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“I don’t love you, Sutcliff. I never will.” William T. Spears said, not even bothering to look up from his paperwork as he broke her heart.
It wasn’t the first time, or the second, or even the third. But today was different. Grell had told herself that this was it. That this time he would accept her love, and that this would be their defining moment. He would take her into his arms like she was something to be treasured. Something precious he wished to covet. Instead her heart again is a shattered mess, a wound never quite scabbed over. And oh, how It hurts. It hurts in a way that even taking her own life didn’t.
She hated him in that moment. For the power he held over her, The Great Grell Sutcliff. She would be so much freer without him. No more rules, no more restraint over herself just in case Will decided he wanted to grace her with a smile. She’d be free. Her hand itches for her chainsaw in that moment, red tinting her vision for a moment as she imagines summoning it and slicing him where he stands.
Will would put up a fight. His clippers would be out before she even got her scythe in her hand. He’d tell her to knock off this foolishness, and to go back to work. He’d try to hit her
{he always hit her, and the scars are all over her body, and she might hate that she was born male but it’s those marks that make her shatter every mirror she owns knowing she’ll buy more at some point because of course she will she is Grell Sutcliff and she is a vain creature. She is not stupid and the irony is not lost on her}
and grow pale when he realized that this time, she was playing for keeps. He’d realize that being behind that desk for decades hasn’t really helped him, Mr. B average was still just that while she had transcended the class system and transformed her weapon into something beautiful and it was only the hope of requited love that was holding her back. Will would turn desperate as he tried to stave off her attacks. His death scythe would fall to her beautiful chainsaw, and she’d watch with glee as the metal was destroyed and ground by the sharp toothed blades. He’d never hurt her again. She’d turn to him
{Her love her first love since she killed herself and woke up in this afterlife instead of Hell. And here she’d took her own life to get away from abuse.}
And she’d give him an equally sharp smile as she stuck her chainsaw through his chest. He’d struggle for a bit, look at her with pleading eyes. And she’d look back, think on it all (the pain, the love, the hurt, the pain) and she’d flip the switch and watch as his organs were destroyed. The red in her vision would leak out as fast as it came. Grell would realize what she’d done, and weep. Her William, her ice prince would be dead. His record would play. She’d not even try to collect it, let it seep into her skin and feel the thorn fall upon her. Maybe it would even kill her. Juliet was nothing without Romeo, and she had always had a flair for the dramatic.
She holds the key to her own cage. She could do it, easily. But she won’t. This toxic love, this fire in her veins that burns at the thought of him, the damndable hope that he’ll return her affections won’t let her. The red veil that fell over her eyes lifts like it was never there, and Grell giggles as she twirls her hair and ignores the ache in her bones that sings for retribution for her broken heart.
“Such a cold man, Will. Perhaps you’ll let me warm you?” She coos, reaching out to touch him. His clippers hit her hard, his eyes never leaving that paperwork that always seems to sit before him. And she lets out a pained gasp as the cycle repeats itself.