Chapter Text
Isabella is tired of it all. She’s tired of tearing others down just to survive, of having to be the hated sister, of just being pretty. It’s instinct by now, the twirling of hair and pretending that she has no brain between her bewitching eyes.
Maybe she isn’t smart in the way that Ariadne is, with the power plays and effortless manipulation. Maybe she’s not a musical genius or quick with her lessons in the way Arabella is either, but she knows how to read people. The perfect response — flowery sentiments devoid of any real meaning — she’s excelled in that field.
And maybe she wasn’t always this way, but she’s supposed to be the way she is. She’s supposed to feel a thrill when she wins, not nausea. Especially not fear. But fear is what sank in her stomach as she pushed Arabella, and horrifying, sinking guilt is what came after, what she was left with.
She almost wanted everyone to believe Ariadne. She was an angel, everyone said so, but she knew that she had been falling for a very long time. Bile burned in her throat as she pretended she was innocent, as she pretended that her wings were still intact. That she was good. Heavenly. Pure. Devoid of all sin and never felt a man's touch burning her buttermilk skin.
Old Isabella still comes out sometimes, and she does when Ippolito shares his grand plan to frame Mother for his crimes. Ippolito has never been good, or innocent. Never has he hid behind that mask, but her dear brother is just that, a man. He loved to watch the servants bleed just because he could, as Mother did. Old Isabella hid from the cries of her underlings, but new Isabella revels in such cruelty. New Isabella goes back to reading her stupid, elementary fairytales, because what can she do? She's a woman.
Yes, new Isabella is a doll. She’s rosy cheeks and wide, curious eyes. She’s God. She’s the devil herself. Really, she’s just an object. One with greed and pride and petty little schemes that hardly feel like her own. One dripping in ribbons and soft, floral fabrics.
Rejection has always stung to her; it’s always cut deep into her bones. It’s a gaping wound at her side; it's the air she's desperately trying to drag through her lungs as her sins wrap their claws around her neck. She barely knows it; barely recognizes its twisted little face. Now, rejected by a man on a whim, she feels angry. No, more than that, she feels furious. At herself. At everyone’s unfair ideals. She’s tearing, every perfect seam and mask unraveled. She's burning. She's destructive. They hate her, so she's making them hate her more.
She's just herself. Her ugly, angry little heart and her twisted mind. She likes it, she realizes. Being mad. It's fun. It feels right. Yes, she’s bringing herself down, but how much lower can she go, really? And how much could her downfall help someone? Ariadne. Arabella. Some noblewomen she doesn’t know who has to go through the same shit she does. She'll be erased either way. Her name is pointless, because she's not a man. She's insanity in a billowy pink gown. She’s atoning for her sins, and her porcelain is cracking but it feels delicious, so she won’t ever stop.
She’s a woman. She will never win. Frankly, she’s done trying.