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Franziska von Karma was no fool, and she cursed those who took her to be one! What foolishly foolish fool could ever believe Ms. von Karma was a fool? This is how it always starts; a silly, irrelevant, off-handed comment said by somebody she couldn’t care less about. That’s all it took for Franziska von Karma to unravel, or, rather, it’s all it took for her to unravel herself; for her to dissect each skin layer one by one.
But that was never her intention when it first began. No, she never set out with the intention of deflowering her own skin, of turning her beautiful washroom to a murder scene.
But it always seemed to end that way regardless.
(and, perhaps, subconsciously she did set out with the intention of separating each layer of skin, watching in fanciful wonder as the blood pooled out of their slits, dropping to the floor, staining herself and everything else around it.)
She would mark each failure; every time she failed to be perfect in the eyes of herself or others. Each time she failed at school, at law, at keeping herself together, and each time someone else commented on the way she behaved, the way she spoke or the way she carried herself; that was a failure of her own vanity. She deserved to be punished for her sub-par behavior the same way she punished everyone else for being a fool: unfiltered, unadulterated pain . This was how you absolved yourself from your sins. Failure is a testimony to the faith you have in yourself, and for that you have committed the ultimate sin, there is even such a thing as failure so sinful the only way to be absolved is to take your own life. It’s the honorable thing to do, the world has no need for such mediocrity!
…Upon further review, she always did move with the full knowledge of what she would do as soon as she stepped foot into her beautiful washroom. Why else would she run herself a bath? To relax herself? Puh! Not after she has so wrongfully betrayed her father with such a poor showing at this afternoon's debate!
Despite this, she always acted with a sense of machinery. The faucet seemed to turn itself on, the blade seemed to dig itself into her skin, the water gliding off the surface of her bare legs, washing away the blood, only for it to resurface moments later. It executed more pressure, sliding itself across in one, single, swift motion, a layer of skin not meant to be seen by the owner of the body revealing itself before hiding away in a thick layer of never-ending crimson, and the process repeated.
This was the cost of perfection. Her own body must suffer for the actions it had let her brain concur. The ribbons, both shallow and deep, are a constant reminder of what she strived to move on from, a reminder of the pain she would be forced to endure if she didn’t perfect it for the next time.
Oh, but this wasn’t where she stopped. No, not by a long shot. This wasn’t enough to absolve herself from the pain she had caused her father, she would have to take more extreme measures.
She rises from the pink-tinted water, pulling the plug as a pristine white towel seemingly wraps itself around her frame, soaking up whatever crimson or burgundy was left of her legs and shoulders, who knew the human body was capable of producing so much blood!
…She knew what she was going to do. To her, Miles was no threat. To her, there was no such thing as weakness between them—not yet, that wouldn’t come for a while longer— they shared the same imperfections, his failures were hers and the same vice versa.
But he would worry. He was, by all means, her brother. And to see such pain on Mile’s face, to see such fear masked in his eyes, that was all the punishment she needed. Her untreated wounds peaked through the tights she wore under her dress, and Miles knows immediately what has happened.
“...Fran.”
But she has no words to utter on the matter at hand. He knew what was expected of him; he didn't utter any quarrels he may have, either. He simply has her change into a pair of shorts, something that would make this less awkward for him as he cleaned and cared for the damage Manfred von Karma had caused his sister.
Well, he couldn’t really fault Manfred von Karma. He was his idol, his mentor, his… Father, he supposed. This wasn’t his fault, no, it could never. He was strict, sure, but…
Not to this extent. This was Franziska’s own doing.
He had no issue taking care of it, though. It was his job, his sworn duty… But it hurt him too. It was torture watching Franziska clench her teeth in spite of her anguish, willing herself not to let out any twitch, tremble, or, god forbid, a cry of pain. She had forbidden herself from showing any weakness on this night.
Franziska should prosecute her own trial , he thinks. The victim is easy, the suspect guilty as charged.
Franziska was a murderer, her own innocence the victim, her mind an unwilling accomplice in the destruction and rerouting of itself.