The moment his fingers brush against her hand, her own fingers twitch as she resists the urge to rip away and curl in upon herself, but she allows him to take it. This is one conversation she's never wanted to have with him. There have been nights where she's considered laying it all out in the open but the thought always chilled her and crippled her tongue.
"I hated those kids. They weren't children to me. They were monsters before I ever got a hold of them," Sharon tells him fiercely, intent on disrupting his attempt to see her actions as anything other than selfish and cruel, "Their parents would whisper about me but their children would act. I always left school with new bruises—Fuck, they were just as big a part of my burning as the rest of the town."
She has to take a moment to center herself. Even just thinking back to those moments is like reliving them, the memories clear as ever, "Burn the witch," the words come out thick on her tongue as if they had literal weight to them, "That's what they'd chant as they threw their books at me. Some days I'd just take it but the day of the burning, I hid in the girl's bathroom. Lockable stalls," she explains with a shrug but her grip on his hand tightens, "When I got in there, though, the janitor was already in there and all the girls knew not to be alone with him. He made sure to lock the door behind him." The words come out stiffer and stiffer until she chokes them out and her eyes burn. There's no reason to go into details.
"They burned me alive that night and my mother let them," Sharon does not believe she acted out of love when she killed those children, "I remember the sounds she made when I was pulled off the altar. Beyond the sound of the fire and the screaming, I heard the sounds she made. I wanted their parents to make the same sounds for the things I was going to do."
Finally, she pulls her attention away from the tea to look at him, cheeks damp. Whatever grief is still wound up around her heart is nothing in comparison to the rage she still feels, "I hate Dahlia but she was still my mother. So, no," and this sucks to say because it would be much easier to let him believe that; allow him to believe there was some small bit of goodness in all that destruction and horror but she loves him too much for that, "love was not a part of what motivated me."
Alessa had been blind to everything but her own pain. "I was nine." It sounds like an excuse to her own ears and she flinches at it. "And I spent the next forty years of my life exacting my revenge."
cw; talk of child murder & implied csa
"I hated those kids. They weren't children to me. They were monsters before I ever got a hold of them," Sharon tells him fiercely, intent on disrupting his attempt to see her actions as anything other than selfish and cruel, "Their parents would whisper about me but their children would act. I always left school with new bruises—Fuck, they were just as big a part of my burning as the rest of the town."
She has to take a moment to center herself. Even just thinking back to those moments is like reliving them, the memories clear as ever, "Burn the witch," the words come out thick on her tongue as if they had literal weight to them, "That's what they'd chant as they threw their books at me. Some days I'd just take it but the day of the burning, I hid in the girl's bathroom. Lockable stalls," she explains with a shrug but her grip on his hand tightens, "When I got in there, though, the janitor was already in there and all the girls knew not to be alone with him. He made sure to lock the door behind him." The words come out stiffer and stiffer until she chokes them out and her eyes burn. There's no reason to go into details.
"They burned me alive that night and my mother let them," Sharon does not believe she acted out of love when she killed those children, "I remember the sounds she made when I was pulled off the altar. Beyond the sound of the fire and the screaming, I heard the sounds she made. I wanted their parents to make the same sounds for the things I was going to do."
Finally, she pulls her attention away from the tea to look at him, cheeks damp. Whatever grief is still wound up around her heart is nothing in comparison to the rage she still feels, "I hate Dahlia but she was still my mother. So, no," and this sucks to say because it would be much easier to let him believe that; allow him to believe there was some small bit of goodness in all that destruction and horror but she loves him too much for that, "love was not a part of what motivated me."
Alessa had been blind to everything but her own pain. "I was nine." It sounds like an excuse to her own ears and she flinches at it. "And I spent the next forty years of my life exacting my revenge."