“People always like to hurt me… I don’t like it but I can’t stop them. Hm? Why don’t I run away? ‘Cause you’re here silly! Sometimes things get really really reallllly hard, but then I get to see you again and it helps make all of that pain go away. I think if I could see you again and again forever, I think I could do anything!”
-‘Memories of a Girl Who Smiled’, author unknown
Dahlia did her best not to flinch as the carriage door slammed shut but it was a lost cause; already her nerves were wound so tight that just about anything would make her jump and the added presence of both her parents did nothing to help matters. Hands balled, shoulders bunched, she felt more akin to a cornered animal than anything nearing human, and she found herself trying to not make a sound —not even breathing too hard— in hopes of just being passed over and ignored. If only she were so lucky.
“Well then, perhaps it’s about time we had a talk,” spoke the Baron.
More calm than Dahlia expected. More casual too, in comparison to his usual presentation but also compared to how she expected the drunken rage to affect him. She anticipated spitting vitriol and instead was met with something far more controlled. A quick glance towards him killed any thought in the crib that he might have cooled his head: he looked at her like she was a parasite and that veneer of control was nothing more than the dying embers of the man's patience.
“I don’t think you appreciate just how much I’ve done for you, do you girl? You like to act as though I’m the villain. As if I’m the one in the wrong. But who’s kept you fed all these years, hmm? Who’s kept a roof over your head? If I kicked you out of the estate you would have either died or whored yourself out within a week, and yet you never thank me.” He chuckled and his crumbling composure slipped, laughing and hiccuping and letting the drink’s effects show. “You’ve never thanked me, not once! What an ungrateful bitch… You were better as a kid, did you know that? All meek and quiet and doing what you were told. I guess it’s true what they say about worthless and ungrateful teens — you never grew out of that, did you? You’re what? Twenty-one? But still acting like a teen failure; all hormones and self-entitled arrogance.”
Dahlia could only bite her tongue. He wouldn’t care about her side of things; he wouldn’t care about anything she thought or said. Her father was so disgustingly self-absorbed that she just prayed to any gods that would listen that he would get so distracted by his own ranting that the man would collapse in an unconscious drunken heap sooner than he might remember the depths of his own anger.
“Anyways, you being an unfilial brat aside, I had expectations of you. You were fucking worthless, destined to be a failure, and I was the one who made it so you had value. Who gave you tutors? Who let you read his own personal library? Don’t you see, girl? I gave you everything that allowed you to have even an ounce of value and all I asked is for you to carry your fucking weight. And did you do it? No! No, of course you fucking didn’t! Instead you bit the hand that feeds! Spat in my face! Intentionally did everything you could to make me a laughing stock! And that’s all you wanted, isn’t it—”
He leaned forward rapidly, claw-tipped finger suddenly far too close to Dahlia and on the track to get closer until a hand reached out and grabbed his own.
“Gods fucking damnit Sabrina, don’t stop me now you whore!”
Dahlia let her attention shift away from the Baron and, for the first time since entering the carriage, took in her mother’s appearance. Her cheeks were still flushed from her earlier drinks but any looseness she displayed before had been replaced by a rigor-mortis-like tension. Her eyes were wide too, almost wild despite the calm tone she spoke with.
“Calm down, Vincent, can’t you see the blinds are still up?”
Compared to the Archduchess from earlier, the Baron’s movements would almost be humorously slow and clumsy if it hadn’t resulted in him slapping his wife in the face, his claw-like nails raking and flensing skin like wet paper.
“Then fucking close them then! Don’t you dare tell me to calm down! I have been patient! I have been calm! I’ve been holding back for so long so don’t tell me what I can and can’t do!”
The man’s spittle was flying, and it might have even distracted Dahlia from everything for a moment if she weren't instead transfixed by her mother’s face. There was blood —so much blood— pouring from the cuts, and it was oh-so-different from what the Archduchess had done earlier. It wasn’t something internal like a broken nose, and there was no regeneration —no rapidly closing wounds— the way the Duke had; only loose flaps of fat and skin hung from her mother's face, and the blood only continued to flow. Dahlia had heard once that face wounds bleed more than others but had never experienced it for herself; too many questions might have been asked otherwise, but now she understood. There was far more than she expected, pouring down and staining dress and carriage alike and yet, as Sabrina turned to begin pulling down the blinds, her mother’s expression was what the girl focussed on.
The tension in the woman was still there but she looked to have relaxed slightly if anything, entirely uncaring to her husband’s lashing out and seemingly unbothered by the pain as well. It was as Sabrina turned to lower the blind that they made eye contact and the Baroness mouthed only two words before going back to trying not to draw attention to herself: ‘Do nothing.’
The instruction did little for Dahlia though in that moment, the thought of calming down felt like a fantasy, childish and laughable in equal measure. She could follow the instruction well enough however, especially considering how her reaction to fear was to freeze. Oh, the girl’s body trembled and her breath came fast and shallow, but in the face of her father? In the tight confines of the carriage, blinds now drawn and the coppery tang of blood in the air? Though her body shook, Dahlia doubted she could intentionally move even if she wanted to.
And so she tried to ignore it all.
Her thoughts scrambled for anything to gain purchase that might let her stay afloat. Memories of the night and of the woman who made her heart flutter. Excitement about cantrips that showed so much potential for all the magical plans she had. Plots and schemes and ideas aplenty, all now needing to be reconsidered but all tied to escaping her parents with the Archduchess. All offering an escape and a path to true freedom and—
A punch to the gut knocked the thought out of her along with her air, and Dahlia was coughing and gasping before she even realised what happened.
“You don’t understand how much you deserve this, girl. You intentionally go against my orders. You intentionally make me look like a fool. And you had the gall to do it as early as you could?! Do you even understand how much you damaged my reputation? Do you know how humiliating it was that I couldn’t do this to you in front of the entire crowd?”
Another fist landed, then another, again and again as the man ranted at her. It was so much… too much. Dahlia was used to pain —to regular beatings too— but this was different. It wasn’t calculated. It wasn’t restrained. Vincent hardly even watched his daughter, not caring for her reactions and only fixated on the harm he could cause and releasing his own rage, no-matter what the cost of catharsis may be. The strikes were getting stronger too, though her mind was too clouded to fully comprehend it; she only knew his voice was rising in volume and her sobs —when had she started to sob?— had gotten louder alongside him. Then there was a pop and grind and new pain lanced through her ribs, sharp and acute and a wailing scream left her before she knew it.
Vincent didn’t like her being loud.
There was scrambling, her already raw fingers now clawing at her fathers arm as he wrenched her up by a fistful of hair. She couldn’t focus. Couldn’t look the man in his eyes or fully parse his words. In that moment, the agony in her ribs only grew, radiating out and turning all other sensations into nothing more than a suggestion.
“Did you think you’d get away with this? Are you so spoiled that you thought you wouldn’t be disciplined?!”
She didn’t notice as his spittle hit her face, but she did notice the hand that slapped her. It landed hard, with claws digging in and the impact jarring her to the point of nearly losing vision. But it was the small nagging thought at the back of her mind that truly frightened her. Vincent, for all his despicable mistreatment, had never struck her face. Dahlia was —in his eyes at the very least— a commodity, and yet now all of that precedent was being discarded in an instant. The realisation was like a bucket of cold water and was enough for her to drag her attention back to the man in front of her who even now was ranting and gesticulating wildly, the girl’s hair still firmly in his grasp.
“— like your mother now! Isn’t that perfect? Not like it matters! Who fucking cares if I fuck up your face, huh? The Duke’s kid? The one I can’t sell you off to?!” Another slap landed and a monstrous sort of glee filled his eyes, “No… no no no no no, that doesn’t matter now. I’ll just sell you off to Zmeul: everyone knows he loves to mutilate anyone he can get his hands on. Who knows? Maybe he’ll pay extra if I rough you up in advance, huh?”
More and more, a crazed look filled him. There was too much adrenaline, too much alcohol as well, and far too much loathing that had only built up over the years. Vincent was mad in the truest sense of the word, and she doubted the man could even fathom the concept of restraint. Dahlia knew it would only escalate; she could practically see how the rolling stone of ‘discipline’ would only grow worse and become nothing short of a veritable rock slide. The realisation came to her as well —just as her father was about to use her hair as a handle to bash her face into the corner of a bench— that perhaps that rock slide would be fatal.
She saw the wood coming, approaching her face fast, and a part of her knew it would cave in her skull. All she could do was close her eyes and give up. She was happy she didn’t see her life flash before her eyes —it would have been a horrid experience to end on— but Dahlia did think of the vampiress that gave her hope. She thought, in that split second before her skull split open, about all the joys she had let herself yearn for and all the hope she allowed herself to hold on to. And —though she felt selfish for it— she let herself hold onto it for just a little longer. What was hope for, if not comfort in the worst times? And if to dream was a sin, then she would allow herself that vice before it all fell to oblivion.
But oblivion didn’t come.
Hot-searing-agony, an audible crack, and a surge of blood and consciousness came, but not oblivion.
Vincent too, was surprised if him suddenly dropping her to the floor was anything to go by. She couldn’t truly tell though: the world was red and dark and pulsed to the rate of her own heart. She certainly wasn’t in a state to try and read expressions, nor did she have the motivation to try, but Dahlia was alive. Some way. Somehow. And as her eyes fluttered open, though they never truly managed to focus, she felt her eyes meet her mother who, again, remained in the corner, silent and watching and… bleeding, more than before? Her mother’s own injuries had only grown worse in recent minutes, though through the haze of it all, the girl couldn’t remember when. But still Sabrina stood by and watched with jaw clenched and eyes fixed.
Dahlia hated her then, for standing by and just watching. She appreciated her too, though she doubted she’d admit it if she were in a more lucid state of mind. Nonetheless, Dahlia appreciated her, for any company was better than to go through it all alone.
Vincent was still talking —still ranting and rambling like a madman— though she couldn’t even hear the words anymore, just the thump-thump thump-thump of a world that hurt to exist in. The thought came to her then, of making it all go away, and what a primal urge it was. The instinct of a desperate animal, writhing in pain and just wanting it all to be erased and made undone. Sensation was a burden. Lucidity was a curse. It was all a blight and the temptation to make it all just stop was overwhelming. The girl remembered a cantrip, of darkness and numbness and void, and she felt herself begin to reach for that familiar licorice-thick mana.
Her mother said something, interrupting Vincent's rant and receiving another hit for it, but Dahlia didn’t know what she said, only that it seemed urgent. Perhaps she could wait to use the cantrip until— A kick landed then. Hard, in her stomach and a second followed in her ribs. A third struck her head and the shadows of fleeting consciousness followed. The screaming static of agony is what lifted her back above the waters of lucidity and it was as the Baron stomped on her, crushing her feet, her legs, her hips, her—
It was too much. She had tried to hold on. She had tried so hard to not give in. She had tried.
But it was too much.
And so her mana flowed, and she greeted the numbing darkness like a lover.
~~~~~
Light. That’s what greeted Dahlia when she was once again aware, though she had no sense for how long had passed. A part of her mind noted how she still lay on the ground and how the carriage rattled away beneath her. How long? She couldn’t know and she wasn’t sure if she cared. There was yelling as well: between her parents? She didn’t want to listen. The pain was too much, throbbing and overwhelming her more and more with each passing second and—
Why was there light?
How could she feel?
She had wanted it to all go away and yet she had been dragged back into this waking hell against her wishes. And so she tried again, letting mana gather and begin to numb everything all over again and, again, that gods damned light whisked it away. It was brighter this time, more potent and, with it, the darkness cleared further and more of her senses came back, making the shouting in the carriage all-the-more clear.
“I don’t care what you say, if the brat insults me with her dark attribute one more time I’ll fucking kill her, damn the consequences!”
“Are you even listening to yourself? Did you not hear a single thing I said? You wanted to punish her and that’s fine but she’s less than worthless if she dies! Zmeul isn’t going to buy a corpse! And what about the Archduchess? What if she’s actually interested in the girl and finds out you killed her? I don’t know about you, Vincent, but I don’t want to be slaughtered at the whims of high nobility!”
Sabrina’s patronizing irritation felt so out of place yet so familiar that Dahlia couldn’t help but laugh, or at least perform the closest approximation she could. Even breathing felt like torture and the faintest chuckle had the girl suddenly choking on her own clotted blood which only sent new spasming pains through her body again in a cruel cycle.
“Oh good, she’s awake again. See? She’s alive! She’s fine! And even as a bloody heap, she won’t stop being a pain in the ass.” The Baron’s voice raised, as if to yell overtop of Dahlia’s own choking coughs: “Do you hear me girl? Shut up! The adults are talking and you’re being a nuisance!”
“Just leave it, she probably has damaged lungs or something and the last thing we need is for you to go and make it worse.” The man clicked his tongue but the Baroness continued, “What I’m trying to tell you is that unless you want to have to sell the estate within the next year or so, you’re going to have to sell her off and that means keeping her alive. For fuck’s sake Vincent, pay attention! Quit looking at her; it’s like I’m trying to talk to a brick wall, gods help me.”
“How am I supposed to focus? She just won’t shut up; I liked her better before.”
It was true she couldn’t stop coughing, —wheezing, sputtering for air— but Vincent’s complaints were the last of Dahlia’s worries. With each gasp and cough, she progressively came to realise just how much her body was damaged —far worse than she was last aware— and, in the midst of her throws of agony, Dahlia wondered how she was even still alive. Even without her own magic, darkness never strayed far from her vision’s periphery: unconsciousness always remaining tauntingly close. Each heaving cough she took only made that darkness surge, wracking through her body and sending a new wave of sensory overload through her. It was like a body-wide tinnitus, full of blaring white-noise that filled each and every nerve and—
“Didn’t you hear me? I said shut up!”
A kick landed, over her eye this time, and again the darkness took her.
~~~~~
It was dark again, but different from before. There was… a light? It was blurry, distorted and smeared in a way that bordered on unrecognizable, but the crushing of gravel and sound of rustling leaves had her realise: it was the moon. She couldn’t focus on it —couldn’t focus on anything at all— but that one pale, splotched light was all Dahlia could see in the pitch of night.
There were faint voices too; wary and murmured conversations, and frantic, whispered, warnings and orders. The girl presumed it came from servants, or maybe the guards, though she couldn't make out the details. Couldn’t understand why there was so much tension either, nor why she heard the occasional groan or sob of people she couldn’t recognize.
She was being carried, she noticed, though by who she didn’t know. Only that each step they made sent a throb through her. Again. And again. And again.
“Just hold on. We’re almost there and I’ll set you down.”
A woman’s voice? Quiet, not caring per se, but reassuring. Dahlia let her eyes close and she drifted off before she even felt the throb of another footstep.
It was like she was blinking through time: one step and her eyes closed, another step and she was indoors. There was the stale scent of carpet, the echoed sound of a wooden hallway, and the glaring light of lamps.
Another step.
The groan of a rarely used door and the scent of dust.
The click of a lighter and the sounds of distant yelling.
Her body throbbed. Her thoughts came sluggish and slipped away far too fast. And she was Just. So. Cold.
Footsteps. Shifting wood. The crackle of a started fire and the early scent of smoke.
She was on the floor now, though she couldn’t remember being placed down. There were furs, she thought, though she couldn’t feel them; it was only the rustle under her trembling body that gave it away.
She hoped that she’d be warm soon.