Work Text:
The thing about shutting yourself in a coffin is that it's a very easy way to shut out the world. Nothing happens in the darkness of a coffin. There are no screams or silver blades. There is no feeling of powerlessness. There are no moons to control your tempers nor white roses to remind you of what you can and cannot do.
Inside the coffin, there is zero.
Sometimes you wonder if this is what you want.
You have always known that your mother loved you. You remember fondly the times when she treated you gently, cared for you and loved you like a normal mother, a human mother would. Times when you could lie in her lap and she would run her fingers through your hair as you dozed off quietly, times when her temper was stable and you could pretend for a while. Those times where you could dream that your mother didn't wish for her own death, didn't wish for you to kill her. Times when you didn't feel powerless and hopeless.
Times when you didn't feel like a mere child, unable to do anything for the family you love.
Times when you could forget that your very existence is the cause of your mother's suffering, that your very life tore her apart.
Your existence is your crime. The crime that stained the white rose and tainted her beyond repair, the existence that reduced her to zero. The child, the monster, the being that caused her so much pain.
You hate your father for what he did to your mother. You hate your mother sometimes for acting like she still loves him.
Most of all, you hate yourself for how disgusting you are.
Sometimes you look at your reflection. Vampires being unable to look in mirrors is, of course, a load of human rubbish. Though you suppose you can understand that assumption, given the way some of your brothers dress.
But sometimes you look at yourself and wonder.
You look like your mother, in a way. You have her hair and her eyes. But your mother is beautiful. She is pale and delicate and fragile, with bones of glass and skin of paper, hair the colour of seafoam and eyes of claret.
Christa is well known as a beauty, so you wonder how someone so ugly was born from someone so lovely.
You are not delicate like Christa. Your hair is a messy storm, your eyes the colour of vengeance. You tear your clothes and destroy things out of anger. You, unlike your beautiful, dreamlike mother, are a monster.
You smash the mirror without a second thought and watch as the shards pierce your skin, watch as the blood trickles over your hand and down your arm, as the skin heals up instantly.
It hurts to take the glass out later on, but Yui insists she treats it.
You wonder why she wants to take care of something so ugly.
Inside a coffin, there is nothing.
Sometimes you wish there was nothing.
No mother. No brothers. No father. No silver knife in your pocket, waiting to be used, waited to shed your mother's own blood. Matricide is a heinous act. Only the worst, most disgusting of creatures would even consider such a thing. No child wishes to see their mother's death. No child would wish to be the cause of that.
You hold the knife to your heart and prod your chest lightly. It hurts. It hurts. It hurts, so you press harder.
You think of your mother, in her cell, screaming alone, begging to die.
You drop the knife and anger takes over you like a beast eating you up inside, mocking you, laughing at you, you can't do anything, you can't protect anyone, hideous disgusting tainted monster.
When you come to your senses, your room is destroyed and Yui is there, calling your name.
You hate yourself even more when you shout at her to leave.
Outside your coffin, there is nothing.
You are isolated. Your mother is fragile, you hate your father. You have no full brothers of your own. You operate completely outside of everyone's circles.
Watching from the back of the room as your brothers play pool, you wonder.
Without the girl by your side, nervously requesting you to join them, what would you have?