Chapter Text
Brahms Heelshire lies on the rug of his childhood bedroom, the sharp end of the screwdriver burning deep agony into his abdomen. His mask clings, half-shattered, to his mangled skin, his vision blurred with tears of pain, anger and betrayal, as he watches Greta run away from him.
He tried his best to be good for her, he really had. He listened as she whispered to the doll – how she would never leave him, but she needed his help in getting rid of the bad man who wanted to hurt her. And he’d done it; come out of the walls, his one refuge from the world that saw him as a monster. Even his parents couldn’t bear the sight of him, choosing instead to love a lifeless puppet, since his very existence was abhorrent to them.
He wouldn’t even have hurt Malcolm had he not touched Greta the way he did, the way Brahms longed to touch her. How dare a grocery boy touch what his parents had given to him? She was his. He remembered the panic he’d felt upon stepping through the mirror and witnessing the horror on her face. She’d always been so tender and caring towards his porcelain counterpart, but all that remained when she looked upon his true person was fear. The anger surged within him as Malcolm approached, and he felt no remorse in striking him to the floor.
He knew he had to do something to show Greta she didn’t have to be scared, not of him – he’d get rid of that American bastard who had invaded their home. Her strangled scream when he drove the porcelain shard into the man’s neck confused and enraged him; why was she still acting this way? What more did she want him to do?
The fury had burned inside him like a furnace as he chased them through the house, through the walls, blinding his senses until he brought the pipe down on Malcom’s head, stilling him. His eyes had found Greta in the dark, her pale face stricken. He tried to speak in the voice she knew, the boy’s voice he had practiced over and over so his mother could pretend her sweet little boy was still with them, while his father tried to hide his discomfort. Brahms wasn’t sure which angered him most – his mother’s denial, his father’s revulsion, or the sycophancy of them both. They did everything for him, catered to his every whim, all in the hope that they wouldn’t have to face up to the monster they’d created – the beast who was forged in the flames.
He couldn’t retain it for long. Within two sentences his voice began to crack as he begged her – commanded her – not to leave him, until he was screaming. Yet still she ran. Away from the house, and away from him.
It was despondence, not mercy, that compelled him to spare Malcolm’s life. He wanted to – he even raised the pipe – but the raging fire inside him seemed to have died. What was the point? Killing him wouldn’t bring her back, and it would just be another lure for the rats; another stain rotting on the bloodied Heelshire name.
He scarcely believed it when he saw her standing in the corridor, the light from the billiards room illuminating her pretty face as she gazed in on the corpse of her former lover. He’d been too entranced by her – the scent of her like a siren’s song to his senses – to notice the fear trembling beneath the surface. She had come back for him, she was going to take care of him, just as she had promised right at the start.
I’ll treat him like my own …
The performance of being put to bed with such tenderness was so long forgotten that every move felt like walking on eggshells. His parents had avoided setting foot in his bedroom – his true room, not the immortalised childhood façade set up for his doll – except to bring him food, so the feeling of being tucked in felt as alien as dancing on the moon.
The moment her skin had touched the cold lips of his mask, something exploded inside him – a white-hot desire like nothing he’d ever known before. His fingers dug into the soft flesh of her arms, pinning her to him as he inhaled her scent like oxygen. Oh, how he wanted her; and surely she must want him too; she came back, she wasn’t afraid of him like everyone else, she loved him …
That was when the screwdriver point pierced his gut and the world turned scarlet. All he knew was pain, rage and the bitterest disappointment. She had hurt him, so deeply he thought he might die from the suffering, confronted by the bitter truth that everything he’d done wasn’t enough. He wasn’t enough.
He drags himself into a sitting position against the wall, fingers finding the shattered pieces of his mask and holding them like talismans to his chest. Alone, unloved, broken – Brahms lets the tears fall.