "I have sinned!" It rejoiced, standing up to grind against the girl, who was desperately and fruitlessly kicking at its knees. It reached through the breach, two of its hands bracing into the girl's shoulders, two of them grabbing her wrists and dragging them back through the hole. It yanked her back and thrust against her. "I am lecherous!" It declared with pride, thrusting against her again, one hand leaving her shoulder to roughly grip its own chest. "I am cruel!" It announced, stepping back and whipping the girl bodily from the hole. She tried to groan in pain, but the figure stepped on her face. It raised its arms, boasting its twenty black talons, its bare and blood-slaked musculature: a challenge to God himself, "I am—"

Another girl— a child— stepped through the door, small and sweet, presenting a mechanical pencil. "Weiss?" She asked, her eyes huge and watery. "Can I borrow some lead?"

The figure turned to the girl, popping the head beneath her foot as an afterthought.

Another girl stepped in, pressing the child behind her: a scaled-up version of the child. The figure grinned at her presence, a voracious show of too many teeth, and the girls turned to the one in the center compartment. One or both of them said, "I don't think I've ever seen you smile this much," before the figure barrelled through them, a spray of thick red sloshing through the threshold in their wake.

The booths were silent.

The one between them breathed.

Her hands, which had been wrenching desperately, finally tore fully through the nails. The holes in her palms didn't bleed. She looked around the central booth, unsure of what to do with freedom.

Only, the curtain in front of her whipped open, and she was in her apartment again. She looked right, and in the shattered, bloodied lattice was a cup noodle. It was still warm. She wolfed it down without reproach. Each gulp of it felt like nothing— tasted like static— seeping out from her mouth and settling deep in her legs and underneath her fingernails. Numb, she couldn't feel her pierced hands. Numb, she could look at the pulped bodies. Numb, she could sit down on the bench and eat her cup noodle. Numb, she could collapse across the bench and nurse her bottle. Drunk, she could do anything. Drunk, she could do what she wanted. Drunk, she could do what she needed.

All the walls fell away. Water lapped at her ankles: salty, holy, blessed and pure. The foamy white sea swallowed only her feet, and stretched ad infinitum. It smelled of sterility. Of pungent cures: magic and medicine abused in equal. Familiar.

And up above, in the crimson blackness of the infinite night, the sky was falling.

Black as sackcloth of hair, the sun hung low on the horizon; prostrate before the majesty of the blood-red moon. The stars above shifted and curved from their places, trailing. Gravity collapsing towards a center: her.

The sky was falling, just for her. The world had changed, easy and comfortable, just for her. The moon was dim, the sun inoffensive, just for her. Everything was silent. For her.

She waited in it. In that quiet. She waited forever. She would surely feel better soon. Surely. If the world became a world for her, became easy, surely she would be right for it. Even she could feel fulfilled— could feel full of humanity. Surely.

And yet, she was empty. Robbed of a worldly context. She starved for the world before. She starved for the noise, for the hurt, for the unimportance, for some way to be below nothing, to show her that nothing was not so bad— or simply to wake her from the boredom, the torturous sleep of life— for a knife to galvanize her skin— to clear the distant, unstimulated numbness in her flesh— for more sins from which she could repent— for any stimulus that would pull her above the water— she fucking hated the water— life like stupid, foamy nothing— to be pushed under the water— it's supposed to clean you, to make you good, to make you a thing which can live, to live in the right way— but she was all the wrong ways— come up from the water, you're still wrong— Go. Back. In— drown and breach and drown and breach until you can't breathe anymore— you're doing the right thing— you're not meant to be here— that's why it hurts— the nothing is your body telling you you don't belong— here— anywhere— you don't belong— do the right thing and spare us— and you want it done you want it all done— you can't stand the god-damn water— you can't surface anymore, can't see their fucking faces looking at you— are you right this time— and now the one person— the one— who made sure they pumped your lungs dry again, let you breathe— she's dead— she's dead and she's dead and it's all— your fault— and now it's just you and you always hated you— and now no one's looking to make sure your lungs get pumped— you cried for help— you were always screaming for help— of course you were— but none of them were helping— none of them were helping because they knew— they knew and you knew— that you'd be right if you could just breathe the foam and the salt and sleep— sleep in the water.

To whoever it may concern,

I am sorry for any mess or mental strain caused by my state. Please, use the enclosed business card to contact my father by telephone before you alert the authorities. Though it may seem odd, I hope you would not begrudge my request. You will be saved a lot of hassle. I do not intend to send any kind of message; it would be best for you if it were— shall we say— our little secret.

Thank you,

Weiss Schnee

On the morning of the big day, you woke up to your very first alarm. It was the 4:30 one. It buzzed your phone and made a twinkling noise like drops of ice raining on tiny bells. You had not awoken before 6:45 in a very long time, and you had gone to sleep well early of your regular hours: that being none at all. More common was your wont to lie down and doomscroll until your 4:30 alarm, then set your phone screen-down and close your eyes. You pretended it was sleep.

But not on that day. You heard that melodic chime and shot out of bed, an old hymn finding its way into your head unconsciously. You hummed All Are Welcome, and you were reminded of your younger years, when your mother was still a human being. Your father wanted to ensure your dedication to the church, and your mother suggested you join the choir. You were no more than six years old, yet you already knew enough to be shocked when he agreed.

You liked to sing. It felt good. Your voice was high and steady, lilting. The cantor had told you that you sounded like the cherubs themselves. He had pinched your cheeks and said you looked like them as well. Your mother fawned over this. You did not know she could do that.

It was a time where, for once in your life, you had truly been spoiled. Your mother and the cantor lavished you with praise, as did the congregation, and they liked to take pictures of you looking like a jellyfish in your robes.

Winter had been the only one who was meek with praise. Her eyes would rarely reach you when you were singing. Often, you strained your voice because you were not sure she was listening, and she would give you a tight smile as if begging you to stop. You became jaded to the praise of others. You wanted only hers, because you assumed she was dissatisfied with your ability.

You had not understood then. But, on that good morning, while you were putting your arm through the sleeve of your dress shirt and humming All Are Welcome again, you realized why she had not praised you as everybody else so readily had. Your sister was older than you. She had spent more years being a Schnee— being, of all the awful things to be in this world, a daughter to Jacques Schnee.

If only she had the cruelty of their father in her, then. If only she had taken you aside and told you— forced you to leave before he could, because you would have known— you would have known enough by then not to be hurt— you would have trusted her and you would have been sure that she was doing the best for you, because Winter was always doing her best for you. You would not have been so happy to have your joy, built up so high that you reached terminal velocity when father tore it all out from under you. That would have set the precedent of your life for the better: do not expect good things, because good things will not come. This is the creed branded into every rung of your DNA. You only wished that it had been Winter who made you realize that.

Then again, you would not have today if she had. And today was a good day. You wore your Sunday Mass clothes: your pressed white shirt and your rich navy tie, which you had done up with the fancy trinity knot that Winter prided herself in making. She taught it to you when you were eleven years old. You were glad to have her pride around your neck. Your grey slacks swished beautifully against each other, and the heels of your dress shoes echoed through the halls of the Schnee Estate.

The sound of your footsteps had summoned your family's head butler, Klein Sieben. He had seen your jaunt: the bounce of eagerness in your step and the relaxation of your shoulders and back, and he said to you joyously, "Miss Schnee? You seem… energetic."

You smiled at him. It was a real smile. It crinkled your eyes; you felt it. "I finally got some sleep."

He bowed his head, but could not hide his smile. "Respectfully, ma'am: you have no idea how long I've waited to hear that. Any particular occasion?"

You nodded, lying with ease: "It's picture day."

Klein cocked his head, being troublesome, "It is? I thought you had another month."

You smirked at him. "Are you mothering me?"

"N-no, ma'am. I apologize if it seems otherwise," he said, a meek red flush crossing high over cheeks. "I just find it… odd."

But you had prepared for this, and you came to a sudden stop. Conspiratorially, you leant toward him and whispered, "I'm meeting up with someone— we're skipping first period together."

He stiffened and flushed an even brighter red, but there was a bright sparkle of excitement in his eyes. He hushed you even though you were whispering. "M-miss Schnee!" He said under his breath, looking up and down the hall before turning to you again. His eyes were wide and innocent, practically bursting with joy. "You… you really are?"

And you nodded, you liar. You laid it on thick: you said, "Yes," and grinned as you lied to him further. "She's a girl."

You told him this lie because you knew it would ingratiate and secure you: it was a secret you shared with him, a risky one, showing your trust. He trusted you in turn, now emotionally invested— enough that he wouldn't expose you to his boss. You felt bad for this, since you doubted Klein would tattle regardless, but only briefly. Better to be cautious. He'd be better off in the end.

He only briefly widened his eyes, then narrowed them. "I understand," he said, his voice dropping. "Anything I can do to cover for you— I will. I swear it."

You said: "Thank you."

He made to leave— probably to start breakfast— then turned suddenly. "I'm proud of you," he told you. "I know things have been hard— very hard— for you. I think with this, you can start moving on."

His eyes were wet, and you smiled at him. You said to him, truthfully, "Yeah. Me too." And he bowed before leaving in a joyous hurry, practically skipping. You sighed, and checked your phone. You were still on schedule.

You found your mother as you always found your mother when you wanted to be reminded of her: in the sitting room, reclined with a bottle in her lap. The end table was, as usual, splattered with her pills, and you did not have to sneak by to take them from her. You could have shot her and she would not have stopped sleeping. You probably should have shot her, because you were supposed to love her, but your day was already planned out. There was no 5:15-5:30 block for 'Murder Mother Dearest'.

You continued to the dining room, hanging your leather school bag from the back of your chair. You sat. Father was there already, consulting his ever-present notebook. He did not look at you. You were glad to be ignored.

You were served eggs, bacon, and toast. For once, you ate it slowly, appreciatively, and you liked the taste. You drank your coffee without additives, letting yourself enjoy its rich, complex flavors: the acidity, the decadence, the bitterness. You longed to go outside and breathe the air, so you did so without dismissal.

Father spoke up without taking his nose out of his notebook. "Not going to wait?"

"Apologies, father," you said, bowing deeply. "I wanted to leave early today."

He looked at you, mustache crinkling with his nose. "Why?"

"It's picture day," you told him. "If I arrive early, I'll be able to get to it without risking my attire in the busy halls."

Your father frowned. He looked at Klein, who waited between you two at your father's right. Klein confirmed this. Your father harrumphed, but went back to his notes without so much as a single word more. You slung your bag back around your shoulders, taking the opportunity to leave.

It was a good morning. The estate was green and damp with dew. The sky was a navy sea of stars, brightening at the eastern shore. You inhaled the air. It was clean and crisp, the perfect medium to carry the burgeoning symphony of morning birdsong. You selected a mourning dove from the cacophony. It was a soft, doleful sound. You liked it. You always liked it. Somehow, it reminded you of something from a long time ago— some stupid girl whose toes you'd step on when you saw her outside in the mornings; you always arrived around the same time. Maybe some old neurons were still associating the sound of doves with the image of her hissing and hopping around on one foot. The joyful schadenfreude of it.

You walked to the nearest edge and squatted. You put your hand on the grass. It was wet and cool. When you swept your hand through a frond of it, dew droplets flew off. This made you laugh. It was good to laugh. Even if there wasn't a real reason.

You went to the garage. You could already drive, by then; your father made you get your license as soon as physically possible. You drove to school without music that day, and you mourned that you could not open all your windows and feel the wind tunnel, because your hair was too perfect to ruin. You did, however, enjoy the sunrise as you entered the highway.

One of the senior parking spots was painted like one of Van Gogh's Sunflowers, and you had always wanted to park there, so you did. The parking lot was mostly empty— plenty of spots for you to pick from, ones that wouldn't get you in trouble— but you didn't care, that day. You looked at the planner on your phone.

6:35 - Reflect.

You rolled your eyes. You had made that schedule after you had vomited all the drink out, and cried away all the feelings with it; a cold, purely rational state. Maybe you could reconsider. Maybe, in this short span, something could happen. Something could change. Even Lazarus could rise.

But you were not Lazarus. There was no miracle for you; you had been entombed far too long longer for that.

You went to your first class anyway. No point in disrupting the schedule.

You found the door unlocked, the room lit only by one warm desk lamp. Your AP English teacher sat behind the desk, hunched over and grading papers. Your arrival spooked her.

She looked at you, eyes widening. For once, you did not feel like a bother; or, if you did, you were okay with being one. For today.

Your teacher was a young woman— very young, possibly the youngest teacher in your high school. She had somewhat short hair, bedraggled and dark brown— black, in this light. You always thought she had beautiful eyes: distinct hazel, almost a glowing amber. Her big circular glasses, rimmed with thin bronze metal, seemed to magnify them. They shone like rich, dark honey in this light.

She dressed cute. Always a simple blouse— white today— with tan capris. White Converse that she'd doodled flames on like Guy Fieri's shirt. She moved a lot when she taught, so you were surprised to see her actually wearing her burnt orange cardigan today, rather than leaving it as seat dressing.

Her hands were worrying the worksheets in front of her, frantically grading. She had an undecorated golden band around her ring finger, and dark, tired bags under her eyes. You found this attractive— something about women who looked stressed and desperate, their eyes fighting for a minute of sleep. Something about her being married. Whenever you thought of hiking her up onto the desk and fucking her, you usually felt bad. You felt bad this time, as well, but you remembered you did not have to be guilty today.

So you thought about fucking Miss Fall. Her ass pushing the papers aside, scrambling hands knocking things off her desk. Her big glasses becoming crooked on her face, her perpetually nervous expression melting as you moved in and out of her; she had a husband, so you imagined using a familiar implement to wreck that home.

"Uh… good morning, Weiss."

You smiled at her. Her voice did not match her face— too sultry in its inherent tones, regardless of her meek demeanor. "Good morning, Miss Fall."

"You're here early."

Your smile was unchanged. "Yes. I am."

Miss Fall looked around as if there was something she were missing. You imagined bending her over, but not close enough to the desk that she could support her own weight on it. You wanted to see her bite the edge, barely able to hold herself up.

Her eyes drifted to the back of the class: to the sad, cold corner you usually sat. "Well… feel free to stay here, if you want. I'm doing some late grading, so please don't do anything loud."

You wanted to do her loud. "Okay."

You sat where you usually sat. You stared at Miss Fall. She did not notice your continued staring.

Soon enough, students were trickling into the classroom. Since it was Monday, you had no homework to be turned in. You were reading Rosencrantz and Guildenstern Are Dead as a class, so you got to listen to Pyrrha Nikos and Jaune Arc delivering their lines as if they were serenading each other like Romeo and Juliet, and not doing some kind of quip-off about whether or not you remembered the last time you clipped your toenails. You were often jealous of this; you wanted Pyrrha Nikos, just like you wanted the seniors Coco and Velvet, whose relationship you envied as well. You wanted Yang Xiao Long, her huge breasts and muscular body, and often excused yourself from the locker room after practice— you could not stand to see her skin covered in sweat, knowing that there would be somebody else to lick it off her.

But you did not feel embittered today, because it was a good day. Instead, you closed your eyes and imagined all of them, and you let yourself imagine it. You did not let your guilt chase the thoughts away.

You imagined a throne, and you perched yourself upon it, garbed in only a thin white dress. You imagined them: Pyrrha Nikos, Coco, Velvet, Yang, all those you wanted. They came to you and knelt. They took your legs and raised them, kissing the colorless flesh, massaging your calves and thighs with palms, fingers, and tongues. More joined: Nora Valkyrie from the wrestling team, Miss Fall, Cadmea Nikos. Hell, even Penny. More and more girls, spreading all over you like the plague. They stretched their hands across you, pressed you down from your throne. Towards the water. You let them. It was a good day.

Nobody bothered you while you daydreamed, even though you hadn't turned a page in however long, and your eyes were obviously closed. You were a fly on the wall, or an inoffensive painting: forgettable, even when you were perfectly within sight. You imagined your baptism until the bell rang.

You did not go to your second period. You had reflected.

9:10 - Consider.

You walked to the locker rooms because standard PE students seldom used them; as you expected, it was empty. It smelled like sweat and concrete.

9:30 - Attempt to Negotiate.

No. You would not be doing that. You had been naive to assume any part of you would accept a compromise, or have any bargaining chips. For once, you were unburdened.

You entered the bathroom stall. You taped your letter to the inside of the door. You locked the door, sat on the lid, and opened your bag. With the liberal public having swayed firmly against lobotomy, your mother was instead domesticated with a heavy supply of benzodiazepines. The label had been anxiously scratched to illegibility, but you did not need the specific dosage instructions. You knew exactly how much to take.

You placed the empty bottle back in your bag. You swallowed an extra gulp from your water bottle. You leaned back against the toilet. Rested your head on the tile wall. Folded your arms in your lap. Cool ceramic on your scalp. Arms slipped down. Foamy water. Swallowing.

Behind your lids, you behold a pale horse.