Yarn

III: Tremaine

Villan I picked: Lady Tremaine from Cinderella

A/N: Note that at the beginning of the story, Lady Tremaine does not have the last name of Tremaine. I took it upon myself to dub Cinderella's family name as Tremaine (considering that Lady Tremaine marries into it and therefore assumingly takes her husband's last name) this is to clear up any confusion that may present.

Warning: Murder/Slight Gore

T R E M A I N E

Dear Frances,

I will try to tell you everything right. I think that the only person in the world who would not judge my past discrepancies is you, and not just because you're dead and gone and buried and have no one to confess my sins to. 

I am trying to sort through everything. I think it is important. In my confession. I think it is important to tell you everything. The first thing I have to tell you is that my name is not Evangeline.

I guess it all begins with an explanation, so here is mine: most children's childhoods are painted in sunshine hues of dazzling essences of yellow. Mine will be forever painted in black and white and gray.

Most children grow up in nice homes with smiling parents and comforting hugs. Mine will forever be trapped behind four cement walls.

Most children painted portraits of rainbows and joy. I carved words into walls. Words that I still can't distinguish are my own words, or someone else's words. But there they are, remained not only scribbled furiously onto a wall, but stamped into my own mind. Mocking me.

I guess it's best that my life would end behind four cement walls. Poetic.

Love,

E.

***

Dear Frances,

Nothing starts as it ends, and nothing begins as it ends. Life is a straight line. It has a beginning, a middle, and an end. Some stories are shorter than others, some longer.

These days I have trouble sorting through my own riddled beginning, middle, and end. The words and events all clash in my mind, like a battle. One story fighting over the other. One trying to claim a sense of importance as to what made me the way I am.

I'm trying my best to concentrate on what is and what isn't, and when something was. But it just keeps moving. I keep pulling out my hair. Counting the clumps.

If only the carvings on the walls would stop talking to me.

Love,

E.

***

Dear Frances,

I think I figured it out. It started with a fire. It's my first recollection of something that long. Something that came before the drooling darkness.

I was sitting in front of a fireplace. I used to have a family, but all I can remember about them is their words, not their faces, smooth like marble, but the words they hissed at me. They swarm around me like flies to a corpse.

It was a party. I remember the hushed tones of people talking. Wine glasses clinking. Laughter grating against my skin like claws of a famished beast peeling back my layers.

My mother came in. She touched my shoulder. Her touch was soft. I loved her, then. I remember loving her so deeply and endlessly, that what came next would only break my heart more. The worst thing about knowing this is that I still love her. Someone I don't know.