Archive of Our Own ^beta

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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.

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It is, in most of her family's opinion, an undeniable fact that Arabella is worthless. She’s a waste of money to her father; just another daughter he needs to fork out a dowry for. She’s a nuisance to her siblings, and to Mother? Well, she’s never been exactly sure why Mother hates her so, but she clearly does. No matter how much she pleads or how bright she shines, she’ll only ever be looked at with hatred.

She tries to be seen, she really does. She fights at first, begging, pleading, screaming for attention. Then she would bite her tongue and be as perfect as she could, a good little object just like Isabella. But that was never close enough, never good enough. She’s as worthless as they say she is, in the end. Nothing she could ever do would inspire affection in their hearts.

Of course, cruel people such as Mother hardly have much love to give. She’s smiling as the whip tears her skin, likely refreshed by every tear that Arabella sheds. Somewhere in the back of her mind, Arabella wonders what life would be like if she was pretty like Isabella. Would she be here, face scrunched up in agony as tears and snot flow down her face? Would she be here, blood on her tongue as Isabella gets the glory for her hymn? Would she be here, the object of father’s ire even though he was the one making the dining table shake? Would she feel all this pain?

Still, no matter how much she hopes and or how much she pretends away the heartache, she’s still stuck. And Padua is her chance, her precious, golden opportunity. She knows she has to pour her broken heart and shattered soul into her application, because it’s her only chance at a better future.

Hope is such a beautiful emotion; something she’s never been able to really feel. It’s a butterfly in her rib cage, sunlight streaming in from her windows, the kiss of the first notes of music floating up to her. But it’s fragile; easily crushed like a delicate flower. Easily crushed like her body.

She can see the glint of her shoe, but she can’t get up; she can’t even move. Everything stings, and she knows she’s never been this broken. She hears footsteps, but they sound off. Distorted. Wrong, like a violin out of tune. Wrong, like how the blood pooling at her side looks beautiful even though she knows whose demise it signifies.

After all, a star burns brightest right before it dies. Even though there’s so much more she could do, she knows this is it. She’s going to die here, listening to Mother’s abuse until the very end. Enduring all this hate, simply because she was born. Once her light is snuffed out, nobody will really miss her anyway. Ari will, but time will steal away her pain, and Arabella’s memory will fade until she was simply never there.

Perhaps this was always her destiny. To be tragic in such a pathetic way. She’s not nearly as devastated as she should be, knowing that her unwanted existence is being snatched from her. She feels rage at first, but it drains away with her strength. The darkness is grabbing her, softer than her mother’s touch, her father's words. Maybe death will treat her better than her family did is her final thought as she follows the darkness until she is nothing.